Hours rolled into days, and days into weeks, and those weeks turned into months. Two months since Owen’s victory over Daddy Spider. Two months without a word from Tuck or anyone else on the team. He didn’t spend many credits anymore. Hardknuckle style was his addiction and he had everything he needed in the dojo to train.

  Owen did pull-ups on abandoned scaffolding, used dried paint cans as dumbbells, and sparred with Sensei Dan until he wanted to drop from exhaustion. He ran the empty halls of the unfinished Gold Glow, his blood and sweat soaking into concrete. He needed to be ready for the next mission and every time his scratchpad beeped, he desperately wanted it to be Tuck.

  It never was. Just more ads for useless things. He’d smash the pad if he had any other way to contact the group. For the first time in his short life Owen was part of something greater than himself. The Citizens’ Liberation Brigade pledged to end the iron fist wrapped around City Seven. They were heroes and Owen was a hero because he was one of them. He hoped he was still one of them.

  Sensei Dan increased the intensity of Owen’s training, moving him onto weapon based combat. Mostly the evasion of knives after the fight with Daddy Spider, but Sensei Dan had Owen practicing with the nunchaku, or as Dan called them, nunchucks. The Hardknuckle kata grew day by day as new techniques were added. He earned dozens of bruises as he whipped the weapon around under Dan’s instruction.

  “You should never go into a fight carelessly,” Sensei Dan said as Owen struck the canvas bag. “Nor should you seek a fight out. Hardknuckle style isn’t about beating enemies down. It’s about becoming a warrior for righteousness in a chaotic world. Low kick!” Owen’s shin popped the heavy bag and instantly he returned to his fighting stance. He kept his hands up to intercept punches and stayed light on his feet.

  “When you’re a Hardknuckle disciple,” Sensei Dan continued, “Your hands and feet are like blades.” He slashed the air. “You should only take them out when the situation calls for it. But if the situation calls for it you cannot hold back. Take your enemy down as quickly as possible. Remember rule number ten of Hardknuckle Style, know when to show an enemy mercy, and when not to. Make no mistake, Owen. A single punch or kick can kill.”

  Owen nodded to show Sensei Hardknuckle he was listening. Surprisingly philosophy was a major component in a fighting system called Hardknuckle. Sensei Dan always lectured while Owen trained, his words resounding in Owen’s mind long after he finished the day’s lesson and meditated.

  The dojo was Owen’s home more than his tube ever was. He spent every night alone with nothing but his thoughts. Sensei Dan didn’t bother him after the day’s training ended. The credits he got from Tuck’s last mission sustained him when all he needed was enough food to fuel his training. At night the mall was silent and Owen truly understood what Sensei Dan meant when he talked about a place of quiet reflection.

  “What the fuck happened to me?” Owen asked the poster of Amber Callahan. He put it right next to Mandy’s poster of Ego Brainiac. “I would’ve shit my pants at the thought of living here a few months ago.” He had more space in the dojo then he could’ve dreamed of. He was technically a vagrant yet he felt more at home in the forgotten wing of the mall than he ever did crammed in a tube.

  “I guess this is my life now.” Owen laughed. “I don’t hate it.” He rested against a wall and closed his eyes. He imagined sitting at a dinner table with Amber. She wore a nice dress and he wore a suit. They ate cheeseburgers, one hundred percent authentic beef. Owen would’ve imagined something fancier but he didn’t know what that looked like. At the end of their date she’d give him a kiss and invite him to her home. He wouldn’t know what to do with a real woman but the thought was enough to make him grin.

  Beep. His scratchpad dinged, yanking Owen out of his fantasy and back to the really real world. He swiped the screen, desperately hoping Tuck finally needed him. But instead of Tuck, he got Tom. He didn’t know Tom had his info.

  “I need your help, bad,” Tom’s message said. “Time to repay me for saving your ass.” It was followed by an address deep in the low low-city where even peacekeepers hesitated to go without overwhelming numbers.

  “What are you going to do?” Sensei Dan asked. He appeared beside Owen, arms crossed.

  “I think we can catch the next train,” Owen said with a smile. He responded to Tom and ran to the transit station a couple streets over. It was jam-packed full of citizens going home for the night and citizens going to their first shift. Owen felt like an alien standing amongst the workers. They were smooth rolling cogs that kept the machine moving. Not Owen. Not anymore. He’d broken the law so many times since he got his first fine that he wasn’t a good member of society anymore. He was a freedom fighter. A member of the Citizen’s Liberation Brigade. He saved lives. He won a fight!

