Michael Schmidt tried—and failed—to ignore the drowning screaming of the surrounding crowd. Not being one to particularly enjoy the limelight, he felt a swarm of butterflies form in his chest due to the sheer amount of people filling the coliseum-like room.
Though who could really blame him?
After all, his previous matches had all been equivalent to underground street fights, with maybe twenty people in the crowd at most. Then again, with 'Diva' fights that number could occasionally reach numbers nearing fifty, but that was beside the point. He had expected back when he was requested to challenge the "Freddy Circuit", that it would bring in a higher crowd population. His manager had confirmed this when he told him tonight's match would be "a little bit of an escalation" when compared to his previous ones. Well, Michael promised himself to introduce that manager to the floor via his fist after the match.
Right. Because over ONE-HUNDRED-THOUSAND more people is definitely a little bit of an escalation in people, Michael thought in irritation, glaring holes into the ring floor. Taking a steadying breath, he lifted his head to size-up his animatronic opponent for the night—the first of three guards to be fought throughout the Freddy Circuit, and easily the most skilled opponent he had faced thus far. Even if she didn't exactly look like it.
Toy Chica was almost a good half-foot shorter than Michael, who stood at a decent 6'2" height. She wore pink gym shorts, boxing gloves, and a bib that read "LET'S RUMBLE" covered her disturbingly human-like chest (except for the fake feathers, mind you).
Noticing his gaze, Toy Chica removed the mouth guard from her beak and waved him over. Whatever reason the animatronic would need to protect her beak, Michael didn't know. Shaking the confusing thought from his head, he cast a quick glance up at the clock on the monitor above. Two minutes left. I guess a little 'before fight chat' won't do any harm, he thought, removing a glove to take out his own mouth guard.
"Well howdy there, Newcomer!" Toy Chica exclaimed with a slight southern drawl as he hesitantly approached her corner. "What's your name?"
"Michael Schmidt. You can call me Mike."
The yellow animatronic smiled, and held out a gloved hand to him. "Mike, huh? Well, it's mighty nice to meet ya'!"
"Thanks. Your uh...boss—Mr. Freddy Fazbear? He got a hold of me after my last match and told me I had what it takes to challenge the 'Freddy Circuit'. As you can see, I accepted his offer," he said, awkwardly shaking the offered hand. Both Toy Chica's smile and any trace of cheeriness disappeared, quickly being replaced by a shocked expression. Her hand yanked away from his.
"Wait...Freddy HIMSELF asked ya' to challenge us?"
As it was spoken in almost a whisper, Mike was surprised to have heard Toy Chica's words over the crowd. Crossing his arms, he asked, "Why, is there an issue?"
Toy Chica opened her beak to speak, but froze. The smile suddenly reappeared on her face—albeit a little forced, and she shook her head. "Nope, but hey! Don't disappoint the big guy by gettin' smacked around too much tonight, Mike." She gave him a slight push towards his corner.
Mike wanted to inquire further about her odd behavior, but noticed a referee entering the ring. Ah, well. It was probably nothing, anyway, he thought with a mental shrug. With one last nod in Toy Chica's direction, he began the small trek towards his designated area.
He was just getting finished replacing all of his gear when the ref', microphone in hand, began introducing the fighters.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Introducing your fighters for the niiight! In this corner...weighing in at 198 pounds, we have the animatronic from the South—Toy Chica the Chicken!" he said in a thick Boston accent, motioning a hand towards said animatronic. The room rumbled as the surrounding sea of faces cheered and bellowed in delight. Once the sound had died down to the point to where you could kinda hear your own thoughts, the man brought the mic back to his mouth.
"Aaaand in this corner...weighing in at 207 pounds, we have a champion-in-the-making from the outskirts of town—Michael Schmidt!"
While it was certainly less than what had happened for Toy Chica, the crowd still roared in thunderous applause and cheering. Mike's cheeks flared up with the realization that a crowd large enough to be a small army had gathered here to watch him fight. Or to watch him get beat to a pulp. Either possibility was flattering.
