The Mongolian's eyes opened and closed a few times, drifting in and out of consciousness. He saw people moving around him, and the blaring nightcore music of his victorious opponent, and thereby, of his failure. He felt himself rolled to the side of the ring before dropping onto the floor beneath with a thud. He saw people move around him, attempting to put him on a stretcher to wheel to the back. No.
He pushed them off of him using instinct alone. The beaten Mongolian stood up, practically falling into the barricade, using it as support to move his way towards the back. His face hurt, but not as much as his pride. He oozed blood from his jaw onto the steel ramp as he hobbled backstage. He refused any help, it was what little pride he could still muster. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, spotting a bottle of cheap tequila right inside the curtains with the television techs. He snatched the bottle, stumbling his way through the halls unattended. He refused to go to the medical ward, looking for a bathroom instead.
In short order he found it, slamming the door open and going to the first sink, the leaky faucet giving a steady trickle of grimy water. Blood dripped from his face. He looked into the mirror, checking his wound. It wasn't broken, but it was dislocated. He spat into the sink, covering it in a crimson hue. He uncorked the tequila bottle, taking a generous swig, tasting the bitterness of the spirit and metallic taste of blood. He lowered the bottle, grabbing his jaw with both hands, before placing pressure on it. There is a sickening pop as his jaw is realigned where it should be, followed by a grunt of pain. He pours some more of the vile swill into his mouth, swishing it about before spitting it into the blood covered sink.
He had underestimated his opponent. Vastly. Had she been a regular human, it would not have been a fair match, but as it was, it was an unfair match anyways. He growled at the thought, pissed off that she was even allowed to compete. Anderson was a fool, allowing these changes and the booking while the best booker was out. He will have to find him and have a 'chat'. The Mongolian had heard of the cybernetic tech making its way into the ring. He knew about Kronin's fix, that was a small foray of the cybertech introduction into the world of wrestling. This was becoming a problem in this world. No more was it about the test of human skill, human strength, human agility, but how much of you is organic, or rather how much wasn't organic. In his opponent's case, there was too little human in that machine.
In frustration he smashed his fist into the wall, feeling the structure shudder underneath the blow, plaster and dust dropping from the ceiling and leaving a massive hole in the wall. He had grown soft, squashing smaller opponents in the indies. Sure it made him feel big, but it did little to prepare him for the real thing again. He took a swig from the bottle again, trying to deaden his senses, even for a moment. Being unprepared, his humanity made him weak against that android. But next time… next time he will be prepared, set the match to his own pace, try to exploit a weakness. The Mongolian knew one thing for certain, he would never surrender his flesh to technology, even death was preferable. Khan glanced back down the hallway, listening to the cheering crowd. The crowd couldn't care less that Anderson was hiring and actively supporting less-than-human competitors.
He had to learn and relearn how to fight against these cyborgs and androids if they were going to become commonplace. If they can't feel pain, you can't beat them through standard bouts. They lack feeling and pain, how would the bout be fair? They lack creativity and compassion, how can they pour their soul into the love of the sport? They don't suffer exhaustion and don't tire, how can they show how grueling a match can be? They don't think, they compute, how can they take place in the mind games pre and mid match? It takes away the spirit of the sport, the fight, the competition. In his mind, anyone using cybernetics was cheating, and therefore scum, undesirable, unworthy to even be in the ring. They are a disgrace, dishonorable, and their accolades are null.
Bold knew he had some time until the next show, even being in a different country. He needed to train. He needed to improve, get better. He couldn't take this defeat sitting down. He couldn't rest. One thing was on his mind. Revenge. To find a flaw or kink in any of the tech's armor. An Achilles' Heel. Chuluun knew his flaw was pride, that and under-estimating his opponents. He couldn't fix his primary flaw, but he could focus more on his foes. Brute strength will not work against those that don't tire or feel pain. He had to find something more. He had to dig deep, deeper than any foe he has faced. He had to completely recondition himself from years of wasted time spent in the Indy circuits.
