"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Starry Nights Colosseum, and the first event of the evening, scheduled for three rounds of competition!"

One would expect one of the first and shortest events of a weeks-long tournament to be the most desolate, but clearly, Vince's event planners must have known how to start things off with a bang. Packed nearly to standing-room-only, the audience had been drawn in from square one with the promise of an unheard-of match. Clutching his silvery, hanging microphone, the tuxedo-wearing announcer, swiveling his gaze slowly and dramatically across the crowd as he spoke, suddenly flung an arm out toward one of the corners of the ring.

"Wearing black and yellow, official weight: thirty-nine and a quarter kilograms, a new competitor, his official record: one victory by knockout, no defeats, no draws. Major league baseball star for the Spring City Conquistadors, and pride of South Island, Richard "VELO" Wilder!"

The light green basilisk lizard warmed up in his corner, shuffling his feet, loosening up his neck, pitching his gloves up and down, and generally moving every which way he could possibly move that wouldn't end with him doing a Mexican hat dance, or donning a ushanka and kicking his feet out. He was either hyper or fidgety, and with his very intent expression, it was hard to tell which. He wasn't showboating, either way, so he must have been taking things seriously.

"Wearing red and white, official weight: thirty-five kilograms even, also a new competitor, but one who needs no introduction. His official record in the ring also one victory by knockout, no defeats, no draws, but his record outside the ring immeasurable—the fastest thing alive, the one, the only, Sonic the Hedgehog!"

The blue hedgehog stood calmly in his corner. He sauntered forward, bent, stretched, rolled his head around on his shoulders once, then idly hopped, popping his gloves together and grinning lopsidedly.

Velo's restless movements had long slowed to a stop during Sonic's introduction, until he was just standing and staring pointedly. He almost looked a little psyched out—and for good reason. He had been put in what was arguably the hardest match-up of the entire tournament, and in the very first phase, and very first bout. After his first experience on the baseball diamond, he had learned better than to overestimate himself, and make a fool of himself.

Before he even realized it, his eyes had been locked with Sonic's from across the ring for a good fifteen seconds. He frowned just a tiny bit at the hedgehog's grin.

"Don't let'im get to ya," said the overweight bear standing at Velo's right.

"Ain't gonna," he replied, suddenly casual again, and moving around like he was before. "Can't afford to."



***



Soon enough, the rules had been read, the stage cleared, the bell rang, and the two fighters came out of their corners. Velo's bright yellow gloves hovered up in front of his face, just under his eyes, while Sonic's red gloves hung lower. The hedgehog didn't look excessively calm—just excited, and entertained. He was no Knuckles, but the thrill of the impending fight, even a boxing match, was clear to see in his eyes.

The first exchange between the two elicited an audible gasp from the audience, as the two fighters momentarily reduced from identifiable individuals to colored blurs. Sonic had made a lunge of some sort at Velo, and chased him for several swings, but got only air. Velo was astoundingly quick on his feet, and had the footwork.

They paused and stared each other down for a moment, swerving and juking from side to side—then Sonic rushed again.

It was hard to tell what happened, but whatever it was, it wasn't in Sonic's favor. The hedgehog went stumbling out of the blurring exchange off to the side, countered by a left hook from the taller, longer-reaching fighter. Soon, Velo was on him, and the crowd was roaring while Sonic found himself hung up in the corner—literally. His long, rigid quills got his head stuck in the ropes, and before the ref could intervene, Velo gave him the hard, right cross to finish the job.

Twenty-five seconds into the fight, and Sonic had already been knocked clear out of the ring. Velo danced back to his corner, arms in the air, looking like he was caught between celebrating and being too shocked at his own performance to even crack a smile.

There came a clomp noise from behind Velo, and he turned around. Sonic had just spin-jumped back into the ring without even touching the ropes. He didn't look mad—just amused, and far too unaffected by the whole ordeal.

The fight was on.


***


Round 1 ended with a clear decision for Velo. Neither fighter was hurt or even remotely winded—not until the second round was halfway through.

At the midpoint of round 2, things started to get messy. After dancing around each other and whiffing a good forty punches each, both Sonic and Velo met at the middle of the ring and decided to play what looked like Rock'em Sock'em Robots rather than boxing. They seemed to have proven to each other that they were too fast to touch, so in some kindred hyper-competitive pride, they both anchored their feet, and started trading blows, ducking, bobbing and punching like mad.