Mike watched as the referee, with long strides, walked over and handed the microphone off to a man outside of the ring. He turned back towards the fighters and started counting down the remaining five seconds on his fingers. As soon as it reached zero, a bell rang out twice to signal the start of a round and Toy Chica and Mike took their place in the center.
They circled one another slowly, never taking their eyes off of the other. Mike felt the outer pressure of the crowd slowly fade as his focus concentrated on the foe ahead of him. Steadily shifting his weight between his lead (right) and rear (left) feet, he forced his muscles to stay loose so to preserve energy.
He threw a light, quick jab. With raised arms, Toy Chica blocked it and returned to a neutral stance, eyes glued to him. I didn't expect it to be easy, but...she barely even reacted to that, Mike thought, frowning. The thought was forced from his head as he lunged forward, hurling his stronger left fist at her. Deflecting the hit away with her leading glove, T. Chica stepped forward and slammed him in the gut with the other. Oxygen left Mike's lungs with a pained cough.
Now, Mike had partaken in many fights before this; the exact number eluded him, but he guessed it lingered somewhere near a hundred. Even if he boxed long enough to make that unspecific number a THOUSAND matches—he'd still never get used to getting the air knocked out of him like that.
With countless cardio sessions under his belt, though, he managed to recover just in time to block two rapid jabs. Noticing an all too familiar twisting motion in Toy Chica's hips, Mike ducked and narrowly avoided an incoming hook. Thrusting his arm out, he managed to land a solid hit and T. Chica staggered back, raising her gloves in an attempt to defend herself. Not fast enough; another fist followed up and into her chin.
Thunderous applause and cheering seemed to almost shake the room as the two fighters continued their battle.
Several rounds went on to be the same. Neither fighter looked to be slowing down, even as exhaustion began to settle in over the course of the match. It even seemed as if the two were perfectly evenly-matched...for a while. Eventually though, it became evident that the constant clashing finally got to Mike when right as the timer was about to run out in the fifth round—Toy Chica knocked him down. And for several seconds, the bruised and battered man stayed down. Many in the crowd thought he was done for, but were shocked to see him defiantly rise back to his feet.
The raw taste of copper, the world spinning around him, the dull aching throughout his arms, legs, torso, and head; Mike's body begged for him to give up. And with each passing second the temptation to listen grew….
I have to get her down quickly, he thought grimly; the ding of a bell signaling the start of Round 6. This KFC reject won't even have to knock me out if I don't.
Taking a deep, but shaky breath, Mike took pained steps back into the center of the ring and got into a ready stance across from Toy Chica.
A lightning-fast punch to the face instantly shattered his guard. Staggered, he clenched his teeth and ducked as a hook whizzed over his head. He blindly swung forward. Having easily blocked the hit, Toy Chica was ready when Mike sluggishly followed it with a hook. Toy Chica leaned back and his fist flew uselessly past her. The movement gained a lot of momentum, which she used to great effect. A devastating uppercut connected with Mike's chin.
Mike's head rolled back, stars temporarily filling his vision. He shook the pesky things away and lifted a glove to shield his now throbbing jaw. In hindsight, it...probably hadn't been the best choice. Toy Chica took advantage of the situation, and took another swing at him. He raised his free-hand to stop it; however, right as the blow was about to connect, she brought it back and slammed his chest with an unforeseen fist.
The man winced in pain, but managed to recover in time as Toy Chica followed her assault with a hook. Mike deflected it, and—realizing that his only remaining chance at victory was mind games, he quickly flipped the positioning of his feet.
And Toy Chica certainly hadn't expected that.
She was thrown off enough to give Mike time to push her backward with a strong, straight punch. Continuing on, he flipped back to his usual "Southpaw" footing and jabbed at her face. The initial shock was gone though, and T. Chica easily blocked the hit.
As he was pulling his fist back, a realization hit Mike (much like Toy Chica had done before). I'm almost completely out of viable options...I have to finish her off now. I hate to admit it, but I don't think I'll last even a minute longer.
