My eyes slowly open, as I begin to step outward. I can feel my heart pumping out of my chest, hear the roars of the crowd screaming my name, taste my spit in my own mouth, see the ring before me. I step forward, and across the ring, another person does the same. They are another person, with hopes, dreams, and interests, but not today. Today, they are my target, the point at which I lash out.
My feet fall forward, moving on their own. They carry me into the ring, to it’s center. The referee; judge, jury, and executioner of the rules of the fight; stands in the middle. The two fighters stop and lock hands; I look into his eyes, he into mine. We make the ceremonial agreement. A good, clean fight. No foul play. No tricks. Only a mixture of skill, power, and technique.
Then…we begin our dance.
I take on a southpaw stance, my right foot and arm shifting forward to give my left arm more striking power.. He takes on an orthodox, its opposite. I begin to shuffle left and right, taking a defensive gait. He responds in kind. The battle’s becoming tense, but not for the better. Unlike other dances, there are other people watching. Their eyes shift and stare off in the distance, slowly losing interest in our conflict. We need to up the ante. I lock eyes with my prey, and strike. A quick left hook. His guard easily deflects the blow, leaving me open: a mistake I quickly correct. And just in time too, as his own fist is already flying towards my face. I block the blow, as pain quickly shoots up my wrist. Nothing I’m not used to: a boxing glove in the wrist is something I’m quite familiar with. He continues his assault with a series of rapid punches, forcing me into retreat. My footwork is rapid, yet sure, carrying me to safety as I weave through the rain of blows. As I dodge blow after blow, his technique becomes weaker and weaker. Eventually, he leaves me a perfect opening. I exploit it with my left fist, a clean blow to the head. He’s knocked back, stumbles a bit, but still remains standing. Good. He reaffirms his orthodox stance, and I move forward as if to strike in southpaw. In turn, he takes a defensive stance.
He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen straight into my trap.
By now, he’s made a plan to take whatever I give him and come back swinging, just like I did to him. However, he expects a left hook, so he's taking a defensive stance to mitigate the hit. But, there’s something he can’t anticipate.
I’m ambidextrous.
I switch to orthodox stance at a rapid pace, and completely catch him off guard. Before the thought of moving to block my attack could shoot into his head, my fist made it there first. A clean right hook. I continued into a full follow-through, knocking him down. The referee starts the 10-count, and I rapidly take a southpaw stance again.
“1…2…3…”
If he rises again, I wonder what he’ll think. It’ll be as if he completely imagined the footing switch that downed him.
“4…5…6…”
Hm. He’s not rising. His chest still rises and falls, same as any other opponent, but it seems he’s knocked out cold. I keep my guard up, though. I can’t be sure of his defeat until he’s fully downed.
“7….8….”
My guard starts to slip a little. I’m still ready to pick it back up if he gets up again, but now I’m starting to think I beat him. Still, he can’t have gone down that easy, right? I only landed two serious blows to the guy, and after the first he was still standing. I began to shadow box a little bit. I needed to calm down, and my technique always needs to be honed.
“9….”
Hm. Now it’s concerning. I don’t normally knock people out in one hit.
“10!!!”
Hm. I suppose I won. Hope the other guy’s okay, though. I’ll check up on him after I shower. Still, good job for me, I guess.
“THE WINNER OF THE 36TH ANNUAL BROWN HIGH SCHOOL BOXING CHAMPIONSHIP IS…”
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>Perspective: Peter<
My name is Peter Southpaw. I’m 15 years old, though I turn 16 in September. I’m 5 foot 11 and weigh 191 lbs on a usual basis, although that might go up or down a bit for boxing. My build is somewhat lean, with a bit of fat around the stomach to tank hits. Definitely far from a bodybuilder’s frame, but those guys are all unhealthy fakes. As of this point, I’m a sophomore at Brown High School. The only electives I’m a part of are boxing and computer science club though. I live at home with my dad. He’s been sick for a while, though, so he’s been at a hospital.
More than anything, I’m a boxer, I guess. I always wanted to be one, ever since I was little. Me and a friend of mine wanted to go into the field. If you’re wondering, his last name isn’t Orthodox, or something like that.
In actuality, I got it from my dad. It was passed down, same as any other last name in this day and age. He’s from Britain, which is where all the weird last names that are normally English words come from. I think so, at least.
Meanwhile, my mom was from Puerto Rico. She died when I was about 9, though. She gave me my name(Pedro Juarez Southpaw), my darker skin tone, my black hair, and my knowledge of Tito, one of the best boxers I know. That’s actually where I got my knowledge of orthodox stance, by just watching videos of his bouts online. Now, I’ve got the skill to switch between the two on a whim. It’s not crazy important, but it’s useful for feints, like that last match. Guess it helps being ambidextrous.
