The Art of Fighting Stupid

“It’s finally time for the next round to begin!” The booming voices of the announcers reverberated through the pit. The bots from the invitations had been repurposed to hype up the fights. Their voices were scratchy and uneven, like they’d skipped their last firmware update. Permanent hearing damage was definitely on the table.

“Let’s hear it for our next challenger!” The green bot cackled.

The red bot immediately jumped in. “And here he is, Maruyama Masashi, a level two, with his Punchmaster 5000!” It delivered the bot’s name like it was announcing a superhero in a kids’ show. All it was missing was a theme song.

Miyuu squinted toward the opposite end of the pit as the crowd erupted in cheers. There he was. Maruyama Masashi. His overgrown orange hair hung limp over his eyes, half obscuring his face. Every time he moved, his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back up with a grease-streaked finger, leaving a smudge on the lens that he either didn’t notice or didn’t care about.

He shuffled forward, drowning in a hoodie that was about two sizes too big. His hands and sleeves were streaked with so much grease it was a wonder the guy didn’t just slide across the floor. It was painfully clear he was more familiar with bots than showers.

His grand entrance peaked when he nearly tripped over his own loose shoelace, stumbling forward in a way that defied the laws of physics and common sense. Somehow, he managed to regain his footing just before his face could make intimate contact with the ground. Through it all, he clutched his tablet in a death grip like it held the secrets to the universe. His priorities were clear: tablet first, personal safety second, dignity not even on the list.

Behind him, his bot jerked forward. It was a patchwork Frankenstein of red and gold metal panels that looked like they’d been slapped together with duct tape, crossed fingers and a prayer.

And it was tiny. Toddler-sized, barely brushing knee height. Miyuu blinked at it, half expecting it to toddle over and ask for a juice box. It didn’t. It rattled forward with an aggressive little bounce, like it had something to prove. Which, she supposed, it did.

Its legs were squat and clunky. Every step came with a hiss of steam from tiny exhaust ports, like it was trying to flex, but only managed to sound like an asthmatic vacuum cleaner. Its arms ended in oversized red boxing gloves that swung at its sides. And then there was the head. A bucket. No, seriously—a literal bucket. Two green LED eyes flickered sporadically, and a crooked, painted-on smile stretched across the front.

Smack dab in the centre of its chest was a glowing control core, encased in plexiglass and surrounded by blinking LEDs. It pulsed like a mini nightclub crammed into a shoebox.

Miyuu sighed, dragging a hand down her face. A glowing weak point? Seriously? Either Masashi’s an idiot, or he’s never played a video game in his life.

Everything about the Punchmaster 5000 screamed, I was built in someone’s garage at 3 a.m. after one too many energy drinks and a MeTube tutorial titled “How to Build a Bot in 10 Easy Steps (Step 8 Will Shock You!)”.

And yet, somehow, it moved. Not smoothly or confidently, but in short, jerky bursts.

Miyuu tilted her head, studying her opponents. They definitely had… character. She could give them that much.

But character didn’t win fights.

“In the other corner, we have Miyuu Tsukishima!” the red bot bellowed. “The SEED who’s been the talk of campus since she arrived! She’s here with… uh, what looks like a stuffed animal?”

Miyuu’s eyes twitched. “His name is K.A.T.O.,” she corrected, jabbing a finger toward the fluffy fox at her side. “And he’s smarter than both of you rust buckets combined.”

“I’m flattered you noticed me,” K.A.T.O said. “It’s not like I can hear your outdated processors overheating from here or anything.”

The bots ignored them entirely, which was probably for the best.

“What an interesting line-up we have today!” The green bot crowed, laying it on thick with its salesman shtick. “Place your bets now, folks! The fight begins shortly!”

The crowd blew up in a mix of cheers, laughter, and grumbled arguments. Meanwhile, the pit itself decided to shift. The terrain pixelated and twisted into something entirely new.

Miyuu blinked as her sense of direction completely abandoned her. When the transformation finally stabilized, they were standing in a massive boxing ring. Random stone pillars jutted from the floor like crooked teeth, dotting the arena with obstacles that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“What the hell?” She muttered, trying to orient herself without bumping into one of the new geological additions.