Two actions came to mind. The first; he could muster up any and all of his remaining strength and attempt to unleash it in one monstrous punch—risky, and dumb. The second; he could just keep trying to block every one of Toy Chica's attacks like some sort of pseudo Jedi until she eventually wore herself out and Mike won by technical knockout—just plain stupid.
...with basic logic, you can probably guess which method Michael Schmidt used.
He slowly started backing away from Toy Chica. Said animatronic chicken stood with her gloves to her hips, bemused, as Mike gained several feet of distance from her; stopped, and then started sprinting back in her direction.
Mike let out a grunt of effort as he reeled his arm back and lashed out—but hit nothing but air. With such a large amount of momentum behind him, he had been unable to react in time when Toy Chica sidestepped clear out of the way. Fumbling and stumbling, Mike clumsily turned on his heel with an audible squeak. He was met with repeating jabs to the abdomen; each blow sending surges of pain through his body. One—two—three jabs to the gut were followed by a sturdy fist clocking him in the side of the head.
It was too much for him.
Mike was unconscious before he hit the floor. The referee stepped into the center of the ring and began a particular slow eight-count. Each vocalized number brought the volume of the crowd higher and higher several decibels, until it was a conglomerate of cheers and screams as Toy Chica was pronounced the match's victor by K.O.
"Well, that couldn't have gone any worse."
Mike slumped down on the cold, stone steps, backpack set next to him and an icepack held to his jaw. Grumbling to himself, he sat silently for a few moments before quietly sighing. Okay…yeah, that WAS a bit of an over exaggeration, but I just made a FOOL of myself in front of thousands.
Experimentally rolling his jaw a few times, Mike decided the pain was bearable on its own. He tossed the disposable icepack into a nearby dumpster.
Closing his eyes, his head tilted forward slightly with absent pondering.
Looking back on the match further, Mike eventually came to the realization that—he actually didn't do that bad. Sure, he had lost the fight; and that sucked on astronomical levels. But he'd be damned if he hadn't put a pretty good beating on that animatronic chicken. That's not something a lot of people could say, now was it?
Mike let that little tidbit dwell in his mind as he rummaged through the contents of his bag. Moving around his cellphone; some clothes; a pair of boxing gloves; his fingers eventually met the cold plastic of a water bottle, which he quickly slammed down in two gulps.
Just as he was about to throw the empty container away, he heard the growing sound of footsteps. Instinctively, Mike's head shot in the direction of the noise and he cast a glare. He raised his fists defensively and noticed a tall, hooded figure approaching him.
"Chill out, slugger; I mean no harm," it said, stopping in its tracks. The figure's voice was feminine. Strangely alien-sounding, but feminine nonetheless.
Mike Schmidt squinted to make out any details in the dim light. The (he assumed) woman's hood was up, which completely obscured any and all visibility of her face. Likewise; they also had their hands stuffed in the hoodie's pockets.
"U-uhm, alright. What do you need?" Mike asked her, silently cursing himself for being unable to hide the slight tremble in his voice.
"Nothing, really. Do you mind if I have a seat?"
Taken aback by the simple question, Mike subconsciously dropped his fists back down onto his lap. He hesitated to give an answer. His instincts screamed at him, trying to warn him of danger. For all he knew this person could just be trying to lure him into a false sense of security before making him into a good ol' fashioned boxer-kebab! ...then again, Mike was fairly certain that he'd be capable of defending himself in such a situation.
Pushing down and ignoring the countless inner-voices begging him to flee, Mike cleared his throat before finally answering, "No. Uhm, not at all." He scooted aside to give her room on the staircase.
The hooded woman sat down on a step below him, silent. A pit of dread began forming in Mike's gut as she remained silent, not even bothering to look at him. It continued building up, feeling like a giant's fist was squeezing his mid-section tighter and tighter. The best comparison he could make was a dog's squeak-toy.
Narrowing his eyes at the ground, Mike's mouth was a thin line as he forced himself to focus back on the fight. Annnyway...I guess now is probably the best time to consider what my next course of action is. Is it even worth it to start training for a rematch, or should I just head back to the minor leagues? I mean, I hate to admit it but that chicken was tough as nails. And she's only the FIRST of THREE. Motherfucking THREE...