  He rode the train for thirty minutes before it deposited him in one of the worst sections of City Seven. The low low-city. It was the greasy wart on City Seven that couldn’t be removed, a haven for criminals of all sorts to hide from the uncaring face of the law. Rotting tenement towers loomed like giants over darkened streets. Vagrants lined every inch of the street in cobbled together shelters, using solar powered lanterns for light.

  Owen wasn’t prepared for how dark the low low-city was. When he looked up he could almost see the stars. Ad screens had long fallen into disrepair. Their mechanical corpses hung on buildings, abandoned by their corporate masters and stripped of core components.

  Junkies slept standing up in groups and ladies of the night plied their trade to anyone with a few credits to spare. Gangs prowled the low low-city in heavy numbers, battling amongst the gutter for feet of territory. They ruled the streets, searching for easy victims. They wouldn’t find one in Owen.

  Owen stood tall as he walked through the Low low-city streets. He didn’t look at the ground, nor did he fear making eye contact. Sensei Dan said something about a warrior’s aura once. It drove away cowardly enemies with sheer force of spirit. Owen didn’t believe that part. His new found confidence kept the predators at bay. Vultures didn’t bother with live prey.

  He took a side street down to a basement and pounded on a steel door marked with a red triangle. The eye slit opened and a pair of bloodshot eyes glared at Owen.

  “Fuck you want?” the man behind the door asked.

  “My friend is here,” Owen said.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Tom. He’s a big guy, tattoos all over one arm and a big scar on his face.” Owen cleared his throat. “Is he here?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Oh yeah. He’s here.” The door man laughed. “You should pick better friends.” He let Owen inside. Dim lights guided Owen down a set of stairs. Cigarette smoke and the scent of illegal alcohol hung thick in the air. Cheers rang out from further below and as Owen descended his stomach twisted and he wondered if he made a serious mistake.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Sensei Dan said. “Whatever comes next, keep your head high.”

  Owen swallowed as he entered the club below ground. He struggled to make his way to the bar through partying patrons sampling the newest chemical cocktails. Club security agents were posted in vantage points, their eyes scanning the patrons. Music pounded from massive speakers, almost drowning out the cheering crowd around the dance floor.

  Two men grappled on the dance floor, shirtless and bloody. They were sloppy fighters throwing wild haymakers and flinging each other across the floor as colorful lights danced around them. It wasn’t a spontaneous brawl. No, these men were the entertainment and the crowd loved them.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Owen said to the bartender. “His name’s Tom. He’s really big.” She pointed to a raised VIP section of the club separated by a worn velvet rope and tarnished railing. A grey haired man in a dark suit shared drinks with a pair of scantily clad women half his age as a new song started and the fight on the dance floor continued. Behind them Tom sat on a couch with half a dozen citizens.

  Owen made his way to the VIP section. He was stopped by a pair of men covered in gang tattoos and nasty looking scars. One of them touched an earpiece and waved Owen up.

  From the VIP section he had a better view of the ending fight. A cracked jaw and it was over. One man lay on the floor bleeding while the other raised his hands in victory. The crowd roared and flung drinks on him.

  “Get over here,” the man in the suit said. “You two get the fuck away.” He waved the women off. “Sit down,” he told Owen.

  Owen sat on one of the plush chairs and gave Tom a quick look. For as big as he was he looked like a scared kid. His eye was swollen and his lips busted. Blood covered the front of his shirt and he kept his eyes on the floor. This wasn’t a job for the Liberation Brigade. Owen doubted Tuck knew they were there.

  “Don’t look at him,” the man in the suit said. He cut his bloody steak with a long knife and took a big bite. “He’s my property right now. What’s your name?”

  “Owen,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “Alright, Owen. You know me?” Owen shook his head. “Good. That means you’re not a local. And that means we can talk like men. I’m Alan Graft. Citizens ‘round here call me Mr. Graft. I’d say it's a pleasure to meet you but you can see that it isn’t.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Your friend there brought a bunch of high lifers down to my block on some kind of safari. Look at ‘em.” Graft pointed with his knife. “Designer babies wearing designer clothes, four hundred credit haircuts, and that high-city stink you can’t scrub off with sandpaper. You know how much this suit cost me? Twenty credits in a secondhand shop. I look good right? They wipe their asses with hundred credit shit paper and come down here and insult me because they’ve never experienced true danger.”

  Owen glanced at the high lifers. They didn’t blend in with the rest of the club patrons. Their clothes were pristine, right off the shelf. And neither clothes nor their owners had a hint of wear on them. Clear skinned and not a single split end on any of them. They’d stand in a crowd of thousands of low lives. Why would Tom bring them here?

