It had been two months. It would have been expected that Jack could find a job in that first one, but that didn't seem to be the case. Without many credentials other than his family owned business in a small town, no local mechanic would hire him. The savings he had with him when he left are dwindling under the expensive rent that is expected every month. With the way things were, he'd be lucky if he could manage another two months. He'd be forced to vacate and head back home if that were the case, something that would not be in his best interests, considering his reasons for leaving.

Worse than that, the city hasn't been as glorious as it was made out to be. In most small towns, the big city is supposed to be where people go to make their fortune. It was a place of opportunity, somewhere that anyone could become someone. However, that was far from the case. Even with his savings, Jack could only afford one of the lower class residents, a small apartment in the neighborhood lovingly referred to as the “shit stain” of the city by the locals. The more common phrasing for it was just called the “Blight.” It was the blight of this city, a stain on its reputation, so the name stuck. This was where the druggies resided. It was a place that most did not want to be walking around at night. If you were, you were probably up to no good. It didn't help matters that the police just didn't seem to patrol this area at all.

That was the neighborhood Jack returned to after a long day of trying to find a job. The decrepit old building, run down from old age and neglect, stood looming over the street. His apartment had a lovely view of the dank alley behind it.

While nothing ever really seemed right with this place, something did strike Jack as off as he finished the ascent to his floor. The door to his apartment was wide open.

This city. What a rotten place to live.

He couldn't exactly complain, he could be worse off he supposed, but the last couple months hadn't given him much reason to smile either. Growing up in the middle of nowhere like he had, he'd always assumed coming to the city was just what you did to get ahead in life. That somehow packing a million men together into a sardine can like this would magically result in a better life. Instead the people of this city were anonymous and hungry. he was just one face among many, and the tall buildings and crumbling brick walls were gathering to crush him. That was how his life had felt lately. But then it wasn't just him. On the way home he passed several homeless men, and he tried to remember that it really could be worse. Not that they were innocent, not every man hiding in the shadows was a victim. The smell of stale urine permeated the alleys, and the bricks hadn't always been the same shade of red. It could be worse.

It just got worse.

"...What?"

His mind immediately went into overdrive at the sight of the broken door. He held no illusions about the poor neighborhood he lived in. It could just be the busted locks he inherited from the last resident. Then again, he wouldn't exactly be able to track down the previous tenant to complain. Not unless he wanted to visit the local cemetery. The locks were always broken. But the door wouldn't just swing open on its own. Were they still in there? Or had they just not bothered to lock up as they left? But the lights were on, and despite the silence Jack just couldn't imagine that everything would be settled so neatly.

And who the hell breaks into a house in the BLIGHT?! There's nothing to steal in this shit hole!

He froze. His legs wouldn't carry him.

Who the hell breaks into a house in the Blight? Plenty of people. People who know the locks are already broken. People who aren't looking for valuables to steal. People who are looking for something else. Something he was just delivering to them.

Could he build something to salvage the situation? His boots were in the apartment. Oh don't look at me like that! Why would Jack ever carry those things with him? They were just sentimental pieces of junk. Sometimes the springs fall loose and go off on a hair trigger, and what good would that do him? But they did him no good in there. Could he build something? Was there something in the alleys he could use? In the dumpster maybe. But the noise. Building this was usually loud. Bending metal, twisting chemicals into strange powders. Would there be chemicals in a dumpster? Maybe the vestiges of some cleaning solution. Right. A cleaning solution in the fucking Blight. If anyone cleans their homes that thoroughly around here. The Bleach would probably be worth more than their carpets.

He was breathing heavily. Almost hyperventilating.

He leaped for the trash can by the front entrance to his building. His apartment was on the second floor, but he didn't have to go up there yet. He didn't care that the lid made a horrible clanging racket as he tossed it aside. He didn't care that the waste smelled like it had been ripening for several days. A weapon. Some kind of weapon. A few cans of food with the labels removed, bulging from age. Whatever was inside was decomposing. Would this work if he had a source of fire? But no, the spark wasn't there. He couldn't think straight when he was panicking like this, and he knew he couldn't get inspiration like this and it just wouldn't work.

Calm down. He had to calm down. He didn't need to Build something. he could take the trash can lid, and use it as a shield. They're probably only armed with knives right?

