Brawlers

by Neon Czolgosz

Rating: mature
Tags: Equestria Girls, Comedy, Gilda, Slice of Life, Sex, Human, Narcotics, Lightning Dust
Length: 12349

Gilda and Lightning Dust are two friends united by a shared love of hitting people. This is the story of that friendship. MMA Sportsfic, rated M for nudity and drug use

Gilda and Lightning Dust are two friends united by a shared love of hitting people. They also love kicking, elbowing, choking, throwing, dropping, arm-locking, oil-checking, kneeing, sweeping and leg-locking people. They love Mixed Martial Arts, and they're training partners.

This is a glimpse of their life. Their hopes, their fears, their strengths and their vices, their training, their sparring, their rest and their relaxation.

And liver kicks.

This is a sports anime bottle episode in story form. Rated M for nudity and drug use. No actual porn.

Published 2018-05-13 22:10:07 UTC
Last updated 2018-05-13 22:10:07 UTC

Gals Being Bros

Gilda checked her phone, wiping the specks of rain off the screen with her thumb. No response. She grunted and pocketed it, annoyed.

She was squatting down outside the Canterlot High School dance studio, a squat building behind the gymnasium, close enough to the wall to block some of the cold spring drizzle. She could feel rain trickling down her neck, her close-cropped back and sides giving her no cover whatsoever. Her leather bomber jacket clung to her arms and shoulders from the sweat and the damp, and she shifted inside it.

Cracking open a can of imported energy drink, she checked her phone again. Nothing. She swigged from her can.

In the distance she heard the tap-tap-tap-tap of sneakers on asphalt. A girl in a teal and orange Adidas tracksuit was jogging towards her, her thick, strawberry-blonde lion's mane of hair swept back over her head and ears. The girl jogged up to her impassively and stopped, still running on the spot.

Gilda glared at her. "Morning, LD. Did you get my message?"

Lightning Dust took a tiny can of WD40 out of her pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it out of the air and grumbled "You could have fuckin' text me back." Instead of waiting in vain for a response, she turned around, oiled the lock on the dance studio door, pulled out a cheap set of picks and started working on it.

"Did you get your road work in last night?" asked Lightning Dust, running a hand through her now-damp hair.

Gilda rolled her eyes. "I do bike courier stuff on Friday nights, remember?"

"Yeah, I got my ten klicks in," said Lightning, preening unconsciously. "My new routine is working well. Two kilometer warm up, six kilometers of Tabata training, and a two kilometer warmdown. Hit the shower after that if it's a morning run, or the all-night gym for some bag work and lifting if-"

She tensed up, looking around, and then looked back down at Gilda. "Hey, hurry it up will you?"

"Chill the hell out dipstick, we're on school property on a Saturday morning. Even if we get caught, whadda they gonna charge us with, conspiracy to look like a bunch of dorks-" she went silent for a moment, then a click, then a twist. She pumped her fist, pushed the door open, grabbed her bag and went inside, Lightning following behind.

The dance studio was a squat box, cramped by the standards of the other athletic facilities on campus but big enough for their needs. The wooden floors had the soft-scuffed appearance that came from being scratched and buffed over and over, year after year that made it look as if someone had scattered straw over the dark wood. It reeked of floor polish and old sweat. Three of the four walls were plain, unpainted cinderblocks, and the fourth was made of tall mirrors that dazzled the bright fluorescent lights overhead across the room.

Lightning Dust took off her track jacket, revealing a skintight rashguard unerneath, the muscles on her back rippling as she stretched.

"Don't take two years to warm up, Gilda, I've got a lot of ground to cover," she said.

"You'd've less ground to cover if you hadn't took the scenic route this morning and left me squatting outside for half an hour," snapped Gilda, shrugging her jacket off and kicking off her sneakers, leaving her dressed in grey sweat pants and a faded yellow tank top.

Lightning ignored her and stretched her hamstrings, which suited Gilda just fine as she dropped down to slam out thirty push-ups. She ran through burpees, squats, lunges, more push-ups and leg-lifts. When she started her own stretches, Lightning finished hers and walked over to the wall mirrors, sliding it aside to reveal the storage closet behind it. She started dragging out mats to lay out, joined by Gilda halfway through, until they had a 12' x 12' square to work with. Both girls circled around the edges, kicking the mats into perfect alignment, and then stepped onto the mat.

They came face-to-face, almost touching. Gilda slipped one hand under Lightning Dust's armpit, and placed her other hand on her elbow. Lightning mirrored her, and they began the swimming drill. It began slow, rhythmic: each partner had one arm on the outside and the other inside, underhooking an armpit. They both worked their outside arm inwards to slip under their partner's armpit, gaining an underhook and removing their opponent's underhook at the same time, effectively swapping underhooks with each move. Slip in, push out, slip in, push out, over and over, increasing in speed and intensity.

Soon, they were trying to block each other and get double underhooks. Gentle side-to-side footwork became frantic circling and lunging. Gilda stole the first set of underhooks. The pair split apart for a second, and slid back into starting position. Lightning doubled her intensity, putting Gilda on her heels and nearly pushing her off the mat. They broke apart in a shove and returned once more, and again, and again, always coming back.

Lightning got double underhooks, then Gilda got them twice in row. Gilda's broad shoulders and shorter height gave her an advantage, which Lightning Dust couldn't help but be irritated by.

"Ready for takedown defense practice?" asked Gilda. A curt nod in response.

Back to the swimming drill, less aggressive but no less energetic. Grunting, moving, shoving with her shoulders, Lightning Dust pushed forward a moment before her partner's chest disappeared. Gilda had changed levels, going into a deep squat to set up her takedown. Lightning dropped her hips back and sprawled just enough to avoid being lifted into the air, but Gilda grabbed one leg and turned the corner, ramming her shoulder into the inside of her partner's knee and yanking her leg away. Lightning landed on her ass and scrambles to stop Gilda mounting her, but she'd already stood back up. She ignored the offered hand, did a kip-up, and they returned to the drill.

This time she was prepared for Gilda to change levels, but was not prepared for the feint. Instead of dropping into a lunge to reap her legs, Gilda stopped midway down, snagged Lightning's wrist, then grabbed and yanked Lightning's tricep with her other hand. A classic arm drag. Lightning Dust knew what a skilled fighter could accomplish with the arm drag - they would take her back, wrap her up in a chokehold, and offer her a free thirty-second nap. Twitchy reflexes and barely-repressed rage saved her, circling and shoving, fast and hard enough that Gilda couldn't cleanly get behind her. Again, they separated.

Gilda cheekily tried to duck down for a double-leg tackle a fraction of an inch before they touched but Lightning sprawled cleanly, throwing her legs back and dropping her weight onto Gilda's head and shoulders until the shorter girl was on all fours on the mat beneath her. She kept the pressure on for two seconds longer than necessary, then helped her get back up. Their game continued. Gilda only got a successful takedown every three or four rounds, but Lightning had to go all-out to stop the others.

Lightning stood up after being pulled down with a gut-wrench and said "This blows ass, let's do some striking."

"Yeah okay, I'm sure having a giant gaping hole in your game the moment anyone ducks past your weird giraffe limbs won't absolutely screw you in half at the next tournament," she said patronizingly. "Be a sweetheart and get the gis out, will ya?"

Rolling her eyes, Lightning walked over to their bag and pulled out two heavy canvas jackets. Once they were on and belted, Gilda said "Two throws today, uchi mata the inner thigh throw, and tai otoshi the body drop throw."

"Yeah, question, what's the fuckin' point of gis?" asked Lighting Dust. "We're training for no-gi tournaments."

"It's training wheels for new throws. You learn the technique, you get the balance and the timing, you do it over and over a hundred times each session for a few weeks, and then you can take it all over to no-gi stuff."

"Again, G, what's the fuckin' point? Why not just start with no-gi and do the exact same thing?"

