Chapter Text
“Ha…”
It had been easy enough to ignore the dry, sweltering sun at first. Summer by summer, the Ferdinand Institute had glowed amber in the Arizona heat. Even within the cold, impassive stone walls, the rays that stirred up the dust motes were uncomfortably warm. But this–
Perspiration dotted your face and palms, soaking uncomfortably into your gloves and adhering your shirt to you. The crimson jacket was already tied tightly around your waist, yet the heat already had you rolling up the sleeves far past the elbows.
It’ll be fine. Your gloves covered the most recognisable part of your tattoos; the only caveat was now the distinctive colours from the lines on your skin. There was not a whisper of any soul since you’d departed that small town hours ago, and the two souls you were worried about recognising those lines had already left before you.
But, was the trembling in your hands due to worry? Your mind was a perfect ellipse, catapulting between intense agitation and a frightening calm. Had you focused solely on the discrepancies in your thoughts, you would’ve failed to notice the arrhythmia of the pulse within your stomach. And had you focused solely on that pounding sensation, you would’ve failed to notice the heady smile toying with your lips.
It can’t be.
Were you excited?
You touched your lips in awe – once, twice, just to be sure. It was undeniable. Anticipation burned through your blood vessels as if it was Phlegethon itself: lighting each capillary in boundless streaks of incandescence.
Confrontation was inevitable. It had been quiet. Too quiet, for a race with dozens of Stand users supposedly in the mix. You could feel it in the air: threading and cleaving through the molecules like fate itself dragging you by your marionette strings.
That shadowy figure was hounding you from all sides, pressing into Group Four’s flanks: unrelenting, as an enemy should be. The weight at your hip swung heavy with each breath.
And with a confrontation, there’d be information exchanged.
You wouldn’t fail.
You couldn’t.
“Ha,” your lungs burned in indignation. Words tumbled out of your larynx as if to quell your disquieted mind. “There’s a small chance that the person I see today won’t be someone to fight. They could, coincidentally, just be a user that entered the race.”
Still. The taste of iron entered your mouth as your teeth finally broke the skin of your cracked lips. It was far more likely that you’d be confronting someone from either the President’s faction or someone after Zeppeli’s bounty. Though, you doubted it was the latter since there hadn’t been any witnesses of your brief contact with the man.
Since they’re all dead, you thought grimly.
Well, that was one way of resolving any potential issues of associating with him.
That just left the President’s faction. It was unlikely that they were as sophisticated and wide-spread as they were in the present day, yet you knew you needed to exercise utmost caution when dealing with them. You’d bait them if possible – and if confronted head-on – so that your arsenal only consisted of a pistol.
And you’d leave no witnesses.
No, perhaps you could bait them in other ways. If it was eventually revealed you had a Stand, you could control the information about it. No matter how useless, the only facet you could display was Words Like Violence. Absolutely under no circ*mstances could you carelessly reveal just how valuable Personal Jesus could be.
[I’m flattered.]
Shut it.
After all, those who are killed first in combat are medics, are they not? Another grim thought to mull over.
Information warfare had been his specialty all those decades into the future. Resistance, guerilla or otherwise, had been shut down meticulously and viciously. Any loose threads had been cut off.
Except for you.
The corpse was the President’s biggest strength and greatest weakness.
He was scrupulous with details, even in the past. But not as much as his future self. The Valentine of your time was only a shadow here: emerging slowly but surely, but not yet emerged.
At this point, that monster still made mistakes.
If you were being honest, that was the crucial part of your plan. There was no hope otherwise. Valentine may still have the crude methods of the past in this time, but you didn’t want to face him even if it was only a year or two from here.
Really, that stupid head gave you the most opportune time to make your move.
And it was quiet, but that small voice within your sternum was pressing butterfly-light against your flesh: thank you.
Thank you for letting me change the future.
It was like a small kiss from fate, placed on the apple of your cheek affectionately.
That’s right. I mustn't forget.
You could save Dr Amsa.
⌛︎
“You think I could reinvent the GPS?” you griped. A firm thumbprint was currently being etched upon the delicate glass of the compass that taunted you with its gleam. Unless you were mistaken – and you absolutely couldn’t be mistaken – your navigation skills weren’t terrible.
Slowing Group Four to an leisurely amble, you pored over the wrinkled map in your fingers, peeking at your surroundings every few seconds to match the topography of what you saw to what was on the map.
“If I consider that range in the distance, and that path over there–”
You were Lost, with a capital L.
Briefly, you considered sending Group Four back and wallowing in embarrassment within the piercing sun. I can’t do that, you thought despairingly. No matter how bad it got, dignity was the one thing you’d hold on to, unless it got in the way of getting back to the future. Besides, under no circ*mstances did you want word of this to reach Diego’s ears – even if you had decided you didn’t care what he thought of you.
“f*ck–” The drawn out sigh had your eyes closing in exasperation. There had to have been something you missed, within those neatly chequered lines and worn edges. Look closer, idiot. Slipping a pencil out of your pocket, you lightly dotted the area of the village checkpoint, before tracing the rough pathway you’d been taking for the past few hours. Forty kilometres. Within that radius from the village, you flashed as a red dot on the map in your mind.
Somewhere here. There were three possible quadrants you could’ve ended up in. The first, due north on the faded paper, boasted flat plains of which there were none in your sights. While there were signs of the sloping hills and rock formations that littered the region, there was a particularly distinctive cluster further south in the third.
Alone against the fearsome winds, it stood proud at the eye of the maelstrom: a grey mountain, or more accurately, clustered pillars of stone that had borne against the harsh climate for centuries. A bastion of hope – your lighthouse in this sea of sand. It was a mere few hundred or so metres from here, well within range of walking. You’d regroup and reorient yourself in the dizzying landscape at those sanctified pillars, before continuing on.
You froze. Can’t be.
There was something glimmering up there, undetectable to your eyes. No, you’d sensed something from up there; it itched at your skin, clawing to get out with ferocious madness.
“Ha!” It bubbled out, disbelief spilling from your lips as you let out an incredulous laugh. This oily feeling pervading your senses could only be the very thing you’d anticipated!
A chance for information!
Dismounting, you dusted yourself off before covering yourself with your jacket once more. Whoever it was, hiding far away indicated a wide-range of protection; there was no need to involve the Appaloosa in whatever onslaught occurred.
“Stay here girl,” you crooned, leading the mare behind a boulder and into the cooler shade. Her soft nose brushed your cheek, blowing hot air right on your face with what could only be mischievousness. “You–”
“I’ll be fine,” you tacked on, coughing to hide the giggle that threatened escape. “Just don’t get noticed and I’ll return right as rain.”
