priordivergence | Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor [Mad Sweeney]

For the moment, at least, Mad Sweeney is sober. Mostly sober. Forty percent sober, for certain, but that's better than he's accomplished since Sunday.

A different Sunday in Kentucky than the one he'd wandered into, all told, but he figures when one has been around for seven hundred years, one can afford to skip a month or two every now and then. It's not like he hasn't gone on binges that lasted longer than that.

But he's sober enough right now to know wandering into a fucking boxing club isn't the best idea he's ever had, but what he'd like right now is for someone to punch him in the fucking face until his teeth feel like they're about to fall out. He gets a fair few looks when he walks inside, probably owing to his height, but he hasn't noticed that in years. What he does notice is the posturing half the men start to engage in, which only makes him laugh and head for the one person who doesn't seem like she gives a shit that he's here.

"Care for a moving target, love?" he asks when he's close enough.

I can feel the shift in the room as someone comes in, someone new and big, must be. In a second, my peripheral vision picks up men leaving off on the speed bags on either side of me. I can practically hear the squaring of shoulders, the tightening of jaws as they size up the newcomer. He's big, I'll give him that, and brawny. I assume it means he'll want nothing to do with me. Tiny, tattooed, female. People know me here but that doesn't mean they always value me.

The hush that goes over the gym as I'm approached and I spare the man a glance. Up close, I think he must have almost two feet on me, the top of my head somewhere around his sternum.

When I finally look up at him, it's slow and deliberate. If he's trying to intimidate me, I won't let him. "A moving target is only good if I can reach it," I say.

Mad Sweeney laughs and he hasn't done much of that these past few weeks, not since the accident, and it feels good to do. Maybe he doesn't have his fucking coin back and maybe he never will, maybe he'll die in the next month when his luck turns from bad to worse, but at least he can have some fun before he goes.

"Aim for the balls then, dear, won't be the first time they've been fucked over this week."

He looks at her then, the same way she's just looked at him, taking his time. Christ, but she's young and small, but young and small don't mean shit. Dead Wife wasn't the first to teach him that, only the latest.

"Got a feeling you'd find your way up here eventually," he adds. "Or a way to bring me down to your level."

I raise an eyebrow at him. He's not talking down to me, even as he tells me what I already know. People like me learn to fight differently than people like him. He has height and weight at his advantage, the reality that very few people can match him for brute force. I have sharp elbows, knees, and a shameless use of both. It's how I've survived.

The boxing ring is suspiciously empty when I know there were people sparring there before he walked into the door. I look up at the man, thinking about his offer.

"I'm going to remember that you encouraged me to go after the balls."

It's fucked and he knows it's fucked, but several hundred years and a little bit of madness go a long way toward accepting all the fucked up parts of a person and Sweeney feels no shame in it. Getting worked over is sometimes the closest thing he gets to being remembered, being left offerings, and if it's the best he can do, he's going to bloody well take it.

He laughs again and he doesn't know how he ended up here, what fucked up game Wednesday might be playing, but at least this day might not be a complete waste.

"I'll hold you to it," he promises. "Not much for fighting in a ring, but I'll make an exception here."

"Me neither," I say. Unless it's Fight Club but even then, all bets are off as to whether I'm fighting someone in a ring or wearing a mask in the shadows. It's not the same as fighting for survival; the adrenaline rush is different. One makes me powerful and the other makes me vicious. They run close together sometimes but not always.

Slipping through the ropes, I move to a corner and watch him.

"Should we exchange names first?" I ask, head cocked. Or do we just fight.

The ropes should be a little more difficult for him at his size and the level of alcohol in his system, but he manages them with a fair amount of grace, coming through to stand on the other side wearing a faintly amused expression. It's not a barroom brawl, but he supposes it'll do.

"Don't know that there are rules for this sort of thing," he answers, turning to look at her again. "Used to be we'd just charge one another, screaming bloody murder, but then, we had swords."

Names are fine. Names mean he'll be able to find her again if she puts up a good fight. "Mad Sweeney."

I nod at the name, taking in the fact that he calls himself 'mad' in stride. It's not the worst thing to call yourself or to get called; I'd been called crazy, suicidal, and reckless during Initiation alone. At least he owns it.

"We can tap out," I say. Not that I think either of us will want to but it's important to me that it be allowed, if only because it means we're not among Dauntless and people like Peter, who punched me unconscious just for the hell of it "Next time, I'll even bring my sword."

I circle slowly toward him, waiting to see how he moves.