"Because it's too easy to get a sloppy grip, force it through with shitty technique, and suck pussy at kicking ass. The gi," she said, taking a grip on Lightning's lapel, "means you gotta get it exactly right."

Gilda started by demonstrating uchi mata, a throw where she took a grip on Lightning's gi, turned, and swept her leg back and up between Lightning's legs. It sent Lightning teetering on the tiptoes of one foot for a moment, before an extra tug flipped her forward and onto her back. Gilda pulled her up.

"You're jigotai'ing."

Lightning blinked at her. "I'm tying what?"

"When I come in to do the throw, you're bending her knees and sagging your weight." Gilda did an impression of the movements, as if miming a cowboy riding a horse. "You're stepping off, too, trying to keep your balance by hopping your foot out sideways."

"Jeez, so fuckin what?" she sneered. "I'd be doing that and a whole lot more if you were trying this shit on me for real."

"This isn't for real, dweebus, this is practice."

Lightning scoffed

"Look LD, if we were doing focus mitt work so you could practice your jab-cross-jab-roundhouse-" again, Gilda mimed the actions "-and when you throw the first jab I drop down and shoot for a double leg takedown, you're not gonna get good at the jab-cross-jab-roundhouse, right?"

She glared for a moment, then nodded.

"What we're doing here is practicing it the way it absolutely should be, the textbook way. Everything else comes later. We work in the stuff with movement when we do throw-for-throw, and we work in acting like a big bag of sand when we do sparring. Does that make sense?"

"Sure."

"Great! Now get over here so I can throw you more."

Gilda did nine more reps of uchi-mata, each time cleanly lifting Lighting off her feet as she raised her leg, and throwing to her to the ground on the final rep. Then it was Lightning's turn to practice. She gripped, turned and lifted her leg, bringing Gilda up on one foot. They were both still standing, like an awkward freeze-frame of a three-legged race.

Lightning backed out and growled "You're too short for this throw."

"I'm too—" Gilda's eyes bugged out. She sighed theatrically, and shook her head. "Your grip's all retarded is what's up, gimme your hand."

She demonstrated the grip. "Okay, this hand, the hand gripping my lapel is pushing up, trying to lift me up onto my toes like you're a middle school bully after my lunch money, right? Not pushing away and lifting, pulling in and lifting."

She placed Lightning's other hand on her sleeve. "Your sleeve grip should be up by my elbow and you should be lifting that sucker high. Your hand should be level with your eye, pulling me as far out as you can go while keeping it raised. And your palms, both of your palms face in the direction you're throwing me."

Gilda slapped away Lightning's grips and displayed each component of the grip on her. She pulled Lightning onto her tiptoes with the lapel grip, yanked her onto her forward leg with the sleeve grip, and let her try the same. Lightning tried, and with a few minor tweaks each grip elicits the same reaction. "Okay now both at once."

Lighning did so, sending Gilda teetering on the tiptoes of her lead foot. "See? You fuckin' see? You haven't even thrown me and I'm already thrown. Now try it with the footwork."

Two canvas-coated torsos whumphed against each other. "Keep the grip high, lil' more bend in your legs, you gotta get your hips under mine. Do it again—good, yeah, that's right, one more time, excellent, now sweep your leg back—don't aim for my left leg, you took it out of the picture with the grip and the entry, aim to clip the inside of my right leg, just barely kiss it with your—"

Gilda floated up on her partner's raised leg as if weightless, and crashed down onto the mat. Lightning stared down at her, still holding on to the sleeve grip, surprised by her own throw.

Gilda cracked up laughing and stood up, slapping her on the back. "That's how you do it! Now do it thirty more times, and only throw me on every tenth rep."

Thirty repetitions later, Gilda said "Okay we're switching it up. Tai otoshi, the body drop throw. Same grip, same way of getting them off balance, different footwork.

"When you step in and turn around, your non-throwing leg is stepping out a little wider to help get your hips nice and low. Your knees are slightly bent, and just as your hand grips are throwing them off balance, just as they feel like they need to push their lead foot forward, that's when your other leg steps out to trip them. Flick your knees straight as they go over for a bit of extra force." Gilda moved through the steps as she talked, demonstrating each motion of the throw before sending her in a brief spiral through the air.

Lightning picked this one up considerably faster. "Hah, I knew your weird horse legs would be good for something," said Gilda. "Now I've got something real special for you. Slide in for tai otoshi again."

She went in for the throw, but Gilda stepped over her foot before it could block her. Gilda was off-balance, but hadn't been thrown. "You've got your lead foot planted right between mine, and your rear foot out and to the side. Move your rear foot to the middle, keeping your hips low and knees bent."

Lightning slid into position, her eyes glinting in epiphany. Her leg shot up, clipping Gilda's inner thigh and sending her through the air in a near-perfect uchi mata.

"How fucking cool is that, right?" says Gilda, from the floor. "It works great in reverse too. If you uchi mata someone and they start hopping around on one leg, plant your foot down and slam them with tai otoshi so hard their parents die."

Lightning flashed her rare, carefree grin. "Yeah seems okay I guess, but still kinda useless since you need a gi to get the grips right."

"Take off your gi and I'll show you how wrong you are, nerd. Let's wrassle."

They took off the jackets and returned to the swimming position, each girl starting with one underhook. It wasn't the conventional position for a wrestling bout - when they focused on pure wrestling they started low and wide, almost in a perma-squat, perfect for shooting in or sprawling to prevent takedowns, and also perfect height for catching a knee or a shovel hook to the face. They took this higher position to practice the grapples of mixed martial arts.

Lightning pushed forward in a relaxed, almost lazy way that Gilda knew was an unsportsmanlike feint. When she dropped her hips for a takedown in a burst of speed, Gilda was ready for it. She used her underhook to keep Lightning's hands away from her legs and half-sprawled on top of her. When Lightning surged forward anyway, she took the pressure off, directing her opponent's forward momentum upwards. She pivoted, and the moment Lightning's hips rose above hers, Gilda's leg shot back and up to brush against her inner thigh.

It was sloppy and brutish compared to the uchi mata she had practiced with the gi—a tangled spin that slammed Lightning onto her side with Gilda on top of her rather than the clean, crisp pirouette that would win a judo match outright—but she could nonetheless feel Lightning's snarl of rage and regret as her feet left the ground.

"Enough of this gay grappling shit," said Lightning, standing up and brushing herself off, "lets do some real fighting."

Gilda laughed, and pulled two pairs of hand wraps from the bag, tossing one her way. "Sure," she said, wrapping the fabric over her wrists and knuckles, on one hand and then the other. "Are you ready to eat some punches?"

"Are you ready to eat my ass?"

Gilda slipped her gloves on, a pair of 14oz fingerless mitts, light enough that she could knock someone on their ass with a solid hit, but heavy enough that she wouldn't leave her training partners with shiners and fat lips every night. "If you ask nicely."

Lightning said nothing, but winked as she shoved a mouthguard over her teeth. Gilda did likewise, sucking the air out from between the plastic and her gums as she set up the music on her phone. Behind her, Lightning set up a timer. They pulled on their shinpads, un-twisted their sports bras, and stepped onto the mat, walking towards each other before stopping three yards apart.

"Fife roundth," lisped Lightning through the plastic, "thee minuth eath, one minuth retht."

The first timer buzzed. They nodded curtly to each other as they raised their guards and circled forward. Neither of them touched gloves—it wasn't a courtesy they'd extend in a competition, and it wasn't a habit they wanted to develop during training.

Gilda moved in quickly, blocking a low kick with her shin and forcing Lightning to parry a right straight, but as one of Lightning's lazy jabs cracked into her cheek, it became apparent who had the upper hand both figuratively and literally. Lightning was six inches taller than her with reach to match, and while her height put Lightning at a slight disadvantage when wrestling, it did no such thing for her strikes. She could punch over the slightest gaps in Gilda's guard, land hooks at Gilda's jabbing range, and even a short, half-assed knee strike landed at Gilda's liver level.