I’m not the one talking to a horse. Stupid Diego. What did he know? Though she didn’t understand your words, Group Four understood the intent behind them. She understood, and for that she was friend enough.
Your gun jostled against bone. The leather body of the holster was sequestered firmly beneath sanguine fabric: the false pool of blood that rippled in the sun. You took a deep breath. There was no backing out now.
Stay with me.
Despite all the bravado propelling your limbs earlier, those strings had been cut and you were a useless marionette once more. The fear was dizzying; each step coaxed your heart into your mouth and let the organ plummet back to limbo.
[I’m here.]
Stupid. Since when did that spirit induce that ticklish sensation in your chest? It was stupid, you were stupid–
“f*ck,” you heaved, wiping the sweat from your drenched brow with your damp glove. Wobbling slightly, you let go of the boulder that had been supporting your weight and took the first step into the trap. And another. And another, until you were back under the watchful sun.
“Who could you be? Who could you possibly be?” you breathed. The precarious sway in your steps was meant to be feigned, but you’d slipped into it like a second skin. No, it wasn’t even a second skin. It was real – the fear – much like the sand crunching beneath worn soles.
You had no way of knowing who you’d face. Perhaps it was someone who’d kill you in the same instant you made yourself known, or someone who’d draw your death out until you wept blood. If you were lucky, your trembling could be chalked up to dehydration rather than acute fear. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t be suspected of knowing about the trap in the first place.
In your palm, the pulse of time fluttered like a second heart.
14:37
You almost considered abandoning your principles and summoning Depeche Mode. But you couldn’t. Even with the panic clouding the echo chamber of your mind, you knew to not play all your cards.
14:38
The stage was set.
(Enter left. Clutching a red jacket tiredly, the weary fool walks through the desert. They are marked with heaving breaths and a trembling body, appearing utterly exhausted and utterly guileless of the danger those footsteps lead them towards.)
As if beckoned by a director, you heard the mechanical sounds of metal grinding against metal.
You stopped breathing.
There, suspended by two slowly descending feathers, were metal hooks swaying dangerously left and right. Those steel ropes that held the heavy, sharp weapons resembled snakes more than a simple system of winches and pulleys.
The star of the show has appeared.
Trance-like, the hooks danced lightly in the breeze. They glimmered innocently – yet, you had the horrible feeling they were watching. That glint in the silver was like the speck of light in a human iris: analytical, probing, dangerous.
“Ha,” you clutched at your head. Lethargy came to you naturally – those hooks still watched your act, and you watched them from your peripherals. The wide brim of your hat concealed the harsh set of your eyes, and the bandanna your lower face; you had to exaggerate your movements if you wanted the trap to be sprung.
You tilted your head back and closed your eyes. Dropping your guard could potentially end in your life just being snuffed out, but you got the feeling the user operating the two winches was too curious to pass you up.
Take me.
You thought you were prepared. Your body had braced itself like tensing before an injection – anticipation. Then, the hooks had pierced through your skin. A scream tore hoarse from your throat.
It was excruciating. Blood slicked down your arms, and all you could feel was the white-hot pain that pulsed in tandem with your heartbeat.
“f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck–” you could taste the iron on your tongue. It was filling your mouth out, the sanguine liquid dripping from your lips and soaking into the cloth. Salty tears broke through the coppery tongue, and you wept with agony as the hooks twisted through your skin.
You were writhing, and your body was on fire.
You were rising, and the sun was melting the wax off your manmade wings.
You were plummeting, and there was nothing that could save you.
Please be over soon.
“What do we have here?”
A piece of flesh was half-attached to the inside of your cheek. Had you bitten it? Was that where all the blood had come from?
“I haven’t seen you hanging around Jyoshter, so who the hell could you be?”
There was blood crusting over your sleeves, yet the injury had settled to a dull throb. Had you passed out? You stifled a grunt of pain, and kept your eyes closed.
What’s the situation?
[You passed out around ten minutes ago and managed to activate Personal Jesus. Congratulations.]
What? You fought to keep yourself still. Panic ebbed and flowed in your mind. Over and over, you could hear your heart crashing within your head – as if the desperation could possibly save you.
[You unconsciously wanted to make yourself as small as possible, so I became the size of your palm – which he didn’t notice. You’re not completely healed to avoid suspicion, but the internal rupturing of your body has been reversed. Don’t do anything stupid and only shoot him when you calm down.]
“Maybe if I lift this, I’ll be able to recognise you. You don’t mind, do you?”
As soon as the rough pad of a finger poked your cheek, you composed yourself. Blearily, you squinted and raised your uninjured arm to block the high sun from your eyes.
“Are you the one who saved me?”
He stared, rocking back onto his heels from his crouch by your side. Short bamboo rods were tied haphazardly around his face, and his green tunic looked like it had seen better days. With his half-open gape, you could see teeth littering his gums like abandoned gravestones – forever subject to the crooked prodding of his tongue. You couldn’t be sure of his age. With his thin build and nasally voice, he didn’t seem that old; the viciousness in his eyes made your hands clammy from the whiplash. How can you be so cruel so young?
Against your back, the stone of the mountain was warm from the sun and would’ve been ideal in any other circ*mstance, had your arm not been heavily injured. You winced from the friction as you attempted to sit up, and took the opportunity to look around. “I think I might’ve stabbed myself earlier, though I’m not sure if I lost the knife in the sand somewhere. I assume you brought me here, kind mister?”
You sincerely hoped the flattery would conceal your shaky voice.
It’s high up. The feathers in the air from earlier seemed to be mediums to conduct those wires, and could transport people to wherever their user was. You could feel a cooler breeze than on ground level; it soothed you and reminded you of exactly why you were here.
“Of course, of course,” he nodded enthusiastically, grinning with a smile that leaned too much on the side of malicious. He leaned closer with his sweating face and those disconcerting eyes. “I’m your hero who brought you here after you got injured!”
[He’s technically telling the truth.]
Lie by omission. He’s no hero.
“Really?” You grasped his hand and sat up, shifting your side to feel for the familiar dig of your gun. “I don’t suppose you have any water, if you could be so kind?”
“Hah! Since I’m so kind, I might as well offer some to the poor schmuck who got lost in this desert,” he puffed out his chest as he spoke, already turning away from you to rummage in his small brown knapsack a few paces away. You dropped his hand. f*ck, that was almost too easy.