  “Now,” Graft continued. “I was ready to let that go. I’m a gracious host. They come down, enjoy the fights, spend some credits at the bar. My guys keep them out of trouble and we’re good. Until one of them bet big, lost, and smashed his scratchpad before he paid what he owed. You recognize the one with the stars shaved in his hair?” Owen shook his head. “That’s Michael Mulligan. His grandpa was Daddy Mulligan, the chicken guy. I know he’s got the credits, but if I’m honest it’s not about the credits anymore. He smashed that pad and told me to eat a dick. Me. Do I look like I enjoy the taste of dick, Owen? ‘Cause I don’t. I don’t know what dick tastes like, nor do I intend to find out.”

  “What can I do?” Owen asked respectfully. He put Sensei Dan’s principles into action and showed Graft respect in his place of business. Everyone deserved respect until they showed they didn’t.

  “You don’t look like you’ve got ten thousand credits lying around.”

  “I don’t.” Owen took a deep breath while he screamed internally. Ten thousand credits! “I buy my clothes at the night market.”

  “Yes you do.” Graft grinned and wiped his mouth with a stained napkin. “We got a couple options here. My preferred option is to break both of Little Boy Mulligan’s legs and send him back to Daddy Mulligan with his dick tucked between his ass cheeks. Another option is to pay me, but the rest of these kids didn’t bring their scratch pads. They brought personal credit tokens with a limited amount of funds. All together they got about three thousand credits. My last option is bashing your dumb friend’s head in with a cinderblock to dissuade this kind of behavior in the future.”

  “What about their clothes?” Owen asked. “You could sell them.”

  “Nah. Doesn’t matter where I sell it, they’ll assume it's fake ‘cause it’s coming from me. But good idea.” Graft crossed his arms. One of Graft’s guards approached him with a scratchpad and showed him a video. “Holy shit, this you?” He showed Owen his fight with Daddy Spider. “A lot of views on this thing. Nice knockout.”

  “It could’ve been better,” Owen said. He replayed the fight with Daddy spider over and over again in his head. More times than he could count. He dreamed about it. He wanted to learn from his mistakes.

  “You fight a lot?" Graft raised an eyebrow and relaxed a bit in his chair as he shooed his guard away.

  “That was my last fight.” It wasn’t a lie. Owen didn't feel the need to add that it was his only real fight. He didn't count the PK. That was more luck than skill.

  “You ever think about getting on the floor." Graft nodded at the dance floor. "You could win some serious credits if you’re any good. Most of the guys in here think their real tough shit. But when fists start flying we find out who the real tough guys are. What about you? Do you think you're a tough guy, Owen?”

  "Not really. Tom saved my ass a while back. I'd be dead if not for him." It was a sobering reality. Owen might've beat Daddy Spider in a one on one, but his crew would've stomped his brains out. Owen owed Tom his life. He imagined there was something in the Hardknuckle philosophy about repaying his debt. "I'd like to return the favor. If possible."

  "So what are we going to do here?" Mr. Graft asked. "Am I getting paid somehow or am I breaking legs?"

  "You need a scratchpad fixed?" Owen asked.

  "No." Graft frowned and his eyes narrowed.

  “Fight for it,” Sensei Dan said. He stood beside Owen, a stern look fixed on his face. “You got this, Owen. Kumite.

  “Alright,” Owen said with a chuckle. What other option did he have? “I got it. I’ll fight for it. I’ll take a bet on myself.”

  “You got credits?” Graft asked doubtfully. “That night market jacket and t-shirt combo doesn’t have me convinced.”

  “I got a thousand credits to my name. Plus their three thousand credits." Owen nodded at the high lifers. They all looked like they were on the verge of pissing themselves. A couple months ago so would Owen. One of the high lifers gave Owen an odd look. She didn't seem frightened by the situation. She looked almost calm. Familiar in a way, but Owen couldn't place it. Her hair fell down her bare shoulders in red curls and her green eyes shimmered in the clubs lights. She smiled at Owen and for a moment he forgot where he was.

  "Owen?" Graft said.

  "Double or nothing,” Owen answered him as he took his eyes off the woman. "Double or nothing."

  “I have nothing to gain from this,” Graft said. “And you have everything to lose.” He smiled. “Why not?” He waved one of his guards over and whispered something in his ear. “Head down to the dance floor, Owen. We’ll get you a dancing partner. Oh, and hey, do you have a plan for if you lose? That’ll be eight thousand credits you owe me.”

  “I won’t lose,” Owen said with a shrug. That was another one of Sensei Hardknuckle’s principles. He wasn’t concerned with winning. Winning meant nothing in reality. Not losing was everything.