She brought her hands up to block Lightning's cross, and the moment it smashed against her gloves a low kick smashed into her thigh. She hissed at the pain, weaving and swinging forward to prevent a nasty finisher on the combination, but she swung at nothing. Lightning had already backed away and circled to her left, staying well out of range of Gilda's more powerful right hand.

Lightning's muay thai background shone through here—she was tied as the most brash and impulsive person Gilda knew, but her fighting style was cautious and crafty. She wouldn't get in close or wail on a sparring partner in the first round, she would stalk around them, testing their range and reflexes with long jabs, low roundhouse kicks, and a push kick called a teep. In a five-round match she'd barely touch her opponent until the third round, waiting until she knew the range, the footwork, and the speed of her opponent back to front, when she knew the exact distance she could land a kick without fear of retaliation, amping up her aggression until she was beating on her foe like a second-hand drum kit.

She wouldn't be so cautious with Gilda, as they'd sparred together enough times that she knew roughly what to expect, but she loved to spend the first round toying with her, making her careful, paranoid, and defensive.

Lightning feinted a jab which Gilda ignored, preparing instead to block the leg kick it was setting up. She blocked a lead leg roundhouse, was pushed back with a teep kick, then she parried a cross and raised her leg to check a rear-leg roundhouse. The ground disappeared from under her; she realized a moment too late that the roundhouse had been a feint to make her lift her leg where Lightning could sweep it. Gilda kept her hands high enough to absorb the flurry of punches that followed up the successful sweep, slapped one arm out to the side to break her fall while keeping the other up and guarded, and landed on her back. She lifted her legs quickly enough that Lightning couldn't scramble on top of her and start raining down blows from the full mount, and so Lightning backed away, beckoning her to get up.

Gilda waited until she'd given her some distance. Lightning wouldn't normally kick her face in half while she was standing up, but she wouldn't rule it out.

Slipping a jab, the forearm grazing her cheek as she stepped barely outside it, Gilda rammed a hook into Lightning's face. She took it on the forehead, barely bothered by it, but was unprepared for the hook to the body and roundhouse kick to the legs that followed it. A flurry of punches fell on Gilda's guard and skull as Lightning made room to escape.

She looked Lightning in the eye, saw her sour expression, and grinned. Like every good fighter, Lightning had long been used to losing during training—if you always won at sparring, you're training at a weak gym—but after all these years she still couldn't help but take a punch to her face as an insult.

Months ago, that first good hit would have tilted Lightning, she'd have started swinging wildly until she wore herself out. It didn't always work, as her berserk flurry could often knock Gilda on her ass, but it was funny when it did. No more, though, Lightning had learned better since. She exhaled through her nostrils to calm herself and stalked forward.

Gilda saw the feinted leg movement as the set-up for a punch, skipping a bare quarter-inch out of Lightning's impressive reach, but she missed the 90 degree turn in her lead foot, turning her kickboxer's jab into a boxer's jab. The slight movement let Lightning twist her back into the punch, almost side-on to her opponent, giving it an extra inch and a half of reach. Had she seen it coming Gilda could have smashed a low kick into the back of her thigh, but instead she took the jab, hard.

She raised her left hand to counter the inevitable follow-up punch, and felt her mistake when the rear-leg teep hit her chest. It was a push kick in the truest sense of the word. Lightning followed through cleanly with her hips, the ball of her foot catching her in the stomach, sending her stumbling backwards. Gilda pushed forward with a front-leg teep the moment she caught her footing to hold back the onslaught that inevitably followed being kicked off-balance like that, but she kicked at nothing. Lightning was in the middle of the mats, grinning with her guard down, and the first round buzzer went off.

"That bell thaved ur ath, bith," lisped Gilda as she sipped water. Lightning ignored her, shaking her arms and shoulders loose.

The buzzer went off again. A tangle of hands and glancing blows in the first ten seconds as Gilda tried to get in close while Lightning tried to jab her to death. They both backed off. Gilda thought she felt herself land a sloppy right on Lightning's nose but couldn't tell, her ear burning where a hook glanced off it. She saw the feinted low kick, readying herself to parry and counter—

The low kick slammed into her quadricep. Her left hand jabbed forward hard but Lightning had backed away already, prepared for it. She was grinning. A feint of a feint. A moment later she landed another leg kick. Gilda checked the third with an ankle block and backed away just enough to avoid the snappy right hand that came along with it.

Lightning had decided it was leg kick day. Fucking LD, thought Gilda, Lightning 'Leg Destroyer' Dust. She knew what her plan for this round was: turn Gilda's upper thigh into a veal cutlet until she limped with every step, spend rounds three, four and five battering her with long-range combinations that she could no longer avoid or slip inside, and once sparring was over spend half of their conditioning practice berating Gilda for her poor lunge form.

In practice, this gave Gilda one round to change the fight. She had an idea of how to do that.

Months ago, when they'd first sparred together at the Gilda's usual gym, it had started with pure striking practice. Since Lightning already had considerable striking experience and an absurd level of athleticism, she dominated Gilda. Her low kicks turned into high kicks and every slipped punch came with a free elbow. Then they did MMA sparring, with takedowns and groundwork allowed. Lightning's only experience with grappling came from watching videos, which wasn't enough to stop the girl she had just tooled in kickboxing from throwing her down and sitting on her head.

Turnabout was fair play, but Lightning Dust did not like it. The experience flicked a switch in her brain that made her live and breathe grappling for a month. She came in early to every session to practice her sprawls and breakfalls, spent her lunch breaks at school watching armbar tutorials on her phone while she guzzled her protein shake, and completely ignored striking in exchange for wrestling. During the twice-weekly rolling sessions, each an hour and a half of no conditioning, no teaching, just pure grappling, she approached it with such a calculated attitude that Gilda was fairly sure she'd built a spreadsheet for it. Lightning only put her full effort in when she fought the coaches and the old timers—muscular men in their late thirties who'd been doing jiu jitsu for two decades, women who went to competitions and never failed to place, people who she posed no threat to. Against slobs and newbies, she would only experiment, getting a feel for the moves she was least confident with. With the club regulars, the striped whitebelts and bluebelts—like Gilda—she only put up enough of a fight to convince them not to go easy. Other than that, they caught her in everything.

It was after two weeks of this that Gilda realized something was up. She'd cheated at cards enough to know sandbagging when she saw it. Out of spite or boredom or mischief she tried her hand at the reverse—throwing herself into striking and striking only.

They didn't do MMA sparring with each other until six weeks after that. Just as Gilda suspected, Lightning had spent all of those losses absorbing the techniques and learning when a grappling attack was coming. She couldn't just take her down with a sloppy double-leg anymore, she had to work for it. That day, they sparred with each other and only each other for the entire session. Gilda won cleanly at first, having improved her striking skills just enough to slip past Lightning's punches and seize her in a clinch, dragging her to the ground—no longer able to cleanly sweep her off her feet—before finishing her with a chokehold or pounds.

But as the session went on, Lightning's conditioning shone through. She filled the holes in Gilda's tired clinch with knees and elbows, sprawling and stuffing her takedown attempts before punishing her with kicks and punches. Gilda probably won more rounds that night, by a very thin margin. Two weeks later, they became training partners.

One fact remained true the months that they'd been partners so far: the more time Gilda spent eating leg kicks the better Lightning would do, and the more time Lightning spent being sat on and slapped around, the better Gilda would do. Gilda knew this and so did Lightning. It was time to inflict some psychology.

Gilda stepped into jabbing range and changed levels, dropping down into a deep squat that would flow into a hard, driving takedown like molten lead. She couldn't see Lightning's eyes light up as she readied her hands to stuff the obvious takedown and cavitate her face with a knee.