With his gaze and body elsewhere, you were free to glance around – though, your eyes were still cloudy from your tears. A few feet away was a bowl of rippling water with nothing else beside it. The more you stared at it, the more you had an inkling of how he used his power to scout out potential targets. Squinting, you looked at the crag situated a few metres diagonally upwards, from which hung something strange–
Your breath caught in your throat.
That body was familiar.
As your eyesight came back into focus, you saw him, swinging from the rock like a broken puppet. His golden hair had been used in lieu of strings, and his arms hung limply by his sides. A tanned face, serene amidst the cascade of blood that dripped from him, completely unresponsive to the world.
Gyro Zeppeli, why are you here?
Horrified, you stared at him a little too long, a little too openly.
“Whatcha staring at?” He leered at you, holding out an oiled waterskin that you absolutely did not want to take at any cost.
“Did you save him too?” you asked brightly, hand placed lightly on your cheek to highlight the crinkle of your eyes. You were angry. You were seething, and you couldn’t pinpoint why. Was it his audacity? Was it the injury you’d incurred just minutes prior? Was it Zeppeli, who looked lifeless but couldn’t be?
He can’t be. Depeche Mode, you begged your Stand, tell me.
Depeche Mode was quiet.
“Mister, you’re a really good person,” you leaned forward on the sand, surreptitiously feeling around for the pouch of bullets in your cargo pocket at the knee. There. They’re here. “I hope you don’t mind me nodding off for a bit.”
“Ah, since I’m so kind, I might as well,” he beamed, facing his bowl once more. “Ahem– I will be busy saving more people, so don’t disturb me.”
“Right!” Your smile dropped.
[He’s still alive. Wait until he’s completely distracted to shoot him.]
Right.
You knew how to do it: the methodical aim and fire, the squeeze of the trigger and the recoil of the arm. Quietly, you observed, thumbing the little pouch by your knee. He was engrossed in the bowl–
The wires were coming from his mouth and into the water.
He looked completely crazed now, eyes darting madly within the water to search for his target.
“The place where the horse stops – yes, that’s where you’re located, Jyoshter–”
Jyoshter? Was he talking about Joestar?
Of course. You were an idiot – what was new? Of course it was Johnny that got dragged into this, just like last time. It wasn’t your fateful encounter with the Stand user, it was theirs. You were the singularity here.
“–I’ll tear you apart like I said I would!”
Should I shoot him now?
[Not now. This idiot will probably end up shooting his own foot and revealing his own motive.]
Silently, your thumb pressed the cylinder release, disguised by the fluttering scarlet of your jacket.
“Ah! He moved, right there! I knew that schmuck was in the ground, crawling like a little bug through the sand! I’ll try to avoid a close, one-on-one battle – just jump out and show your face.”
He specialised in long-range fighting. That much you’d figured out, yet you still paused regardless – did you need to put the gun away and think of some other tactics?
Nah, you reasoned. It’s not like a bullet would lose a race with such a non-aerodynamic hook.
You loaded the chamber, one by one. Six bullets in total; they glinted gold for victory.
It wasn’t like you doubted your marksmanship.
And it wasn’t like this idiot was a particularly hard target either. Even now, he was on his knees with his hands in the sand, facing away from where you sat with a gun in your hand.
Wait a little longer, Zeppeli.
“I’ll wait until you’ve been burnt a bit before I tear you apart with my hooks, stupid Jyoshter. The ‘corpse’ is in your left hand, so there shouldn’t be a problem as long as the fire doesn’t burn you on the inside!”
What did he just say?
Your hand gripped a fistful of sand, feeling the grains even through your gloves. Partly from shock, your breathing had become shallow, while your eyes bore straight at the fool in front of you.
What does he know?
Should you just shoot him and offer to heal him in exchange for information? Stricken, your fingers grasped the wooden grip of the revolver – it creaked with your intensity, but you really couldn’t help it.
“Ahaha! He came out! He stood up – I see his suffering body!”
Is Johnny in danger as well?
Placidly, you raised the revolver. You didn’t think as your finger slipped over the trigger in preparation – you were completely lucid and empty as you aimed.
[Stood up?]
You paused briefly. As far as you knew, Johnny wasn’t an ambulatory wheelchair user; it was inconceivable that the death throes had repaired his spine suddenly.
“This is the end, Jyoshter!”
Could you risk it? Did Johnny have a plan that you’d ruin if you shot the man?
“Prepare for death,” he yelled maniacally.
Sending a quick prayer to whoever was up there that you wouldn’t ruin whatever plan Johnny had, you squeezed the trigger.
Almost instantaneously, blue laser-like lights streaked through the water and pierced his face. He didn’t even have time to scream – the nails and lead bullet flung him to the rocks at the base of the ledge, and he slipped out of sight.
That was Johnny, right?
The area was clear, and you stumbled to your feet. Stupidly, you dropped your gun. Depeche Mode. Your tattoo started its familiar clinking and whirring; after the roiling tension in your stomach, the sound was almost comforting.
“Zeppeli, don’t die on me.” Purple cloth slipped beneath the rough grasp of your fingers; you could barely prop his weight against yours without seeing white spotting your vision. The corpse was pushed to some forgotten corner of your mind – what mattered now was keeping the unconscious man alive.
Hurry up, hurry up.
His hair finally slipped from the lip of the rock and his full mass slumped onto you. You breathed heavily; there was no time to think about your next moves rationally.
You knew you didn’t have long left. The bullet you shot was aimed at the juncture of his shoulder in order to buy space for interrogation, but that had all gone out of the window at Johnny’s actions. Now, all you could do was make sure Zeppeli wasn’t in critical condition and then threaten the hook maniac.
[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]
You sighed in relief.
As soon as that spectral syringe brushed past his skin, his eyes snapped open.
“That’s the same feeling as last time,” he stared directly at you, unsmiling. Though his face was still pallored and clammy, he was regaining vitality little by little. With his body practically in your lap, you could watch exactly how Depeche Mode functioned in real time. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Depeche Mode’s miniature was still in his blind spot. Keep going.
“Just explain after we’re through with this deficiente,” he muttered, gripping your shoulder with one hand and his temples with the other. “At the very least, I don’t feel like absolute sh*t anymore.”
“I’ll tell you what I can.” It almost felt peaceful. Though his blood soaked your clothes, the warmth of another person grasping you was utterly surreal. Stay like this, just for a bit. But you couldn’t do that. You helped him into a sitting position; once more, you kept your distance. “I know you don’t trust me, but I swear I won’t harm you.”
You have nothing to do with my target.
“You’re right, I don’t trust you,” he heaved a sigh, staring at you. Absentmindedly, he tapped a golden finger against his knee. “But you don’t trust me either. I’ve seen the way you look at me – you don’t want anything to do with me.”
