"FISTICUFFS, MY FAMILY! Pugilism! Fist fighting! BRAW~LING! Call it what you will my children, but what ever you call it, I'll call it entertainment! I know you're all fans of long lacerations that leak blood like... well, really bloody wounds, but from what I've heard lately you like it even more when we coax it out with our most... handy tools!" He held his hands out to the crowd as if to enforce the pun, most people didn't get it, but they all cheered anyways!

The giant cockroach stood before his special house seat, and stared down at the pit, still being cleaned from the last fight, which had been particularly bloody. His eyes lifted and viewed the crowd once more. " As you can see, the weapons have been removed from the pit... You will not see blood on any blades in the coming battle... Only on the hands of the winner!" The crowd did their thing, cheering and jeering, and he quieted them down slowly.

"And while I'm sure you could listen to me talk all day, I think it pertinent we get down to the dirty deeds, don't you? IN THE RED CORNER! You'll recognize him as the undefeated champion of the pit's fist fights! His hands have been red, and I have a feeling they will be again! THE CHAMP, SLEDGEHAMMER~!" Cheers went up, as Roach gave the current champion time to make an entrance.

Once that was done, he quieted the crowd once more. "IN THE DEAD CORNER!... Well, I truly don't know his name. I do know he has quite the... talent. Suffice it to say, the men who brought him in didn't all make it back alive... I GIVE YOU..." He paused for a second, and then clacked his mandibles. "lets call him... THE MAN OF STEEL!" With a hand wave, he signaled that it was okay to cart in the captured man... The poor fellow had heavy weaponry pointed at him at all times... Roach figured if the ordinance was strong enough to go through a tank, it would dissuade him from trying to escape.

"FIGHTERS, ARE YOU READY?! Actually, I don't care. BEGIN!"

Donovan entered the pit with an expression that could only be described a complete and utter loathing painted upon his face. His chin was covered in a short, scraggly shadow from his neglecting to shave the past couple of weeks. There was nothing covering his upper body, showing several pendants around his neck, including a small locket with a picture in it cast in steel. The small device was closed, and no one would see what was inside it. The other marks of his faith clanked and jingled as he walked, and hit tattoos were displayed proudly the strength that his lord and savior gave him.

There was a reason for everything, and his God put forth a challenge such as this, Donovan faced it with all he could until he could no longer continue. No matter what, though, his lord would send him help if he so wanted Donovan to need it, and if no fortune came to him he would be welcomed into the golden gates with open arms from the Saint Peter himself.

"The Man of Steel", while fitting, was probably a bit over the top a name for the man. His muscles were large and powerful from the years of hardship after the fallout had given him time to train his body, and mind, to a point where he was stronger and faster than he had ever been in his life.

As he walked out he looked to the crowd and gave them a scowl, and when told to begin he turned to steel from his pendant and shattered the manacles holding him.

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.

Donovan gave the much smaller man a smirk as he said that it wasn't going to hurt much. This man obviously didn't know what Donovan could do. McCalaghan had learned early in his life in Riverdale to not underestimate people who are smaller than himself.

He raised his fists up to in front of his head, with his typical strategy of taking hits while defending his head from any blows that came his way. After all, there was probably a reason that this guy was a champion in this, what appeared to be, gladiatorial arena.

The "Man of Steel", as he was now dubbed, approached in his treading manner that was far from normal for any boxer. As he got into range he shot in a powerful blow aimed at Sledge's head, with little intent to actually hit, but to see how the other man would actually react. The strike itself wasn't very quick by any definition, going at about the same speed as the average wide-punch from a thug.

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.

Donovan's punch met with Sledge's arm with a loud thud at the time of collision. This startled the man to a degree, but the fact that the other man had a mutation wasn't a huge surprise. What was surprising was when Donovan felt something, obviously a fist, strike him in the side. The fast that it was a fist wasn't at all the surprising part, but the fact that it hurt was indeed very surprising.