The takedown never came. Instead of dropping down into a shoot, Gilda's knees sprang up, and she threw a corkscrew uppercut into Lightning's face. Lightning moved just enough to take it on the cheek instead of the chin—which would have been lights out—and swung a left hook to counter the straight right from Gilda. But instead of hitting her face, the straight right slipped outwards, Gilda's open palm caressing her elbow and directing the hook downwards as her left hand simultaneously slipped under to grab the tricep. She'd been caught in an arm drag again, and Gilda had already thrown her backwards.

Gilda scrambled on top of her into side control, ignoring the enraged flurry of short-range elbows and hammerfists into her ribs. In this position, their relative builds gave Gilda the upper hand—her broader shoulders and heavier midsection let her apply a lot of pressure that her lankier opponent couldn't match. She had a few options from here. If they were doing normal groundwork with no timer, she'd switch into north-south, her belly laying over Lightning's face and her face resting on her stomach, a position one of her clubmates had called 'a sixty-nine but somehow gayer'. She could stay there, recovering stamina while Lightning was smothered and had to waste energy trying to escape, but on such a short timer she'd just get waited out. She could try to swing her legs over Lightning's stomach and sit on her in a full mount, a position she'd likely win the bout from, though Lightning was far from tired and would have a good chance to escape during the transition. She could even stay here in side control, alternating between keeping her partner trapped and throwing knees into her ribs.

She felt like switching it up, so she leaned on her side facing down Lightning's body, in a reverse scarf hold. All of her weight bore down on her foe's chest, neck and chin. It wasn't a position she used often, but Lightning knew it well enough to be wary—it was a position almost designed to trap new grapplers. The first two things a grappler learned to escape scarf holds and side control were pushing a forearm into their opponent's face to create room, or turning in towards their opponent and 'shrimping' their hips and ass outwards until they were no longer pinned. In the reverse scarf hold, pressing a forearm against the pinner's face was handing them a coupon for a free shoulder lock, and turning in towards your opponent set up four kinds of toehold, two calf-slicer knee compressions, and a full hip-spine-and-neck crank valued for both its effectiveness and the funny noises it eked from its targets.

Lightning Dust froze for half a second, and then bridged her hips into the air. Gilda grinned savagely. Lightning hadn't remembered how to escape, only how not to get submitted, and lifting her hips did absolutely nothing. She'd figure out what she needed to do quickly enough—push down on Gilda's back until her chest and neck weren't pinned and she'd have the leverage to wriggle out—but Gilda had plans in the meantime.

She hit Lightning's midsection with her free hand, in a loose hammerfist. She wasn't trying to put so much force into her blows that she'd give the poor slob the space she'd need to escape, and more importantly she wasn't trying to injure her in a relaxed sparring session. Instead she just rained down strikes, more like heavy slaps, onto her stomach and the base of her ribs. Lightning would have to tense up to defend the blows, wasting precious energy, or risk being utterly winded by a hard tap on her liver or solar plexus.

Leather slapped against skin, she couldn't see Lightning's face but knew it was twisted up in anger, her movements stiff and no longer fluid. Gilda felt pressure on her back—Lightning had finally remembered to post against it—and so she calmly wriggled along with the movements, continuing to pound on her until she felt the first real hint of her position slipping. She reared back for a big blow, and instead slipped her hand under Lightning's armpit, turning her torso 180 degrees and landing in an orthodox scarf hold. Now Lightning had to reverse her tactics—pushing her arms against Gilda would set her up for chokes and armbars, she had to shrimp away or use her legs for leverage instead.

Gilda threw a couple of love taps into Lightning's face, then felt an arm slap spastically against her head. Lightning had tilted, so angry and driven that she'd forgotten to protect her limbs. Gilda seized the chance and the wrist, turning into side control with her foe tied in a figure-four arm lock. All she had to do from here was flatten her out and carefully ratchet up the pressure until she tapped. They'd still do the other three rounds—no sense in wasting training time—but she'd have Lightning tired, intimidated, and thoroughly on the defensive.

The timer buzzed. Gilda felt Lightning Dust sigh with relief underneath her. She'd see how long that lasted.

When the third round began, there was a caution in Lightning's footsteps that hadn't been there before. Gilda changed levels for a shoot just outside of her opponent's jab range—a ruse that Lightning would usually see through and prepare to counter—and she backed away in response. It was a response born of fear, and they both knew it. Seemingly determined to prove her wrong, Lightning zipped in with a low kick. Gilda's grabbed the heel, only barely catching it, but enough to knock her off balance and disrupt whatever combination she had planned.

Gilda slipped in to clinch her, one hand finding an underhook and the other on the back of her skull, attacking from the side and sending knees up into Lightning's midsection. She defended, throwing her own knees and checking her attacks, but this was Gilda's hope, driving her knee into the back and side of Lightning's thigh. As the clinch broke Lightning landed two hooks, hard, on Gilda's skull. It didn't matter; all she'd done was burn her stamina.

Gilda was practically skipping around the ring now. The pounding on her thighs and abs had slowed down Lightning's low kicks by a fraction of a second. It was a fraction of a second long enough for Gilda to see a front leg kick coming and teep Lightning's support leg. She stumbled, and as she circled away Gilda could see one of her feet dragging, a rare sight indeed. Gilda attacked with a low kick of her own, smashing their shinguards together as it was blocked, but following up by snaring her in another clinch. Lightning took several knees and elbows, and a sloppy hook that clearly rung her bell.

Gilda couldn't believe how well she was doing, even if it was only for two rounds. She hadn't seen Lightning shook like this since they first grappled together. She tested her with a jab, which was slipped and countered, but her footwork remained static, perfect for a takedown. She threw a leg kick to confirm their range, then jabbed, ready to reap her legs and spend the rest of the round sitting on her.

Then Gilda was on the floor, her body and brain arguing about whether to throw up and cry or cry and throw up.

Lightning squatted down next to her and offered her a drink, which Gilda pushed away, spitting out her mouthguard as she concentrated on breathing. Liver kicks were truly an unforgettable experience.

"That kick was harder than I meant it to be," said Lightning in the closest thing to an apology she was capable of giving, not that it was warranted this time.

"Got me good," croaked Gilda, still curled up into a ball.

"Mm. I'd been watching you spar in class with the newbies and speedbumps—" referring to fighters who lacked the cardio, drive or skill to be a threat in competitions, and were only there to slow down real contenders on the way to the higher rounds "—and when you get confident and go on the offense, you start chicken-winging your right elbow outwards when you throw your jab. Liver kick city, population my shinbone."

"Thanks..."

"You're not total garbage, you're doing a little bit better than last time and a whole lot better than the first time we did stand-up sparring," Lightning said nonchalantly. "Don't worry, we'll make a fighter out of you yet."

Gilda pulled herself to her knees and sat cross-legged, taking a tiny sip of water. "You're so kind, Dust, where would I be without you?"

"Sitting in your shed playing Bloodborne and doing amphetamines."

Gilda stretched while she waited for the nausea and clawing pain spiderwebbing out from her midsection to fade. Dripping with sweat, hair plastered to her forehead, a giant dark patch on the front of her tank top where the sweat had soaked through her sports bra and into the fabric, and though she couldn't see it there was almost certainly an even bigger sweat patch on her back. The skin on her arms and legs felt damp and claggy, coated in little specks of fluff and debris from rolling around on the mats. It all stunk, the milky smell of her sweat mixed with Lightning's sweat, the prickly tang of adrenaline, strained through workout clothes that never stopped being musty no matter how many times she washed and dried them, rubbed over mats that smelled of feet and disinfectant. The smell didn't help with the nausea, but she was used to it. She pushed back the queasiness in her stomach and stretched out the tendons in her hips.

"Get up, lazybones, it's conditioning time."

