An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts

The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
----------------------------------


It was absolutely amazing, Michael thought, to stand in one place, and have a quick enough mind to realize he was about to get seriously, truly, royally owned.

Whether it was from swimming, the concentration and general feeling of being in the zone carrying over into other parts of his life, or from Lenny's teaching, he wasn't sure. But it didn't matter, because he was standing there, and he could see, in the mirror, that he was about to have his head split open.

The way time slowed down as his thoughts sped up made him feel invincible for just a split second; surely, Mack would have no hope against someone so fast that he had already realized a person they had put a fair amount of trust in was about to kill him. But in the fraction of a second it took for Michael to move for his sword, he knew that such wasn't the case.

He was fast. But not fast enough. His mind raced, but his hand, only just wrapping around the scabbard and tugging it free from buckle inside his coat, was much, much slower.

Mack's weapon was already halfway to his head, and there was no way Michael could turn and raise his sword, or even unsheathe it, before that mace made contact. No way at all.

But Michael didn't give up. His sword was out of his coat just as he knew the mace was making contact with him, but he refused to give in. He hadn't come this far in his life, pushed on after making a mess of it, to die because a coward didn't have the guts to turn against him face to face.

In that instant, Michael's reflexes took over, but it was more than just an instant reaction like when he heard the gun go off and it was time to jump into the pool. No, this was something he'd been taught to do.

"There's a way out of anything," Lenny would tell him, "If someone's coming at you, there's always something you can do, some way of making their body react like you want it to. It's nothing special or mystical, fighting is all physics when you get right down to it. And if you don't know what to do, just get the hell out of the way. Who cares what you're doing, as long as you didn't get hit?"

Michael dropped to his knees.

And he raised his arms. It was the last he noticed of Ian. Ian, who hadn't even turned yet, who was just now processing the fact that something was wrong. When Michael threw his arms up over his head, one hand on the handle of his sword, the other at the end of the scabbard, he couldn't see Ian through his arm.

Time went on again as it normally did for Michael in that instant, the instant Mack's weapon stopped short of hitting his head and clanged on his sword. Feeling blood on his neck, Michael knew he's been just a hair of a second too slow, that a point on the mace had connected and punctured skin.

Considering how much worse it could've been, he wasn't complaining. And now it was Mack's turn to be more than just a little surprised. "What the..."

Ian said the same thing, at the same exact time. As much as Michael wanted to look at him, reassure him that he would be fine, he just didn't have time. He dropped the sword as soon as he realized Mack had been too surprised to put any more force down on it, letting it fall to the ground.

But he didn't care; Michael clenched his fists and brought his arms back down, sending his elbows nicely into Mack's hips. Had he been closer, he probably would've broken the bones, but the fact that Mack stumbled backwards, audibly displeased as he dropped his mace, made it quite satisfying.

Quickly, Michael found his sword and whirled around as he planted a foot down and stood back up, just in time for Mack to come at him with his fists.

Michael found himself being kicked in the stomach and he stumbled back, but away from his opponent, he had a chance to grab the handle with one hand and pull and...he wasn't far enough away. Diving at him, Mack caught the handle with both hands and shoved, pushing Michael back to the fence and the sword back into its scabbard.

He punched Michael in the face. But he really didn't know how to throw a punch that would end a fight all on it's own, so the adrenaline that Michael already had going let him shrug it off for the moment. Still holding with both arms, he swung his sword around and cracked Mack in the face with the front end, and as soon as that worked, he grabbed the handle again, and yanked.

In hitting him like that, Michael had swung the sword around, so he ended up yanking the handle towards his back and hearing it thunk uselessly on the fence behind him while the blade was only a quarter of the way out.

Instead of being sensible, Michael couldn't help but look down at his weapon, flabbergasted that he couldn't accomplish such a simple thing, until Mack threw a leg up and kicked the front end, sheathing the sword completely again.

Still stunned, Michael felt another punch to his face, and this time, he stumbled with it. Toppling onto some rubble next to the broken mirror he'd first seen the attack through, he quickly forced himself back onto his feet just in time to see Mack swinging at him again.

But he still had both hands on his sword. Sheathed or not, it was good at blocking Mack's arms before he could swing them enough for his fists to make contact. One high, one low, so Michael twisted the sword around to stop the second and then stabbed it forward, nailing him a good one right in the chest.

It was an errant victory. Mack cried out and almost fell, but he ended up right where his mace had fallen, and before Michael even thought about unsheathing the Wakizashi again, he had it in his hand and swinging through the air.

Again, Michael's sword proved a good way of deflecting attacks, but the mace was longer than an arm and swung at a different angle. Mack started slipping hits in, first to the side of Michael's shoulder, hard enough for the spikes to tear skin. And then a horizontal swing came far, far too close to Michael's face, just managing to make a cut running from his forehead down the edge of his temple.

Desperate, Michael pivoted his weapon around, and he managed to catch Mack at just the right angle to knock the mace from his hand again.

Then Mack saw his chance and grabbed for Michael's sword with both hands, trying to get the weapon away from him before anything else. Neither of them would give, and Michael was losing ground, ever so slightly. Having more strength, Mack tried to pull the sword out, but the effort took away from trying to pull the entire package away from Michael and put them right back at square one.