Immediately Donovan decided that he would have to end this quickly. Clenching his fists tightly he immediately began releasing a flurry of blows aimed directly at Sledge's head. Donovan didn't expect many of these hits to land, but he did expect to make the few hits that he needed to knock him on his ass, maybe knock him out. Though the man had no intent to kill with his strike.

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?

Donovan was far from some random punk on the streets who thought that he could throw down. He was a warrior, having trained since he was a lad in how to throw punches. McCalaghan used to fight for trophies and titles and other things from the amateur league, until he got barred for that, and he was convinced that he was done with boxing for good.

But then the change happened, the whole fallout occurred and he immediately began picking up the slack. Growing stronger and faster, now he was on par with what he previously had been, and there was no way he was gonna let this little man beat him in direct attack.

The blow had left a dent in the man's abdomen, but now Donovan was going for a rapid assault on the littler man's head. McCalaghan didn't believe that attacks to the head were cheap at all, in fact boxers were trained that the best target. Really, if you hit the T-zone it really could screw up your opponent. The brow could bleed easily, the nose makes breathing difficult, and a fist to the mouth can really hurt. Also there was the simple fact that if you get hit hard enough in the noggin you go down. Besides, shots to the body would drag a match on, and that was just not worth it in a world like this.

The steel man pressed his pursuit as he kept aiming his fists towards Sledge's head, occasionally straying to his body in order to attempt to create an opening in his opponent's guard. He began picking up the force in his punches, seeing if there was some way to break the guard with just power. Though this idea seemed to be growing less likely to work out with every passing moment.

Now for an effort to see if he could outsmart this guy. He made a very large fake towards the smaller man's body, going for what would appear to be a body-cross. Halfway through the attack, though, he converted his cross into a devastating uppercut aimed directly for the man's chin.

The crowd was working itself into a wild frenzy. This new blood was driving back their champion. From a distance it wasn't obvious that the metal man had sustained damage. That was one of the big issues with hand to hand combat. You could see a severed limb fly off easily enough, or witness someone go up in flames. Two grown men punching themselves was hardly as high paced as the other fights you'd see in the arena. The champion was different though. You saw the blood flow with him, he made the injuries happen faster, and louder. Sledge, it seemed was on the defense, just being pushed back towards the wall, and they wanted him to make another attack.

He had been watching carefully Superman’s movements from behind the defense of his unbreakable arms. “What is with you and me head?” he asked, partially out of curiosity, but also as a taunt. Taunting the metal man was probably not the best idea though, as a surprising uppercut knocked his head back. Shortly after getting his powers, Sledge had tried a scam with hitting a car. The timing always had to be perfect or else he might end up underneath the tyres. One of the first times he had been just a half a second off. This resulted in him spending a night in hospital, having to get stitches on his right eyebrow ridge, vomiting thanks to a nasty concussion, and a splattering of other injuries not worthy of mention. He knew what it was like to be hit by a car, and the uppercut that caught his chin felt remarkably similar. His head snapped backwards with the force and he allowed for himself to stumble backwards. A skull was remarkably fragile, but better to be hit on the jaw than a more life threatening position.

The crowd burst into a wild ruckus chorus. To them it didn’t matter who won this fight as long as they had been given a good show, and this was a good show. Sledge rolled his head forwards, a wicked grin playing across his features and a fire in his eyes. A professional boxer could possibly max out their speed at thirty two miles per hour. That would be on the lowest of the low rungs of Sledge’s powers. His top speed wasn’t enough to break the sound barrier, but he was getting close to it. As he clenched his right hand into a fist the chant of “Bang bang” started up. “Maxwell”’s silver hammer was about to go all out on the poor soul that he had been pared up against. The right arm was brought down, aiming for Superman’s shoulder, followed by the left going for the same spot that he had punched earlier. Thanks to the distance provided by taking the hit his fists were going three times the speed of a professional boxer, which meant that whatever they hit was going to be faced with two small wrecking balls.