The story goes like this.
Three hundred years ago, a man traveling from Midnight Moor to Twilight Town gets attacked by bandits. He's got no weapons- basically, the robbers assume he's gonna surrender his money without any trouble. Their swords are mostly just there to scare him, since the best of the group is half-rusted through and about as deadly as a shingle. The guy calls them out on it. Cut to a bunch of confused wannabe soldiers trying to bludgeon him to death with blunt pieces of ancient garbage.
You can guess the rest. See, this old man has a staff on him, and he starts swinging. Long story short, they head for the hills, and both cities somehow hear about it, so the leaders declare an honorary contest of fighting skill 'commemorating the courage of our citizens' or something. The road ends up mysteriously safe from robbers from then on, travelers start treating it like a sacred place, and the game itself...
Well, here we are.
The heavyset man at the edge of the arena reminds me of an angry bull. Nostrils flaring, eyes wide and twitching- I'm pretty sure he even scuffs the ground with one foot. He's using a two-handed grip on the club's hilt now, but he'll abandon it as soon as he gets caught up in the fighting again. The opposite of what you should do, really.
The announcer said his name at one point. I forgot it instantly.
At the other side of the square, his opponent grins like a wolf. "Come on, chief," he calls out, and lazily swings the club in one hand like a propeller. "What's the holdup? Gettin' busy back there?" A laugh bubbles up from the spectators closest to him, and he rides the wave; switching the club to his other hand, he mimes jabbing it up into his rear, while jerking his free hand back and forth in front of his crotch.
Might not seem like it, but it's smart. He's building up his own confident persona, removing any sign of exhaustion, getting the crowd on his side, and most importantly-
The other combatant roars, lumbering forward, and it's obvious before he crosses half the distance that he's sacrificed every ounce of strategy and preparation for sheer, unguarded ferocity.
-getting in his opponent's head.
There's a moment, just before impact, where the cocky smile vanishes, and it's like I'm seeing a completely different person. His hair sticks up in every direction, dirty streaks only heightening the image of a wild animal, and the bruised, bare shoulders and torn cargo pants don't exactly seem like the markings of a champion fighter. And he's small- smaller than I really noticed before, and definitely smaller than the freight train rapidly bearing down on him.
But his eyes are focused, narrow, like he's not just unafraid of the collision; he's looking forward to it. Jokes or no jokes, he's in control. Sure, he played up the bravado, and the mocking lilt in his voice was disguising real exhaustion, but that's the difference. He can hide it. It's not obvious, but he's fighting to keep the tired from showing in any way.
The perfect shield. And he's using everything: the crowd, his taunting, the weariness, his opponent's rage. They're all swords and staves, blocking and striking.
He's practically cheating. I'm almost tempted to look away before the massacre starts.
The man who's already lost carries the momentum of his charge into a bellowing whirlwind of a swing, swiping the club horizontally in a flash. His target drops to the ground, letting the attack harmlessly pass by- and just as I thought, the club flying over his head is back in a one-handed grip, probably because its owner thinks he'll get a more forceful blow. Technically, he's right. But he also opened himself up, and as the backswing falters down and to the side, the other fighter leaps to his feet and slams his club into the man's unprotected midsection.
There's an actual gasp from the crowd as the big man makes absolutely no sound, only opening his mouth in a pained grimace. His lungs and stomach have probably gotten to know each other a lot better. I wouldn't want to get hit with a shot like that.
A shockwave rattles his body, and soon, the club itself trembles and shatters, Gummi blocks breaking away and falling to the ground. Not only is his weapon substantially weaker, but there's another consequence of the blow: the other fighter holds out his own Struggle club, and in an instant, the Gummi pieces magnetically fly towards it. Just like that, his weapon is stronger and bulkier.
So when the man, straining for breath, reaches up to block, a single blow is all it takes to knock the club from his hand completely.
The wolf's grin is back, and even though the crowd is loving it, even though half the town square is cheering and yelling his name, the young man just levels his club and points it steady. The other one's got one knee on the ground now, and he glares for a few seconds before simply nodding.