“The pit’s wired with an adaptive projection grid,” K.A.T.O. explained. “It generates fully interactive environments using a combination of holograms, hard-light constructs, and localized gravitational shifts.”

Under different circumstances, she might have been impressed. Right now, she was too busy not face-planting on uneven terrain.

She crouched next to K.A.T.O., tilting her head toward Masashi’s bot. “What’s your take on the Punchmaster?” She asked.

K.A.T.O.’s eyes flickered as they scanned the bot. His tail swished once, lazily, as if the question barely deserved his attention. “I’ve seen refrigerators with better structural integrity,” he said flatly. “Honestly, this might be the easiest XP we’ve ever farmed.”

Miyuu smirked and gave him a light flick on the nose. “Don’t get cocky, genius.”

The red bot’s voice thundered over the arena before K.A.T.O could respond.

“The rules are simple!” It bellowed. “The first bot to either get knocked out of the ring or become unable to fight will be declared the loser!”

The green bot chimed in with a countdown. “Three! Two! One!”

Miyuu straightened up, tucking a mic behind her ear and syncing their comms. "Let’s make this quick." She muttered.

The final buzzer blared, and the Punchmaster 5000 lurched forward, its boxing gloves swinging with a speed that should have been impossible for something so clunky.

K.A.T.O. darted forward in a blur. "Nice gloves," he quipped, dodging a wild swing. "Did you borrow them from your grandma? No, wait—she probably hits harder."

“Hit. Mouse. Hard.” Punchmaster 5000 growled, its voice stilted and choppy, like someone tried to program speech into a microwave.

Miyuu snorted, leaning against the railing as K.A.T.O. zipped around the bot, trying to close the distance. “It called you a mouse!” She cackled, slapping her knee like she’d just heard the world’s worst dad joke.

K.A.T.O. didn’t respond, he bared his teeth in irritation as he weaved through the bot’s relentless swings. His agility was his biggest asset against a heavyweight like Punchmaster, and yet somehow, the monstrosity wasn’t letting him get close.

The bot was making it clear, he wasn’t just a clunky hunk of metal. It was learning. Its movements grew sharper, more precise, as it locked onto K.A.T.O.’s patterns.

A well-timed uppercut smashed into K.A.T.O.’s side, sending him skidding across the ring in a dazzling display of fur, sparks, and probably a bruised ego.

Miyuu winced, gripping the railing tighter. “What the—? They’re predicting your moves!”

K.A.T.O. rolled back onto his feet in one smooth, if slightly agitated, motion. His fur puffed out like an agitated housecat.

“Noted.” He growled. Sure, his nano-tech fibres had absorbed most of the blow, dispersing the impact, but that didn’t make getting sucker-punched by a toddler-sized terminator any less humiliating. “Next time, remind me to avoid the oversized mitts.”

Her eyes darted to Masashi, who was hunched over his tablet. The screen mirrored in his glasses, revealed a dizzying flurry of data scrolling across the screen. "They’re using predictive algorithms,” She muttered, more irritated than worried.

K.A.T.O. scoffed. “Oh, great. My day just keeps getting better.”

Miyuu smirked. “Alright, K.A.T.O., let’s mess with its head.” She called into the comms. “Fight stupid.”

K.A.T.O. froze mid-dodge, the punch he’d been avoiding whooshing harmlessly past. His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “You want me to what?”

“Fight. Stupid.” she repeated, practically grinning. “Spin in circles, feint like your battery’s low, do an interpretive dance if you’re feeling creative. Just confuse the algorithm!”

K.A.T.O. let out a long, suffering sigh. “Brilliant. Hold on, while I pencil in ‘circus performer’ under my list of professional achievements.”

Despite his obvious disdain, K.A.T.O. obeyed—though not without an air of I’ll remember this betrayal forever.