"Yeah." Gilda set her phone to pump out some music, then stood and shook her limbs out. The twinges of pain and nausea were only twinges now.

"—I'm a fiend for a big dirty bassline, when I hear one I have a great time—"

Lightning Dust jogged on the spot, bringing her knees up to her chest each time. "All right, twenty-five push ups, leg lifts, burpees, and lunges, then ten shuttle runs, then twenty-five Russian twists, knuckle push ups, pylometric squats, and kettlebell snatches—"

"—a bit of bass all what I require, I let the bassline take me high-er—"

"—ten more shuttle runs, repeat the whole set two more times, let's go!"

The first set almost felt good, every push up coming up with a snap to it, pushing the aches out of Gilda's muscles. By the end of the set, a different set of aches were creeping in. The second set was much less fun, and though the nausea was back, she couldn't entirely blame it on the liver kick. Lightning Dust had finished and was back to jogging on the spot while Gilda was halfway through the final set, her whole body quivering as she pushed up on her knuckles powered by spite alone. She could feel Lightning smirking at her as she stood up and staggered over to her bag, fishing out a can of Tiger energy drink and drinking half in a single pull.

As Lightning reached into the bag to pull out kick pads, Gilda called out to her. "Yo ain't you forgetting something, Miss Olympus? Don't think you can skip climbing exercises just cause you sprint faster than me."

Lightning grimaced, and walked up to her. "Sure," she said, standing in a T-pose, "you go first."

Gilda underhooked both of Lightning's arms and then wrapped her legs around her torso, clinging to the taller woman like a baby monkey. Her goal was two complete circles around her partner, one clockwise and one counterclockwise. Between the smooth rashguard and the sweat she had to work her way up constantly to avoid slipping as she circled, ducking her head under Lightning's armpit, boosting herself up as she took the back, and ducking under again. Lightning grunted as she completed the first circle, and was glad to let her down when she finished the second. It probably hadn't been Gilda's fastest time, but respectable nontheless.

She stood in a T in front of Lightning, and let her training partner take a turn. This was not Lightning's favorite exercise. Her lanky limbs made it harder to find purchase as she moved around, forcing her to work harder not to slip off. She cursed as she kicked herself in the instep while crossing her legs, and when she finally finished, she spent a few moments breathing deep to calm herself down.

When her head was clear, she got the kick pads out. "You're a decent grappler and your boxing isn't total crap," she said to Gilda, "but you know what is crap? Your kick game."

Gilda sneered. "I've seen you wince from my low kicks."

"That's only ever happened when I've literally forgotten that you're capable of kicking because you barely do it. You can throw an okay low kick as a single technique but you don't combo them properly, you only throw mid kicks when you're spazzing, and I've never seen you throw a high kick in sparring."

"Never with you, Lurch," she said, looking her up and down theatrically.

"Never with anyone!"

"My legs don't reach that high."

"Wrong! One of my first Muay Thai coaches was five foot nothing and he could teep my face off all day. Can you do the splits?"

"Yeah."

"Right, show me."

Gilda sank down, spreading her legs wide in a straight line. There was a space the size of a tennis ball between her groin and the mats.

"I could drive a truck under that, get lower."

With a grunt, Gilda sank another inch.

"C'mon, get your cooch on the floor."

"I can't go any lower."

Lightning Dust snorted dismissively, walked behind her, and pressed her hands down on Gilda's thighs. Gilda hissed as her legs went down the last few inches, flat against the mats.

"Okay not the worst I've ever seen but there's a lot of room for improvement. You're five-six and can do the splits if you get a training partner to come in and bail you out. Your kicks can at least reach my head, they just don't because you're too lazy and afraid to develop them."

Gilda stood up and shook the pins and needles out of her hamstrings. "I'm not a natural kicker."

"Say that again."

She shook her head before Lightning even finished speaking. "Okay okay, that's a dumb thing to say, I wasn't a natural at leg locks until I did a load of them and now they're a vital part of my game, I get it."

"Fuckin' right, right? I can take crazy risks when I'm sparring with you because I know I won't get kicked in the head for it." She walked to the middle of the mats and raised her guard. "There's two simple, 101-level headkicks that every fighter worth a lick of meth needs to know. The first is the taekwondo style roundhouse."

She raised her knee and flicked her foot out as she turned her hips, cleaving through the air at head height.

"It's almost a snap kick, right? You're hitting with the foot and instep, so you don't want it smacking into someone's forehead and you really don't want it hitting an elbow. You want it to hit just behind the ear, right on the off-switch."

She stepped back and threw another kick. This time her knee didn't bend at all, swinging up and around like a baseball bat from the twist in her hips. "That's the Thai-style roundhouse. It hits with the shin and if it hits your head or neck anywhere it'll suck to be you. It's slower and harder to disguise than the snap kick, so you need a better set-up."

"I know how to do a Thai roundhouse, LD."

Lightning's eyebrows and voice shot up. "Really? Wow, fucked if I've ever seen it! Show me."

Gilda stepped onto the mat and did a head-level roundhouse kick. Lightning Dust grunted.

"That sucked less than I thought it would. Do it again, but this time don't wave your arms around like you're trying to threaten me in sign language."

She kicked again, this time with more discipline in her hands.

"Good enough for now, I guess, let's do a set-up." She jabbed and threw a same-side roundhouse kick. "You throw the kick just as the jab lands, right? Your hand blinds their left side, or even makes them cover up if you're lucky, then the kick comes out of nowhere and smashes through their guard."

First they practiced the punch and kick in combination. After Gilda landed it on Lightning's raised pads a few times, they started moving around the mats, Lightning changing distance and angles, while Gilda kept her guard raised. A few minutes and a hundred kicks later, Lightning lowered the pads.

"Time for brain practice yo."

They each took a drink and then rummaged through the bag until they found several strips of paper. They were three feet long, divided into nine squares colored pink or green, each with a number written on them. They took nine of these strips, and stuck them to a wall creating a 3' x 3' square of numbers.

It was not a simple game. Pink squares meant hands, green squares meant feet. Even numbers meant left, and odd numbers meant right. Gilda strapped on a stolen pair of safety goggles, and Lightning took out an imitation SIG P226 airsoft pistol. She checked the magazine and gas canister, fired a shot into her hand to make sure it was light enough, then took aim at Gilda's face and began to read from a card.

"Times three by six and then add one."

Nineteen, odd number, two digits, down low in the corner—

*Pshnk*

Something small and painful hit her in the neck. Fuck! Nineteen, low in the corner, pink for hands, it's an... odd number, right hand—

She reached out and tapped nineteen as another pellet hit her cheek. Deep exhale, calm down.

"Six minus eight, then times by itself."

Six minus eight is negative two, negative two times negative two is four, four is an even number one digit long, green near the middle, ignore the pellet swatting her arm—she lifted her left leg and tapped the number

"Two-thirds of-" *pshnk* "twenty one and then plus one"

Fourteen, fourteen plus one, fifteen, odd number, sees thirteen sees seventeen fifteen fifteen where's fifteen next to bottom corner green again—she touched the number with her right leg.

"Two plus three plus four, then find the square root."

What?

"Come again."

"Two plus three plus four, then find the square root."

Two plus three is five, plus four is nine, nine, what's the square root of nine, not five... three times three, three...

She tapped the square with her right hand.

"Quarter of thirty-two."

The game continued. It brought the same pounding frustration with every question, like a solid brick wall appeared in her brain and she desperately needs to smash through it while those fucking pellets keep hitting her. The constant work to solve the problem in her head, then to search, then to touch was maddening.

Twelve questions later, the timer on Lightning's phone went off, giving Gilda a break. She wished she could shake her brain loose the same way she could her hamstrings or her shoulders.

The timer buzzed again and the next round started. There was no air pistol this time at least. "Okay, now combos. Five, eleven, eighty-seven, twenty"

Right foot, right hand, right hand, left hand.

