Left beaten, bloodied and bruised in a ditch somewhere, @MadMikeMarsbergen lost the Pot 1 Finals of SmackDown: The Second Coming to @torontojim (who later ended up winning the Grand Finals, too). Now he's back to get some revenge on all you competit...
Smoke coiled lazily from the trio of holes punched neatly into MadMike's upper chest.
"And stay down!" the big reptilian standing astride the twitching body snarled, a heavy slug thrower in its left fist. Then it was stepping over the downed pit fighter to stride confidently towards the waiting podium standing in the spotlight of the arena's far end.
"And the winner of this round, Hot versus Cold, is, ..." the announcer began in nasally Transgalactic Trade Tongue, or T3, that everybody was using in the arena.
"Wait!" somebody in the stands cried in T3. "MadMike is still moving!"
All eyes swung onto the battered body of the human competitor. Not very fast, or strong, or even all that good looking, MadMike had still jumped into the competition that saw species from hundreds of worlds, and a couple different multiverses, compete for the privilege of survival. A privilege granted by the Tamsin Oligarchy, currently doing its best to conquer known space.
Those that were already banded together in military alliances to resist the Oligarchy's march, they weren't included in this little affair. No, it was reserved for the outsiders, the few that stood on the fringes of the great alliances. Worlds that were only now becoming aware of the threat looming over their local galactic neighborhood.
Worlds like Earth, a relative newcomer to the galactic stage as they had only just developed faster than light travel a decade previous. Which positioned them poorly with the alliances. Who wanted to partner with a world that had barely unified a half century ago, who exported little of value, and had no military to speak of? Nobody, that's who.
Knowing that they'd be crushed by the Oligarchy in battle, the leaders of Earth decided to join the Oligarchy's Tournament of Exception in the hopes of winning a free pass and avoiding utter destruction. The only problem was that nobody wanted to volunteer. That is, until a well-meaning but socially awkward science fiction writer from somewhere north threw his hat into the ring.
Thusly MadMikeMarsbergen the pit fighter was born.
And just as quickly, he was killed. At least, he took three heavy slugs to the chest which, for most humans, was a death knell. But, as the keen eyes observer in the crowd had noticed, MadMike was still moving.
"Uhhhhh," he groaned, flipping himself over with a convulsive heave. Then, by dint of effort, he levered himself up onto his hands and knees. It was then that they all saw that no blood was dripping from the wounds in his chest.
"Is he a mutant, this human?" some wondered out loud.
"Is he a cyborg? An android?"
Wincing, MadMike climbed back to his feet. As he did, his vision shifted slightly then he was looking at an internal Heads Up Display which detailed his current condition. 'Three shots to the heart and surrounding area,' he mused as his numbers slowly came back to normal.
With audible 'thuds', the slugs pitched out of the holes to land on the ground. Seeing them, MadMike smiled.
"Nanites, for the win!" he said in a low voice. Then his plasma pulse blaster was coming up and blowing the reptile's head apart from behind.
"Hot wins!" the announcer cried as the crowd erupted into wild cheering. "What a comeback!"