Hm. My head’s drawing a blank on what to think about. Guess that’s the head injuries. I exhale and think about dinner. Probably gonna make some rice and have it with the soup from yesterday. It’ll be tasty. Yeah, that’s what I’ll…
“What a magnificent fight.”
I’m drawn out of my stupor by the sudden appearance of another boy in the locker room. He’s about my age and height, though I can’t make out his build with the massive white cloak he’s got on. Under that, he’s wearing a full tuxedo, also all white. He’s got blond hair around down to his neck, and blue eyes. The weirdest part is that he’s got a little smirk, like your average shady weirdo. Not what you’d expect for a fan of high school intramural boxing, but you’ll see some weirdos around school, I guess.
“Though, that’s to be expected from the Southpaw Wolf of Brown High, I suppose.”
“Who’re you?”
The boy scoffs and raises his hand to his chest. “You don’t recognize me? I’m hurt, Peter.”
I frown. Where would I recognize that face….
Hm. Nix the clothing choices; I doubt I’d recognize something so specific from my past, and I’d immediately recognize him if it was fresher. The face, the hair…..
“You switched up and feinted him with your stance, right? How’d you think of that?”
“I just do it when I need to.”
“Oh? Completely switching styles like that, and that quickly. You’re as good as ever, Peter. Such a shame I’ve been slacking on my training as of late.”
Yeah, this guy definitely knows me from somewhere. Makes it all the weirder I don’t know him.
“What do you want?”
“I was in the area looking for someone, and I had some free time. I heard you were competing here, so I decided to show up.”
My eyes narrow. This guy’s starting to creep me out.
“Who are you?”
The boy’s ever-present smile drops, and his eyes widen a bit. “Hm? You really don’t recognize me at all, Peter?”
“How’d you even get in here? Shouldn’t a teacher or parent have stopped you?”
His smile returns to his face. “I just told them I have some important information for you. And in fact, I do have something you should hear.”
Now I’m full-on frowning. “Then spit it out. I still need to shower and go check on the other kid before I head home.”
“Hm? You’re checking on the person you knocked out? Wouldn’t that be insulting to your battle?”
I stand up, almost ready to start punching.“Look, either say your piece or get lost. I’m not gonna sit here and let you insult my classmate. So talk or leave, or get beat down on. Your choice.”
He begins to chuckle, seemingly unfazed by my words. “Hahahaha, alright, alright! You’ve already proven your strength. There’s no need to come to blows, not among friends.” His face finally dropped from the humored demeanor into a more serious expression. “Have you heard of a man by the name of Noctis?”
I dropped my fists, though my scowl remained plastered to my face. Instead, I crossed my arms. “I mean, yeah. He’s that escaped convict on the news, right? Noctis…somethin’ or other.”
“Well, I’m looking for him.”
I groaned, my scowl starting to fail me. “You broke into a locker room to tell me that? Dude, I don’t know who you are, but it’s not smart to look for escaped convicts. He’s off the charts creepy, and crazy too. Heard he was in for killing a woman, but when they found her body, it was all crushed like a soda can…”
“Yes, that’s correct. But he’s got other people after him.”
“The type of people to send a high schooler after a brutal maniac?”
“The type of people to send me after a brutal maniac.”
Weird. He said that like he’s not still a high schooler…
The boy sighed. “Either way, he’s looking for people of a certain…pedigree. And the way you knocked that other boy out…it seems you fit the bill.”
I cocked a brow. What was so unusual about that hook? “Huh? Not like I kicked him in the nuts or somethin’...”
“Didn’t you feel it? When you punched that boy, did it feel strange? Or off-putting?”
“Nah, it was just a normal punch.” Right….?
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My growing uncertainty seems to be apparent to the boy, as his weird little smirk returns. “Hm. Well, as you wrestle with that, be careful. If you run into Noctis, run away immediately. You’re definitely not ready to take him on, not yet at least.”
“Uh, yeah. I mean, not like fighting off a killer’s anything like fighting in a ring.” Wait, hold on. What does he mean ‘not yet’?!?! Does he mean he wants me to take a guy who can wring me like a shirt on with fists? Is this dude genuinely crazy?! Who is this guy?!?!?!?!
His little smirk grows into a genuine smile. “Well, we’ll meet again very soon, I’m sure. Now, I’m going to be off. Ta-ta.”
And with that, he steps back into the darkness. As if he wasn’t just ominous as hell.
