The Beyonders: Full Metal Jack Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Round One

The Steel Cup began with music, blinding lights, and the desperate optimism of people who needed one good night.

Thousands packed the arena until every seat, staircase, and railing overflowed with bodies. Homemade shirts bearing the names of neighborhood fighters bobbed above the sea of spectators. Parents hoisted children onto their shoulders for a better view. Promoters and sponsors occupied the expensive ringside seats while camera cranes swept across the crowd, broadcasting every second of the tournament to millions online.

For one night, Southside forgot about gangs, drugs, and corruption.

For one night, boxing was all that mattered.

Jack stood quietly in his corner beside the ring.

He disliked spectacle.

Boxing was simple when done correctly.

Two people.

Rules.

Consequences.

Everything surrounding it was decoration.

Or corruption.

Copperhead fought first.

The crowd loved him before the opening bell even sounded.

He bounced into the ring grinning, pointing at fans and joking with the announcer while shadowboxing in circles. Across from him stood Marble.

Marble never acknowledged the crowd.

He barely acknowledged Copperhead.

The bell rang.

Copperhead snapped out a quick jab.

It landed flush.

Marble didn't blink.

Another jab.

A right cross.

A left hook that cracked loudly against the side of Marble's head.

Nothing.

The giant absorbed every punch without so much as taking a step backward.

A ripple of confusion spread through the audience.

"What is this guy made of?" one commentator asked.

Copperhead stayed light on his feet, circling, probing, refusing to let Marble trap him against the ropes.

Marble stalked forward with mechanical patience.

Every punch he threw carried frightening weight.

One missed hook whistled past Copperhead's chin so violently the wind alone made him flinch.

Jack watched quietly.

Then he noticed it.

Every time Marble shifted his weight, his right knee hesitated.

His right leg never fully flexed.

"Copper!" Jack shouted.

"The knee!"

Copperhead caught the meaning instantly.

His grin returned.

"There you are..."

The fight changed.

Instead of headhunting, Copperhead began attacking Marble's foundation.

Sharp jabs snapped Marble's head back just long enough for short hooks to dig into the body.

Each combination ended with a crushing punch driven directly into the muscles surrounding the damaged knee.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Every legal punch forced Marble to reset his stance.

His movement slowed.

His balance grew worse.

By the championship rounds, the giant could barely pivot.

His punches lost their timing.

Copperhead slipped inside another looping right hand and ripped three brutal body shots before finishing the combination with a straight right that buckled Marble's weakened leg.

The giant stumbled backward, catching himself on the ropes as the crowd erupted.

The final bell saved him.

The judges awarded Copperhead a unanimous decision.

The arena exploded with applause.

Backstage...

Marble waited.

His corner had already disappeared.

Copperhead rounded the hallway still smiling.

"You almost had me, big fella."

Marble didn't answer.

Instead...

His damaged knee twitched.

Then bent unnaturally.

Wet clicks echoed beneath his skin.

Crunch.

Snap.

Pop.

Bone shifted.

Ligaments tightened.

The swollen joint straightened itself as though invisible hands were rebuilding it from the inside.

Copperhead's smile vanished.

"...Jack."

Jack stepped into the hallway.

Marble's pupils were completely black.

"We were promised victory," he growled.

Jack sighed.

"Get a refund."

Before Marble could charge—

CRACK.

Jack's right hand smashed into his jaw with enough force to send the enhanced boxer crashing through a row of lockers.

Silence.

Jack knelt beside the unconscious fighter.

Marble's torn shirt exposed a line of titanium surgical ports running neatly along his spine.

Someone had rebuilt him.

Titanium dominated his own match.

He boxed exactly the way his nickname suggested.

Every jab landed like a piston.

Every cross sounded like a sledgehammer striking concrete.

His opponent tried circling.

Tried clinching.

Tried fighting off the back foot.

Nothing slowed Titanium's advance.

He patiently cut off the ring, trapping the other fighter against the ropes before unleashing relentless combinations to the body and head.

