The Clone Fights

(The interior of the Prometheum is embedded with tens of thousands of micro-speakers that emit “anti-noise” tuned to the frequency of crowd roars.)

You’re standing in the Octagon by yourself. It feels like everyone’s waiting for you to say something.

The edges of the roof darken, almost black, while the center remains softly luminous — as if the light is falling inward toward the Octagon. There are no ads. Just a gray canvas and a black cage.

The acoustic dampening lifts, and the sound of sixty thousand screams hits all at once. The Prometheum doesn’t rumble at all.

Two vertical columns of light descend into two aisles on opposite sides of the Octagon. Inside them stand two middle-school-sized monsters. Both five-foot-five. But not built like boys, or even like men — more like archangels. Lean, dense, and perfectly balanced.

As the two fighters cross the threshold into the Octagon and the cage doors shut behind them, the rest of the arena disappears. The Octagon is fully illuminated, floating in an abyss.

They touch gloves a couple of inches from your face and back up into their respective corners.

The bell sounds.

Round 1

Baryshnikov-X opens like a metronome. Upright posture. Precise, spring-loaded steps.

Maradona-X looks loose. Bouncing around. Stop-start cadence.

Baryshnikov-X fires a front kick. Maradona-X leans back just enough, then flicks a toe jab to the thigh. The crowd erupts.

Baryshnikov-X comes bounding forward — eating up space with long, perfectly aligned strides.

He launches himself into the air. His torso tilts backward mid-flight, hips floating beneath him. He extends the front kick — then pulls it back and rotates, whipping a spinning back kick across Maradona-X’s chin.

Maradona-X staggers half a step and shakes it off, grinning.

Maradona-X backpedals diagonally along the cage, then bursts forward, launching off the canvas with his left foot. He plants his right foot halfway up the cage and pushes off into a whipping roundhouse kick that clips Baryshnikov’s temple. Not a knockout — but the Prometheum explodes.

Horn.

Round 2

Without warning, Maradona-X plants and whips a left high kick toward the head.

Baryshnikov-X catches the kick, both hands securing Maradona-X’s leg at chest height.

While his leg is still being held, Diego hops once and twists with the torque created by his captive leg, firing a spinning back kick into the chin.

Mikhail is mid-dream before he hits the canvas.

You keep your headset on. The next fight starts in six minutes.

Two Nights Later…

The roof of the Prometheum darkens again. A pillar of light descends to the aisle, revealing Nikolai Valuev-X. Seven feet of lean vertical mass stacked cleanly from the feet up.

A blinding light erupts from the opposite tunnel, revealing a silhouette that looks like something God would pray to.

It strides toward you and steps out of the light.

And then you see him.

Angus MacAskill-X is a nearly eight-foot brickhouse. Muscle lies evenly across his frame in balanced density — beautiful in a way that makes the scale feel wrong.

His midsection has minimal taper from ribs to waist, supporting his torso like a stone pier. The abs stack up to a broad but balanced chest — flowing directly into thick front delts that make his arms appear to hang forward slightly, even at rest.

The forearms break the proportion — swollen columns of meat that look like muscle wrapped around cords. There’s no tapering at the wrist. The forearm simply continues into the hand.

His palms are broad and heavy. Each finger is thick from base to tip. There are no ornamental veins — just the quiet suggestion that whatever he chose to hold would not be released on its own terms.

You wouldn’t be able to describe how looking at him made you feel. And if you could, you wouldn’t want to.

“Surely,” you think to yourself, “This is the King of Men…

Surely, this is the Alpha Sapien.”

Angus and Nikolai touch gloves.

Round 1

The bell sounds.

Angus MacAskill-X steps. Not fast. Not slow. Just forward — one quiet placement of the lead foot, hips already angled, shoulders already high and set. The cage feels wide for about three seconds.

Nikolai Valuev-X raises his guard. Elbows tucked, forearms high, chin buried. He circles once to his left.

Angus continues to advance, never changing his pace.