He tried to control his breathing, and met with some success. Calm down, Archer. His breathing was under control.

He took a few shaky steps up the stairs. He was at the door before he knew it, the distance passing in a fugue. He gulped, and pried at the loose planks, peering inside.

As Jack peered inside, he did indeed find someone waiting for him. The man didn't seemed all too concerned, though, sitting on a chair that he had moved to the back of the room. He leaned against the wall with his chair, staring at the ceiling vacantly. The man wore a dark blue jumpsuit, something he had come to notice was rather common for mechanics in this town. The label on his breat read “Fine Tunings,” one of the placed he had attempted to look for employment from. The name tag read simply “Joey.” That was the only indication of who he could be, not that it did the resident of this apartment much good.

Only a moment passed before the man blinked and looked back towards the doorway. “Oi, finally. I've been waiting for an hour,” he groaned, letting the chair drop back to all four. “You're that country boy, right? Archer?”

Oh god. Oh god, it was just a mechanic. Just one of the ones from one of the places he'd applied for. He wasn't going to murder him with an axe Well, probably.

"Yo," he replied, letting out a sigh of relief. He casually tossed the trash can lid over his shoulder, where it landed in who cares where down below. He thought he might have heard a screeching cat, but knowing this place even the cats deserved to get dinged by a piece of flying metal. Actually, just knowing cats in general...

He went over to his fridge, and tried to grab a couple beers. Failed. There was only one beer. Also the fridge was warm. He'd have to look at that later. He offered the bottle of warm beer to his surprise guest, completely ignoring that he (Jack) currently smelled like garbage.

"Here, want a drink? We country boys have hospitality to consider you know?"

Joey held his hand up, refusing the drink. “Thank you, though,” he responded. His eyes scanned the room quickly, looking over the state of his apartment. It was about what he'd expect from the Blight. It was barely liveable. Good enough for these standards, though. “You know, I'm surprised. Are strangers breaking in and sitting in your living room a norm for you country boys?” He looked back to the other man curiously, slowly getting to his feet as he spoke.

"You kidding? Where I grew up there were no strangers. Everyone knew everybody. Or at least they knew, 'Hey you're bobby's friend right? A friend of Bobby is a friend of mine!' Ain't no strangers in Hicksville."

Since the "stranger" wasn't going to sit down, Jack decided not to either. He put the beer down, and started pulling out the fridge. His nerves were slowly settling, and his mind was clearing up. it would be easier to gain inspiration like this. Maybe he'd be able to fix this thing. He focused on the goal, "Fix the damn fridge," and a blueprint materialized in his mind almost instantly. The first few times he'd wondered where the ideas came from. Clearly weren't his, but they were easy blueprints to read and by this point in time he didn't really care anymore.

"Joey right? Name's Jack Archer, but you already knew that. You got any gum? Or some thermite. Gum would work better."

'Joey' paused briefly, looking down at his jumpsuit for a moment. “Oh, right. Joey,” he said, blinking. “Sorry, no. Name's Will. Was...loaned this, I guess.” He unzipped the uniform to reveal a black t-shirt, leaving the bottom half still up. “I was just there for a report. I'm a writer for the newspaper. You know, makes me more knowledgeable about what I'm writing. This Joey guy was killed a week ago. Mugging, I heard. Pretty sure I wrote about it too.” He scratched his chin in thought, but then shrugged. He didn't give much thought to the people who died, but why would you in this city? It happened too often to count.

“Anyway, yeah. Gum. Sure.” He reached into the pocket of his uniform, tossing over a pack. “You can keep it. I'll pick up more on the way home today.” He looked at the other man skeptically for a moment before shaking his head. “So you aren't freaked out at all about the stranger who just kind of walked into your apartment? That kind of shit is gonna get you stabbed in these parts.”

"Says the man who can't even remember if he was the one who wrote a story about some dead kid."

Archer takes the gum and moves to the sink. Thankfully the water wasn't disconnected yet, he'd have to remember to pay that bill sooner rather than later. He takes the entire pack and runs it under the water all at once until the gum is nice and soft. Then he squishes it all into a ball, and takes a few wires out of the back of his fridge. He starts electrocuting the mess of weird goo a couple of times, though that's probably not exactly a safe thing to do with a soaking wet object you're holding in your bare hands. And all the while he keeps talking.