The punishment became too much.

The referee stepped between them before permanent damage could be done.

Technical knockout.

The crowd roared.

Mercury nearly lost his.

Not because he lacked talent.

Because he refused to listen.

His opponent timed a perfect counter left as Mercury rushed forward.

The punch landed clean.

Mercury crashed onto the canvas.

The arena gasped.

One...

Two...

Three...

Mercury immediately started getting up.

"I'm fine."

Jack leaned over the ropes.

"Stay down until eight."

Mercury frowned.

"I said I'm fine."

Jack's voice hardened.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

Mercury forced himself to breathe.

He remained on one knee.

Four...

Five...

Six...

His heartbeat slowed.

His vision sharpened.

Eight.

He stood.

Now he boxed.

No anger.

No desperation.

Just discipline.

A snapping jab.

A quick pivot.

Straight right.

Body shot.

Out.

Back in.

He piled up points with surgical precision, frustrating his opponent until the final bell.

Unanimous decision.

As Mercury returned to the corner, Jack nodded once.

"You finally started fighting."

Steel entered beneath a storm of applause.

The crowd loved him.

The cameras loved him.

The spotlight followed him to center ring.

Then—

FLASH.

A camera bulb burst near ringside.

Steel froze.

His breathing shortened.

His eyes stopped seeing the arena.

They stared through it.

Past it.

Burning Humvees.

Smoke.

Gunfire.

Screaming.

Jack stepped directly in front of him.

"Steel."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

Slowly...

Steel focused on Jack's face.

"This is Southside."

Jack spoke calmly.

"Nobody is shooting."

Steel swallowed.

The roar of the crowd slowly replaced the explosions in his head.

Jack looked toward the ring.

Then back at Steel.

"Fuck him up and get the fuck out."

A pause.

"I'm getting hungry."

Steel laughed once.

That was enough.

The ghosts loosened their grip.

When the bell rang, Steel boxed exactly as Jack had trained him.

Tight guard.

Sharp footwork.

Disciplined pressure.

His opponent charged recklessly, throwing wild combinations.

Steel calmly slipped the punches, answered with crisp counters, and steadily broke the man's confidence.

By the final round his opponent no longer wanted to exchange.

Steel won comfortably without ever losing control.

Alan's opening fight looked almost effortless.

He treated boxing like a conversation instead of a fight.

His footwork flowed.

His timing was flawless.

Every punch landed only where it needed to.

Late in the third round, Alan slipped a jab and countered with a short right hand.

His opponent twisted awkwardly trying to avoid it.

Pop.

Alan heard the shoulder dislocate before anyone else.

He immediately stepped away.

Lowered his hands.

The referee hesitated before noticing the injury and waving the fight off.

Alan never threw another punch.

The audience applauded not only the victory...

But the mercy.

High above the arena...

Slumlord watched from his private suite.

One of his lieutenants frowned.

"Why are Morrison's fighters still advancing?"

Vincent never looked away from the ring.

"Hope," he said quietly, "draws a larger crowd before it dies."

Beneath the arena...

Maria slipped into a hidden medical laboratory.

Rows of refrigerated blood samples stretched across stainless-steel walls.

Every fighter had donated blood during registration.

Each vial was carefully labeled.

Her flashlight stopped.

EMPIRE CLUB

Inside rested dozens of crimson samples.

Each carried the same designation.

GENERATION NINE

Maria's pulse quickened.

Then she noticed an older drawer hidden beneath them.

Dust coated its label.

She slid it open.

One file.

One blood sample.

Stamped in faded black ink.

SUBJECT ZERO: MORRISON

"You keep opening doors, Detective."

A federal agent stood silently behind her.

Maria's hand drifted toward her holster.

"Occupational habit."

Above them...

The arena doors slammed shut.

Heavy locks engaged.

The lights flickered.

Then dimmed.

The agent smiled.

"Let's see who survives the tournament."