“The feeling’s mutual from you, so I think we’re even,” you stood, brushing the sand from your chaps and offering him a gloved hand. When he took it, you could feel the tension laced in his flesh and sinew.
“Yeah, we are,” he commented, letting go. “Let’s team up and kill that bastardo. Then after you tell me what you did to me earlier, we’ll part and go on our merry ways.”
“We can’t kill him yet,” you interjected. ‘You can’t kill him yet’, your tone suggested. “I– we can still get more information out of him.”
Zeppeli waved his hand dismissively. “Who do you think I am? I implied that.”
The carefree expression on his face turned grave. “We still need to make sure Johnny’s alright–”
A hook protruded grotesquely out of his chest. You whirled around, heart thumping madly in your ribcage as you felt around for your holster.
sh*t. It was still there, waiting in the sand for you.
[Thirty-four seconds remain.]
“It’s funny, isn’t it? I set the bait up to catch Jyoshter, but I seem to have caught a nobody as well! Two twerps with one worm!” He’d lost his bamboo hat, and his tongue lolled madly from his mouth as his jaw unhinged as far as it would go. In the back of his throat, you could see the winch and pulley system extending down into his gullet. No longer did he look childish; your eyesight really had been damaged when you failed to spot the aged skin and wrinkled cheeks.
The hook pierced through your wrist, and it took everything within you to remain standing.
“Were you working with this loser all along?” he caterwauled, pulling your hand into Zeppeli’s sternum. “Didn’t I save you?”
[Johnny’s still alive, but his breathing seems to indicate unconsciousness. I think he’s just a little banged up for now – this guy’s totally hellbent on getting revenge against you, I think.]
“Who said that?” you eyed Zeppeli shiftily, trying to indicate with your irises that Johnny was not yet at the pearly gates. You allowed your shoulder to collide with his chest to feign your arm being completely pressed against it – you still had a bit of slack rope to work with.
[Eight seconds remain.]
“Johnny’s unconscious, but he’s not injured too badly,” you whispered. He exhaled sharply, yet indiscernibly to anyone but you. I’m relieved too.
“You did! Traitor!” the senile fart yowled, lashing the other hook wildly like a morningstar. You could hear it whip past the air with sickening speed; the breeze fanned towards you from the impact and only made your sweating face even colder. “You were trying to make a fool out of my kindness, you donkey!”
Depeche Mode.
You didn’t have your gun. Johnny was incapacitated, and Zeppeli’s holsters had been stowed away by that madman. You hadn’t planned on using this card at all.
Instinctively, you knew what result you’d get from the slot machine.
[Second slot activated: Words Like Violence. Countdown has begun.]
A short-range ability, well matched to take on that guy – but he’s also well matched to take on my Stand, especially since I’ve never actually used this slot before.
“You–” Zeppeli curled inwards as if in pain, yet his lips were right next to your ear as he breathed the words. “You’re the person whose ability I saw that night. That thing hanging around me was because of you.”
Depeche Mode’s smaller form had materialised in the space between your two bodies, concealed from the enemy by your torso. Its carefully blank clock eyes seemed to stare right at him, and he looked at you incredulously.
“I said I’ll explain later,” you hissed. Your mind was racing, watching the man with the hooks shake in rage at your proximity. What do I do? “I barely know how to use it – just let me focus on the fight and don’t get hurt any more–”
“You two really were scheming!” His agitation was clear – those hands were grasping at his thin hair and he looked as though he was unravelling at the very seams.
“You worried about me? I’m not that fragile.”
“I’m not worried about you, I just won’t be able to heal you if I’m fighting,” you admitted, and immediately wondered if you’d said too much. Zeppeli glanced at you pensively.
“You don’t seem very experienced in these matters.”
“That’s it!”
As the second hook careened towards you, Zeppeli pushed you down by the shoulder and it scraped past you by a hair’s breadth.
It was strange. You’d almost forgotten the pain that echoed in your arm.
You flinched.
“Didn’t I tell you we should team up – who are you to tell me to stay back?” His harsh words brought you back down to the ground. Pull yourself together. “I’m not going to rely on you.”
[I can’t stand this anymore.]
“You were friends all along– you two f*ckers!”
“We’re not friends,” you and Zeppeli snapped simultaneously. His sharp eyes glanced off you, and you gazed stonily back.
[Stop screwing around and put the gloves on.]
“Huh?” you mumbled, glancing down at your Stand. “What are you talking about?”
[I was hoping you’d figure it out by yourself, but I guess my hopes were too high.]
“All that talk, yet you can’t focus on the fight?”
[Quid pro quo.]
This for that.
Depeche Mode heals, therefore I attack. You smiled ruefully. It had been years since you last wore boxing gloves.
You didn’t need its input any more. You’d figured it out.
I’d prefer some plain tape instead of those ugly gloves. They still had ‘words’ emblazoned proudly on the front. You winced. What was with this terrible sense of humour?
“Speak for yourself, Zeppeli.”
Depeche Mode had faded into the back of your sternum like it always had.
When you pushed him from your side, your riding gloves had been replaced with black boxing tape – though not plain like you’d wished. Rather, the jet fabric was covered in embroidered patterns in shifting hues. I used to wear this style under my gloves when I was younger, you reminisced. Some things really never changed.
Gloves were too unwieldy when outside the ring.
You’re right, I’ve got little experience in actual fights.
This tape was linked to the second slot ability.
I can’t focus, and I’ve already screwed up twice.
It was reasonable to assume that the tape would offer the same protection as boxing gloves. After all, it really was the same ability – just in a different form.
If I do this, will I screw up again?
Your mind worked furiously to figure out what you could.
[He really shouldn’t have aimed for your wrist when you’re like this.]
Your expression changed, and you held onto the steel rope with your uninjured arm while yanking the hook lodged in your wrist. Depeche Mode had been nice enough to give you hints; you just had to be foolhardy enough to interpret its words.
The blood slicking your hands slid off the tape – there was no pain nor nausea, even when you stared hard at the wounds and the metal sliding through the gap in your flesh. Rather, it appeared the skin was slowly warping itself back into space, much like when you used Personal Jesus.
Is it possible that the effects are the same?
[You’ll receive your explanation later. Focus.]
“What the–” Zeppeli muttered, stilling once your eyes met once in warning. Your eyes flickered to where his chest was still strung through; did he really not feel it? Did this man have a will of steel? It’ll be over soon, and I can fix my errors.
