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Fire vs Ice: Jean Fitz vs. Nat Blake at El Diablo

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Starring

Jean Fitz (deleted member)

Nat Blake (deleted member)

Jean_Fitz: I’d heard her name long before I ever saw her. Nat Blake. The She-Dragon of the Octagon. The Agency’s Ice Queen. Folks said she didn’t lose, not in the cage, not in the field, maybe not even in her sleep. Every time someone said her name there was that look: the slow, involuntary mix of admiration and fear. That look doesn’t scare me. I grew up where people learned respect the hard way, in Texas, I’m the law.

Jean_Fitz: So I called her out for a fight at the El Diablo Sports Bar, an unlicensed hole that smells of stale beer and engine oil, where the lights hang low and the crowd presses in like a second skin. I didn’t ask for handlers, cameras, or a contract. I asked for a door that could be closed and a bell that would make the world stop for five minutes at a time.

Jean_Fitz: She’s bigger, 155 and 5'9" to my 140 and 5'8". Maybe she’s five years younger than my thirty-two, maybe she’s got reach on me and a few extra pounds on her frame. None of that matters once the cage door shuts and the crowd’s roar turns into a single, thin wire of sound. Size is a number until the first body hits the floor. Skill is a rumor until you hear breath against your ear. Everything else is theater. This wasn’t about ego or proving who’s tougher. It wasn’t even about money. It was about waking something sleeping in her and probably in me too. When I throw a challenge, I’m not asking to spar, I’m asking to see. Not the medals, not the operative reports, not the images burned on the net. I want eyes that are honest and hands that can’t fake what’s underneath. Strip away the Agency polish and the public myth, and see what’s left. If breaking the Ice Queen is the hammer that cracks her open, then I’ll swing it. If it breaks me instead, at least I’ll know what I am.

Jean_Fitz: Back in the changing room I do what I always do: make the space mine. I strip down and pull on the red sports bra I keep, a brash color for a brash night. Green briefs. White 4-oz fingerless MMA gloves I’ve already worn to fights; they carry stains of dried blood like trophies. White mouthguard tucked in place. Bare feet on cold concrete. The lights hum. The mirror throws back a person I know too well: scarred, stubborn, stubborn in a way that looks a lot like bravery and a little like foolishness. Outside, through the door, I hear the bar pulse: a slap of music, someone yelling a bet, the barkeep’s laugh. The crowd is an animal getting itself ready. I run my hands over my gloves one last time, flex my toes, feel the concrete press into the soles of my feet. I taste copper and adrenaline and something like hunger. Not for a title. Not for a paycheck. For seeing the woman behind the legend, and for feeling something real when it’s over.

Jean_Fitz: I stand, pull the mouthguard in, and walk toward the cage. El Diablo’s lights cut across my face like a grin. Tonight, either one of us wakes up, or both of us go under. Either way, there’s no turning back now. As I step into the cage, the announcer’s voice booms “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to El Diablo … tonight’s main event , a clash between two women who don’t just fight, they define it.” “In the red corner, fighting out of San Antonio, Texas, she’s the brawler who turned street fights into art and pain into poetry. Standing five feet eight inches tall, weighing in at one hundred and forty pounds of pure, unfiltered attitude… known for her her iron chin, and her bad habit of never backing down…” “The Lone Star Storm… give it up for JEEEAN FITZ!”

Nat_Blake: Since I left Ethan, Jonah’s been searching for a fight to wake me. He called, sent profiles, offered names and contracts, but none of them stirred anything. Then today, I found my own. An email from a Texas policewoman, short, direct, no fluff, no handlers. Just coordinates, a time, and five words: “Let’s see what’s real, Blake.” There was something in that, the kind of honesty only people born on solid soil carry. So I didn’t deny her. Now, under the cheap lights of El Diablo, I step into the cage. The crowd smells of oil, beer, and challenge. They want spectacle. What I want is truth.