MacAskill-X dips, then rotates through the floor, firing a sweeping overhand right that crashes into Valuev-X’s guard. The impact travels through his arms and snaps his head back.

Angus steps again. Left hook this time, short and ugly. It lands mid-step, while his body is still moving forward. The impact absorbed by Valuev-X’s arm sounds wrong. Like wood smacking wet stone.

A right hook follows immediately. It doesn’t land clean, but Valuev-X’s guard caves inward — elbows compressing toward his chest.

Backed toward the cage, Nikolai fires a stiff jab to buy space. Angus steps into it — eats it on the jaw — and closes the distance.

His hands rise, forearms already threading inside Valuev-X’s guard. There’s no surge yet — just weight arriving and staying.

MacAskill-X takes a single step forward. Valuev-X has to give ground to keep his balance.

Another step. Same distance. The cage welcomes Valuev-X’s back with a dull rattle.

MacAskill-X drops and slides his head under Valuev-X’s chin, forcing the Russian clone’s head back and slightly to the side.

Angus pulls him. Not down. Up. Forcing him to stand straighter than balance allows. For the first time in the fight, Nikolai is taller than he wants to be.

Angus doesn’t rush the next step. He breathes once, then threads his right arm between Valuev-X’s legs, locking his elbow tight beneath the pelvis. MacAskill-X’s left arm then comes up and over the torso, his elbow securing the seam where neck meets shoulder.

Then he straightens. He lifts Valuev-X airborne, holding him overhead for a moment, exposing his ribs to the entire stadium. Nikolai’s legs kick once.

Angus winks at the crowd. They go nuts.

He drops to one knee with shocking suddenness, driving his opponent’s ribs into his raised knee. Air leaves Valuev-X in a sharp, broken rush.

Nikolai gets rotated by Angus and hits the canvas belly down.

Angus comes with him, chest dropping squarely onto Valuev-X’s back, weight sinking through the hips and sternum.

MacAskill-X doesn’t throw ground strikes. He shifts his weight up and to the left. Then his right arm comes over and through. It’s a swimmer’s motion — his arm slides beneath Valuev-X’s chin, then clasps the neck in a chicken wing.

Valuev-X tries to turn his head. Angus lifts upward and backward at the same time, pulling Nikolai’s chest off the mat while keeping his hips pinned. Nikolai is now arched like a dolphin — abdominals stretched, ribs flaring.

Angus leans back further. He’s not choking the neck. He’s bending the whole guy.

Valuev-X starts slapping the canvas immediately. Fast and frantic. Angus lets go before Nikolai gets to the second tap.

Valuev-X collapses forward, gasping, clutching his midsection as if trying to gather himself back together again.

The Second Weekend…

Color drains slowly from the roof. Two pillars of light descend, revealing two fighters: Allen Iverson-X and Nate Robinson-X.

(FENWE EXHALES SOFTLY.)

(ELIJAH SHAKES HIS HEAD AND CHUCKLES.)

Round 1

Nate Robinson-X comes straight down the center. Iverson-X’s hips whip back, but Nate drives through anyway, lifts, and dumps him hard enough to rattle the mat beneath your feet.

Nate settles into top position and starts unloading short, piston-like punches.

Iverson-X escapes late.

His face is opening. Blood at the nose. Swelling under one eye. Nate’s looks camera-ready.

Iverson-X bursts forward, plants a hand on the canvas, and whips his back leg up and around towards Nate’s head. Miss.

Allen lands off balance. Nate shoots again. Takes him down again. Iverson-X is flat on his back now, breathing hard. Nate postures up for an emphatic finish.

Sweat runs into his eyes. He blinks.

Iverson-X’s legs shoot up. The ankles lock before you, the audience, or Nate understands what’s happening.

Nate tries to posture. Can’t. Tries to rip free. Can’t. Allen squeezes.

Nate taps. Once.

Then again — harder. The referee waves it off.

Two Days Later…

(FENWE JUST LAUGHS. ELIJAH SHAKES HIS HEAD.)