"Seven, fifty, fourteen, one."

Right foot, left foot, left hand, right hand.

"Three, six, twenty-one, twenty-seven"

Right hand, left hand, right hand, right hand."

"Wrong."

Fuck. "Come again."

"Three, six, twenty-one, twenty-seven."

Twenty-seven. She'd touched thirty seven. Right hand, left hand, right hand, right foot...

The game continued in this vein, over and over and over. She got the last one wrong four times, the round ending before she got it right.

The last round was the speed round. Lightning barked out a single number and as soon as Gilda touches it, she says the next. She quickly found a flow to this one, both from the previous two rounds experience of finding the numbers already, and the relative mental ease of this task. In the back of her hed, she dimly realised this was the mental warmdown she'd been craving earlier.

At the end of the round they swapped. Gilda read out the questions from an index card and practiced her footwork as she did, staying on the balls of her feet, switching from orthodox to southpaw stance, mixing in level changes and head movement.

Lightning Dust had been doing this for years already, and when she did it she jacked up the difficulty by turning the board upside down. She had pure violence written on her face during the first problem solving round but never slowed down, as if she instantaneously converted rage into processing power.

Her combinations in the second round were far crisper than Gilda's, but her total speed in the third round was only slightly faster. Lightning had a strange split in her mind where seeing Gilda catch up with her in any aspect of the game annoyed and enraged her, but she coudln't stop the urge to tutor and correct Gilda wherever she lagged behind. It all felt like a pointed way of ignoring the amount of grappling she was learning from her.

"Let's get these mats away, then stretch."

They began with the basics. Toe touching to loosen hamstrings, standing on one leg and pulling heel up towards the butt for the quads. Lunge stretches, splits, groin stretches. Bending over backwards in a reverse crab to stretch the 'suplexing muscles' in the back as Gilda called them. Rolling arms in circles, exploring the whole range of motion for the shoulders—it wasn’t something you felt like a good hamstring stretch, but if they were neglected, basic judo practice became painful. Neck stretches, ankle stretches, hand and wrist stretches. Then partner stretches.

Gilda sat down with her legs straight out in front of her. Lightning Dust's chest pressed into her back. Their sweat had cooled now and the contact felt clammy and sticky. Lightning pushed her forward, helping Gilda bend until her head almost touched her knees. They held the position at its deepest point for thirty seconds before releasing.

Next, Gilda spread her legs at a 90 degree angle, and Lightning pressed her down towards the middle, eliciting a tense hiss. Lightning then mounted Gilda’s right leg, straddling her knee between her sweaty, muscular thighs, and pushed her down to reach her left foot. Gilda grabbed the ball of her foot with both hands and pulled herself down into the stretch, holding and then switching legs.

“This one is great for roundhouse kicks,” said Lightning, as she sat down in front of Gilda, holding both of her wrists and placing her feet on her inner thighs. She pulled Gilda forward and pushed her thighs apart, spreading her legs as wide as possible. It was equal parts painful and satisfying.

They switched, Gilda helping Lightning through all these same stretches, feeling a twinge of jealousy at how much easier it seemed for her. Lightning really pushed her hips into the last stretch, biting her lip and exhaling deeply.

“I wanna do one last stretch,” she said, “it’s a standing up one, c’mere.”

Lightning stood in front of Gilda and raised her ankle up onto Gilda's shoulder. They walked closer together, raising the angle of her legs, until they were close enough that Lightning could clasp her hands behind Gilda's back.

Gilda’s face was inches away from Lightning’s, still pink from exertion, puffy with a sheen of sweat, patches of red speckles showing where the punches and grapples had grazed her cheeks. That self-assured grin, staring forward with those cold, cold eyes, so close to Gilda that she could smell the toothpaste on her breath.

She cradled the back of Gilda's head as she stretched her other leg.

“Enough for one morning,” said Gilda, “let’s pack the fuck up and fuck the fuck off.”

They packed away their kit and the mats, slipped out of the dance hall into the spring drizzle, locked the door behind them and jogged to Gilda's place, two miles away. Her parents were out of town, unsurprisingly, and there was no-one to greet them as they stumbled through her front door. They stripped their sodden workout clothes off in the kitchen and shoved it into the washing machine.

Upstairs, they showered together, washing the sweat and grime and mat-stink off themselves. Gilda lathered shower gel across the acne scars on Lightning’s upper back. She murmured softly when Lightning returned the favor, using her hands to work out the ever-present tightness in her shoulders. As the warm water washed away the last of the soap, Gilda felt Lightning's lips press against the nape of her neck. She was glad Lightning couldn't see her bashful grin.

Once they had dried and dressed in dressing gowns, they walked out into Gilda's back yard, down the concrete path until they reach the shed. It had a couch, a TV, a chest of drawers, and a messy floor. They changed into t-shirts and boxer briefs and flopped down on the couch.

“Whadya wanna do now?” asked Lightning.

“Get high and play videogames, duh.”

“Right on.”

Gilda packed a skull-shaped bowl with a mixture of ditch weed and finely-ground hash, then carefully puffed it alight as Lightning rummaged around in her chest of drawers. Lightning let out a triumphant cry as she found a combat knife and a pill bottle. She swept a space on top of the chest of drawers clean with her hand, tapped a little orange pill out into the middle, and crushed it into powder with the butt of the knife. When it was her preferred consistency, she scooped up a third of it on the tip of the blade, brought it up to her nose, and snorted it noisily.

“Hhunh, I fucking love adderall, yo!”

Gilda coughed and croaked, “Where’s mine, huh?”

Turning towards her, razor-sharp knife in hand, Lightning grinned. She picked up another serving of powder with the tip, pulled down the collar of her t-shirt with one hand, and deposited the drug on her collarbone.

“Come get it, bitch.”

Gilda all but tackled her, slobbering over Lightning’s collarbone as she licked it all up, sucking on the skin until every last mote was gone, and then kissing her way up her training partner’s neck. Lightning honked with laughter at the affection, reaching her hands around to squeeze Gilda’s ass.

“Slut,” said Lightning, kissing Gilda on the lips.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Let’s play some videogames, we can save the horny shit until after training tonight.”

Gilda agreed, but not before sneaking another kiss. She re-lit the pipe and offered Lightning a hit, which she gratefully accepted. They booted up the console and sat back down on the couch, passing the pipe between each other.

“Bloodborne?”

“Yeah. Three deaths then switch?”

“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll go first,” said Gilda.

She loaded her last save and chopped her way through Yarnham, with Lightning doling out equal parts hyperactive advice and hooting laughter whenever she got hit. They both buzzed from the amphetamine, both fidgeting and tensing up, still sharing the pipe to take the edge off. Some time later, Lightning grew bored with how long Gilda was taking to die, so she slunk behind her, cuddling her from behind and nibbling her ear.

“That ain’t gonna distract me, y’know?”

Lightning snorted, but stopped her nibbles. Instead, she put her hands on Gilda’s shoulders and started to knead out the tense muscles in her upper back.

“Okay that might distract me—fuck, that fucking snatcher... great, I’m dead.”

“Hah, loser.”

“Shut up and keep massaging,” she growled, leading her character back to where she’d died. She weaved in between and past enemies until she was killed a second time, a moment before she could collect her lost blood echoes, and barely restrained herself from throwing the controller at the wall. Letting out a long sigh, she relaxed back into Lightning’s arms.

“You wanna go?” she asked softly after an interminable time being massaged.

“Honestly,” said Lightning, “I could use a massage.”

“Yeah? Sure.”

Lightning disentangled herself and stood up as Gilda shook out her vastly relaxed upper back, all but purring at the sensation. Once she’d got off the couch, Lightning laid face down on the rug in front of the TV and shimmied off her underpants.

