Main Event

## Meta

**Timing:** Somewhere between "Gag" and "Tip"

**Setting:** temporary fight club setting

## Text

"Hey, Bubbles," greets the hall monitor. "Ready for tonight's main event?"

"Yup!" She bounces on the spot. "Blossom can't make it, though."

The monitor frowns. "Crap." Flips a sheet on their clipboard, makes a note. "Think Buttercup will be up for it anyway?"

"I'll ask. Where's he at?"

Points with a pencil. "Northeast corner."

"Cool. Be back in a minute."

The hall monitor probably waves, but she's pushing through the crowd milling around the empty warehouse The Professor's commandeered for tonight's party.

Bubbles spots her target quickly. Not much of a challenge, actually, considering the wide berth the other fighters give him.

He's crouched, shirtless, wiry muscles sliding under pale skin as he tapes his hands for his first bout of the night.

Bubbles sighs.

[Might as well be a museum: all that pretty on display and no one can take it home].

A smile creeps across her face and she snickers.

Doesn't mean she can't touch the art.

Bubbles slinks up behind him, drapes herself over his back, arms around his neck, pigtails brushing the tops of his bare shoulders.

"'ey, Bubbles," he greets.

"How'd you know it was me?" she purrs near his ear.

"You're the only one crackers enough to try it."

Bubbles huffs, sinks down and now her breasts press against his back.

Nothing.

Bubbles replies, "That's just because you don't let people see your soft side, Buttercup. If folks knew—"

He turns[, noses almost touching], brows lowered.

"It's a very small soft side, though."

Logan rolls his eyes, his shoulders.

Bubbles slides off.

"Where's Blossom?" Shimmies into a tank top.

"Working overnight." Shucks her hoodie, drops it next to his backpack.

Buttercup rolls his eyes. "Drones, the lot of ye."

Bubbles pokes him. "Not all of us are lucky enough to be self-employed."

"I'm an 'independent contractor'. Sounds classier, ay?"

"'Classy'. That's /**definitely** the first word I think of when I think of you."

Buttercup grumbles.

"No snappy comeback today?"

"Don't you have someone else to bother?"

"Nope! But I /**am** supposed to ask if you're willing to go two-on-three for the headliner."

'You have to ask?' he sniffs, stretching his arms. "You?"

"With you watching my back?" Grins. "Of course. I'll tell the hall monitor." Holds out her hands. "After you tape me up."

Buttercup sighs, retrieves his tape.

He's quick, efficient, and the job's done in moments.

"Thanks. That would've taken me /**ages**."

"I'd better be faster than you, after six years of practice."

"Six years? You must've been in kindergarten."

He grunts, waves 'shoo'.

Bubbles grins, retraces her steps to the hall monitor.

She's back at Buttercup's side in a minute. "We're s'posed to drag the warm-up bouts past five minutes—both of us—but no stupid chances."

Buttercup rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "Hope the poor fucker lasts that long."

""Buttercup! You're up!""

"Just show 'em your softer side."

Buttercup scoffs, shoves off the wall, swaggers to center stage.

Bubbles tracks him with her eyes.

He rolls his shoulders, fistbumps Catfish (the poor fucker)—

Blossom was right: she learn a lot just watching the best fighter in Sydney—

—steps back, checks the footing with his bare feet—

—and Buttercup is /**definitely** the best in Sydney.

—raises his guard and waits for Catfish's first move.

Which—/**bo**-ring!—turns out to be a straight jab for Buttercup's face.

Buttercup lazily dodges. He actually /**sighs**.

Catfish snarls something, squares up again.

If this were happening without an audience, the poor fucker would be down and /**bleeding** by now.

Instead, Buttercup forces himself to miss a block, lets Catfish connect with his forehead.

His eyebrow splits, blood starts dripping.

He wipes the blood from his eye with the back of his hand.

Buttercup grins.

And, lord, is it a nasty one. Like a guard dog let off its leash.

Buttercup starts fighting, hitting and kicking again and again, just hard enough to bruise, to /**hurt**, but not nearly hard enough to end the fight.

It's gonna /**suck** to be Catfish tomorrow.

She'd bet all the cash in her account a stopwatch would show /**exactly** five minutes and one second since the fight started when Buttercup lands a smashing shot on Catfish's nose and another to his solar plexus.

Catfish drops like a bloody [rag doll].

Buttercup turns on his heel, strides off, crowd parting in front of him.

Bubbles pushes through, heading for Buttercup's corner to meet him.

A few minutes later, he strolls up.

"'Make it a good show'," he pouts, prodding his eyebrow.

"Getting blood all over your pretty face /**is** a good show. Betcha a third of the androphiles out there would /**pay** to lick you—"

Buttercup shudders.

""Bubbles! You're up!""

"—clean, maybe even half," snickers Bubbles. Sobers, asks, "You let Ha check that out?"

""/**Bubbles!**""

"Yea. She put some goo on it and said I was good to go." Flicks his head toward the central mats. "They've called your name twice now."