Lost in thought, Mike had almost completely forgotten about the odd woman until she eventually spoke up. "I don't know about you, but—I think ya' did pretty damn good earlier, Schmidt."
Mike opened his mouth to thank her, but froze, as he noticed something. "How did you know my name?"
Since her face was hidden, the fact that she had rolled her eyes was lost to him. In a slightly irritated tone, she replied, "Isn't it obvious? I was at your fight. And, as I've already mentioned...you did very well." Her head turned a little so she could peer at him. "Infact, that was probably the best match I've seen in around thirty years."
"Oh. Well, er, thank you—I guess," Mike said, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck. Dang, thirty years? Who is this girl? "Heh, I've got to admit, though, that I'm a bit curious—what's your name?"
Almost the instant the question escaped his lips, Mike regretted asking it. It was the way the woman had turned away so suddenly, and now sat without even the slightest bit of visible movement. It unnerved him to the core. Had he offended this mystery person in some way?
Then, before Mike could even think to react, the woman pulled a hand from her pocket to unzip the hoodie. She threw it off, and in the same motion; stood and whirled around to face him.
It was awkward, really. For several seconds neither of them said anything, simply looking each other in the eyes. Mike slowly shook the shock from his system and stood up, retrieved his jaw from off the floor, then forced himself to speak up.
"You're...one of them. An...uhm, an animatronic—Foxy, if I remember right."
She nodded and the ends of her lips turned upward in a smirk. "That's right," she stated, then arched an eyebrow. "Is that an issue?"
Seeing as a conflict was probably the last thing he wanted, you could understand Mike's reaction when he instinctively raised his hands, palms facing out toward her. "No, no."
Nodding with a seemingly blank expression, Foxy waved away all the previous nonsense in their discussion with a sweep of her hand and sat back down on the stone step. "Look...slugger, I came here to give you an offer."
Mike also took a seat down on the staircase, though intentionally taking the farthest step from her. "...what would this offer be, exactly?"
"Do you really want to beat the Freddy Circuit?"
That definitely caught his attention. Foxy couldn't help but grin at how wide his eyes got at the question. That, if anything, showed how much the man wanted this.
"...I'll take your silence as a 'yes'," she said, quietly snickering to herself. That pleased expression quickly disappeared; however, and was replaced by a serious one. "Schmidt. I've seen ya' box. You're a good fighter, and from what I can tell you have the talent to be incredible. The thing is, though...you just haven't reached your full potential. And unfortunately, there's the sad, but very realistic possibility that you...may never reach that potential by yourself.
"...I can help you reach that potential," she said, "I can train you. That is, if you want me to."
Mike frowned and sat in a contemplative silence, lightly rubbing his chin. She's right. He absolutely hated admitting it, because it could mean all his years of training and steeling himself for such a challenge was all for naught—but she was right. Would it be worth the trouble though? He had never trained with anybody before, as unsociable as he was. Yes, he thought, tightly clenching his fists. I've come too far to not take a chance at success.
With one last affirmative nod to himself, Mike finally exclaimed, "It's a deal." He was so committed to this, indeed, that—despite feeling a distinct discomfort on direct contact—he held out his right hand. Foxy simply stared at the hovering appendage. For several seconds, she sat there with what looked like a glare, with which she made Mike slightly recoil. He realized, suddenly, that Foxy had been hiding her right hand from him throughout their whole conversation.
She grumbled, and then revealed her hand to him. But it wasn't a hand at all. In its place, there was a sharp, titanium hook.
Perplexed, Miked stuttered, "H-how did—"
"Don't worry about it," Foxy almost snarled. Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile back on her maw. "Just...don't worry about it." She offered her left hand. Tentatively, Mike took the extended hand and shook it. Fake fur pressed against his palm and fingers; it felt alien to him, but he tried his best to ignore the feeling.
"So...F-Foxy, when do we start?" Mike asked.
A genuine smirk replaced Foxy's previously forced expression. "Tomorrow morning, obviously."