The second hook swayed dangerously. Now that you and Zeppeli didn’t seem so easy to take down, he had to switch tactics and wait for an opening–
“When the cats are away the mice will play! You two better enjoy the rest of your pathetic lives whilst I have some fun,” he leered. Those eyes of his were filled with mania; was he toying with you two?
It didn’t matter. You had to end it quickly.
[Two minutes, thirty seconds remaining.]
Though that time seemed like the shortest in the world, a melee like this wasn’t often dragged out. At most, the fight would only last a minute and a bit before either he or you exhausted yourself. You also had the additional time of around three minutes after the countdown ended. If it ended, you were screwed.
And it’s not like I quit recently.
“I need to get close to him,” you muttered, slowly inching away from Zeppeli. He gave you a long, hard look. That look – that look that told you he was unimpressed yet still mildly curious as to what you’d do.
“Alright.”
That’s it?
“The sooner we finish him off, the better, right? Here, I’ll push you–”
Just as quickly as he spoke it, he grabbed your arms and wheeled you around so you finally faced your esteemed hero. You could feel a boot press into your lower back – that f*cker kicked you – and that was the moment where you could see those green lips drawn back in a smirk in your mind’s eye. You knew that expression was on his face; the delay with which he finally pushed you forward felt too much like a laugh.
“You just wanted to push me, bastard–”
You know you shouldn’t have, but you couldn’t resist looking back. His smile wasn’t as vindictive as you thought it would be. Those green eyes were closed, and his golden teeth flashed bright in a smile that seemed, well, innocent. What the hell? You didn’t know why, but you couldn’t look away from that expression of joy, even as you careened through space and into the waiting arms of your enemy.
“Even now, you’re still looking at the bait?” His voice was incredulous and furious, yet he still leapt away to put distance in between the two of you. You swore under your breath. If this kept up, you wouldn’t be able to land a hit by the time the countdown ended. “I’m going to enjoy ripping the smile off his face when I finally kill you.”
He was more limber than you expected. At some point, his taunts had fizzled out, sliding over you like oil over water. You were tranquil – more tranquil than you had ever been – as you weaved and dodged the free hook that was just a fraction of a second too slow. Maybe he could’ve got you if he used both hooks, yet he clearly wanted to keep Zeppeli back and you found that you didn’t mind the underestimation at all.
Honestly, you didn’t know how you were moving so fast. It was like you’d been hooked up to an IV drip of adrenaline; your body was hyper aware of its surroundings, stumbling not once as you jumped the tricky terrain.
And it was silent. You could see his mouth moving as you came closer – you heard none of it as your punch finally connected with his jaw. He was backed into a corner, and you could almost see the right angle of the ropes forming behind his emaciated body. He was stumbling wildly, trying in vain to stabilise himself – you felt any sympathy had long dissipated.
Your ears rang with a dull, monotonous clang; all you could hear was the swish of rope through the air, yet none of that mattered. Your feet had settled shoulder-width, and your fists had been brought high to guard your face.
A target had appeared on his jaw again. Leisurely, your hips swung to follow through with the motion; somehow, that scrawny man managed to dodge. But it wasn’t enough. You’d anticipated it, much like an experienced fisherman would anticipate a particularly slippery fish attempting to escape.
He dodged right into your other, waiting fist. It proved too much for him – he clutched at the rock behind him, scrabbling for purchase as you delivered another one-two in his solar plexus.
You watched him hack and wheeze for air. You couldn’t hear his pleas nor the sound of his body fighting to stay conscious. Distractedly, you watched as blood emerged on his thin lips. It was the same shade as your jacket: a sort of fresh, arterial crimson that reminded you of a nosebleed.
“You’re a boxer? You really aren’t the average jockey, are you?” Zeppeli’s words jarred through the ringing silence.
You couldn’t hear the wind, only each syllable as it hit your eardrum – you swore you felt the hits on your malleus, incus and stapes, you swore you could sense the fluid in your cochlea ripple, you swore you were aware of the signal getting sent through the auditory nerve to your brain. His voice was clearer than your own pulse, as if the two of you stood mouth to ear in an empty, darkened room.
Dizzily, you wiped the blood coagulating on the corner of his lips, before pulling back to strike the man again. The movement allowed you to narrowly miss the trajectory of the second hook; evidently, he decided that guarding from you took priority over restraining Zeppeli. Zeppeli was free, yet he still decided to be a bystander.
You had to be more careful now. Yet, strangely, the second, snake-like hook racing through the air only made your head clearer. Your heart pounded madly, but your body felt lighter than air.
As you thought, he struggled even more with controlling the momentum of his hooks at such a short range. You could easily predict the trajectory – even just using your peripheral vision.
It was strange.
Your legs shook with the strain, so it would stand to reason you were fearful, right?
No, your muscles were burning and your hypothalamus had released a heady hit of dopamine that left you reeling from its effects. You knew you’d regret it later after it wore off, but you couldn’t help but indulge in getting a few extra hits in. He was surprisingly hardy – slipping out of your reach on multiple occasions as if he was an eel.
And suddenly, you were in the zone; the canvas of the ring floor smelled like sweat and blood, while the artificial lights shone harshly onto you and your opponent. He was a particularly tricky outboxer: a light build but far reach, coming at you from all directions. But he was inexperienced, too focused on pushing you back to notice you feinting.
His right side opened up as you purposefully dropped your guard on the left side of your body. As you pretended to draw back your right fist, he attempted to evade it by shifting right side forward – but that had been your goal all along.
With your left knee pushed back in your stance, you had the momentum to deliver the blow like you’d planned. You kicked forward – boots heavy and imperfect but shooting forth like an arrow – and nailed him in the liver with your heel.
He dropped like a stone, heaving, while you towered over his pitiful form.
“You dickhe*d,” he gasped. His hands clutched at the front of his tunic, wildly directing his hooks towards you as you dodged them – you scanned the ground while you did so, searching.
There was one key reason why you’d scoffed at the first appearance of Words Like Violence. Those feeble punches against you back then – flowery taps disguised by garish red gloves – were terribly ironic.
There was one key reason why you’d asked for tape instead of gloves.
What was your nickname from back then?
None-hit wonder? Sandbag? Loser?
[I can see that.]
It was none of those, actually. It was ‘rulebreaker.’
You weren’t a f*cking boxer in the first place. You just liked the tapes.
If a fortnight was enough to make you a boxer, you would’ve been many things. A musician, a writer, a photographer. As it stood, you never had a knack for learning the rules, especially in a sport like this one.
Pushing him to the ground, you grabbed the object that lay next to his head.
Five bullets.