It looked about even at first, but then Velo got into the rhythm of it, and started finding it ever easier to pop the hedgehog with his long arms. A stunning combination to the body then chin sent Sonic stumbling backwards, and before he knew it, he had been slammed straight back into the ropes, off of which he bounced... straight into the hardest punch Velo could muster.

Sonic flipped off of his feet in an involuntary backward somersault, as if he'd just been clotheslined in a full-on sprint, and landed on the top of his head before rolling and splatting into a belly flop on the canvas.

He was up before the ref could start the count, but that was still his second fall. Things weren't looking good.


***

Velo had successfully avoided Sonic for the rest of round 2, and won the round. People were practically rioting in the stands. Stuff was being thrown, security was crawling all over the place, cameras were flashing, and there it was already nearly the beginning of round 3, the final round.

"Listen, Rick, you jus' gotta keep away from'im now," advised the lizard's cornerman.

"Huh?" replied Velo, distracted. "But I'm winnin'."

"You already won it in points!" explained the bear. "Just don't get knocked out and you got it!"

"Oh. ..." Velo blinked a few times, and looked at Sonic distantly in the other corner, then mumbled, "Huh. So that's how it works. I mean, that's good an' all, but I was jus' thinkin' it seems a lil' anti-cly-mactic, if you ask m—"

"Listen, son, you fight, I'll think, we'll make a good team. Fight, think, you, me, got it?" urged the trainer, grabbing him by the arm and shaking him around some to ensure his attention. "You got this. You got this. Don't get hit. Don't get carried away! This guy breaks robo-tanks wi'his head for fun. Play it safe, Rick!"

"Okay, okay, yeah, yeah, I got this, you don't gotta getcher trunks all inffha bnghmff—"

The trainer stuffed Velo's mouthguard in while he was still talking, then shoved him out as the bell rang. Velo glared back—just in time to get punched straight in the face.

And there went the mouthguard! It trailed a glorious, sparkling strand of spit halfway across the stands while Velo, bug-eyed and walleyed, stared at the pretty lights above. Sonic, determined as ever, didn't stop. He laid into the lizard with a left, right, left, right, left, right, like a couple of pistons firing at high RPM, and rode Velo around the ring like a second-hand bike. The poor guy couldn't fall down because Sonic was actively punching him upward.

Velo's trainer looked on in horror.

This went on for some time. Velo struggled to cover up, but even as he regained his footing and bearings, he couldn't dodge and couldn't get away. He ended up on the ropes, struggling to stay up, only to get pounded away from them again. Suddenly, fighting Sonic was like fighting three people; one second (or thousandth of one) he was punching from the right, then he was from the left, then he was from head on, then he was seemingly nowhere, then repeating the process all over again.

It was in a totally blind, confused, pathetic-looking effort, Velo flung a flailing, girly punch completely at random, and suddenly felt like he'd very nearly broken his knuckles. The lizard pulled his glove back to his stomach and hunkered over, while Sonic, who had been caught right in the middle of a faster-than-the-eye jig, staggered backward, holding his nose with both hands.

... The two were incredible athletes, but in that moment, as Sonic wobbled back on his heels with both big gloves over his schnozz, and as Velo hopped around in a little circle, clutching his hand and blurting something that sounded like "ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-gall-dangit-ow," it became evidently clear that neither of them were very good boxers just yet.

And the bell rang.

Both looked up from their mutual discomfort with confusion and alarm.

"Whuh."

Suddenly, people were in the ring, and Velo's hand (still very much in pain, and eliciting a strong glare from the lizard) was being thrust skyward by his trainer, while the announcer read the results.

It was hard to make out in the commotion, but audible was "winner by unanimous decision, Richard "Velo" Wiiiiilderrrr!"

Velo's eyebrows looked like they wanted to hit the ceiling, and his mouth like it wanted to punch a hole in the canvas. Sonic, though his nose was a bit swollen and his face ever so slightly pained, didn't look terribly put off. He actually managed to give Velo a pat and a "Nice!" before they started getting crowded by reporters.

"Velo! What's it like winning against Sonic the Hedgehog?"

"Well, I, uh. It's... good?"

"Velo! Did you think you were going to make it through that third round?"

"Oh, I, uh, I was—"

"Velo! Was that last round part of your plan?!"

"N-not so much, but—"

"Velo! What's your favorite nacho flavor?!"