Gilda squawked with laughter. “Buddy if you wanted me to give you triple-digit orgasms, you don’t need to pretend you want a massage.”

“Shut up, dipshit, it’s not even a sex thing this time. My ass muscles are killing me.”

“Really, you just need a totally platonic butt massage.”

“Yeah! I do! It’s fucking school’s fault for making me sit down for like six hours a day on those shitty chairs.”

Gilda snorted. “Really.”

“You gonna help me or not? Also, pass the controller, lemme have a go.”

Gilda obliged, then fetched a bottle of grapeseed oil and drizzled it generously into her palms. She coated Lightning’s lower back, butt, and upper thighs with a thick coating of oil and began to work it in. Lightning turned into a floppy fish in her hands, barely able to keep her head and hands raised high enough to play the game.

“Quit tensing up.”

“Quit giving me amphetamines.”

“Hey, if you want me to cut you off...” murmured Gilda, pushing the flats of her palms over and into Lightning’s buttocks.

“I’m just messing, you know that—hah, fuck you! Eat shit, bag boy, I know how to parry!”

“Hah, nice. Hey, y’know who tried to score mandy off me last week?”

“No?”

“Band Geek.”

“Who?”

Gilda shrugged, working her thumbs into Lightning’s muscles. “Can’t remember her name, you know her. Black hair, plays the big violin. She’s an absolute loser, is the thing about her.”

“Oh! Yeah, I know, that’s... shit, I can’t remember her name either.”

“Yeah, her. I sent her looking for Vinyl, I’m sure that chick can hook her up if she’ll listen to a two hour lecture about the differences between bass reflex and acoustic suspension subwoofers.”

“I’m shocked you didn’t pawn her some caffeine pills.”

“That’s too much like work. I was gonna lift her smokes, but they were fucking menthols.”

“Eugh, gross.”

“Right? Anyway, guess where she got the idea that I’m Scarface from.”

“Where? Oh yeah, right on that leg, keep doing it there...”

“Fucking Flash Sentry, that brylcreemed doofus.”

Lightning craned her neck to look back at Gilda and laughed. “Flash? God, he’s another absolute winner. What did he say?”

“Apparently he told a few pals that I’ve been dealing coke out of my mom’s station wagon.”

Lightning blinked. “Your parents don’t own a station wagon. You don’t even drive a fuckin’ car, you ride that Yamaha everywhere.”

“Funny, right? I don’t know if I should tell him to knock it the fuck off, or roll with it and tell people I’ve taken a hit out on him.” Gilda sighed. “It’s gonna be a pain in the ass either way if he goes and cries to the principal about me being a big meanie again.”

"Huh." Lightning chewed on the thought and turned her attention back to the video game, hacking up wolf creatures until another thought hit her. “...Shit, I think I know why he was saying that."

"Saying what?"

"Saying you were dealing, yo. So, get this, y’know Sunset Shimmer is having a big house party tonight?”

“I mean, it’s full of losers and I’m not going, but yeah?”

“So Flash was talking up how he was gonna sort out the party, borrowed some cash for a shopping list of booze and drugs. He’s been strutting around like he’s the Carlos the Jackal of skirting underage drinking laws. Have you seen him since Wednesday?”

“Can’t remember. Maybe?”

Lightning grinned wolfishly. “He’s been acting shaky, and I know why. You know that fuckin’ Mustang he drives?”

“That four-cylinder piece of cherry-red shit? Yeah.”

“You know it’s not his, right? His older brother owns it, but he’s always away on business or some shit and lets Flash drive it.”

“I didn’t, but go on.”

“I got a pal who works at a towing place who said they repo’d a red, four cylinder mustang on Tuesday. Said they popped the trunk and found a full keg of beer and half a dozen handles of liquor, and they’re holding it all as collateral until they get the payments.”

“No shit, you think that’s Flash?”

“I’m fuckin’ sure of it. Here’s what I think happened: even if his bro pays up, Flash can’t collect the car for him cause it’s not in his name, and if his bro is out of the state he’s not getting that car or that booze back in time for the party. He’s gotta get more booze somewhere, but he got a lot of booze, and he needs money. So he’s already trying to sell his services in advance, use the payment for the next party to buy all the stuff for tonight, and keep on leapfrogging himself until his bro can come home and bail him out.” Lightning laughed. “You know, he wasn’t saying you’re some scumbag dealer, he was bragging that you could hook him up with blow and shit.”

“I don’t get it,” said Gilda, working the outside of the right leg, “if he tells people I’m dealing, why the hell wouldn’t they just come straight to me?”

“His friends are all scared of you.”

“Really? Hah, sweet.” Her eyes flew open and she exclaimed, “Wait, if all that’s true, I know something amazing. I was in the cafeteria and I heard Snips and Snails—”

“Total pimps.”

“—talking about this ‘investment’ that they were pooling money into, saying it would help get laid, I thought they were talking about hiring a hooker or some shit, but...”

“Holy shit, they’re Flash Sentry’s silent partners,” said Lightning, her face lighting up with childlike glee. “That is a match made in heaven. Supreme geniuses.”

“They’re the Dana White and the Feritta brothers of Canterlot High.”

“I don’t understand why they’re so damp, though.”

“They’re very moist boys.”

“Yeah like, I work out a lot, I sweat a lot, and God knows you’ve got armpits like firehoses, but I’ve been dry. Y’know I go through most of my day dry, and so do you, but I’ve never not seen Snips or Snails covered in sweat. It’s like they’ve been varnished ten minutes ago, all the time.”

“Like someone just sprayed them in the face with a plant mister half a dozen times. A permanent sheen.”

“Remember when they were PUAs?”

“What, with the hats? Yeah, I remember that, I was sitting with uh, Rainbow, and the taller one came up and tried asking her what her favorite kind of shoelace was or something, so I just stared him in the eye until he had an asthma attack.”

Lightning cackled, turning her attention back to the game as Gilda continued her massage. A barnacle-laden witch stabbed the on-screen character in the neck, drawing curses from Lightning.

“That’s my third death, wanna swap?”

“You can finish this boss if you want me to keep working on your legs.”

“Nah, this is much better already.” Lightning stood up, gurgled blissfully as she shook the wobbles from her legs, and threw a few knees into the air before slipping her underwear back on. “You want me to get your shoulders again while you play?”

“Please.”

“Gilda, it’s never too early to think about posture,” said Lightning as she began to knead her friend’s trapezoids. “You gotta take care of your spine, or your spine won’t take care of you.”

Gilda laughed. “Fuckin’ whatever, you sound like Rainbow Dash,” she said, muffling a hiss as Lightning dug her thumbs in a little too hard. “The sickle guys keep spawning, you know that? You’ve just gotta avoid them until you can kill all three witches.”

“I know that now, yeah. And you’re still getting your ass beat.”

“I’m getting in the flow, not dead y—fuck, hah! Still not dead yet. Mff. Do my delts?”

“Sure,” she said, moving her hands away from Gilda’s neck and towards her shoulders.

“Ffff... thanks. Oh, speaking of getting asses beat, did you hear who’s coming to the county MMA friendly? Like, from school?”

“Yeah. That overrated goon, Rainbow Dash. Your best friend.” Lightning grunted.

Gilda sighed. “LD she’s—she’s not my best friend, okay? She’s a regular friend, a normal friend like normal people have? And she’s a friend that’s kinda hurt me, and done hurtful things to me, but because I’m a normal person I’m capable of still being friends with her?”

“Sounds great. Does she just let you suck her toes, or do you have to wear her down with begging first?”

“Jeez, you sound like her jealous ex.”

“No I don’t!”

“Whatever, anyway, yeah she’s going but everyone knows that, did you hear who else is going?”

"What, in the womens? I know Featherweight is fighting at strawweight in the mens."

"There’s another fighter in the womens. One of Rainbow's pals."