Nat_Blake: Flame textured black shorts shimmer faintly in the red glow, the same ones I wore when I defend my title as the champion. Black windowed sport bra. Black MMA gloves, Bare feet against the scuffed canvas, grounding me. No anthem, no sponsors, no agency. I roll my shoulders once. The ghosts stay silent. Across the cage, Jean Fitz breathes steady, a fighter who doesn’t flinch at stories or legends. There’s something sacred about that kind of courage. I nod to her. “Alright, lawwoman,” I whisper, touching my wrist wrap to the cage mesh. “Let’s see which one of us wakes first.”

Jean_Fitz: I smile as Nat Blake enters the ring, her red hair a sharp contrast to my closely cropped blonde hair. She looks strong and overwhelming, but I hold my nerves in check. This is the worst part of the fight for me, us sizing each other up. But once the bell rings, all prefight jitters will leave me, and I will be totally focused on trying to dominate another fighter and staying alive, staying sharp. The ref motions us to the centre after Nat is introduced, and then goes over some very brief rules.....the usual stuff. I give Nat a little smirk, as if to say....do your best sweetie and then extend my arm for a quick tap, before I return to the other side of the cage to to the red post, backing away and keeping my blue eyes locked on the redhead. Then it happens.....so very very fast....DING! and the ref waves us out from our respective sides of the OCTAGON....."FIGHT!"

Nat_Blake: Same ritual I always go through to look polite, to look human. Most nights I don’t care, but this one feels real enough to respect. So I tap her gloves, nod once, give the smallest smile. After that, nothing but the sound of breath and crowd noise. The floor under my bare feet is sticky with beer and resin. The air reeks of sweat, smoke, and fried food. Neon lights blink against the chain-link cage. El Diablo isn’t a place for glory; it’s where fighters come to see who still has teeth left. I slide forward behind a high guard, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. Jean’s stance is solid; cop stance, squared shoulders, waiting for a brawl.

Nat_Blake: First motion: a short feint of my right shoulder to draw her guard high. Second: a quick inside low kick to her lead thigh, the crack echoing off the metal rafters. Third: as she resets, I drive a teep straight into her solar plexus, heel burying into muscle, just enough to take her breath and make her step back. The crowd yells. Someone spills a drink. The ref circles closer. I don’t chase; I hold center, calm, eyes fixed. El Diablo hums around us like a bad dream.

Jean_Fitz: The kick stings, and the teep knocks the air out of me for half a breath, but I’ve been hit harder. She’s fast, not the kind of fast that’s wild or reckless, but calculated, the kind that tests you before it tears you down. I bite into my mouth guard, a bit annoyed that I fell for her feint. I circle left, shaking out my lead leg, keeping my guard tight. Her eyes are locked on me like she’s tracking a target in a riffle scope. I can feel the calm coming, the moment when all the noise fades, when the nerves bleed out and instinct takes over. I slip inside her range, and fire a short left hook aimed at that perfect jawline. This is mostly a distraction, and I pivot in a smooth motion on my right foot, and send a sharp, fast moving spinning back kick towards your solar plexus... The fight has started for real now.

Nat_Blake: I wait and measure, watching how she breathes after the teep, evaluating the small recoil in her core. My weight stays over the balls of my feet, orthodox stance, then I shift briefly into southpaw and back, testing her read, giving her different looks. I have the range. She will have to close it. As Jean steps in with that left hook, I read the shoulder line early and slide my head just off center, my rear foot pivoting outward to keep the gap. I step back, timing her motion perfectly, keeping her at the end of my reach.

Nat_Blake: The instant her hip turns for that spinning back kick, I launch my own counter, a front teep snapping straight into the midline of her torso, heel aiming just above the navel. The kick aimed to land clean, interrupting the spin’s arc, forcing her strike to slide off range instead of connecting. Her rotation carries through, but I have the range. After the teep, I plant my lead foot again, reset my guard, and re-center, calm and precise.