"You know, I think it's because I live in this shit hole that I relaxed around you so fast. When I saw the door open I was expecting some blood soaked maniac with an ax to be waiting for me. So when I didn't see that I was immediately relieved, then I switched gears. Was it too premature, Mr. William? Are you actually here to kill me?"

By now the gum has developed into some strange black tar. The rest can't be seen as Jack ducks behind the fridge and starts messing around with the innards of the beast.

Will laughed at that. "No, you're right. I'm not here to kill you," he replied. His eyes lingered on the refrigerator the boy was currently fumbling with, an interested gleam coming to his eyes. "On the contrary, I'm here to offer you a job. It'll be high paying, but one time only. I figured from the fact that you came to this place you might be having a rough time at actually finding something. Especially with these credentials..." He rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, this is nothing in your field so it'll do jack shit for you when trying to find a auto shop that'll take you, but it might help you get a little bit of extra money." He grinned a bit at the thought, walking over to peer behind the fridge so he could see if the other man was interested.

As he looks, Jack places the back panel back into place, and twists the screws in finger tight. There is an odd, acrid smoke seeping out from the back vents, as if someone were burning crude oil within. He suddenly looks up towards the curious writer, and says, "You didn't see nothing."

Jack gets up, and moves back to the front. He opens the door. "Cooler already," he nods with a pleased grin before replacing the fridge within its little alcove. Only as he removes a rag from his back pocket and wipes his hands clean of the remains does he acknowledge the point. "Money for a one time gig huh? Yeah, I could use something like that. But I wonder what kind of job a reporter could need a mechanic for?"

"Something that has nothing to do with mechanics, I assure you," Will said brightly with a small laugh. "I'll level with you. I like to report on criminal activity around the city. Not the safest profession, but no one else seems to have the balls to. One of my underground contacts linked me to a gathering. It's basically a fighting ring where those who want prestige in the underworld go. If you have talent, you might be approached by those hiring for bigger name thugs. It's this complicated hierarchy I've been trying to crack for a while. That's not important, though. What's important is the pay out for this type of thing. You see, the other thing they like to do is gamble. The newbie is always the one who has the lowest chances of winning. In short, I want to bet on you beating their top fighter. We'll split the profit 50-50."

"...Are you insane?" Jack asks with a frown, but only a frown. He doesn't raise the volume of his voice, though he doesn't at all hide his disbelief in his tone. "You want Mr. Trash-Can-Lid to fighting in some street fighting tournament like I'm fucking Ryu? What the hell is the survival rate for newbies in this kind of thing anyways?" He as actually starting to sweat a little, and finally popped open that warm beer. He slumps down into one of the kitchen chairs and takes a long drink.

"Alright, alright, spill. You wouldn't be betting anything on this if you weren't rigging it in some way. What is it?"

Will paused there, considering what to say. Then he shrugged. "It's hard to explain, but I think you can beat them. I'm already well known so my winnings would be much worse to bet on myself," he explained. "It might be easier to show." He reached behind himself before he drew out a small object. Flicking his wrist, a blade snapped out. In a quick movement, Will darts forward. However, something strange happens in the instant before it occurs. He sees the trajectory of the knife, where Will is moving, and his body begins to move to defend himself without a second thought, moments before the movements actually happened.

In an instant, the reporter's wrist is twisted back, the blade dropped to the floor harmlessly. Despite the situation, the man grinned in response. "I think you'll do fine enough in the matches."

Jack is breathing heavily, and sweat trickles down his brow. What the hell just happened? What did he do? What did this crazy bastard do? He looks down at his hands, still clinging to the reporter's wrist. If he really was a reporter. Really, crazy person was more likely. Jack shoves the crazy-reporter-man away and reaches down to grab the knife off the floor. He holds it forward with two shaky hands.

"G-Get out..." he barely manages to choke out through his chaotic breathe. "Get out!"

One of his hands comes off the knife and he reaches towards his pocket for his cellphone. He had to call the police. He had to get help. What if this man has another knife? Or a gun? Would he have used a gun the first time? Was this for fun? Jesus, how had he just disarmed that man anyway? How is he now the one holding the knife?!

He was through dialing nine and one before he remembered that the police don't respond to calls in the Blight.

"Shit shit shit...!"