[CUT TO PRE-RECORDED INTERVIEW]

Wilt Chamberlain-X sits on a bench in his dressing room, draped in a giant purple robe. He seems bored.

Wilt doesn’t need to think about his answer, but he’s also in no rush to respond.

Wilt smiles.

[CUT BACK TO BROADCAST]

Elijah and Fenwe are silent.

The Prometheum goes dark. A pillar of light reveals Yao Ming-X. He looks like a reinforced building.

In the opposite aisle — light from above, behind, and below illuminates what appears to be Osiris himself.

Wilt Chamberlain-X is a 7-foot-plus leviathan.

His abs sit deep and wide. You could roll marbles between them.

The lats hang long and flat down the sides of his torso like folded wings.

He’s got those Dwight Howard dome shoulders — lateral delts stretching the shoulder line upward and outward, pushing the arms away from his torso.

His calves are high, dense, and corded. The Achilles tendons are separated from the ankle, running long and thick like a steel cable.

He looks like the ultimate athlete, scaled well past the point where bodies are supposed to be athletic.

“Oh…” you think to yourself. “Maybe that’s the Alpha Sapien.”

They enter the Octagon.

Round 1

The bell sounds.

Wilt Chamberlain-X drops — hips sinking, feet biting the canvas like starting blocks.

Then he’s gone.

He explodes out of his corner. Yao Ming-X is still lifting his hands when Wilt leaves the ground on his third step.

The knee arrives first. It collides with Yao’s chin mid-rise. His frame folds backward. His body hits the canvas.

You barely finish inhaling. The fight is over.

Helix Presents: NeuroSight One — Shared Reality Guidelines…

(AUTO-PLAY. CANNOT BE SKIPPED.)

A white screen.

Then — the Helix logo rotating in empty space.

[NAIROBI: A COURTYARD. PLASTIC CHAIRS. FIFTY NEIGHBORS UNDER STRING LIGHTS. CHILDREN CHASING EACH OTHER BETWEEN FROZEN ADULTS.]

[BANGKOK: A ROOFTOP PARTY. NEON SKYLINE. EVERYONE GASPS AT ONCE.]

Keep Both Feet In Your World.

And just like that, you’re back in your favorite place. The Prometheum, baby. Standing on that canvas with your perfect knees.

(They always act like they recognize you.)

“Highlights,” you think.

Dennis Rodman-X walks out of the tunnel in a tuxedo. He’s cradling someone in a wedding dress. Someone frail. He strides toward the Octagon like a groom crossing the threshold, revealing the withered, lovestruck face of Dennis Rodman.

Both fighters appear in the Octagon with you.

For a split second, you wonder how much time has passed, and you worry what the orderlies will think if you’re a no-show for another event.

Wilt Chamberlain-X and Gogea Mitu-X appear in place of Bo and Dennis.

As Wilt crosses his back leg in front of his lead foot, you feel the canvas go firm beneath your feet. He detonates, leaping into a swinging left hook.

The hook arcs around Mitu-X’s guard and connects with his chin. It sounds like a car door slamming inside a Cathedral.

Wilt already has his back turned by the time Mitu-X hits the canvas.

It’s probably time to go. You reach for your headset…

You’ll never turn down some Angus highlights. And they’re never very long.

Yao Ming-X shoots in low for a double-leg takedown and runs into a stone wall. Angus folds over him, arms wrapping tight around Yao’s waist.

MacAskill-X dips his hips, then explodes upward and slightly backward, pulling up and back on the waist. Yao’s hips rise, his legs flip upward over Angus’s shoulders, and his torso flips up last. The fighters freeze as Yao Ming-X sits upright astride those sturdy Highland collar bones.

When the action resumes, MacAskill-X drives downward, hammering Yao’s head/upper back into the mat. You feel the impact in your diaphragm.

Angus postures up for a finishing strike — only to discover his opponent is already sleeping — and pulls his final punch. He’s already getting off him by the time the ref steps in.