Jean_Fitz: Nat reads my left hook perfectly, as I thought she might, and my white gloved fist brushes the air in front of her face as she slips her head from the harm I had intended. I use my missed hook to pivot, and start to launch the spinning back kick, but again she reads what I'm about to do, and as I start the launch, she connects her teep kick just above my navel.....it lands with a wicked thud.....forcing a deep gasp out of me.....even as I tighten my abs....my spinning back kick connecting with only air....I'm off balance, and expect a followup from this skilled fighter, but she re-centers her stance....and I regain my balance....my face turning bright red now....I won't be undone...so I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, and form an orthodox stance....I twitch my shoulder....to feint a jab with my left....check that punch....and then jab out for real, trying to slice my left fist through the centre of your guard to target your nose.....and then push off my trailing right foot to move in closer to try a right uppercut towrds your chin, trying to go up the middel of your guard....

Nat_Blake: The game is set and you accept to be the pawn. I have the range and the distance; you come with punches trying to close the distance that I keep like a religious ritual. I keep my distance and make you pay for every inch you try to take with your hands. Every time you step in to box I step out of range and pop a low shin kick into that lead thigh, hard and fast, a staccato of strikes meant to fold your base. My shin snaps into your outer quad, then the other one, then back to the first, short, compact, sharp.

Nat_Blake: When you push the uppercut and open the center to force a close, I smell the moment. I pivot on my rear foot, step inside on a tight angle, and feed a small lead uppercut under your guard; not to finish, but to make you lift your chin and tighten your frame. My hips roll, my knees bend, and my shoulder slides into your sternum as I close the gap. My hands find the collar and the back of your head in the clinch. I lock a deep underhook on your right arm, pull your head down, and plant my base. You feel the first knee drive into your solar plexus, hard and upward, forcing the air from your lungs before the second slams into your liver, sharp and punishing. I push my hips through each strike, compact, relentless, each one meant to fold your ribs and drain your strength.

Jean_Fitz: I step forward to box, but this woman is like a cat, stepping back from my jab.....and punishing me with low shin kicks to my outer thighs....ugggg.....pain courses through my thighs....and I know it won't be long before you numb the nerves and make my movements impossible....but I still swing that uppercut intending to drive my fist through your chin....but you pivot on your rear foot, and my fist hits nothing....fucking nothing.....and then a light uppercut lands on my chin, punching my chin up with your left, and as your shoulder slides into my sternum, tits bouncing under my sports bra, I feel your hands clinching behind my head, pulling my head down forcefully, BAM! big knee strikes my solar plexus.....BAM....knee hits my ribs....but I twist my body to avoid the direct hit to my liver.....still.....I've taken some heavy hits...as I bend forward....I attempt to push my hands behind your knees to lift..and at the same time try to drive my head into your abs....attempting a double leg take down....If i force you onto the canvass on your back...I'll go for a mount.....gasping for breath.....sweating heavily...y

Nat_Blake: You call me a cat? Yes, a cat, but maybe a slightly bigger one. Maybe a tiger. I feel your level change before your hands close. Your shoulders drop, your head comes down, your hips drive forward. I sprawl hard, hips snapping back and down, my feet shooting behind me to flatten your lift. At that same instant, my right knee fires upward like a piston, compact and brutal, driving the point of my kneecap into the center of your face as your forehead rushes toward my stomach. And then, and then the motion that has been carved into my body from thousands of repetitions, a reflex etched deep into the muscle memory of a black ops ghost built, broken, and rebuilt again, begins. Your hands lose purchase. I clamp my forearm across the back of your neck to break your posture, and in the same smooth movement I thread my left arm under your chin and around your throat, thumb inside, wrist high. My hips stay heavy, my base wide, my breath steady. I pull the choke tight, elbows drawing in to my ribs, and hook my legs to trap your hips so you cannot base up or turn.

