Flynn squinted his eyes, partly to filter out the blinding fluorescent light above him and to focus on the man in front of him. Well, "man" was an understatement considering the size of the behemoth in front of him. It all felt routine to him: left jab, right cross, left hook. Weave, bob, right hook, and oof. So much for routine. Without a second to parse through his predicament, he felt his head slam against the mat floor, his mouth opening up just enough for his mouthpiece to come flying out.
Flynn was either a brave or reckless guy depending on who you ask. Hell, you can probably even throw in 'stupid' to that mix of adjectives. So it was no doubt that he had his fair share of near death experiences, given his less than glorious professions. Flynn was a criminal, no doubt about that, but he had boundaries. He was a Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (i.e. himself). But alas, times are tough when the rich don't exactly have their gold bars behind open gates. So, underground fight club became his occupation, as he fought like a dog for a few dozen bucks every fight. During times like this, he often found himself wondering whether or not it was worth it.
Pain shot through his abdomen as he fought to seize one more breath. He wanted to yell in agony but he couldn't seem to differentiate his voice from the deafening mob that surrounded the arena. Frankly, he couldn't even tell if he made a squeak with his windless lungs. Just like that, the bell sounded and it was over.
The fight club was in a shady part of town, under an ironically-named bar: The Snuggly Duckling. So it was no doubt that after the fights, there were always drunken fans asking for pictures, autographs, or, if it were girls, kisses. This popularity was also helped by the fact that Flynn was pretty good looking, especially when it came to men in sketchy neighborhoods and shady bars. This time, unsurprisingly, the mob was not as large. This was a relief, considering that his newly received splitting headache didn't really cope well under the noise and chaos of gropey women. Ugh.
"What was that about pretty boy?" Lance Strongbow seemed to always be the first to pounce on Flynn when it came to either his successes or failures.
"Listen, when you have to fight a 200 pound, 6 feet man, then you can come talk to me" Flynn retorted back, before a series of violent bloody coughs interrupted his tirade.
"Ey, Flynn are you ok?" Lance raised a brow. "I didn't realize he kicked your ass so hard. Let me help you buddy" He placed his arm around Eugene's upper back, bracing him.
Only when his friend is literally coughing up blood he cares. Go figure. "Thanks, can you just help me up the stairs to the bar. I need a whiskey to kill this pain"
"Trust me pal, you're not the only one."
By the time the pair reached the counter, the bar was packed. Flynn glanced at his brass watch that read 10:45 PM, which was very early by fight club standards. The watch wasn't gold or diamond encrusted but it was his most valuable possession since it was a gift to him by one of his closest matrons during his orphanage days. "Hardly even 11 yet, I guess getting knocked in the head really messes with time perception"
"Yeah, well you got a long night ahead of you. Make sure to rest." Lance walked him towards the counter where Flynn plopped onto the bar stool like a ragdoll.
"Hey, look out for yourself bud." His tone was no longer sarcastic. "I got a fight to go to, wish me luck!"
"I wish you break a leg." Despite the rib pain, there was always time for a joke and chuckle.
"Yeah, thanks a lot for the support Flynn, I'll be catching you later." With that, he was left alone in the frontlines of Friday Night happy hour️.
Hookhand was making the bar today and orders were flying left and right. True to his name, he was missing a hand, which was replaced by interchangeable bartending tools, often in the shape of a hook. It was surprising how efficient he was at mixing drinks at the cadence of the drunken calls. He always seemed to have his eye on everyone and everything at the same time, so it was no surprise that as soon as Flynn pulled out a lighter, he became the center of attention of the not so handicapped bartender.
"If you're gonna smoke a cig, go out and do it."
"Don't you have better things to do?" Flynn brought the smoke up to his mouth.
"Don't make me come out from behind this table. I'll knock you harder than any of the competition and it ain't gonna be pretty" His teeth emerged from his lips into a scowl.
"Alright alright, calm down." With that, Flynn decided to call it a day as he made his way out of the bar into the rainy weather and onto the puddly sidewalk. He decided to finish his smoke under the awning and neon lights of the bar.