Until Mack raised his knee and hit Micheal squarely between the legs.

And Michael's reaction was a simple, single yelp, his eyes growing wide and his lungs violently expelling the breath he'd held. His flinch ruined his position and let Mack shove him back against the fence where he pulled the sword out just enough for the blade to be at Michael's neck.

Not looking at it or at Mack, keeping his eyes glued above at the night's sky, Michael forced the massive pain he was feeling out of his mind. His hands were tied up keeping his own sword from slitting his throat and trying to re-sheath it once more, leaving his feet.

Another common sense tip from Lenny: all of your limbs can be weapons, use them. Michael flailed his legs as much as he could, until he felt something and realized he had a target. A second later, he kicked Mack squarely in his locked knee, grateful beyond belief that he hit just right to cause the guy insane amounts of pain instead of breaking his own toes. Unfortunately, he couldn't deliver nearly enough force to dislocate it, but it still got Mack off of him.

It wasn't anything close to conscious thought that dictated Michael's actions when he regained his balance and felt the blood on his forehead, when he looked at the man who'd tried to stab him in the back. It was simple rage; he ran at Mack and threw the best punch he knew how with his free hand.

Mack did the same, but it was the same hand, and they punched each other so hard right in the spots they'd already hit on each others' faces that they both went right back down on their backs.

Knowing the other was getting up motivated both of them to force themselves onto their feet at the same time. Mack grabbed an old two-by-four discarded next to the only actual dumpster behind the club and smashed it on the side Michael's head.

Realizing the end he was holding had a few big, rusty nails sticking out, Mack flipped the plank of wood around and swung for Michael's head. But Michael was quick enough to half-dive to the side against the wall he'd fallen to, just enough for the wood to break against the bricks.

Downed but not out, Michael lashed out with a leg and caught Mack in the knee again. Once Mack bent over instinctively, he punched him square in the nose and knocked him back onto the pile of wood he'd gotten his last weapon from. He was hoping he broke it; Mack was bleeding pretty well from his nose now.

Pouncing forward, Michael gave up on trying to unsheathe his sword and went for Mack with it as it was, but Mack threw himself up, picked up an old, rotting chair in with the wood, and caught Michael's sword between the legs of it. From there, it was easy to throw both away and kick Michael straight in the ribs, knocking him against the club's wall.

Pushing off the wall, Michael tried to punch Mack across the face, maybe in the temple, but he missed and Mack slipped behind him when he put too much swing into the attack and ended up spinning on his heels.

Consequently, he wasn't surprised when Mack grabbed him in a headlock from behind and there was nothing he could do about it but stumble around in the hold until they both fell over.

They weren't far from the mirror where everything had started. Or from the scattered, once-neatly placed empty paint cans that had filed with a long time's worth of rainwater.

The ones that were still upright were filled, at least. And they were sizeable cans, not little ones meant for simple jobs. So Michael wasn't surprised when he found his face being shoved into one as far as it would go.

To say the water was nasty with whatever it was that grew in old water and turned it funny colors was an understatement. He could taste it in his mouth and wanted to throw up, but if nothing else, there just wasn't time, and Michael was more concerned with the shards of glass, probably from the old mirror, that he felt cutting him as his face went in.

Mack was trying to drown him; of all the stupid, ridiculous things, Mack was trying to drown him. And for the moment, he was succeeding. Michael couldn't breath, after all.

And then he realized that his head being shoved into the can didn't make it airtight. So Michael stopped struggling with the arms holding him there and raised his hands above his own head, cupping his fingers and manipulating the water to splash out wherever it could.

He could breath again, and he inhaled deeply, while Mack tried to stop him and slapped his hands down.

He was, of course, too late, and the levitating water fell harmlessly, splashing off the ground.

Now free of Mack's grip, Michael threw his elbow back and caught him in the balls, considering it good payback for earlier.

Mack was already coming at him again by the time he'd stood up, and once he punched Michael in the gut, he kicked him perfectly in the chest and sent him sprawling into the mirror, wrecking it completely.

Michael's eyes were still open, and he could see Mack rushing back to grab his mace. But being where he was had an unexpected side effect; Michael saw his sword, still intertwined in the old chair, right next to him on the ground.

Finally, he grabbed it and practically threw the scabbard off just as Mack had turned around, mace in hand.

The sight of each of them, weapons in hand, was enough for the fight to pause.

"Where'd you get that?" Mack nodded at Michael's sword.

"My mentor," Michael answered, falling into a more balanced stance. A thought occured to him; Mack had never used magic on him this entire time. "So. Water, huh?"

"Of course," Mack gave his weapon a single spin in his hand. "A thunder mage doesn't make water traps for peoples' food, does he? I knew something was up when you survived that. Guess I was right."

But Michael didn't really care about tactical strategy from the guy who was trying to kill him. "Dude...can I ask you one thing? Y'know, just between us swimmers?"

"I suppose," Mack smiled at him, like the fact that Michael wanted something, even information, meant he'd already won.