Will didn't look too surprised when the other man picked up the knife. A normal reaction to being attacked. He'd get used to it with his living environment. "Well...okay then...I don't suppose I can have my knife back? Dangerous neighborhood and all," he commented. "Ah, probably is too much. I'll...uh...well, just return it when you get the chance. Maybe at the fights. Here, have my card, in case you wanna reach out." He procured a small business card. It was rather nice, compared to the dank area, the fancy lettering and paper making it seem out of place in the apartment. He placed it down on the counter with one more sheepish smile. "Address is on the back. For the fights I mean. At least think about it. It's good money, you'll win."

With that, he stepped away, moving back out of the apartment. Though, as an afterthought, he poked his head back in. "Think about getting a new lock too. Someone could've tried to kill you here, for Christ sake. It's not like the country." That was the last he said, retreating out of the room again and...seemingly leaving as he did not come back into the apartment, leaving Jack with the knife and the business card.

Jack collapses off his feet, his back sliding down the front of the newly fixed fridge. The knife clattered down beneath him, and he was just purely lucky it hadn't cut him on the way down. He felt exhausted now that the adrenaline was leaving his system. His breathing was still heavy, though it was recovering quickly. He felt his heartbeat. That was recovering too.

"I can't fucking afford a new lock!" he shouts at the door, though Will is long gone.

The Blueprint his mind kept giving him for the lock required the use of parts he didn't actually have. For some reason it wanted him to "fix" the lock into some kind of optical scanning laser turret. Come to think of it, this kind of thing was probably why.

He looks down at the card. At the address.

"I'd have to be crazy."

But could it really be scarier than walking home at night? At least the fights would be something he's walking into face held high. He'd know this one was going to happen. He could even wear his Jump Boots, give himself an easy out if things went too badly. No weapons though. He didn't manage to make one from the dumpster earlier, and frankly it was better equipped than his apartment...

"I can't even believe I'm considering this!"

He looks down at his cellphone. The card. The cellphone.

He dials the number on the card.

"I'm in," he says as soon as Will picks up.

Will was understandably delighted at hearing the man would take part in his plan. Unfortunately, not much else was given other than the fact that neither of them should know each other. He was given brief instruction on how to act, but that was the extent of it. When Jack arrived, he was too take a look at the area they'd be fighting in and prepare whatever he needed to fight. After that, he was to wait until the main event for the top spot in their underground circuit. The Iron Giant versus Richie. That was when the plan would be put into action.

As Jack arrived, he'd find the pier in decline. A few ships lined the docks, but the further he went, the less activity he found. Nearing the end, one warehouse was left open, lights spilling into the dark wood of the docks. Voices could be heard inside, cheering or booing for their respective champions. It was still in the early stages, though. The champion wouldn't fight until the lower ranked fighters got their chance first. He was saved as the main event for those interested in a strong bodyguard for the illicit organizations around the city.

As it turned out, there were two fighters in the large ring, a rather flimsy wooden board stacked on cinder blocks. Well, a few flimsy wooden boards. The two fighters were going at it in an all out brawl, throwing punches and kicks at any time they could in the center of the ring. Neither had much skill but that was expected of the lower ranked fighters. The crowd was made up of the same thugs Jack would otherwise avoid on the streets, but mixed in were a few men in suits that he would otherwise take as respectful businessmen. Among them, somewhere, Will was supposed to be stationed, all but ignoring Jack's presence. The two, after all, were not supposed to be affiliated.

The fights went on for a while, no major incidents occurring in that time. However, after only a few of them, an announcer came on the stage. He was just as much of a thug as the rest of them, but he had a megaphone to be heard over the roar of the crowds. "Now, we'll have our champ fight. The Iron Giant!" A large man hauled himself up to the stage. He was a behemoth of a man, easily twice Jack's side with pure muscle. His hair was cut short in a military style and he wore a plain green tank top with jeans that showed off the massive amount of muscles on the man. This was the man that Jack was meant to fight. The champ who had never lost a single match. And the person he was meant to replace...

"He will fight our up and comer...Richie the Rat!" the announcer continued. A lanky man was making his way through the crowd, his face betraying his nervousness. This was where Jack had to make a move. He had to knock out Richie and take his place. Luckily for him, the man was terrified of the champ. He wanted out. This would be as simple as giving Richie a good punch and demanding a challenge from the Iron Giant.