Bubbles squeaks, flees.

She faces a new person on the scene: Finch.

A little shorter, a little heavier, but /**all** muscle.

This should be go-od.

A few moves {in} and Bubbles sighs.

Finch is all muscle, alright, but no technique.

She glances at Buttercup, watching from mat-side.

He shrugs.

Bubbles lazily dodges another attempt at grappling, resigns herself to stalling {interminably}.

She stuffs a yawn, turns—ducks a haymaker—to Buttercup. 'Time?' she mouths.

::Six,:: he signs.

Bubbles rolls her eyes, lunges under Finch's guard, gets her on the ground and in an arm bar before the other woman knows what hit her.

The ref calls Bubbles off and she hops to her feet.

Finch, still on the mat, whimpers.

Bubbles kneels beside her. "You okay?"

"Fuck you, bitch," snaps Finch. She sits up, shoves by.

Bubbles flails, topples, sits down hard.

A snort and a glare from Finch.

Bubbles smiles winningly, hops back to her feet, sets off to relax before her next fight.

Buttercup's in his corner, propped up against the wall.

Bubbles plops beside him. "Don't know why she didn't tap out. Almost wrecked her elbow."

"She probably wanted the bounty," points out Buttercup.

"Ohhh. I forgot about that." Unwinds the bloodied tape from her right hand. "What's it up to these days?"

"It's twenty-five-hundred for folks in the same weight class." Needles, "Blossom's is higher."

Bubbles ribs him. "Too bad someone claimed yours."

"That was a lucky shot," he mutters, "and he outweighed me almost twenty kilos."

"You keep telling yourself that, Buttercup." Unwinds the left.

He growls.

"Pass me the tape."

He does, closes his eyes, rests his head against the wall.

Bubbles wraps.

"That'll—"

She startles, drops the roll.

"—bruise if you leave it like that."

Recovers the wrapping. "Wha?"

Buttercup taps a spot between Bubbles' middle fingers. "That kink there'll pinch when you land a shot and sting a bit."

She squints, grumps, "I still haven't got the hang of this." Unwinds, sighs. "I miss wearing gloves."

Buttercup sniffs, closes his eyes.

"Yea, yea, tough guy." Rewinds. "You probably want to go bare-knuckled."

"We'd be safer if we did."

Bubbles ties off the tape, shows Buttercup—

He approves.

—"Safer how?"

"No one hits as hard without gloves, so there're fewer concussions and those're what really fuck you up, long-term." Turns his hands in his lap. "Tape's a good compromise between bare and bleeding all over the place."

"Huh. You're a veritable font of knowledge."

"Somebody has to know what they're doing." Stretches. "I'm gonna grab a nap." Yawns. "Wake me when it's time to go."

"Sure. Sweet dreams~."

Buttercup sighs, flops onto his stomach, and pillows his head on his hands. He's asleep in seconds.

Bubbles watches him for a moment, then drags her attention back to the fights.

Maybe someone else has a useful new trick.

Nope.

No one.

Bubbles sighs.

At least it was almost time for the headliner.

"Buttercup~," coos Bubbles, poking his shoulder.

He grumbles.

"It's time to get u-up~!" Pokes his ribs.

Buttercup squeaks?

Bubbles blinks. Then she slowly grins, wiggles her fingers into his side.

He makes a high-pitched, disconcertingly cute noise, and flails to sitting.

She fails to hold in a laugh with both hands.

"/**Never** do that again. I /**will** cripple you," he snarls.

"Oh my god! You're—"

"/**Stuff.** /**It.**" He shoves to his feet. "We on or not?" Stretches his arms over his head.

"We're on." Bubbles hops up, mirrors his stretch. "They sent over Sandbox, Kitchen, and Trip."

"Seriously? Them?"

"Yup."

"Do we /**have** to drag this one out, too?"

Bubbles grins. "I've got no orders."

"Awe/**some**. We can finish this off and grab some takeaway from the shop by the station before they close."

"The place with the crocodile burgers?" Wrinkles her nose.

"Yea." Strolls over to the mats. "Those are /**disgusting**, but their pork sandwich is great."

"I'll give that a try then."

Buttercup sizes up the trio across the mat. "Which one do you want to start with?"

Bubbles hums, considers, bobs her chin toward the palest. "Kitchen." Leers. "Maybe I'll take 'em home, too."

"I /**can't** hear that."

Bubbles laughs. "Blossom's right. This /**never** gets old."

Buttercup scowls at her.

"Which one's yours?"

"The bald one."

"They're both bald."

"I know." Smirks. "Betcha I can take both of them before you get yours."

"What're the stakes? Your share?"

"Hell, no!"

Bubbles huffs. "How about dinner and a movie?"

Buttercup considers.

"A movie in a theater."

Buttercup considers harder.

Bubbles bats her eyelashes.

Buttercup shrugs. "Fine. You're on."

They shake.

Then they grin and stalk toward their opponents.