Free Hearts of Smoke and Steam by Andrew P. Mayer Page B

simply calling surrender.”
    Clements narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said I could beat you to death.”
    Alexander nodded and raised his fists into the air. “I've never admitted defeat.”
    The White Knight came at him like a freight train, barreling forward with the clear intention of planting one of his slablike fists directly into Stanton's stomach. Instead, Alexander stepped out of the way and jabbed at the man's head, managing to knock him off course.
    Now that the fight had begun, a thrilling feeling of satisfaction flooded through him. Darby had always been their conscience, always trying to steer the Paragons away from violence in pursuit of a more “honorable” path. But there was only so far down that path a man—a real man—could travel, before he needed to stop being righteous and start doing what needed to be done.
    The man in front of him might not be a villain by the standard definition, but he had all the attributes of one: a blowhard, a liar, someone who believed that the world owed him all the things that he couldn't work to get for himself. And in the end, it had felt good to hit him, and that made it right.
    The blossom of pain in his side was as disorienting as it was surprising, and it forced him to let out a shout. Clements had seen an opening and used it to make a low blow to his back. Stanton hadn't even seen it coming, and it proved that his opponent was surprisingly quick for a man of such meaty stature.
    He danced away and tried to clear his head. “Good, Mr. Clements. Well done.” This wouldn't be as easy as he first thought. “Better than expected, in fact.”
    There was an ugly sneer on the other man's face now. He had tasted blood and he obviously liked it. “Call me all the names you want, Industrialist, but you're about to find out I'm no liar.” He jumped forward, and before Alexander could react, he'd been struck twice, once in the face and once in the chest. It felt like he had been hit by metal instead of flesh, his rib cage flexing from the force of the blow. “I'm not an ordinary man.”
    Knowing that the coming pain might rob him of his strength at any second, Stanton struck back hard. His attack was wild, but some of the blows landed directly on the White Knight's neck, throwing him off balance.
    The two men broke apart, both gasping and coughing.
    The mask of civility that Clements had been so loosely wearing before was completely gone now. Sweat poured down his face, plastering his hair to his skin. “I'm going to send you straight to hell, you pompous son of a bitch!”
    “Calm down, Jordan,” Hughes said to the man in half a whisper.
    The tone made it seem as if they knew each other, and for an instant Stanton wondered if there was more going on here than he realized, but his reply was certainly not a friendly one. “You can go to hell, cripple. I don't need to be lectured by you.” His eyes flicked to the right as he talked, and Stanton saw a clear opening where he could move in. But instead of damaging his opponent, he found that it was Clements's fist that had impacted with his chin.
    His head snapped back, and there was a sound in his ears that made him think that perhaps all his teeth had come loose and were suddenly rattling around inside of his brain.
    As Stanton stumbled backwards, another blow struck him in his chest, faster than he would have thought possible. This time there was a definite snap as one of his ribs gave way. “That's the broken bone you asked for,” Clements said, and followed it up with another punch to the face that seemed to do something terrible to his nose. Stanton could taste the blood in his mouth.
    He tried to raise up his hands to protect himself, but instead he tumbled to the floor, his legs no longer willing to cooperate with his commands. As the other man loomed over him, he found himself simply trying to cling to consciousness.
    “That's enough, damn it!” The voice was coming from behind him. It sounded like