[AoS]Hammer Meets Nail.(Sledge/Don)

He simply couldn't live with it anymore.

As if the nights when guilt sliced through his stomach weren't bad enough. Forget about trying not to let the others see the pain. When it struck him, David was literally unable to move anyways. Not that that stopped the corners of his eyes from getting wet or feeling the hot shame roll down his cheeks. When the guilt hit his throat it felt like he would explode if he did not scream for all to hear the secrets which he carried with him. His mouth would open up against his will and it took all Sledge had to fight the sounds. Amazing how not saying something could exhaust your voice as much as a night of screaming. He woke up every morning, on those nights that he did manage to drift off, more tired and worn out than before he laid down. Now his guilt not only struck at night when his guard was down, but it took bites out of him during his waking hours as well. Nothing as crippling as when he was trying to sleep, but enough that he simply could not find it in him to keep fighting it. While he wasn't the one who had killed the kid's parents, Sledge had helped the end to happen. Just hanging around the kid would give him that pain in his gut.

Exhaustion and guilt made him a burden to the pack. Already the Brit placed special demands upon what got put on the menu. A dried up mind kept him from generating new resources. Gone, though not forgotten, were the days where his silver tongue and that dimpled smile of mischief got him what he wanted. In the new world Mr. David Maxwell no longer existed, only the destructive Sledgehammer.

And in the Roach's pit fights, Sledgehammer was a force to be reckoned with. Crowds loved a good show, and he provided them with it in spades. Even with a full, scruffy looking beard, there was still the baby face look to him. No matter how many fights he'd been put in, no number of weights lifted, no muscle mass was added. Mix into the equation the effects that starvation has on a body and the pale complexion of the England born Caucasian, and Sledgehammer went into his fights, especially his first one, looking like the defenseless underdog. Nobody had seen that first punch. When it came to hand to hand combat, matches were usually tedious. Weapons brought about excitement. You either got a long drawn out clash with plenty of blood, or it ended before it could really start. The draw for fisticuffs was seeing two people pummel each other until one just can't take one more blow. Any sort of injury was possible, but it took at times, what seemed like forever to happen, and you don't see things as well from a distance. A match with Sledgehammer was guaranteed to end faster and with more blood.

Not only were his fights exciting to watch because Sledge's arms were as good as any close combat weapon, but also because he played to the crowd. Nothing as over the top as those American wrestlers that people paid money to watch on the telly. Sledge had, thanks to the more sturdy diet offered to him as a pit champion, been able to toss out a few witty remarks. He left the puns to the generous host though. For those females in the audience his accent was a bonus, and he purposefully made sure to speak up if one of them sat in the closest rows.

The Man of Steel, his opponent was introduced as. Squinting at the Roach, Sledgehammer wondered if he had been set up against Superman briefly. Instead of a man from Krypton, it looked to be just another person tossed into the ring to see if they could beat him. Such was not the case today. His opponent fingered something that hung around his neck and took on a shiny look. Steel probably. For the first time in a long time a smile broke on the Brit's face. Here was a challenge, someone who wouldn't crumple on the first hit. Picking up the thing that hung around his neck, Sledge gave the ring a quick kiss. His knuckles were taped up, and he cracked them. “Relax. 'm not going to 'urt you. Much.” Fists were clenched and raised up.

It wasn't often that Sledge was challenged in the pit, at least not the times where weapons were removed. Unlike his opponent, Sledge had no formal fighting experience, simply what he had picked up on the streets, punching, kicking, clawing his way into the leadership of his gangs. Sledge fought dirty and did not cave to others easily. Perhaps as important was his mutation was his inability to accept failure. The “Man of Steel” sparked excitement in the con man. Here was a challenge, a puzzle for him to solve on the fly. Whenever his schemes went pear shaped he never felt as alive. On a regular basis he literally broke through walls. Entry into buildings was hardly a concern when you can create your own “door”. Walls weren't typically made of metal (unless you counted trailers, but why the bloody hell would you want to break into one of those?), let alone a metal with such structural integrity as steel. The beams might be there, but there were other things that gave way beneath Sledge's fists. He had never had, or at least taken, the chance to see how his mutation stood against metal. Gears in his head began to creak and turn, a little rusty from disuse. So often he just went through the motions in the fight, never thinking of what he was doing. It was just easier for him to handle what he was doing that way.