She may be small, but she knows what she's doing, he can see that straight off. She's the only person who didn't puff up when he walked in, the only person who didn't see his size as an immediate challenge and he grins as she circles him, pausing to strip off the denim jacket he's wearing. He tosses it aside, over one of the ropes, then raises his fists.

It won't be like fighting Shadow and he knows he'll have to be at least a little bit careful. She can be tough as nails, but his size still out matches her and too hard a punch could cause real damage to even a man like Shadow. That isn't to say he's going to really hold back, he'll just make sure he does what's right. And they can tap out. He won't, even if she beats him unconscious, but he'll respect that if she needs to.

He moves for her suddenly, faster than most people expect, and swings at the same time, aiming low, for her abdomen.

He's faster than I expected for someone his size but my body moves on instinct even while my brain formulates a plan. The swing of his punch gives me an opening and I rush to get inside of his reach. It puts me at risk if he decides to grapple but if I'm fast enough, I might be safe. If nothing else, we didn't establish a no biting rule.

With my back to his chest, I swing back my elbow toward the space just under his ribs while my foot lifts. Maybe I should go straight for his groin instead of the stomp I'm planning for his instep but that move seems like something to save.

She's fast and tough, which he expected, and he grunts with pain at the elbow that suddenly slams into his torso. The stomp of her foot hurts a little less, only because he's wearing his boots, but there's still power behind that blow and he curses under his breath, sounding downright gleeful about the pain.

It doesn't stop him, though, and he lowers him arm as quick as he can, wrapping it around her shoulders instead of her neck. He likes to fight, but there's no fucking fight if one of them is unconscious, and as he holds her as tight as he can, he aims a punch at her side, her kidneys, this blow pulled just a little.

He can make her piss blood for a little while without fucking things up permanently, after all.

The blow to my side hurts and I'm pretty sure he could hurt me more if he wants, which sort of infuriates me. I know this isn't a serious fight, but I don't like being toyed with. His grapple at my shoulders is tight enough that it's hard to get another hit with my elbows but it's not so tight that I can't bend my knees and squirm down out of his grip. As I go, I use my leverage and aim a kick through his legs, my heel aiming for his tailbone before I dart away.

My side's going to bruise at best. I make a mental note not to tell Krem where I've been.

"Fuckin' squirmy, ain't ya?" he asks, but he's laughing, even as her kick lands, a sudden spark of pain blooming through his tailbone and lower spine and that's going to bruise, he's sure of it already. But it's a bruise he'll welcome, like all the bruises, like all the fights.

He turns, dropping into a fighting stance again, and he might mostly be used to barroom brawls, but he was, at one time, a king and a soldier. He remembers how to call on those abilities every now and again.

"I expected you'd be climbing me by now," he says with another flash of a grin. "Let's not disappoint now, love."

"Have to be," I say. Despite that, I'm grinning, already keyed up and ready to fight.

I do know a few maneuvers that involve using his body as leverage, letting myself walk blows up his body, but now he's expecting them. I cock my head, arms up, as if it hasn't occurred to me. "I'm not going to tell my boyfriend you said that," I say, playing innocent. It's a bit of a stretch, if only because Thomas and I aren't necessarily up to that yet, but if he's going to be crass, so can I.

Instead of obviously maneuvering to climb his height, I go for his legs.

"Next time you ought to bring him," Sweeney shoots back with another laugh and he does a few complicated movements with his feet, trying to bring himself out of her range, but he isn't fast enough and she connects hard with one knee. There's a magnificent bellow of pain in the joint and his grin grows wider still, looking every bit as mad as his name suggests.

The only rule she'd put forth is that they both have the chance to tap out, so Sweeney doesn't think twice about leaning into her and grabbing her by the nape of the neck, attempting to throw her back toward the ropes that surround the ring.

He can't have known it but the second I feel his hand on my neck, my vision blanks. I'm not in a friendly, if aggressive, fighting match. I'm back at Dauntless, and Peter has me in a chokehold as he dangles me over the Chasm. When he lifts me up, everything I do becomes about survival. I twist and squirm in his grasp, swinging my legs backward to kick him, to wrap around his waist so I can't be thrown away.

My hands, still free, come together to form a hammer. If he wants me to go for the balls, then I'll do it.

He's been alive long enough to have seen trauma, to see the way it changes people, and there's a shift in her that might be unnoticeable to some, but he sees it. The fight changes and Sweeney knows fighting better than he knows just about anything and suddenly it's not a game, suddenly she's fighting for her life.