Nat_Blake: You try to roll, to pry my grip, to find an angle, but my weight flows with your movement and the choke only tightens Tap if you want me to stop. If not, I’ll keep holding until everything goes still.

Jean_Fitz: I feel your legs snap back in a sprawl before I can reach them......my hands slip free of your knees in front of me.....and then right between my open guard....you swing your knee in....brutal.....so fucking brutal....the knee slams into my chin and nearly flips my gumshield out...and everything goes a little white as the knee lands hard....but your forearm drives down onto the back of my neck to keep me low, breaking my posture, and then ugggg....the left arm slides quickly under my chin, the forearm grinding up into my throat for a Guillotine style choke.....I start to swing a couple of forward punches towards your gut, but you draw me in closer....and trap my hips by hooking your legs around them.....mtc

Jean_Fitz: My throat feels caught in a vise, breath turning into fire. I grunt, knees digging into the canvas, fighting the weight pressing me down. My pulse is thunder in my ears, my vision flickering at the edges like bad neon. I can taste sweat and copper. My hands claw at her wrists, searching for daylight, leverage, anything. My lungs scream, and every instinct I’ve ever learned on the mats kicks in, tuck the chin, frame, circle, don’t let her roll me flat. I twist my hips, trying to post one knee, trying to pry her grip just enough to breathe. he roar of the crowd feels miles away now, just me, her, and the sound of my heartbeat hammering against her ribs. If I can just turn, just break her base… maybe I can slip free, maybe even reverse it. But the fire’s building in my chest, and I can feel darkness tugging at the edges, daring me to give in....my body growing weaker by the second as blood to my brain gets pinched off.

CAGE COMMENTATOR FOR VIDEO RECORDING: “Jean Fitz is still moving, still fighting the choke. You can see her knees digging into the canvas, fingers clawing at Blake’s wrist, every muscle straining for breath. That’s the heart of a Texas brawler right there, pure grit keeping her alive.” “Nat Blake is absolute composure. The She-Dragon has her hips low, elbows tight, that guillotine locked in perfect form. No wasted motion, no panic. Just steady, merciless pressure.” “Fitz is fading but refusing to tap. Her face is red, her hands slowing, that fire in her eyes dimming. The crowd’s on its feet, roaring her name, willing her to hold on. This is raw, this is desperate, this is what fighting looks like when there’s nothing left but will.” “Blake tightens the hold again. Fitz tries to shift, trying to post, but she’s running out of air. Every second must feel like forever. " yt

Nat_Blake: You were trained to serve and protect, but I was trained to finish. The she dragon is a mask I wear, an iron mask with nails that presses against my face, and if I ever pulled it away you would see the raw, bleeding lines beneath it. That is the truth and it comes with a price. You twist, trying to post a knee, trying to pry an elbow free, but my arms are already closing like pythons. I tighten the grip, thumb tucked or not, whatever locks faster, and I pull my elbow to my ribs so the choke bites higher. My chest drops heavier across your upper back to pin your shoulders to the mat. My hips bridge and drive forward to steal the angle and make the pressure unescapable. My legs clamp and lock around your hips so you cannot shrimp or base out. Every small adjustment is muscle memory, practiced until it is no longer thought but motion.

Nat_Blake: Yes, I am that The Black Ops ghost that reaped them all. Yes, but it comes at a price, a price I can no longer bear. As you thrash on the canvas like a wounded wolf, I move with you like a snake, coiling to every motion. My lock is complete and closed. My arms are pythons, biceps locked tight. There is no escape. I squeeze until the circulation in my hands goes, until the skin first darkens and then drains pale. Your hands claw at my forearm and my wrist. You cough. Your face goes red, then edges toward gray. I feel the pulse in your neck slow under my hold. I do not wrench or thrash. I control the squeeze, compressing steady and true until the oxygen thins and every motion you make grows weaker. Your fingers find my skin, flutter, then slack. The world compresses to the sound of my own breathing and the pressure in my arms. Still, a sound escapes my lips into your ear. A plea, a requiem, please, please, Jean, stop. Please stop. Stop. Stop. I am the one who needs to hear it.

