Curtain Rise

"You sure you want to do this, kid?" the old man says, his voice exemplified by a hidden microphone somewhere.

"Yes".

There's no pause. Upon finishing, a right hook shoots straight for the younger fighter.

Strike.

His head swerves to the left. His body, reacting to the blow, stumbles a few paces as a once-lodged tooth lands on the ground.

Heh.

The old geezer isn't holding back.

Let it be a hard lesson, if anything.

The young man says nothing for a while. Eyes fixated on the ground, he remains unwavering, lending the whole area to a pause.

Is he brain-dead?

Well, literally, no, but in some figurative sense, maybe. I'm beginning to suspect he might be drugged out of his mind. What other reason would there be to stand numbingly still?\

The match continues even so.

As I earnestly watch, I see the older man walk forward.

In response, the young man lunges. Going for a grapple around the older man's waist, only to be sidestepped to the left. Struggling for balance, the kid falls to the ground, brought down by his own momentum.

It's pathetic to watch.

However, it still does have some merit in entertainment.

While fights between skilled combatants show what martial arts and power can be, a one-sided fight does have something they don't.

That being the sheer value of watching a loser getting shown their place.

"ARGH!"

A high-pitched wail. The lamenting cry of a young fool humbled by reality.

"Shall we get this over with? Feels like I'm mauling a damned babe right now."

No reaction. On his knees, the young man continues his frenzy, scratching at the back of his head, huddled over in a corner.

Cruel.

The older man could call off the fight if he wanted. Yet he continues, ever striding forward. A moment later, he drags the younger man by his hair’s back tossing him into the centre of the arena.

Public humiliation? Guess savagery never does wear off with age.

I watch—seeing the young man desperately clamour to his feet.

I watch—seeing his older opponent sweep his legs time and time again.

I watch—seeing the moment the young man's face is within view.

From a purely superficial perspective (and at quite the distance), he doesn't appear to be drugged—no sign of red eyes, black sclera, or bulging veins, for that matter.

But know what I do see?

I see an unmistakable smile on his face.

"Damned geezer."

A warm wave of delight washes over me.

I closely observe everything in the arena.

Evidently, the older man has his guard let down; no doubt persuaded of his opponent's folly. In fact, he even steps a few paces backwards as if committing to some grand display of ability.

Dumbass.

I can't say why, but my instinct tells me it's a mistake.

Or, in more relative terms, that he's about to get properly fucked.

“AWOAAHAWHAWHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA”

Another incoherent wail erupts from the young man. I do have to say that it adds to the experience. It’s so barbaric, so joyed yet enraged, that it almost seems faked, as if the product of some quick thinking.

"Say goodnight, kid!"

The old man yells out a cheesy catchphrase. Launching off one foot, the old man propels his body into a spin, turning twice, kick aimed for his opponent's face.

Right at the moment of contact, an unmistakable sound echoes through the whole space.

A laugh. A maniacal display of superiority.

The next instant, the old man tumbles to the floor.

He doesn't understand why. For some strange reason, he finds himself unable to move. Stuck on the floor, right foot unresponsive to input.

I see why. Or rather, I saw. The moment before impact, there was an unmistakable shift in the battle. The introduction of a miscellaneous element as of yet unseen.

That's right.

The moment his kick was about to land, his opponent's face hardened. Transformed into a coat of metallic purple on the point of impact. As if his skin had somehow become coloured steel.

And now I get to see its aftermath.

A wayward bone sticking out from the old man's foot. The consequence of arrogance and underestimating your enemy.

"Ahahaha."

I laugh quietly.

An instinct sprouts within me.

Some animalistic urge and fervour.

You know, if you ask me, what I just saw looked awfully suspicious.

Almost as if it was the product of some supernatural bullshit. An ability if you will. If so, then I must say that's quite a coincidence. Strictly speaking, what are the chances? What exactly is required of the circumstances to enable our encounter? One in a hundred, a thousand, or maybe a million?

What a funny thing to think over.

In truth, I don't even know if that's the case.

Maybe I'm just being delusional; who knows?

Could be that it’s just magic at play. Could be that it’s the work of some unknown technology. Could be that I’m completely off the mark.

In that situation, I would just be a dumbass wouldn’t I?

And yet, with all those possibilities present, I still doubt it.

Something about this seems far too situational to be attributed to chance.

I mean even so, there’s still that lingering sense of doubt, don’t get me wrong.

Still, it's precisely because of that doubt, precisely because of the uncertainty, that I have to commit to what I'll do next.

I take the last sip of my elderflower drink.

The old man's out of commission at this point. Pounded away by his opponent, face caved in by fist after fist. Whatever remaining spirit he might have, snuffed. So why not have something different? All that matters here is the delivery of entertainment; grievous wounds be damned. So why not deliver on that promise?

Observing, I stay still, taking notice of a few key details.

Then, without further ado, I yell.

"Hey, aren't you tired of bullying the elderly?!"

I look up at the young man.

Narrowing on him, I run. My body sprints past the sofas and jumps straight into the arena.

Thud.

Relieved that no one has come to stop me, I proceed.

"You got any brain left in that psycho head of yours, or have you completely lost it?"

I'm trying to agitate him. Not because it's necessary or beneficial to my victory but because I want to see him fall from the highest peak possible. The more confident he is. The more certain of his own ability, the more satisfying it'll be when I take it all away.

"So what about it, you wanna go down as a fighter or some twisted fuck who beats on unconscious old grandpas?"

It was a blatant attempt at his attention. Lacking in finesse or wit. No matter. Subtlety isn't what we're going for anyway.

"Man, you sure do talk a lot."

Prestigious. His accent is unusual for such 'savagery'. Posh, even.

"And here I'd thought you a mute," I say. "Though, as it happens, I guess you were just shy. So tell me, did your mom drop you off after boarding school or after you were born?"

I stand still. The boy begins to turn around, his face in full view.

He’s young, maybe in his early twenties.

No scars, no broken nose or ears, nothing.

"Man, this’ll be my first time torturing a cosplayer.”

“Won’t be mine though.”

He’s confused. “What do you mean?”

"Well, how do I put this? From how the way you dress, to your speech, to your mannerisms, it's like one big joke of a getup. You're trying too hard to be something you're not, posh boy. Why don't you stick to polo and scones instead?"

He grits his teeth. "You’re trying really hard to scare me, aren’t you?” Then bringing his bloodied knuckle to his lip, begins to chew on it. “Don't come crying later, heheh."

"Me crying should be the least of your worries." I enter a stance, hands up, knees slightly bent, and hips down. "Now tell me, you ready to be my stepping stone?"