He's never fought for his life. When it came to that, he fucking ran.

"Whoa," he says and he doesn't stop fighting, but his hand falls from her neck, reaches down to grab one of her wrists, even if he doesn't know if he'll be able to stop the blow. It doesn't matter, he'll take it, he's taken worse, but he's not prepared to have her walk away from this rattled. "Careful, love, it's all friendly here."

He doesn't stop the blow but he definitely keeps it from hitting home. His hand leaves my neck and his voice makes it through my panic. I freeze as my body catches up with my mind. This isn't Dauntless and this was supposed to be friendly, if aggressive.

I don't want to tap out but some of the fight has left me.

"Should've added that to the rules," I say, trying to sound cavalier.

"I'm amending the rules. You're allowed t'do that when you're a leprechaun," he says, hoping it'll throw her off enough that she might actually laugh. He doesn't look like a fucking leprechaun, after all, he's not a tiny little man dressed in green and so he knows he's not what people expect when they think of the word.

With a grunt of effort, he swings a fist, trying to dislodge her, but she's small and she's strong, like an annoying fucking bug. Except he's not annoyed at all. He's having a good fucking time, as long as she still is.

"Won't do that again," he says. "Friendly, after all, those're the new rules."

I don't know much about fairytales but everything I've ever heard about leprechauns has indicated that they're usually...a lot shorter. I raise an eyebrow at him, challenging him to explain, only for him to sweep me off his arms. I roll out of his grip and back on my feet.

"Doesn't matter. Someone will probably try that on me again."

"Probably will," he agrees. "But it seems t'me you're ready for it."

He moves back a little, fists raised, waiting for his moment. Small and fast can usually beat him in a few ways, but he's big and relatively quick himself, which does him a few favours. All he has to do is wait for an in, it's just he's usually not that patient.

"What?" he asks with a smirk. "Never seen a seven foot tall leprechaun before? Don't tell me you've bought into the stereotypes of wee men dressed in green. The rainbow's bullshit, too, love, but the gold..." He flicks a coin at her, having plucked it from the air, then rushes her at the same time.

"I've never seen a leprechaun at all."

The distraction works. I catch the coin, mostly out of surprised reflex, and almost don't see him coming. I duck low, beneath his center of gravity, to avoid the worst of it and also try to go for his knees.

Maybe I should tap out. I'm still rattled, my body full of adrenaline, but those same rattled nerves are all telling me to fight.

"Well, now you have," he grunts as she hits his knees and it fucking hurts, another glorious blossom of pain that makes him want to howl both with discomfort and pleasure alike. She throws him off balance, enough that he hits the ropes and if not for them, he'd likely have gone down, which would have probably ended the fight, especially if they were in a true brawl like the one he'd gotten into on his first day here.

"Now you sure as fuck have," he says with a laugh, swinging another punch, though it's off balance. From somewhere else in the gym, not all that far away, Sweeney hears a disgusted sort of snort and he brightens a little. Someone else is going to have a say, it seems, and he has a feeling whatever comes out of their mouth is going to give him a glorious excuse to knock their teeth out.

"Just knock her out and get it over with," some prick calls from behind him and Sweeney grins at Tris, a wild, mad sort of grin.

"Do you want to take care of him, love, or shall I?"

It's a wild punch and I duck under it, ignoring the sound around me and focusing on the fight. Mad Sweeney calls my attention to the man egging him on and I roll my eyes. He's a regular at this gym who's never been willing to spar with me on the excuse that he doesn't want to hit a girl but who keeps calling for my blood whenever someone else does.

"I usually ignore him," I admit. "He's never had the spine to get in the ring with me anyway."

But I can tell Sweeney's looking for something to up the stakes.

"I bet you could reach his collar from here."

Though he'd likely deny it, that's the moment when Mad Sweeney goes from just enjoying the fight to actually liking her and he doesn't need a lick of encouragement more than that. He turns swiftly, clearly faster than the man expects, and Tris is right, he can just reach the man's collar from where he stands. His fingers snag the material and he yanks hard enough that the shirt tears a little around the seams of the man's arms before he's dragged forward.

It takes just a bit of wrangling to get him into the ring and it's only once he's halfway in that he realizes what's happening and begins to fight.

"What's the matter, lad?" Sweeney bellows and his voice carries across the gym, loud enough that others turn. "You were keen on bein' involved, weren't you? Wanted me to knock her out and get it over with, isn't that right?"