Jean_Fitz: The world shrinks to the width of her forearm across my throat. Every sound is muffled now, the crowd, the ref, even my own breath, all buried under the slow, heavy thump of my heartbeat. Each beat feels farther apart. My fingers keep moving on instinct, scraping at her wrist, but they’ve lost strength. My arms feel heavy, like they belong to someone else. My lungs are begging, convulsing against the choke, pulling in air that doesn’t come. There’s a high ringing in my ears, thin, electric, and then colors start to smear together, red and gray and the silver glare of the cage lights melting into one. The pain dulls into warmth, almost comforting. My body’s still fighting, but my mind is floating somewhere just above it, watching my ass get so thoroughly whooped….bad. mtc

Jean_Fitz: Images flicker in and out: Texas heat on asphalt, the smell of my saliva as it dribbles from my mouth. Then it’s gone, replaced by the feel of her weight, steady and absolute, pressing the fight out of me. I can’t move….totally trapped. For a second I find a strange calm, not fear, not even defiance, just a small, stubborn whisper inside me saying not yet. I dig my knees into the mat one last time, trying to shift, to breathe, to do something, but I’m pinned and scissored and choked tight, like a fucking ragdoll. mtc

Jean_Fitz: The edges of my vision fade, turning soft and black, stars bursting behind my eyelids. My heartbeat slows again, one, two, and the world tilts, slipping out of focus. Somewhere far away I think I hear the ref’s voice, or maybe it’s just the echo of my own pulse fading. I hold on to that sound, that tiny thread of noise, as long as I can and then it happens….my body goes limp….knocked out by the choke…..

Nat_Blake: Time stops in El Diablo. The air thickens with smoke and sweat. The crowd that was a storm of shouts a moment ago has gone silent, every breath held, every glass frozen halfway to a mouth. The only sound left is the dull pulse in my ears and the small, broken refrain I keep whispering to myself. Stop. Stop. Stop. My arms are still locked when the ref grabs at me, pulling hard, shaking my shoulder. The trance shatters. My stomach turns, a wave of nausea climbing up from somewhere deep. I release and stagger back, breathing fast.

Nat_Blake: Jean is on the floor, silent and limp, a faint foam at the corner of her mouth. Her chest moves but barely, the color drained from her face. The lights above us buzz, harsh and white, reflecting off the beer-stained floor. I look at her and feel the heat rise in my cheeks, shame flooding through me like I’ve been caught doing something forbidden. My face tightens, and I can’t hide it. Jean… I reach for her neck automatically, my fingers finding her carotid with the same practiced precision that put her there. There’s a pulse. Weak but steady. Her chest rises once, twice. I want to hold her, to help her, to pull her upright and tell her it’s alright, that it’s over. But I don’t move. I just sink to my knees beside her, hands trembling, sweat cooling on my skin. Around us the lights of El Diablo flicker, and the bar breathes again.

Jean_Fitz: Everything feels far away at first, the lights, the crowd, the smell of beer and sweat. It’s like I’m underwater, hearing voices through glass. The mat under my cheek is cold and damp. I blink once, twice, and the world swims back into shape. My throat is on fire, raw like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. Every breath rasps and burns. My jaw aches from the knee strike just before Nat put me in the choke. My chest feels like someone dropped a truck on it. For a few seconds I don’t move. I just stare at the chain-link wall, the blur of faces behind it. My body’s here, but my mind’s still locked in the choke, still trying to breathe. The noise hits me all at once, the crowd cheering, the ref’s voice, someone yelling for medics. It’s a storm I can’t process in my state of disorientation. I can feel Nat massaging my carotids.....