He made it to the parking lot in a short time, dropping the tequila bottle near the door. He hopped onto his motorcycle, speeding off into the decaying darkness. The hot air of the desert fueled his rage, gave him a purpose and sustenance to fix himself, to better himself. The nearest gym was not far from the venue, lit up with a bright neon sign promoting combat sports. Bold parked his bike, and went inside. There were a few people training, sparring and working on their fundamentals. Bold went up to the boy standing behind the desk. “I need to train. How much?”
The boy stared at the Mongolian whose bottom lip was caked in blood. “Un día son cuarenta pesos.” The Mongolian dug into his pocket, fishing out the desired amount and placed it onto the front desk before walking into the gym. He glanced around the gym, looking for something that would be a good training station to learn how to combat the 'new robots' of UOW.
The Mongolian started with working on the body bag, venting frustration out like a piston with each powerful and pissed off punch. The bag was heavier than WENDE, allowing him to push more and more of his frustration into the inanimate object. The only sounds that penetrated his ears was his labored breathing from his intense work-out and the staggered hum of the air conditioning unit on the wall. It was serene, feeling the weakness leave his body temporarily with each jab and hook. He felt like a blacksmith, using a whetstone to sharpen his blade, honing the blade to be deadlier in the next fight.
His focus was shattered and his attention brought to a small television sort of by the front desk. It was entirely in Spanish, but it was airing UOW’s show live. It saw the finish of the match between The Reaganator and Jeremiah Vastrix. Another cyborg stealing victory from a human competitor. Khan spit onto the floor, his bruised jaw aching a little from the beating he received earlier. He watched in amusement when Huckleberry entered the ring and took out the cyborg’s eye. Guess they do have a weakness after all. It cut to commercial break but before doing so, it went back to highlights of the show. Khan clenched his fist, watching his match against WENDE, the brutal beating he received at the hands of a false competitor. He noticed he got some good hits in and saw the android recoil, but he was too far off his game to capitalize. He watched in slow motion the KO punch multiple times from different angles before getting knocked out cold.
Khan clenched his fist, his anger rising from the brutal defeat and the chuckle of locals sparing in a ring across the room. He started to let out his frustration on the body bag. Blow after brutal blow until the creaking of the chain holding the body bag became quite audible. Pulling back one final punch, the Mongolian let loose the blow, watching the bag swing backwards before a metallic cracking sound fills the entire gym. The body bag continued its swing upwards before plummeting earthwards and landing on the gym with a massive thud, shaking the entire foundation.
He walked like a man with purpose towards the fools in the ring. He climbed over the rope, his brown eyes focusing on the men who were laughing previously. They had stopped laughing after hearing the body bag break. Their friends who were with them had all left the gym quite hastefully, not wanting to get in the way of the angered foreigner. He towered above them as their faces drained a bit from the size of the Mongolian in front of them.
“Want to try what she did? Think you are stronger than a fucking android?” The Mongolian squared up, ready to demolish the two fools in front of him. One tried to leave the ring quickly to escape the grasp of the angry foreigner but Khan was too quick, grabbing him by the back of his neck before scooping him up and slamming into the mat with a quick scoop slam. He turned his attention on the other amateur wrestler who charged at the large Mongolian to catch him off guard. The Mongolian lifted his boot up high, connecting with his chin, dropping him to the mat with a solid thud. He reached down, grabbing the first opponent by the throat, lifting him up and slamming him right back to the mat which caused the whole ring to staring under the blow.
The Mongolian tilted his head to the side, cracking it slightly and releasing some tension he had. He felt better. That android did suffer some damage, they are still beatable, just a matter of focusing on specific parts. He looked down at the two amateurs, smile slightly before turning around. An immediate pain immediately lit up the right side of his neck, he grabbed at his neck, almost like feeling the bite of a massive mosquito. He withdrew his hand and in it was a small vial with a small needle at the tip. He felt his vision start to go foggy as he stumbled against the ropes of the ring. He tried his best to remain conscious, but he felt his vision and legs start to leave him. He slowly looked at the door, trying to focus on the silhouette of the figure standing there. Two larger masses moved towards him as his eyes fluttered shut. Before he lost complete consciousness, he heard a voice.
“I told you ese... your time is up.”
Good stuff. Khan came off as really menacing when he started swinging. Really liked the section when he bashed in the punching bag. Keep it up.
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