You straddled him sideways, one calf pressing his legs down and the other against his torso.
The cold muzzle of your gun pinioned his forehead.
He was riddled with injuries: holes in his face from Johnny, blood dripping from his mouth from the internal damage of your blows, and the bullet still lodged in the juncture of his shoulder.
“If I could aim for your shoulder and hit it from several metres away while you moved, imagine how accurately I can shoot you in the head at point-blank range,” you breathed, still high from the fight and adrenaline.
It was a bluff. You’d never shot a living, breathing human before today. How could you possibly pull the trigger, when the sight of greyish brain matter still haunted you?
Could he hear it in your voice? Could Zeppeli see it in the minute tremor of your shoulders?
“I’ll talk, I’ll talk if that’s what you want! Don’t shoot me!” he yelped, the tension of his hooks fading as he let them drop into the sand.
I won’t be the one killing you today.
“I’ll get to the point, then,” you replied, shifting your weight to press more into his ribs. He wheezed out – his eyes had filled up with hatred from the very beginning, and you honestly doubted you’d get any worthwhile information out of him. “What do you know about the ‘corpse’ you mentioned earlier?”
The hatred shifted to mania, and you could feel laughter building up in the shake of his chest.
“If you’re asking about that, you’re playing with things way past your league–” he coughed, blood splattering on your trousers. “–and you’re begging to get killed. You’ll die a slow, painful death if you interfere.”
“I can’t tell you anything,” he finished, grinning up at you. His eyes – they’d already resigned to his fate. Despite his immaturity, the corpse had struck something within him – he was prepared to die for it.
No matter. You’d learnt two key pieces of information. Valentine had a skilled, sizable force working for him; this guy was likely on the lower rungs of the hierarchy. Other than that, there had been others coveting the corpse as well: prospective allies. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“Thank you,” your eyes crinkled as you smiled, and you could hear his breath hitch. “Zeppeli, do you have any questions?”
“I’ve come to my own deductions.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, a green sphere collided with the man's shoulder; you watched in horror as the deltoideus muscle spiralled around it. His hand jerked up, and wrapped around his own throat; you could hear him gurgle, asphyxiating and slowly turning a shade of purple that nauseated you.
“No– don’t–”
“Step back,” Zeppeli instructed. His voice was oddly detached as he clasped your arms to help you off the enemy. Once you were further away, he turned your head to the side – his calloused fingers were placed neatly, dispassionately under your chin just where the bandanna covered it – while he slipped the gun out of your hand with the other.
You heard the bang.
You felt the recoil through his body.
“You didn’t look like you were going to actually kill him,” he explained offhandedly, still clasping your chin. Then, as soon as you registered it, he let go and stepped back, dusting his cloak off. Before he fully disappeared from your side, he easily pressed the chamber out and let the unused bullets fall back into the sand, then tucked the gun into your holster.
Those events had taken just around a minute.
You could feel the effects of Words Like Violence wear off. All that remained was shock and exhaustion.
The smell of iron was thick in the air. Sweat dripped down your face and added to the cacophony of odours in the air.
And you still couldn’t look at the dead man lying to the side.
“Let’s find Johnny,” he continued, pushing you by the shoulders after you continued being rooted in place. You couldn’t even respond – your tongue felt hot and leaden in your mouth, unsuitable for any verbosity. “Then you can explain to me what the hell that all was. You clearly knew more than you were letting on from the question you asked him.”
[He’s just around thirty metres south-east, if I hear that breathing correctly.]
Wordlessly, you pointed in what you hoped was the south-east. Zeppeli glanced down at your hand, then steered you further left, just as wordlessly as you.
“The body’s obscured by that rock now,” he informed you.
“Cool,” you finally responded. “I’m good now.”
He gave you a deadpan look, but ultimately bit his tongue at the expression you wore above the cloth. You’d seen dead bodies before – your squeamishness of blood had long been forced down – yet the quick death of the man, coupled with your immediate withdrawal of the ‘zone’, left you unable to cope.
“So you’re good enough to explain to me what you were questioning him about, and about your Stand?” he clarified. “Man, you have no idea how surprised I was when I first saw that with the Boom Booms. I thought that was one of theirs!”
“Sorry,” you looked away sheepishly, remembering how you’d pretended not to see Depeche Mode when he’d questioned the two of you about it. It seemed he remembered suddenly too – his expression turned to one of irritation.
“You let me think I was seeing things,” he seethed, jabbing your shoulder with his index finger. “And for what?”
“Sorry, sorry,” you repeated, scratching beneath your ear. I didn’t want you to think I was part of the attack. I wanted to heal you but I knew you’d be suspicious. What could you even say?
“My gut was right about you being a suspicious person,” he looked at you distrustfully, now that you’d roused his anger once more. It stung, more than you’d like to admit. It was a harsh reality check – being actual allies with this man was impossible.
In his eyes, you’d been dishonest from the get-go.
Still, it’s not like he was particularly forthcoming about his identity either. That was what irritated you.
“So are you though?” you questioned incredulously as you came to that realisation. “We’re not exactly buddy-buddy enough to trust each other like that – and on top of that, I’m divulging more information about myself and getting none in return from you two!”
“You–” he breathed, looking more and more incensed. The two of you had reached the crag, and you could see Johnny propped up against a rock on a lower platform.
“Forget it,” you snapped, jumping down the metre or so. “I’ve already agreed to give you the information, and I intend to keep my word. I should’ve been more smart about it in the first place, though, and asked for information as well. Quid pro quo.”
[If I heal him, he’ll still need about half an hour of sleep for his body’s exhaustion.]
Zeppeli crouched over Johnny, feeling his pulse and breath. “He’ll need stitches. I’ve got Zombie Horse, but he’s also internally–”
“I can do it,” you leaned over Johnny’s other side, already prepared to hit the slot machine.
He stared at you, anger replaced by apprehension. “You’ve got a background in medicine too?”
“If science counts,” you studied his face back nonchalantly. The whirring began.
“Science?” he echoed. You could see the gears turning in his head. As a surgeon, he would no doubt be under its influence – advancements like aspirin and penicillin soon snowballed into miraculous, life-saving treatments he’d be able to witness had he lived past the race. Your heart almost broke a little.
“I studied chemistry at university,” you admitted. You didn’t know why. It was a pretty trivial piece of information when you mentioned it to people in the modern world, but here it could twist your words anachronistically if you weren’t careful. God forbid you mentioned something from the future that had you heralded as a witch here.
“Huh,” he openly stared now. You could tell he was itching to ask the burning question: why the hell did you leave a promising career behind to risk your life in this stupid race?