Oh god, why was he here? He tried to contain the tremors in his fingers, but couldn't quite manage it. This was insane. Any of the people here could butcher him, much less the champion. Hell, even the trembling Rat was probably more than his equal. And yet somehow, through all of this, he realized he was grateful that the police never entered the Blight if they could help it. They'd catch onto something like this within a minute, there was no subtlety involved. And somehow, Jack felt grateful.

He took a deep breathe. He needed a plan. There was no way he was taking out the Champion on his own. But as he desperately tried to find a blueprint for a weapon he couldn't seem to form anything usable. Too many expensive components he just didn't have. Carbon weave. A platinum band in the shape of eternity. Something called Unobtanium... Nothing that could be fashioned from rotting wood and broken beer bottles (oh how he wished he could at least take one of those, but that probably wouldn't have worked anyways).

And then the time came. He took a deep breath. He let it out. If he was going to do this, he decided, at least he was going to do it good.

His height seemed to fluctuate by about an inch with each step as he walked through the crowd. The soles of his shoes kept expending out slightly as the pressure of his weight was lifted away, and then compressing at a slow pace as he brought them back down. The damn spring locks were loose again. He'd have to be careful not to put too much force on them or they might release without consulting him first.

"Hey high," he said aloud as he emerged from the crowd and wrapped his arm abound the Rat's shoulders. "Have we met? I could have sworn I knew you somewhere...

"I'm getting you out of this," he whispered to him through grit teeth. "So make it look good, alright?

"Oh, I know! Now I remember, how silly of me. You sister owes me money!"

Suddenly Jack fell of his feet, his arm wrapped firmly around the Rat's shoulder. His other arm came up and elbowed him in the chest in a move he could have sworn he saw on TV once, though for the life him he couldn't quite remember where.

He shook the daze from his eyes, and got to his feet.

"Wait, wait, wait! How could I be so stupid?" he inserted his palm into his face as if coming to a singular bad conclusion. "High school! That's where I know this guy from! I don't even think he has a sister, come to think of it. Now how am I supposed to get my money!"

He seemed to think on it for a moment. In reality he was thinking about how all of this was a really, really bad idea.

"Oh! Wait. I'm at the fights! And I just knocked out the challenger! That means I can probably drop the champ, steal his lunch money, And pay off the Russians! This is a good plan. I like this plan."

He walks up to the ring, and steps up.

"Alright Vin Diesel, I'm calling you out! Come on. You're Superman, I'm the nuclear bomb. Let's go!"

Silence descended over the warehouse. No one said a word. The sprawled out Rat moaned in pain from the blow, waiting until the majority of the attention was off of him to sneak away. Will, from his spot in the crowds, used a finger to push his glasses up on the bridge of his nose before turning to talk quietly to a nicer dressed man beside him. The champ himself...just looked unimpressed.

"Tiny wants a fight?" he asked. "Fine. This won't take long." He reached up, cracking his neck to the side before stepping forward. "I'll even let the 'nuke' have the first blow." He smiled condescendingly at Jack as a roar of laughter came from the crowd. It was clear who they thought would win.

Not that they were wrong. The man was massive and Jack was untrained. Whatever plan Will had for him to win was not disclosed. It was too late to back out now, though.

Jack blinks in confusion.

"Um... it's a reference. To the Iron Giant? No one here has seen the Iron Giant? Not even, not even you and its your, well, its you name. Oh boy. Alright, alright, we can work through this."

The ground is made of particle board, so I can't exactly use my jump boots without breaking through. Not that this wouldn't get me disqualified anyway. What I wouldn't give to be Tony Stark right around now. Who am I kidding, Tony Stark is rich he wouldn't even be in this mess. Well, maybe if he was drunk.

"How about this, this one work for you? You're the Iron Giant? Well, I'm Iron Man."

And that's when Jack runs across the arena and kicks the Iron Giant in this face. Which is also around the time the springlocks in his boot have decided they've put up with enough of Jack's shit. They release sending the sole rocketing into the poor sod's jaw with enough force to send a man Jack's less than average size leaping over a small building in a single bound. Jack, of course, falls on his ass from the unexpected recoil, and his kicking knee goes straight through the particle wood on the way down.

"...ooooow...." he hisses out.