I am Jack's stained sense of pride. (Mich)

[LUCAS MARX]

One of these days, he was going to get himself killed.

Maybe not in the ring, but somewhere—anywhere, really—else. Not because he was stupid, either, for Lucas did a fairly good job of covering his tracks, all things considered. Or, Sir did. He owed more to the little man than he’d ever care to admit, especially now, when it was he who’d gotten him so beat up in the first place.

He could have won the fight. Should have won it, and would have, had it not been for the voice inside his head.

“Easy, there. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, alright? Let him win this one. You’re weak, remember? Pitiful. Don’t let them keep their eyes on you—”

[/color]
What was he supposed to do? He made sense (he always did) and so Lucas had lowered his fist literally a half second before nailing his opponent square in the nose, no doubt on the way to breaking what was already the man’s least attractive figure. But he hadn’t. He’d listened, done the little Sir a service and turned away, fist and jaw clenched so tight that for a moment, he’d literally been frozen when he found himself wheeled around, head jerking sideways in a manner that was sure to stay stiff for the next three days, at least.

“Don’t you dare hit him back. You hear me?! Not a fucking FLICK—”[/color]

He didn’t, of course.

Lucas emerged from the ring most certainly the worse for wear, his left eye swelling steadily as he grabbed a bag of ice from the staff. Holding it to the large, flowering bruise, he glowered as he slumped at the bar, barking for shot of Jack Daniels—anything to curb the humiliation, really.

What he was doing here, he still hadn’t a clue. Sir had told him to come, said he’d only face worse hell if he didn’t, and besides, it wasn’t like he’d never gotten beat up before, or even dished out a few. Lucas might have looked a bit on the skinnier side, but he could certainly throw a punch when he had the mind. In enticing him towards this side of town, he’d been assured a win, something give him that little rush he so very much craved—the high that came from knocking someone flat on their ass and laughing at their misery. One day, he’d been told, he’d do it to the world. Or, rather, they would, as the fact of the matter was that Lucas could do nothing without the advice of the diabolical imp residing in his head.

Still, he was anything but happy with said demon at the moment. Whether planned all along or merely an opportunity seized, it mattered not to the man currently nursing his bruised face as he pounded down a shot.

If anyone saw him here (anyone of NYPD importance, that was, as there were plenty of the “other” crowd loitering about) he was as good as dead. And what was he supposed to say, when he went into the station tomorrow, lip split and eye swollen?

Fight Club wasn’t to be talked about, after all.
[/blockquote]

[MICHAELA GRAVES]

Outfit of a curious Mich

Another day, another dollar.

Honestly, it wasn't as ambitious as her other ventures, the little fight club, but Michaela adored it. It was her very favorite. When one gave the promise of anonymity, violence, gambling, and alcohol, one could see just how quickly the animal instinct would overpower common sense. These men and women would simply forget that they had girlfriends to go back to, or meetings to attend in the morning. They would just slam their fists into one another until the fight was deemed over. Generally, the fights would be between two burly, thick muscled men; shirtless, shoeless, primal. Mich occasionally bet on the outcomes, able to tell with ease who would win before the fight even started. With one look, or a simple delve into the mind, she could tell who was truly a better fighter, who would simply pussy out, who had nothing to lose, who was just trying to show off. It was simple, really. To not raise suspicion over the fixing of fights, she would occasionally bet against the obvious (to her anyway) winner.

It was tedious at times, the same people would always show up, but occasionally, oh so occasionally, she would feel the pull. A reincarnate would enter, and whether they would fight or just enjoy the atmosphere, it would be interesting. Well, it really depended on the reincarnate. When she acquired the place (by truly legal standards, and you can't prove otherwise), it turned out there was a reincarnate who already worked there. Dormant, which was boring, but from the tenor of the parasites thoughts, preoccupied with tea-parties and grinning cats it was clear who it was. Nonsensical little Alice, biding her time, waiting for the proper moment. Mich could think of no proper use for the child, so she unceremoniously fired her. She didn't have time for heroines.

There had been others blowing through her doors, dripping blood on the concrete floor. The Wicked Witch of the West, silently screaming from inside a teenage girls mind. There was a young boy with her, who she could feel the pull of, but was unable to tell exactly what he was. But it was of no matter. Only one had showed any current promise. The Jabberwock, coming to defend his darling Alice and her unceremonious departure from Michaela's employment. That had been entertaining. The humans attached to the two were...connected by some odd twist of fate. She wasn't about to let the little beastie know of course. If there was one thing Michaela took sheer pleasure in, it was having valuable knowledge that others did not. It was how she had settled her pivotal place in the criminal underworld of New York.

Ah, and here came another. Awake, but secretive, the little bastard had thrown a guard up not only around his identity, but any other clues. She had been watching the man carefully. He was beautiful in a way, if Michaela cared to notice. Thin, but wiry. Pale skin, with angular features that were contradictory in the sense of being muted, but exceptional. High, feminine cheekbones, and a strong masculine jaw. Thick dark hair, and captivating blue eyes not unlike her own. In fact, they could have been siblings. She lazily kept her gaze fixated on him, a small, genuine smile appearing on her face as he signed up to fight. She would have bet money on him. For as unassuming as he seemed, the way he was carrying himself spoke worlds about him.

Nothing that the untrained eye wouldn't catch, but she could see the power underneath those understated muscles. The way his body moved, with a purposefully hidden confidence. He was trying to look like a weakling. The man he signed up with was a hulking bit of muscle. The patrons of her club were betting on what seemed the obvious winner, but Michaela, known for rooting for the underdog, placed a five hundred dollar bet on the man, her curiosity burning brightly, shining through her frigid eyes. It was a cold burn, a dip in liquid nitrogen. It zeroed in on the intriguing man for a fraction of a second before she called order to the men, stepping into the center of the ring, not bothering to go over the rules.