“But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then–” Something in his expression clicked in realisation. “So, the one that was healing my leg then – that was you?”
“Yeah. How would you have reacted if my Stand suddenly popped up while we were being ambushed and I asked you to trust me so I could heal you?” you sighed, resting your hand on top of your head. “You were already suspicious of me, so the best I could do was be oblivious while not letting you fall off your horse due to your leg.”
“You’re actually more smart than I thought you were,” he remarked appraisingly. You gave him a withering glare.
[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]
“I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut about this particular ability.” You kept your eyes level with his as Depeche Mode hummed into existence. “I mean if Johnny asks about who healed him, you can tell him, but zip your lips with everyone else.”
“May I ask why?” He didn’t flinch nor look away.
“I’m keeping my cards close.”
“An astute answer,” he grinned without any warmth. His gaze shifted from you to Depeche Mode, watching as it floated soundlessly through the air. “You get more mysterious by the day.”
“Likewise.”
“So, this thing’s the one with the background in medicine?” he commented dryly, staring at its weird getup unabashedly.
“I’m truly thankful you’ve got eyes,” Depeche Mode intoned flatly. “It really makes things easier for me.”
“Talks too?” His golden brows painted two peaks as he raised them in surprise. “How creepy.”
Every time you thought you had an inkling of ‘like’ for the man, he proved you wrong each time.
Don’t waste your time on him.
[Wasn’t planning on it.]
You quietly propped yourself on your forearms and leaned back, feeling the sun wash over you and the sand shifting beneath your weight. Just a foot away, the methodical motions of Depeche Mode rang true against your soul; your worries dissipated as you made out the impression of healed injuries within your closed eyes.
“Before I forget, about the thing he mentioned earlier–”
“The corpse?”
“Yeah. Obviously you don’t know, but do you think Johnny might’ve come across it?”
“I figured as much after you began asking your questions,” Zeppeli leaned forward. His elbows pressed against his knees – legs crossed and moving side to side in idleness. He didn’t meet your eyes this time; you could tell the clotting of platelets and knitting of skin was much more interesting to witness. “We were attacked yesterday. German chap, only a few centimetres off my height – I don’t know if you recall the name Stroheim, but it’s not like he left a particularly lasting impression.”
He’s dead, being picked apart by vultures in the desert as we speak.
That went unspoken.
“He seemed particularly shaken – only a few minutes after the attack, he said something about an arm falling out of his arm,” he continued, regarding Johnny carefully as though he was questioning whether to tell you this or not.
You reached out to the sleeping man, ignoring the sharp exhale from before you. Two fingers and a thumb pincered Johnny’s wrist – suddenly, the skin began peeling and shrivelling back to reveal exactly what you were looking for.
⌛︎
(“Forgive me for being so blasé,” Dr Ferdinand says indifferently, gently turning the mummified fingers with her, gloved, own. Despite her words, her expression is one of mild awe, and you can still hear her murmurs in the quiet lab. “Over two thousand years old and still in pristine condition…”)
(Archaeology reminds you too much of her, so you keep silent as you jot down her thoughts from earlier and litter in some of your own. You don’t know much about archaeology. The finger looks purple in the fluorescent lights. You briefly wonder how it smells.)
(“Your time with the remains is almost up, Doctor,” Valentine’s aide stands upright like an Anubis statue guarding a tomb. You suppose, in this room filled with bones from where Ferdinand’s fancy takes her, it’s as sepulchral as they come. You don’t know why you’re here. You wrapped up tests early today, but that doesn’t explain why she needed an intern to come watch over this experience with her.)
(“I’m nearly done,” she carefully drops some of the skin flakes into a vial and stores it in the rack beside her. She’s completely engrossed; you wonder what it’s like to feel the same passion.)
(“Sorry I couldn’t give you a more hands on role for this analysis,” she suddenly looks at you, wearing a rather troubled expression on her face. “Even though you signed off the non-disclosure agreement, you still couldn’t experience how miraculous a corpse like this is fully.”)
(“I’m fine,” you comment blandly. Neatly, you underline the title in your notebook: ‘Sacrum Corpus’. You doubt you’ll care enough to look back on this in the future, but you mark the date anyway.)
(In a few weeks, more of Valentine’s aides will come to the Institute to negotiate a further partnership.)
(You are indifferent.)
⌛︎
It was softer than you thought. Your inquisitive fingers poked at the flesh that had eluded your grasp all those months ago; you’d expected it to be crackly like baking paper, but it wasn’t. It had the same softness of the wrinkled skin of old people: fragile and thin and delicate.
You knew it; this was the same corpse Dr Ferdinand had examined in your future. The purple colour, the finger shape – it all matched up, and you paused in your whirling thoughts.
“Movere crus,” you read. The Latin felt foggy on your tongue: too used to hearing Dr Amsa explain nomenclature and etymology, yet too far removed from that time aeons ago.
“Move the leg,” he translated. “f*ck, he really wasn’t trying to screw me over when he came to me scared sh*tless."
“What a weird thing to make a joke of,” you deadpanned. “You think it’s a metaphor for something?”
“Could be,” he shrugged, watching you slip the mummified arm back into Johnny’s. “What, you don’t need to examine it any more? Here I thought you’d grab it and run off with how curious you were about it earlier.”
“I did forensic studies on a similar case with my superior a few months ago,” you dismissed his words with a shake of your head. “I already know what I need to know about this corpse.”
From the outside, it’s an incredibly well preserved corpse that still retains traces of vitality even two thousand years later. However, it is a strange artefact that grants mysterious powers. Under no circ*mstances should it fall into the hands of the President.
“Forensic– what the hell were you?” He mouthed, openly staring at you. Of course you were strange. You were an anomaly both back here and then, your present and your future.
You didn’t deign to respond.
“Fine, be like that. What are you going to do now?”
“Continue the race,” you replied shortly. Johnny’s breathing had evened out, and you watched as his lashes fluttered unconsciously.
“Very funny. You aren’t a very good conversation partner.”
Neither are you, prick.
“When Johnny wakes up, tell him to keep the arm safe and to not give it up to anyone.”
“When he wakes up? And where will you be?”
“Continuing the race?” you questioned, genuinely puzzled at his probing.
“Ah-ah,” he tutted, wagging his finger in disapproval. Your mouth may have dropped slightly open beneath the cloth in incredulity. “You’re staying until he wakes up. I still don’t trust you.”
Asshole.
[You can’t deny he’s thorough.]
