12 Years Ago

  Blood splattered onto the warehouse floor. The place had long been abandoned—its surface damp, scattered with puddles. But it made for a perfect spot for a street fight.

  Blū watched from above, nestled in the crowd, fixated on every strike and dodge. The combat took place inside a sunken rectangle, the original purpose of which none of the street kids knew. But they all agreed: it made a hell of an arena.

  The crowd erupted as the brawl reached its bloody climax. Two quick shots to the face and the larger fighter dropped, smacking the concrete with a sickening crack. Cheers filled the hollow hall, the sound vibrating off warped walls. Flood damage had ruined the place.

  “Decent fight.”

  Blū turned to see who had spoken, wondering if it had been directed at him. The stranger wasn’t looking at him, but Blū still felt seen. He was tall—taller than someone his age should be. Sixteen, maybe seventeen... too old to pay much attention to a kid like Blū. His blond hair was messy, yet somehow still looked styled. Not bad for a bum, which he had to be; his clothes were filthy, almost as bad as Blū’s. A pair of small round spectacles hung from his neck on a thin string. The left lens had a slight crack.

  “Maybe a bit excessive, don’t you think?” the man said.

  “You’re talking to me?” Blū asked, his childish voice coming out higher than he’d have liked.

  The man looked down. “Yeah. Who else would I be talking to?” He had a hell of a smile—the kind that drew you in, made you want to feel whatever peace he’d figured out.

  Blū shrugged. “Someone older... cooler?”

  “You look pretty cool to me.”

  Blū felt a flicker of pride. “You thought it was excessive?”

  “Yeah. The smaller guy—I think he could’ve ended it sooner.”

  “Don’t see that every day.”

  The man chuckled. “You’d be surprised what a little guy can do, given the right reasons.”

  “Right...” Blū answered, skeptical.

  “You disagree?”

  “No. I just think I could kick your butt without much reason.”

  “Oh, really?” the man laughed, amused. “Well, let’s give it a go.”

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  “What!?”

  “Hop in the arena. Let’s go. Doesn’t look like anyone else is stepping in.”

  Blū gave it a moment’s thought.

  “Come on! Before someone else takes it.”

  With a snarl, Blū jumped down, followed by the thud of the man landing behind him and the chants of the crowd rising again. The floor was slick—water and blood pooling across the uneven terrain. He kicked the ground, feeling tiny stones crunch and roll beneath his worn-out shoes.

  “Ready?” Blū asked, turning to meet the man’s open gaze. He raised his fists.

  The man didn’t seem particularly combative, slowly settling into position.

  “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?”

  “Is that something you usually do with enemies?”

  The man chuckled, removing his spectacles and placing them gently in the corner of the arena.

  “We’re not enemies because we fight, friend. This is a clash of manly souls.”

  Blū smiled. He liked that.

  “Blū! Now yours!”

  “Figree. I wish you good fortune in this fight.”

  “Alright.”

  Blū wasn’t quite sure what to make of that last part, but at least he’d gotten a name. He had planned on fighting wicked villains for practice, but this guy seemed... nice.

  “I won’t go easy on you,” Figree warned.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Figree smiled and nodded.

  “Fight!” a boy yelled from above.

  Though Blū had asked for this, he hadn’t expected his opponent to shift so quickly—his warm charisma replaced by a dangerous confidence. With little effort, and still smiling, Figree swung.

  Blū raised his arms to block, but the fist stopped mid-air.

  Blū hesitated, sensing he should respond with a strike of his own. He began to lower his guard.

  The punch slammed into his stomach. The feint had worked perfectly. His feet left the ground for a second, but he caught himself, stumbling back into a stance, fists raised.

  He threw a punch with each hand.

  Figree parried both with his forearms, leaving Blū wide open for another blow again to the chest.

  Blū wheezed as the air was knocked out of him. He gritted his teeth, frustrated. He’d expected harder punches from someone Figree’s size.

  Figree slid back, arms raised defensively.

  “At least I’m enough of a threat to make you take your time,” Blū joked.

  His opponent smiled but didn’t reply.

  Blū slid one leg back and launched into a dash. He veered slightly, then jumped, swinging for the side of Figree’s head.

  Figree caught his fist easily and drove another punch into Blū’s chest.

  As Blū stumbled back, he was hit twice more.

  Even while falling, Blū kept his eyes locked on his opponent. But in a flash, Figree vanished—gone like a flame flickering out.

  A crushing blow landed from behind, driving the last breath from Blū’s lungs.

  He hit the ground hard, rocky terrain scraping his face.

  He caught himself in a puddle, muddy water slipping through his fingers as he tried to rise to his knees.

  The crowd roared, declaring the match over.

  Blū had fallen—and in these streets, that counted as a loss.

  A drop of blood dripped from his forehead into the puddle below, floating like a crimson bead of ink.

  He refused to look up at the laughing, mocking faces around him.

  Figree raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

  “It was a good match,” he said. “Anyone watching could see he did well.”

  Wrong! Blū thought. Don’t patronize me. A loss is a loss. I don’t need pity.

  As Figree approached to help him up, Blū turned and bolted—scrambling out of the arena and racing toward the warehouse exit as the chants continued behind him.

  The anger inside him was deep, primal.

  He knew what it was: weakness.

  And no matter what, he would never feel it again.

  He didn’t deserve their mockery or shame.

  He would be strong. He would be a hero.

  That was the promise he made himself, then and there.