Looking at her, one's first thought was not 'Leader of a Fight Club.' To be fair, it wasn't 'Drug Lord,' 'Madam,' or 'Murderer' either. As a matter of fact, looking at her, one would assume a lady of esteem, class, status. Even now, dressed in her usual attire for the Alleyway, something about her screamed elegance. Be it in the delicate lace draped across her shoulders, warring with the leather and studs that made up the rest of her ensemble; the fine black jewelry resting on her fingers, in the hollow of her throat, and dangling from her navel and ears; the graceful but practical bun her hair was swept into. All of it was to project an image not unlike the man who had caught her eye. To the casual observer, she would look frail. Weak. Delicate. Breakable. To someone more in the know, they would see the camouflage for what it was. They would see her for what she was. A beautiful predator. Deadly Nightshade. A Black Widow.

She called the fight to commence, and exited the circle, spinning around as soon as possible to watch the festivities. It was uneventful, but still. Every sickening thud of flesh meeting flesh, every crack of fracturing bone, every flash of blood thrilled her. A true smile alighted her features, a garish sight indeed for how rare it was. Her hopes were high for the newcomer, but just as he was about to deliver the clinching blow -- and she could see it in her mind, a right hook delivered at just the proper angle with just the right amount of force to break the cartilage of the nose -- he stopped short, ducked his fist downwards, drawing away, allowing his opponent to cold clock him right in his eyebrow. He spun, dazed, and obviously beaten. She drew two fingers up to her mouth, whistling loudly, signaling the end of the fight and declared the drunken meat-sack the winner, seething in her rage. She had been so sure about him, and being proven wrong made her feel a fool.

And one did not make a fool of Michaela.

He retreated to the bar, ordering out a shot, while she doled out the winnings to the betters. Paying out of her own pocket was something she was accustomed to, but she hadn't counted on it tonight. After she had sated the greed of the gamblers and started the next fight, she did not return to her post. Instead, she sauntered to the bar, the delicate click, click, click of her spike heels on the concrete just audible over the shouting.

He looked morose. Embarrassed. Worried. She had seen the look before on losers. People who remembered their previous obligations. But beneath it, there were other emotions. Paranoia. And a cold fury. At what, she wasn't sure. But she intended to find out. "I lost five hundred dollars out there. What happened, you forget how to punch?" Her voice was a product of growing up in the city. Tough, affected by a terrible accent that was not her own. She used it for her shadier dealings. "Your shots are on me tonight, in exchange for company." Whether or not he had thrown the fight, he still intrigued her. She was almost certain that she had seen him before, somewhere. She couldn't place it, but she thirsted for knowledge. She pulled up the stool next to him, resting languidly against the bar, still feminine, still dangerous. "As you may have guessed, I'm Michaela. And you are?"

[LUCAS MARX]

Humiliation hadn’t been the word he’d hoped to find in coming here. Yet, here he was, having a staring contest with the emotion in the form of whiskey, simultaneously praising the shot for its comforting, near-medicinal properties. Alcohol, after all, was the only thing that worked to keep Sir at bay. And it might not have done that job particularly well, but a quiet man was better than no man at all, even if he sometimes despised his presence. Perhaps it was odd for one with a past such as his to enjoy a good drink quite as much as he did—it might have suited him better to be cautious about the whole thing—but then, his entire existence was planned out at the moment, a set of calculations and moves he hadn’t even strategized. Were he the poetic type, he might have called it an involuntary chess game. As it was, he preferred to think of it as the perfect excuse to indulge, and often. Maybe in rebellion. Either way, the harsh sting that shot through his nose was welcomed gladly, as was the sound of the empty shot glass as it hit the counter.

He heard her, whoever she was, before he saw her. It was only one shot, after all, and Lucas made it quite the practice to be precisely aware of his surroundings. There was nothing worse than a surprise attack. Turning his head slowly, he looked at her, grateful she’d picked the side where the icepack wasn’t. Cerulean eyes—or eye, rather—narrowed momentarily before he raised his brow, a tiny little scoff emerging from his cut lips.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to bet on the underdog? More often than not, you’ll lose,” he turned back away from her, not at all intimidated. Her loss, after all, betting on someone who looked like a waif. Still, there was something curious about this woman that made him steal a glance back her way; something about the eyes, and the way they seemed just a bit too deep for any one person. It was an unsettling stare, to say the least, and there were few things Lucas detested more than feeling unsettled. Shrugging, he brought the ice down from his face, never being one to like vulnerability, particularly in the presence of one such as this woman, who had the power to both start fights and call them off. Definitely safer to have peripheral vision.

When she pulled up beside him, Lucas turned once more, small smile pressing its way over his closed lips. He looked her up and down almost shamelessly, brows raising again as he moved his gaze back to her face, lingering for a moment over those unsettlingly stunning eyes. They were stunning. He wasn’t about to deny that, and doubted she would, either, were he to make note of it. Still, something told him she wasn’t just here for conversation. There was a way she carried herself that simultaneously made him want to scoot away and inch closer, like a magnet spinning on a metal table. He nodded at the introduction, ignoring the question about his own name and addressing instead the earlier statement. “You don’t seem the type to want to pay for company,” he spoke casually, “but if that’s all you’re asking for another drink, fine. The company’s yours.”