He gives the man a hard shove, sending him stumbling into the centre of the ring. Then he looks at Tris and says, "I don't think he can do it. I doubt this fucker could fight his way out of a wet paper sack."

He looks spooked and I'd feel bad for him if he hadn't made a point of calling me obscene names so many times. Mostly, I'd let it roll over me, determined not to be the one to start the fight, just the one to finish it. Until now, he's never given me the chance.

I lean back on the ropes, glancing between him and Mad Sweeney, who does currently look exceptionally mad. "I don't know if it's even worth it, then," I say, carefully measuring out my contempt. "I've been doing this for five years. He's been coming here and calling me names for...five months?" And between the trash talk, I don't know that I've seen him actually fight.

"Fuck you," the guy spits out and Sweeney doesn't care who the words are aimed at, he just takes them as an invitation to deliver a nice, hard punch, his knuckles colliding with the man's nose. There's a spurt of warm blood against his fist, the feeling of sacrifice, and heat blooms through him. It isn't the same as an offering made to him, but it's good.

Good enough.

"It's worth it, love," he says to Tris. The blood on his knuckles is bright red and he holds it up for a moment, then flexes his hand. "Have a go. He's a prick, but there's glory t'be had in the fight, even with as limp a dick as this one."

"Doesn't seem like much of a fight."

Maybe it's the Dauntless with a death wish in me or maybe it's Mad Sweeney's influence, but I can't help the bravado. I step in front of the man who's still bleeding down his face. The blood doesn't scare me. I can see by the lack of scars on his arms that he probably doesn't have half the stories I have.

"I'll be sporting about it, even." I throw my arms out. "Let him see if he can land a punch."

"You two are fucked," the man spits out, holding his nose, his gaze darting nervously from Sweeney to Tris and then back again. Mad Sweeney only grins in response and spreads his arms wide as if to say, of course I'm fucked.

"Is that a no then?" he asks. "You're declining t'fight her after givin' her shit?"

The man lets go of his nose, but there's still blood flowing and he looks at Tris again, almost as if he expects her to save him from this entire situation.

"Don't start things you can't finish," I say, still keeping my stance open, ready for that free punch I promised him. I never said I'd let it land but even that possibility seems to scare him.

The Faction system was flawed and Dauntless was cruel, but even now it serves me well. I tilt my head at the man and use the strongest condemnation that Dauntless had. "Coward."

That'll be the thing that does it, Mad Sweeney can tell even before the word lands as hard as a blow and the man stiffens with anger. It's such a fragile fucking thing, masculinity is, and in it lies the difference between posturing and a man who genuinely loves to fight.

Sweeney's glad to know exactly which group he belongs to.

Finally the man lashes out and it's a terrible punch, one Sweeney is sure Tris will see coming a mile away and he snorts with disappointment, rolling his eyes. She'll take him out in short order, he has no doubt of that.

His anger gives me the excuse to act.

It's a horrible punch, all open stance and loose arms. I let the man come within an inch of hitting me and then I sidestep, twisting his arm behind his back and using the momentum of the turn. I swing my legs around until they wrap around his neck and use my weight to knock him right back to the ground, moving out of the way so that my knee is bent over his throat.

"Are you done now?" I ask. I look up to Sweeney. "I think he's done."

"I think he was done long before he was dragged into the ring," Sweeney answers. "That was fuckin' pathetic, lad. If you're gonna flap your lips, you ought to at least have somethin' to back up all that swagger or something like this happens and you wind up lookin' a damn sight foolish."

But at least the chances of him giving Tris a hard time from now on are significantly lower. It might not stop him entirely, but there's a good group of people here who have seen her easily best him and that will help.

He steps forward and drops down to one knee, his big leg beside the man's head. "You didn't even try, but not you know it ain't so easy to take someone down just because they're small. Lesson learned, right?" he asks, then gives the man's cheek a gentle pat before he rises again and offers his hand to Tris to help her up.

This time I take Sweeney's hand because it's not really about standing. I grasp his wrist with my hand and pull myself up and everything about the grip speaks of being equal. We've gotten a very good measure of one another, not just in how we fight but in how we respond to tiny, blackhearted men who think they're so much bigger and better.

"My faction would've liked you," I observe. "You, I mean." To clarify, I point at Sweeney. "Him, not so much."

Still grasping his arm, I slip my hand down so that we're hand in hand and I shake it. "Good match."

Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor [Mad Sweeney]

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