He darted forward, then suddenly flipped onto his front paws and strutted backward in a precarious balancing act. His movements were erratic enough to make anyone watching question his coding. Then he threw in a pirouette that was so perfectly executed it could’ve headlined Mecha Swan Lake.

“We should charge extra XP for this performance.” K.A.T.O. muttered in between a twirl.

Punchmaster froze mid-motion, its jerky movements stuttering like it was trying to process too many errors at once. Miyuu caught sight of Masashi across the ring, furiously jabbing at his tablet like sheer aggression might bend the algorithm to his will. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the screen, which, frankly, wasn’t doing him or his tech any favours.

The tin bucket of doom’s recalibration wasn’t fast enough. It launched a desperate rocket fist, the glove shooting out on a rattling chain. Sure, the move was unexpected, but the trajectory was sloppy—like a last-ditch hail Mary thrown with its eyes closed.

K.A.T.O. didn’t just sidestep. He leapt into the air, arcing his body in a grand jeté that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

Meanwhile, the rocket fist smashed into one of the pit’s stone pillars. The chain wrapped around the debris, effectively pinning the Punchmaster in place. It thrashed out, like a helpless toddler caught in their own shoelaces.

“Now!” Miyuu barked through the comms.

K.A.T.O. didn’t need to be told twice. He surged forward, claws retracting with a satisfying shk, each one crackling with electricity. Without missing a beat, he slashed clean through the glowing nightclub of a control core embedded in Punchmaster’s chest.

Sparks erupted in a brief, underwhelming explosion. The core sputtered out in the world’s saddest fireworks display. It flickered a few times, let out one sad bzzt, and went dark.

The Punchmaster 5000 shuddered, its mismatched limbs jerking one last time before it collapsed into a pathetic heap of red, gold, and regret.

“Well,” K.A.T.O. muttered, flicking off a stray spark from his paw. “That was thoroughly embarrassing.”

Miyuu folded her arms, her smirk wide and entirely unrepentant. “You make a surprisingly elegant ballerina.”

K.A.T.O. shot her a withering look. “Next time, I’m filing for hazard pay.”

“The match has been decided! What an incredible fight!” The announcers boomed. “Winner, Tsukishima Miyuu and her… stuffed toy, K.A.T.O.!!!”

Masashi looked ready to self-combust, his face an alarming shade of red somewhere between “boiled lobster” and “exploding fire hydrant.”. His grip on his tablet was so tight it looked ready to snap in half.

“This is rigged!” he shrieked, his voice breaking halfway through. “There’s no way! Punchmaster was unbeatable! It had predictive algorithms! Optimization protocols! An advanced combat framework! Do you even understand what that means?!”

“Oh, we understand,” K.A.T.O. drawled. “It means nothing when your bot gets taken down by jazz hands.”

He pointed a trembling finger at K.A.T.O., his entire arm vibrating with rage. “You—you cheated! There’s no way that… that thing beat my precious Punchmaster 5000!”

“Cheated?” Miyuu repeated, cocking her head as if genuinely intrigued. “Buddy, your ‘advanced combat framework’ couldn’t handle a pirouette. Maybe work on that.”

Masashi’s face darkened further. “This isn’t over!” He howled, practically frothing at the mouth. “I’ll rebuild Punchmaster! Better, faster, stronger! And next time—”

“Next time,” K.A.T.O. interrupted, inspecting his paw like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant, “maybe program it with a counter for contemporary dance. Or freestyle waltz. Really broaden its horizons.”

Miyuu grinned, giving K.A.T.O. an approving pat on the head. “Come on, prima ballerina, we’ve got two more fights to win.”

Masashi’s mouth opened, probably to unleash the second act of his tantrum, but the drama was cut short by the arrival of two bodyguards in matching black jumpsuits.

“Hey! Let go of me!” Masashi squawked as they grabbed him by the arms. His tablet hit the ground with a sad little clatter as he started kicking. “You can’t do this! I demand a rematch! I—”

The rest of his protest dissolved into sputtering as he was hauled off, legs flailing and pride long forgotten. Miyuu didn’t bother to watch him go; she had better things to focus on.

Like winning.