"What the fuck did I do you?"

Laughter was not something Michael expected. Maybe monologues about Mack's ultimate revenge for something silly, maybe. But not laughter. "You think this is about you? Typical. The only personal pleasure I get from this is putting a whiny bitch with too much fucking angst out of his misery. Out of my misery. You think you've got it so tough, Phelpsi? It's not even your life that makes me sick," Mack almost spat the word 'life,' "It's the way you're a fucking angel. You should hear Cal talk about you when you're not in the room, how he wants to be like you, how he just knows you'd break Spitz' record this time in Beijing...and do you know what I tell him?"

"What?" Michael said, his teeth clenched, his anger at being belittled for the crime of not being a perfect human being, god forbid, threatening to send him over the edge.

"I tell him that you're a miserable fool who has too much money to be foolish with," Mack wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his weapon so hard that his knuckles turned white. "And I'll tell you, Phelpsi...that's exactly the kind of fool I hate the most. And you know what? I'm gonna kill your friend too, when I'm done with you, just because it'll make it even crazier. I bet the newspapers will theorize that he's your little butt buddy and you killed each other having a spat, in fact. Just think how ape-shit the tabloids will go when word gets out in the near future that a mage did it?"

Ian. Ian was here; Michael had downright forgotten him while trading blows with Mack. He finally gave Ian a glance...and Ian looked terrified, white as a ghost, slowly backing up to the wall when he heard himself being mentioned, looking back and forth between the magi with a mix of awe, confusion, and above all, fear.

Michael was nothing if not Ian's bodyguard. All other concerns were secondary; the rest of the world just ceased existing for Michael in that instant. Nothing but Mack and his intent to harm someone he cared about very, very deeply even registered. "Mother fucker," he spat, "You should worry about me going apeshit."

They stared each other down for a long moment, Michael re-gripping his sword to make sure his sweaty palms wouldn't let it slip, Mack bringing his mace up in a similar position.

They ran at the same time, weapons making contact as they met halfway, clanging once, as Michael had to step around to keep from falling over so they switched sides.

Michael could see Ian like this, and his head rang with Mack's words, over and over, I'm gonna kill your friend too, I'm gonna kill your friend too, and it should've been motivation to overpower the bastard. But Michael had stopped moving with his feet placed wrongly for a good position, and with their weapons locked, Mack's mace was moving Michael's sword ever downward.

But Michael didn't back off. He glared right through Mack's eyes, meeting the self-righteous indignation with his own anger at Ian being threatened. His eyes were all Michael saw, one of them blocked by Mack's weapon as it pushed further downward towards his face.

And then Michael remembered...a water mage could be healed by water, but it didn't mean another water mage, if he were fast enough, could manipulate some bodily fluids if they didn't let their target stop it.

He took one hand off of his sword, faced the palm to Mack's eye, willed his magic straight out, and then...he yanked back.

Mack screamed and dropped his mace for the last time the very instant Michael ripped the moisture clear out of his right eyeball.

Funny, Michael thought, letting the little ball of pink liquid float above his hand for a second before he moved and let it splatter on the ground. Touching the liquid with his magic meant it couldn't physically damage another water mage; he was oddly satisfied that although Mack's eye would ultimately be fine because of this, the act caused him immense pain.

So much pain that he stumbled until he fell on his ass and started rolling around, cutting his hands on some of the broken mirror's chunks and generally swearing like a banshee, all drowned out by music and people making noise in the club.

Through it all, Michael found himself completely, utterly calm. He'd won, he'd removed the threat, Ian was safe, what did he have to be angry about anymore? Still holding his sword, he waited until Mack rolled onto his back, reached down, grabbed him by the shirt, and with that one hand, yanked him up against the wall. "Now why have you been trying to kill me!"

The act had calmed Mack down considerably, even as thick blood dripped from his closed eye, but it only made him defensive. "Fuck off...fucking bastard..."

And so, Michael raised his other hand and held his sword to Mack's neck. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you..."

For the first time since Michael had gotten the crap kicked out of him in this alley, Ian regained enough sense to step forward to speak. "Mike, stop."

But Michael didn't have to do anything else. Nor was he given the chance to spare Mack's life, however...not long after Ian talked, Michael had the guy's brains splattered all one hand, and there was a hole in the opposite side of Mack's head.

Shocked out of his mind, Michael dropped him right there, his hand shining red and just covered. "Wha...what the fuck...no...no, no, no..."

He turned, just in time to see another man, covered by nighttime darkness and the end of the alley where there were no lights holding a pistol out at them. There was a silencer on the end of the gun, and just like that, the gunman ran back around the club.

Michael ran exactly two steps before, numb with shock and in pain from the blows he'd taken, he realized he wasn't going to catch up with them before they hit the street and just blended right in.

Suddenly, his fingers grew sore, and he dropped his sword.

And then Ian was a lot closer than Michael remembered, staring at him like he'd grown an extra head. Really, Michael couldn't blame him. "What...what just happened?"

"I don't know," Michael shook his head, his thoughts numb to the point where he totally missed what Ian was actually talking about. "I really don't know."