Well. I guess I’ll think on all of that in the shower…
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SuperChat Log
Friday, May 22
10:23 PM
wonderbomb199x(Location Unknown) <-> Punchyboi(Location: South K-City Train, J-Line)
wonderbomb199x:
Punchyboi:
wonderbomb199x:
Punchyboi: <...Hey, Charlos.>
wonderbomb199x:
Punchyboi:
wonderbomb199x:
Punchyboi: <...>
wonderbomb199x:
Punchyboi: <...Yo, twin.>
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wonderbomb199x: <(thats a rhetorical question of course the fuck not)>
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>Chat End<
*Unbeknownst to Charlos, he was lying.
—------------------------------------------------------------------
>Perspective: Peter<
I step out from the train station into the city square. It’s dark, but the streetlights, as well as the lights from the buildings, illuminate the path. I start the trek home.
As I walk, I reflect on life in downtown K-City. I’ve lived here basically my whole life, and I’ve been riding the subway since I was a newborn. Outside of the R-Line, which I never take, it’s alright enough. Sure, there’s a bit of maniacs running around, but what kinda big American city doesn’t have its fair share of wackjobs? I mean, NYC alone has a crazy amount of weird things going on, at least, from what I’ve heard. Besides, it’s not that dangerous overall. If you can survive in NYC, you can probably thrive in K-City. Actually, if you’re from NYC, we don’t want you here. You’d be an invasive species and turn us natives extinct.
I turn a corner onto Pathos Street. The word is from Greek, and in that language, it means something like “Emotion”, or “Experience”. In modern English, though, it usually refers to an empathetic mode of appeal. Like, trying to get you to care about something by appealing to your emotions. I don’t really know the difference between that and an appeal to emotion fallacy, though. I don’t think they spend enough time on fallacies in English.
The real draw of Pathos Street, though, isn’t the name. As I walk, there’s a riverbank on my right, flowing down. See, this part of town is divided by a river. Not exactly safe to swim in or do anything with(hence the massive chain-link fence on the side), but at least it’s scenic. As a kid, I used to take walks down here. During the day, they open the fence and let people onto the upper portion of the riverbank, on the grass. There’s also a big tree nearby, with big leafy branches. A perfect provider of shade in which to just sit and read. Me and my childhood friend just sat and basically read the whole of the nearby library. There’s a whole bunch of solid books there, but the real draw is the boxing ones.
I stop and cross a foot bridge. To be honest, I wish transit from around here was less bad. I’m happy it’s not filled with cars, but the nearest train station is almost a 10 minute walk from my apartment building, and I live on the 3rd floor. Thank goodness for elevators, I suppose.
I step off of the bridge onto the other side of the street. During the day, there’s a bunch of people walking around; but right now, it’s silent. Not even one soul accompanies me on my journey home, or even coinhabits the path I take here. At least, that’s what I thought up to this point.
As I approach the building that I call home, a tall man stood outside it. I couldn’t properly make much out, but I could tell he was wearing a fedora and trench coat, both black. Not the shadiest guy I’d seen today.
…Okay, rethinking that knowing that a crazy murderer is on the loose nearby. The other guy at least wasn’t half obscured in shadow. Judging from the positioning of the fedora and coat, he seems to be staring up at my apartment. Against my better judgement, I decide to call out to him. He’s in my way, after all.
“Can I help you?”
The man silently turns to face me. His face is obscured in shadow, his hat shielding him from the glaring streetlight above. Fortunately, there’s no obscuration of his voice. As soon as he opens his mouth, a strange feeling permeates through my body. It’s as if the laws of the universe itself are begging me to stop. Run away. Get out. Go. Move. Move. Movemovemovemovemovemovemovemove.
“Would you happen to know the location of one Peter Southpaw? I was told he lives on this street, but I wouldn’t know his exact address.”
Now, you might think that I should have stopped here. With primal fear echoing through my head, and even my more rational elements almost certain that this was the soda can psycho actively looking for me, I should have turned tail, run, and hid until he left.
But I’m a rational person. I don’t know how he did that soda can trick, if it’s even true, but if he can do something like that, who knows what he’s capable of? Certainly chasing down a teenager, even if I’m an athlete. Looking him up and down, he’s definitely taller, and his frame appears to be a bit wider. Not quite “bodybuilder” level of muscular, but that just makes him all the scarier.
So, I think for a quick second. One that stretches onward like an eternity.
“Uh…I don’t think the guy lives here. I thought he was on Quake.”
“Hm? I already asked around Quake Street. I ran up and down the whole place, it was quite exhausting.”
Point 1 against him being a serial killer: you’d expect someone on Quake to have called the cops on him. It’s filled with tough guys, but it’s not like no one would do that. The thing is, I realize as he removes his hat…
“...Oh! I see! You must be the man himself!”
He saw straight through me.
—-----------------------------------------------------