It wasn't the champion that threw the first punch. He often kept back to get that extra bit of momentum going. Even if he just barely grazed his target, Sledgehammer's punches were dangerous. When the opponent was close they got a chance at life, but if they gave Sledge the space he needed, they weren't likely to make a repeat appearance in the pit. Having his arms up in his best approximation of a boxer's ready stance served as a dual purpose. The crowd expected to see two grown men fight each other, pummeling the other into a fleshy pulp. Such a stance was practically a requirement. Secondly by just clenching his fists, Sledge's arms became a suitable defense. Bones would not shatter, and he could use Superman's momentum against him.

Which was half of what Sledgehammer did. His fists clenched tighter, making his arms unbreakable. That's not to say that he did not feel the sting of the punch. Steel's mass was so much more than a brief encounter with a brick wall. Even the texture of the brick didn't bother him, for by the time that he would really notice it, he had already gone through the wall. A wicked smile was given to let Superman know that he had not done anything more than a slap on the wrists. A head shot could be possible for Sledge to deliver, but it was such an incredibly delicate part of the human body. With a steel body there had to be some sort of protection, but rather than risk it, Sledge aimed a blow for the gut, the intention to be knocking the wind out of his opponent. A close proximity punch, so there wouldn't be as much speed to it, but if it hit, it would be a hell of a lot faster than anyone else could do, and would feel more like someone had taken a swing at you with an actual sledgehammer.

Oh-ho, this was going to be good. The roach had managed to find someone who wasn't going to crumple beneath Sledge's fists so easily. His first punch always struck the hardest, and the Brit knew how much that hit would affect a normal man. That sort of blow would have sent the poor sod to the hospital with some sort of intestinal injuries. To be honest Sledge didn't know much of the inner workings of the human body, other than getting hit in the gut took the wind right out of you. Having Superman not collapse like a snapped matchstick wasn't disappointing in itself, but seeing no damage was. He had punched cars before and seen dents that his own two arms had caused. In his mind it did not make sense, mostly because while Sledge knew a great deal more about automobiles than he cared to (no point in him having one, since he wasn't able to drive anyways), what they were made of was a mystery. Logically they had to be made out of a more endurable material than whatever Superman's metal was.

Blows to the head was his opponent's choice in how to handle this fight. Careful to keep his arms where he could defend himself, Sledge observed Donovan. It wasn't the arms that he necessarily focused on, but rather the chest and shoulders. You could predict how someone was going to move in a fight better that way since an arm cannot move without the torso shifting as well. Head shots had always seemed cheap to the champ, mostly because so much of the body depended upon what went on up there. Then again there wasn't as much to lessen the blow to the skull should Sledge choose to attack it. Killing people was always out of the question for him. Dead bodies tended to draw others near, and there is always, always someone who wants revenge or justice. Murderers garnished more publicity and media focus than a simple con man on the streets does.

Sledge allowed himself to be pushed away by avoiding Superman's punches. The guy was fast, but not as much as Sledge was. Speed was what made the con man so dangerous, not strength or muscle mass. Momentum can make even the lightest weights turn into a wrecking ball. In order to get the maximum amount of momentum, so that he could do the most damage, Sledge had to get some space between him and his target. Let the man think that Sledge was being intimidated and making a retreat. It seemed doubtful. Everything about Superman's posture indicated that while he might not understand what was going on as a whole, why he had been brought here, he at least knew what he was suppose to do in the pit. Who was this man before the world changed?