You were too tired to argue. You knew usage of your Stand would eventually tire you out, but the fight had just exacerbated the energy drain. Instead of opening your mouth with whatever retort that might’ve entered your mind, you let your head rock back against the rough stone pillar, near where Johnny still slumbered.
You couldn’t deal with Zeppeli on top of that. From what you had heard of him, to what you saw before you – the two personalities were completely different. You had expected him to be grim. You’d expected him to be cold and angry and heartless. Sure, he was a prick, but you saw him bleed the same red as you.
“Y’know, I’ve thought of a different name for you,” he began. You could hear his idle taps on the rocks, then the clatter of pebbles as he tossed them across the flat peak. “Brisk-and-Irate is a bit of a mouthful, is it not?”
“I guess,” you scratched your ear noncommittally. Was he always this talkative?
“Why’d you pick that alias, anyway?”
Fast and Furious was too anachronistic but I still wanted to be funny so I picked a period-appropriate version.
“It’s an inside joke.”
“You’ll have to explain it to me sometime.” You knew you’d dug your own grave when you nodded briefly. f*ck.
“Anyways,” he continued, pressing a knee against his chest and looking directly at you once more. “I was thinking Mercury.”
You raised a brow.
“You’re very quick, though I can’t see any wings on your boots,” he laughed dryly. “It’s an element on the Periodic Table, and it’s toxic. Also, your current alias sounds stupid.”
[He’s not wrong.]
Which one is he not wrong about?
“Do whatever you want,” you exhaled, tilting your head back and closing your eyes.
[Fight back, fight back!]
Mercury.
The sunlight shone through the capillaries in your eyelids and made your vision go crimson.
It sounded nice – there was always a risk that came with revealing your actual name. Mercury could be the mask you slipped over it: a cover should you make any mistakes. You didn’t intend to be taken as a joke later on.
“A pity you can’t change it now.”
“Whatever you want to think.”
[Johnny’s done – your turn.]
You let your clothes return to normalcy – the coagulated blood coating your arms to the elbows vanished, and you felt lighter, insubstantial.
“Depeche Mode’s gonna treat you now,” you exhaled. Your eyes were still shut. This was peaceful, sitting almost shoulder to shoulder with Johnny with Zeppeli on the other side of the sandwich. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d spent time sitting with anyone like this. Not even Diya – even though the two of you were friends, there was still that work-professionalism distance neither of you cared enough to cross. And that was fine.
You really wanted a drink.
Maybe Vincent smuggled one into your pack somewhere, but you couldn’t get it even if you tried. Your body felt heavy – too heavy. Anything would be fine.
“f*ck,” you breathed. Roughly, you dragged a hand across your stiff shoulders and let it drop hard onto your legs.
On the rocks, you thought deliriously. Whiskey.
Your fingers shook. Even after all that time, you could still feel vomit in your throat at the sight of a dead body.
“Did you mean what you said earlier?”
His voice broke through the dark; it chipped away at the obsidian container, and you regained your vision, even if it was only a little.
“What– what the hell are you talking about?” you croaked. Your voice box was sore, as though you were crying. You hadn’t been, and you sure as hell wouldn’t in his proximity. You glanced at him, and you saw his hat was in his hands: casually flat against his calf as his wrist bent over his knee. He looked strange, without the shadows darkening his expression; he looked younger than his years when he stared at you unabashedly.
“I’m so happy you saved me, my hero,” he warped his pitch into a horrid approximation of yours, dropping his hat in his lap to clasp his hands together. “Am I doing it right? My sweet prince, my darling, my moon – take me right here.”
“Gross,” you scowled. “I never said all that.”
“Oh? Sounded like you meant it, though. You’re so kind, saving others as well,” he mimicked. “Who knew you were a thespian as well?”
“Eat sh*t.”
“Seriously,” he continued, ignoring you. “If I wasn’t so banged up, I would’ve knocked myself unconscious to avoid third wheeling.”
“So you were awake but didn’t help me out with getting you down from that rock?” you irritably overlooked the last part of his sentence. “Just dead weight while you weigh about as much as your horse.”
“Hey, hey! You were managing just fine, while I was still immobile from getting captured,” he insisted. “Besides, you’re not all that weak – you’ve got some strange skills, you know.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“I’m serious – I don’t think I’ve seen fighting like that before,” he probed. Zeppeli’s eyes bore through you; you didn’t think those sharpened edges would ever soften. Even now, every conversation felt like an interrogation.
What was that ability?
[Another form of rejection.]
Depeche Mode paused.
[You need to fight, right? At that moment, your purpose is to be a fighter – your muscle memory and thinking capacity revert to a prime state, while the key points in your body are defended more vigorously. Just like a pendulum, you’re constantly reverting back to equilibrium. You’re changing but you’re still remaining in that stasis.]
Like when my wrist was stabbed?
[Exactly. Any moves you picked up from back then will come easier as it’ll feel like you’re in the ‘zone’. Your base state, your function is simply to fight, but it won’t make up for poor stamina or exhaustion. You’ve done some endurance over these past few months due to your jockey training, so good on you for not collapsing.]
You’re… actually useful for once.
[Obviously. I’d urge you to start routinely stretching and building up a bit more muscle if you want it to be more reliable. It puts you at a significant disadvantage of being too close to your enemy, while you still only have human speed and capabilities.]
[Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a power-up. With your experience and this ability, you could go toe-to-toe with a pro from the modern era.]
It paused, and you could feel it gathering more words.
[In your dreams, I should be able to make a decent test dummy.]
Then, it retreated back into your sternum. Its tone seemed… almost bashful.
Thank you.
Your chest tickled, and you didn’t quite know why.
“That ability I used earlier makes my body experience the prime fighting conditions,” you summarised. Laconic. He could make his own assumptions – it wasn’t like the two of you were a team.
You wouldn’t pretend to understand how his sh*tty childhood shaped him into the person he was today; yet, you couldn’t help but think of yourself when you looked at him. Maybe you could bond over a drink. Maybe the two of you were more similar than you’d originally thought.
“Still, that doesn’t explain that kick,” he mused. “From the few matches I’ve watched, boxing doesn’t include kicks, does it?”
Where’d I learn it? It was a front kick, designed to be the knife in your sleeve after you feinted the enemy out. Kickboxing? Taekwondo? It wasn’t like you’d won matches with it.
If you knew you’d be stuck here, you would’ve taken all the opportunities you could. You would’ve learnt another martial art instead of testing others out: never one to commit. You would’ve pushed your time to win, rather than being a sore loser who was too full of pride to improve.
“It’s not the ring.”
And it wasn’t.
“And I’m not a boxer.”
It was as simple as that.