"... What—"

"VELO!"



This could go on for a while.


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After the chaos had long thrown everything else off-schedule, the room cleared out a little, the haze of confusion and riotous madness settled, and the announcer finally stepped back into the ring. There were new contenders in opposing corners of the ring, who had entered without much trumpeting or announcement as of yet. It was time, though. His microphone dropped down from the ceiling, and silence again fell. Well, sort of. There was still a general murmur and mumble over the stunning events.

"Ladies and gentlemen—thank you for waiting. Your patience is about to be rewarded with the second thrilling bout of the evening here in the fabulous Starry Nights Colosseum." Still a little disheveled by the sheer madness from a moment ago, and not entirely as familiar with the next set of contenders, he took to relying on some index cards for his information. His bold speaking voice didn't falter, however. "Wearing turquoise, official weight: thirty and a half kilograms, official record: one victory, no losses. Hailing from the tough streets of Emerald Town, South Island, Ritchie—"

Okay, he faltered, and looked at his card twice, double-taking. He picked up a second and a half later as if nothing had happened.

"—'Dark Smoke Puncher' ... Booowiiieee!"

He almost looked embarrassed, but, as they say, the show must go on.

"And in this corner, wearing black and red trunks, weighing in at twenty-one and three-quarters kilograms,... in his... debut bout," he hesitated again, suddenly uncertain of how the competitor got there without successfully completing a qualifier, "it's Westside Island's very own... Walter!"

Adding to the awkwardness, the guy didn't even have a last name.

The crowd became ever thinner as the seconds went by. It was the official Restroom Break Time.

"Yo man, da's-- YO MAN DA'S BOW SHI'," bellowed the fabled 'Dark Smoke Puncher'. A tall, skinny looking doberman fellow, followed closely by Buddy, his much subtler looking bulldog companion. The shorter one trailed behind him, stuffing his hands into his pockets and sniffing complacently as Ritchie ran his mouth on the way to the ring. It seemed like he was the closest thing to a 'trainer' the doberman had.

"Ah tow' dem I grew up on 'da streets. Mean streets a' Wesside, 'dey oughta fix they f**kin' paperwork, man, s**t."

"Yeah, but, you weren't, though..."

"Y'h whatever," he commented, making a point to hop into the ring over the highest rope (though the awkward, hopping stumble that followed was unlikely intentional). "I'mma fix up they announcer right after I fix up-- 'DIS SUCKA RIGHT 'ERE."

And in the blue corner...

An unreasonably small, frail-looking, tight-lipped, bug-eyed little cat wobbled anxiously on what looked like a gimp leg through the ropes, his nervous, shifty eyes darting about the ring as he seemed to be gathering his surroundings. He didn't say a word as he scrambled his way to his seat. In fact, he hardly seemed to recognize where he was, let alone his contender in the opposite corner.

Soon, the ring cleared, and only the boxers were left along with the referee. No cameramen bothered being in close for the reading of the rules. One was eating a sandwich, the other talking to one of the fancy-dressed round-number girls, and the last was shooting the footage from the ropes with marked disinterest.

The ref motioned Ritchie and Walter to the center.

"You know the rules—protect yourselves at all times, keep it above the belt, no rabbit punches, break when I tell you to break, and keep it clean. Got it? Touch gloves, let's get this over with."

"Yeah, yo, what's up? What's up you f**kin' frail-ass beyitch? Yeah, you should 'member dis moment, 'sthe only time that glove a' yours gonna be touchin' anything a' mine, da's right. You oughta be thankful you could even step in the, same ring as me, shorty. Comon le's go! Le's go!"

Walter was, unbelievably, entirely silent throughout the entirety of Ritchie's showboating. In fact, he was entirely unblinking as well. Little was offered but that same, frozen, paranoid-looking stare, like Ritchie was speaking some alien language and may or may not have been planning to boil him in his own juices by the end of the fight.

And then the bell rang, shortly followed by the doberman immediately

...swerving back no less than four feet behind where he was standing a moment ago. On the opposite side, Walter hadn't even thrown a punch. He was too busy staring at his gloves in a cold, terrified sweat, like they had suddenly transformed into tentacles, or were melting into stubs.