Lightning was quiet for a moment, and then exclaimed "Oh, yeah, Rarity is in there too!"

"Wait, Rarity?" Gilda pulled her attention from the game, only to pull it back as a werewolf lunged at her.

"Yeah, she's—wait, who were you talking about?"

"Shit, I was talking about Applejack,” said Gilda, staring at the screen and dodging opponents. “Guess that's two of Rainbow's pal, huh."

"Applejack is—aw, double shit. Where does she train?"

"Cranky's gym."

Lightning's eyes narrowed. "That's a boxing gym. I don't think they even have mats."

Gilda laughed. "Yeah, but do you know her brother, Macintosh?"

"The big guy? Yeah, he's fucking hot," she said, making a vulgar fanning gesture towards her crotch.

"Dude was a Division I collegiate wrestler at ag school, he nearly made the Olympic alternate team. I heard he got offered some obscene sponsorship offer and turned it down flat because he wanted to go home and work on the family farm after college. He teaches a wrestling class, and guess who his assistant is?"

"Applejack?"

"It's actually Ms Cheerilee, she's a fucking terror on the mats. But Applejack goes there too, and I hear she's competed in tourneys with boys and placed, more than once."

A dark expression clouded Lightning’s face. "Any kickboxing experience, or submission game?"

"Hell if I know, but with a base like that, it wouldn't take much. It's hard to submit someone when they're kneeling on your head and giving you an amateur masectomy with body blows. I should know. Lemme up a sec, I want a protein shake, you want one?"

“I sure would.”

Gilda opened the minibar next to her chest of drawers, taking out a plastic bag of fruit, a carton of soy milk, and a carton of eggs. She cleared some space up on top, took out a cutting board, and roughly chopped some fruit before piling it into the blender. "Anyway, what the fuck is this about Rarity?"

"Yeah, she's going. Hey extra kiwi in mine please?"

“I’m not making two separate shakes, I’m just making two big ones,” she said, spooning creatine powder on top of the fruit.

“Put more kiwi in it?”

“Fine, I’ll throw another one in there, I’ll even fuckin’ peel it first. So, Rarity?”

“Huh? Yeah, she’s going.”

"Seriously?”

“Seriously. I saw the roster last night.”

“The fake prep with the fake accent and fake eyelashes wants to get the snot pounded out of her?" she asked, cracking eggs into the jug.

Lightning shrugged, picking up the controller and continuing the game. "She's done judo since elementary school."

"Yeah—wait, shit, I remember seeing her in a tournament when I was like, fifteen?” Gilda topped the fruit and powder with soy milk and blitzed it together. “She might have placed, but I dunno. She seemed mediocre."

"Uh-huh, and how did you do?"

"Excuse you?” Gilda glared at her. “I got fuckin' gold that time. I absolutely creamed the girl that beat Rarity."

"I thought you stopped going to judo comps because you kept getting DQ'd."

"That was one time for headbutting, and I didn't stop, I got banned for a year." She pulsed the blender until it was smooth and muttered "Wasn't even a real headbutt."

"Well, anyway, you know she's been doing karate for a few years too."

Her ears perked up as she poured the shake into a pair of red plastic party cups. "Kyokushin?"

"Shotokan."

Gilda laughed. "Oh come the fuck on, that shit's ugly dancing for babies and losers. Somehow I’m not afraid of her being the next Lyoto Machida."

Lightning sucked air through her teeth. "I know where she trains, it’s a good club. They've produced a couple of pro kickboxers and some very talented amateurs. There’s kata and bowing all the time and shit, but this isn't 2003 and they're not some McDojo churning out twelve-year old blackbelts and drywall board-breaking contests. They were ahead of the curve in the beginning, and they’ve evolved since then."

"What's she gonna do, point spar me to death?"

"Yeah, basically.”

“C’mon, get the fuck out,” she said, passing Lightning her cup.

“I’m telling you G, the tournament is on mats, there’s no cage to back her up against, she's apparently been training there for years, and if her coach is letting her enter the tournament at all it’s cause he knows she’s a contender,” said Lightning. “If she gets too close or too confident you'll take her down and eat her for breakfast, but if she's careful? You might not land a single hit on her."

“Hm.” She took a pull of her shake, and thought for a moment. “Aw crap, it's a friendship thing!”

“What?”

“Those guys, they do fucking... Disney channel shit where they all work on some big project together. Applejack, Rainbow, Rarity, fuckin... Sunset Shimmer too, the girl who brings her pets in to school, the new nerd, and the dribbly one. I saw Sunset and the nerd watching fight videos on the library computers, I thought it was a sex thing, but no. Dollars to fucking donuts, they’re doing fight analysis for the three fighters.”

“Mhm. Makes sense. Fluttershy is doing physio for the team, and the weird one is their dietician.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“She asked me—Pinkie, that’s her name—how I made my protein shakes. Don’t worry, I gave her a recipe with an absolutely garbage carbs-to-protein ratio.”

“And Fluttershy?”

“She’s planning on vet school, and I think she’s working as a physio assistant in her spare time.”

“Yeah, but... I’m pretty sure that’s at a ranch.”

Lightning shrugged. “Horses and people aren’t that different.”

“Huh. Hey, you know how horses can actually die from swallowing too much air? If Rainbow Dash was a horse, that is absolutely how she’d die.”

Lightning’s expression soured. "I bet this was that asshole Rainbow Dash's idea. She’ll stuff the tourney with her friends, make 'em fight to tire out the competition, and then if one of them faces her, they throw the match to pump up her win-loss record."

"How much adderal have you had, LD, because that's some amphetamine psychosis shit."

"C'mon, it's a genius plan! That smug bitch is up to something."

"LD, Rainbow is a fucking springer spaniel. Her idea of cunning is putting a whoopie cushion under your seat. Also, her buddy Applejack can't lie for shit, she's a natural born grass."

"Huh. Well, something is the fuck up.” Lightning intoned darkly, sipping her shake. “She's been training for a year and she's already being pushed into a tourney? Going from soccer to MMA, just like that? There's shady shit going on."

"Look, she's got a kind of sports autism that makes her focus non-stop on whatever she finds interesting,” said Gilda, “and that's probably why she dresses the way she does. You're just still mad that she got made soccer team captain instead of you."

"I was not mad about that," Lightning snarled through gritted teeth. "I found it incredibly funny actually. I was laughing."

"You seen those tapes of her at the county BJJ open?"

"Yeah. Jesus."

"Say what you want about her, she might be a fake friend and a dumbass, but she's a phenom. She trains BJJ for three months, with no other combat sport experience, and does that? Shit's crazy."

"Could you take her in pure grappling?"

Gilda snorted. "Already fuckin' have! She dropped in for the rolling session a few months back. I creamed her. She's good, but she's a beginner."

"That was a few months ago. Whaddya think she's picked up since then?"

Gilda shrugged. "If she learns striking as fast as she learns grappling, it'll be a hell of a fight at the tourney."

"She's gonna kick your ass and go home with the ring girls," said Lightning, grinning as she dispatched a boss.

"Big of you to admit I'm gonna get further into the tourney than you, my good bitch."

“In your dreams, pal.” She set the controller down, and drained the remainder of her drink. “Good shake, thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Hey, Gilda...” Lightning turned to face her, some of the hardness lost from her expression, seeming almost bashful. “Y’know... whatever happens with the tournament, and training, and friendship and stuff...”

“Uh-huh?”

“I want you to... I need you to promise me something.”

“Depends.” Gilda raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Promise me we’re gonna absolutely rinse Flash, Snips and Snails? Say we’ll crack open their little scheme and take them for every red cent?”

Gilda grinned, putting an arm around Lightning’s shoulders as she took the controller and started playing. “One hundred percent, babe, one hundred percent.”

Author's Note

Fanfiction's is back, baby. It's good again. Neeheeiigghhh (horse Neigh)