Jean_Fitz: And then it hits me, I never landed a clean strike. Not one. I’d come here to test her, to wake something in her, but she’s the one who woke me. That realization crawls through me slower than the pain. It’s humiliation, sure, but it’s something deeper too, disbelief. That all my grit, my training, my pride, none of it even made her blink. I roll to my side, coughing, the taste of copper flooding my mouthguard. My hands shake as I try to sit up. The crowd’s still roaring, but it’s not for me. It’s for her. I catch a glimpse of Nat, standing calm, no celebration, just quiet. That hurts more than the choke. She doesn’t even need to gloat. She’s already erased me in the only place that matters.

Jean_Fitz: I’ve been beaten before, but never like this, but still beaten. So I breathe. Slow, shallow. I let the medics check me while I stare at the mat, at the place where I went out. My throat throbs, my vision’s still spotted, and somewhere deep inside a voice whispers that I needed this. I’ll train harder, and I’ll learn from this shameful beating…..I feel Nat and I will be friends…I don’t take getting beaten in a personal way….after all…I would have done the same to her if she was not so damned good. So as the ref raises Nat's hand in victory, I step towards her and give her a tight hug...

Nat_Blake: You were just a damn good fighter, solid, honest, the kind of woman I’d always want in my corner. There’s no humiliation in your defeat; the shame belongs to my victory. When you step in for the hug, I don’t hesitate. I pull you close and hold you tight, maybe tighter than I should, feeling the sweat on your skin, the tremor still in your shoulders, the steady pulse that tells me you’re alright. For a moment the noise of El Diablo fades, and it’s just two fighters breathing the same heavy air, alive. I hold you like someone afraid to lose the last trace of her long-lost hope. This moment is my reminder that I’m still human. Maybe there’s still a little light left in me after all. Thank you, Jean. Because of you, I can see that small spark of hope still drifting in the air.

Nat_Blake: END

Title: The Lone Star Storm Meets the She-Dragon: One Minute, Forty Seconds of Truth at El Diablo

By: Texas Martial Arts Journal Staff Writer

There are fights that test skill, and fights that test soul. Then there are those rare moments where both collide, brutally, beautifully, and without mercy. Friday night at El Diablo Sports Bar was one of them. Jean “The Lone Star Storm” Fitz came to fight. No handlers, no hype, just a challenge thrown at one of the most feared women in the underground fight world: Nat Blake, The She-Dragon of the Octagon.

From the opening bell, it was clear that Fitz’s courage would not be enough. Blake’s precision was surgical, her composure almost inhuman. Every movement was measured, a sharp inside kick to the thigh, a teep that drove into Fitz’s midsection and took her breath, and a defensive rhythm that made Jean’s offense look like shadowboxing in quicksand.

Fitz swung hard, tried to close the distance with a spinning back kick and an uppercut, but Blake saw it coming. With predator’s timing, she slipped inside, tied up the clinch, and delivered two knees that sounded like gunshots against the Jean’s ribs. When Fitz, already winded, went for a desperate double-leg, Blake sprawled with perfect form, reversed, and flowed seamlessly into a guillotine choke that was pure textbook violence.

For the crowd, it was electric, a storm of noise, flashing lights, and disbelief. Fitz clawed and fought, refusing to tap, the image of a true Texas warrior trying to defy the inevitable. But Blake’s control was complete. Her choke tightened like a vice, her hips low, her balance unbroken. The referee stepped in at 1:40 of the first round, Fitz unconscious and seconds away from death, Blake standing over her, no celebration, just the quiet look of a soldier who’d done what she was trained to do.

When Jean finally came to, her first words were pure grit. “I never landed a clean strike,” she said, voice rough but steady. “I came to test her, and she woke something in me.” In that single sentence, she captured what makes this sport real. Blake proved why she’s in a league of her own, calm, ruthless, and unshakably professional. Fitz proved why fighters like her keep the heart of Texas combat sports beating. One minute and forty seconds. Two women. One unforgettable truth: Nat Blake isn’t just a fighter, she’s a force of violence that can’t lose.

Published: 2025-10-11, viewed 103 times.