Even though this neighborhood wasn't exactly bourgeoise, there was a certain charm to the delis, laundromats, and residential apartments that littered this side of Corona. And there was certainly something about this bar, which refused to sleep at the chagrin of law enforcement and concerned passerbies. It was peaceful, until an ear piercing high pitched shriek jostled Flynn enough that his poor smoke fell out his fingers and fizzled out on the wet floor.
"God damn—" He started, before realizing the shriek wasn't just your average drunk makeout session or argument, but it was a terrible and blood curdling scream. It came from the back alley, and without hesitation, his fighter instincts propelled him to the noise, ready to save whoever needed saving.
As he turned the corner, he nearly crashed into a hooded figure about a head shorter than him, only averting collision by swerving and subsequently slipping onto his butt for the second damn time that day. To make matters worse, there didn't seem to be anything worthy of commotion in the empty alleyway, not to mention this time he was soaking wet and he was in no peaceable mood for shady teenagers in back alleys pranking him. "Hey kid! Watch where you're goi—"
"Sorry mister," a shrill voice whispered from under a hood.
Upon second glance, he noticed two soft green eyes staring back at him, framed by a small and innocent face. Blonde hair flowed out under the hood and draped unevenly on both her shoulders, which were narrow and slightly slouched. Perhaps it was because he was knocked senseless, but he felt oddly attracted to her.
"Hey kid, was it you that screamed?" Flynn steeled himself as he got up.
"I saw one of those," she lifted a trembling finger and pointed towards a… raccoon?
"Blondie, it's just a raccoon." Seriously this girl must've gotten a few too many drinks. Should've cut her off, Hookhand.
"Ok, listen," he inched forward, causing the girl to back away, the terror entering her eyes once more. "A-Um-are you ok?"
"Are you going to hurt me?" Her voice quivered, enough to even dent the bold facade of someone like Flynn.
"No, why would I hurt you?" Ok, I need to leave this girl alone before she freaks out and reports me to the cops.
"You're big, scary, and mother told me to stay away from men." She stopped backing away as her eyes scanned him up and down, her teeth nervously chewing on her lower lip in a way that would be strangely cute if she wasn't spouting nonsense.
"Mother? Wait a minute, how old are you?"
Her eyes brightened, "I'm turning 18 tomorrow!" Her fear dissolving into a bubbly smile.
"Look, you realize you're at a bar even though you're underage right?"
"Is this what you call it?" She turned 360 to examine her surroundings, as if she was learning something new. "This place is loud and seemed more colorful than all the floating lights in the sky, so I came here to see what it was about"
"Floating lights? The ones they have every year in the town hall?"
"I knew they weren't stars!" Her face lit up and her whole body perked up in excitement.
At this point, Flynn began to question his own soberness. Was he really talking to a girl who never seen a bar or knew what stars were?
"Look, I don't have time for this now blondie. I kinda have to go home to uh.." he gestured to his damp shirt. "Change my clothes"
"Oh," Her eyes dropped, and a bit of light seemed to leave her green eyes. "I thought you were gonna be my friend"
"Friend?" He sputtered. "Look, you do not want to be my friend blondie. I got a lot of fans who come here to see me, but not friends"
"Can I be your fan then?"
God this girl is insistent. "Alright miss," he chuckled. "You'll catch me downstairs in the basement most nights. Now run along now. It ain't safe here."
"Thank you mister uh"
"Rider. Name's Flynn Rider," he said in a low growl as he did thousands of times before, always managing to make the girls swoon except for this one. Well, everyone's gotta strike out eventually.
"Thank you Flynn Rider."
"Yeah yeah," He bent his head down as he searched his pockets to grab a smoke and lighter, his fingers clammy and wet from the cold. "Say, girl, what's your name?"
He realized he was talking to nobody because the girl was gone and the alley was peaceful yet again. Instead of letting this perturb him, Flynn sat on the doorstep and puffed a long breath of tobacco before watching the smoke exhale from his nose, mingling with the beautiful rain drops that plip-plopped on the awning above his head. He found himself wondering about that strange girl until finally, the cigarette was done. And yet, he wasn't quite satisfied.