"Ohoho! Yeah, da's right,” Ritchie happily commented, dancing and weaving and faking around the cat's frame. “You bettah-- chiggidy check yo'self, 'cos I'mmo' beatchu like a drum, boy! Yo momma ain't gon' recid-nize you! Gonna take yo' ass t' Splaaaaash Mountain. I don' even know what, that, MEANS.”

It was certainly a spectacle, if not an actual fight. One boxer so blatantly freaking out he could barely stand in the first place, and the other, literally dancing in circles around him, throwing one cutting jeer after another, but so far not a single punch.

Boos slowly began to rise from the audience. It wasn't long before a half-eaten bag of popcorn landed in the ring, heralded with a shrill scream of "Y'LOSERS GONNA STOP FLIRTIN' AN' GET FIGHTIN' OR DO I GOTTA SHOW Y'HOW" from a diminutive, long-eared pup boy in the audience.

It wasn't very long before the intensely perturbed ref (after kicking the popcorn bag out) stepped up to the two and shouted: "Fight or I call this a no contest!" He motioned the two toward each other with a broad gesture and an ugly face. "Fight!"

"Oh hohoho! You 'ear dat? Yo' time is runnin' out, beyitch! Way out! Outta town! Yeah, here it comes! He' comes Mothuh Guwse! 'Bout to kiss you good-nnnNIGHT!"

At last, the gods of conflict smiled down upon the Starry Nights Colosseum (or more likely than not, offered a sort of perturbed smirk), and praise the lord, Ritchie actually threw a punch. And what a punch it was: a completely unhinged, unbalanced, untrained, careless, readable, sloppy, bedraggled haymaker, hurled violently in the general direction of Walter's head.

The cat took two mildly bewildered steps back, as if a bright light was shone in his eyes...

...Before dropping like a bag of hammers onto the canvas. The funny thing was, he wasn't even unconscious, nor did he appear to be terribly injured. All the same, Walter found the need to curl into the fetal position and whimper feebly in the center of the ring while Ritchie attentively nursed his hand from the force of it colliding with Walter's face.

The ref quickly started to get in the way—before he realized that Ritchie had hurt his own hand in the process. (That was two wimpy-knuckled fighters in two matches, already.) And though he also started to raise an arm to point and usher the canine to a corner so he could start the count, it only took one glance at Walter for him to decide to not even bother. He just shook his head and fanned his hands out over the fighter to signal the end of the fight, and with that, the bell rang, and some paramedics made their way into the ring. Unfortunately, neither of them were psychiatrists.

Without further ado, the already-vaguely-primate-looking announcer unenthusiastically took his place at the center of the ring and grabbed his microphone as soon as it was lowered, wearing a fittingly sour, apish look as he did his best to sound like he actually cared.

"Winner by knockout—Ritchiiieee..."

He had to pull out his card to double check the name.

"Booowwwiiieee."

As the mic retracted safely out of listening distance, he turned to a nearby official and shook his head. "You know Vince won't be happy with this. We look like a complete joke."

The equally well-dressed organizer looked glanced over his shoulder, perhaps looking for the next contender. "Next match should be better—has a real boxer, at least."

From outside the ring was an absolutely awful sound. Not quite as bad as, say, a convoy of trucks hauling angry bees, perhaps, but it was a nasty, nasty sort of laugh. Yes, short, fuzzy death had all but arrived for whoever was set as his opponent.

Murdoch (who, for once, was totally devoid of the smell of beer) stood there, still dressed in his jacket (though he did have regulation shoes and shorts, of course) one arm akimbo, cupped the other hand over his mouth, and yelled: "Yeh call that a boxin' match, 'yeh bunch of *!&^in' twinkletoes?"
After that... ... .. very distinctive show, just the fact that he wasn't either of the previous contestants may or may not have made him the hero of the night.

The Tasmanian devil snorted as he strode forward on his short little legs. Following not far behind was an albatross in giant sunglasses, in a rather atrocious matching grey sweatshirt and sweatpants ensemble and a comically huge cigar clamped between his teeth. "Yeah, Murdy, you're gonna wi--"

"If y'don't stop following me around, I'm gonna bend 'yer beak straight backwards. Yeh're not even my &%*$in' trainer. Isn't there a pony somewhere you should be off talkin' to?"

The albatross coughed nervously, took the cigar out of his mouth, and sheepishly backed off.

His opponent still showing no signs of showing... In fact, the paramedics weren't clear of the ring yet, so as opposed to his opponent being late, it was more that the Devil was perhaps a tad too eager to punch in a face or two. Murdoch hopped into the ring and dramatically threw his jacket off. He gave a smirk that nowhere near reached his devious little eyes as he leaned back on the ropes, and yelled to the audience: "Who thinks yeh all deserve a fight after that li'l ballet, yeah?"

This was surely not regulation. Or maybe just a ploy to get the audience on his side. It couldn't hurt.
That, and a good portion of the audience still needed to come back from their bathroom breaks and snack-runs.

"This isn't worth it... this isn't worth it at all," muttered the skunk as he stood just within the entryway of the locker rooms, looking out to the not-so-crowded stadium. He was garbed in a pair of... dazzling shorts, boxing gloves hanging heavily at his sides. It had taken him much investigating and approval before he allowed to even let one finger enter the, as he put it, barbaric looking gloves, having found they'd been sweat-free enough for him to use.

"Are you sure you don't want to back out, sir?" asked the suited lion beside him, the bodyguard staring down at him. "It'd be in best interest, I assume."

"It is either this or becoming penniless," growled Quinton, not even offering a glance to his employee.

It was just then his opponent appeared inside the ring, the other two boxers being brought off the squared platform. The skunk tilted his head curiously, peering at the person who now leaned against the ropes.

"He's... quite the small fellow..."

"I think this is your time to enter, sir," suggested Bane. "Best of luck, I suppose..."

The skunk nodded, giving a disgruntled sigh, and began to step forward-

"Ahem... sir," said the lion, interrupting his employer's forward progress, forcing Quinton to rotate his head to look at him. In the bodyguard's hand was a pair of star-lensed sunglasses, glittering somewhat in the limited light of the hall. "I believe you need these."

"Please, Bane, do not try to be humorous right now," said Quinton, turning away again. "This really isn't the proper time."

"As I recall, this is something Mr. Vince personally gave you himself. I would only assume it would be part of this little... deal you have with him. And, if you truly want your fortune back in your possession, I would believe you would need to follow his requests very carefully."

Quinton, once again, paused, and with gritted teeth, snatched the glasses from his bodyguard's hands (or as well as he could with the clunky gloves on). Hastily positioning them on his nose, having removed his own glasses earlier, he walked out of the hall without another word, leaving Bane to stand as a black silhouette in the entryway.

He moved right up to the ring, ignoring the jeers from the small crowd, slipping under the ropes with clumsy actions, his feet slipping many times before finally standing up in the ring. Awkwardly, he stood in his corner, staring at his opponent from across the platform, a permanent scowl on his lips. Quinton's body was scrawny, not prepared for any boxing match, the glasses quite crooked on his face, knowing somewhere out there, something was recording him.

I can only hope no one can make the connection...

Probably to Murdoch's chagrin, the announcer wasn't even so much as looking his way, instead talking to some attendant in a suit. The attendant took one of his index cards, and replaced it with another, leaving the announcer looking perplexed as he read over the new material.

As the ring began to clear a little, the announcer put on one of those deep breath, what will be will be faces, and stepped to the center as his microphone lowered on its cord from the distant catwalks overhead.

"And now—after two thrilling spectacles, we here at the Starry Nights Colosseum are proud to present the next exciting match! In the red corner, wearing green and gold trunks, weighing in at thirty-eight and a half kilograms, his official record: Thirty-one wins, all by knockout, twelve losses, and no draws. It's Westside Island's most dangerous, the 'Boxer who leaves a Body Trail,' the 'Meat Tenderizer of Metropolis,' Murdoch—'MURRRDERRR'... Johnsonnn!"

His nickname in the ring was Murder. ... Among other things. Quinton was sure to love that.

"And in the blue corner, wearing purple and gold... and green... and pink... multicolored, sequined trunks, weighing in at a lean twenty-eight kilograms even, his official record: Forty-two losses, no draws, and no wins yet. Also from Westside Island, the Silent but Deadly Quinton—The Rancid Wind—Stinkmooore!"

With that horrifying introduction out of the way, the two boxers were motioned to the center of the ring, and given pretty much the exact same instructions everyone prior had, and told to touch gloves, return to their corners, etc.

But, at some point, some random official stood up on the edge of the ring and whispered something in Murdoch's ear.

"Mr. Vince is watchin' this. This guy's a twig—don't snap'im 'til you've given the boss a show. A little long and painful, but quick enough to make it humiliating. Got it?"