Victory by surrender isn't too common, but it happens.
As per usual, the fans jostle their way into the ring to get close to the winner before the announcer can tie it all up with a nice bow. I let the eager crowds move past me, quietly sliding back until I have room to breathe, and start making my way out of the square.
I don't need to congratulate him. He knows I saw.
I pause at the mouth of the alleyway, when the announcer's voice booms over the megaphone:
"Your winner, of the First Round, Red Bracket Match E, is-"
There's a scuffle of noise, and a squeal of feedback. I imagine the fighter in question impudently grabbing the device away, shrugging off tournament officials trying to restore some semblance of order to the announcement. A different voice comes through next, one I know well, and I can practically hear the bright-toothed smile.
"...Hayner goddamn Griffin. Remember the name, 'cause you're gonna be cheering it tomorrow, and your girl's gonna be screaming it tonight."
Heh. No one ever accused the guy of being classy.
I slip through one of the gaps between buildings, making my way past the mostly-empty Tram Common. Back in the Sandlot, the announcer's stammering again, doing his best to deliver the customary endgame speech about the glorious and noble traditions of The Struggle, celebrating the best of humanity's bravery and determination, with champions reaching the pinnacle of glory and fame on nothing but their own hard work, blah blah blah.
I'm not much of a believer. See, this version of the story sells a lot of T-shirts, and I get that, but I have another theory. Say you have two guys, getting in a fight or something. And one notices there are sticks all around. So he picks one up and starts whaling away, yeah? Well, what's the other guy gonna do?
Exactly. Now, all you really need is a third guy to look and think, "Hey, looks kinda fun." Just like that, you've got your origin story for the most popular sport in Twilight Town. Nothing's as glamorous as we imagine, you know?
Don't get me wrong, there's still the presentation. We've got the megaphones, and the rulebooks, and the tournament brackets- and the gear's all shiny and new, and the magic, and the tech, and the way the game itself exploded into entertainment and culture and tourism and matches that straight-up shut down businesses for most of the day... it's a pretty big deal.
But come on. I mean, watch a match sometime. We're still hitting each other with sticks. It's violent, it's juvenile, and the delinquents and degenerates coating the sandpits with blood and spit wouldn't have it any other way.
Besides, The Struggle's been around forever. This one's the... geez, the 46th Annual, I think. And that's only since we set up all the rules and stuff, besides the centuries of shadow leagues and backyard fights. It's practically in our blood.
Pretty soon, I'm climbing the slopes of the town's winding back alleys. The hideout's not impossible to spot, but most people don't care to search through two and a half dilapidated warehouses just to get to a nondescript literal hole in the wall. Once I push past the curtain out front, I can see the entirety of the place: random boards and traffic cones littering the floor, posters for music festivals and a ragged dartboard on the wall, and a few brick columns stretching to the ceiling that shakes every few hours with another passing train, since the tracks run close enough to make the whole street rattle.
Home sweet dump.
The Sandlot isn't much better, but there's not much else to offer in this town. Where'm I gonna go, the skate parks? Please. Those punks have hated me since I scooped the illegal downtown tracks faster than they ever did, and didn't get caught. Only thing more satisfying was seeing their faces when I told them it was 'totally radical'.
S'pose I could get a real long-term job, of course. Join the long and prestigious history of our mail system. I might even make it a month before I papercut myself to death out of sheer boredom. There's the trains, I guess, but there are only so many places you can go. And I've already seen them all.
Plus, I'm not on the best of terms with the conductor, since he's had to kick Hayner off the train half a dozen times for trying to sneak a ride without paying. Or the mailman, come to think of it, who once lost half his delivery because Hayner accidentally riled up the city's stray dogs in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time. Or the shopkeepers Hayner's stolen from. Or the gangs Hayner's brawled with. Or the Struggle officials he's scammed.
There's really only one person in this town who doesn't hate me, and he's the reason everyone else does.
"D'ja like the show?" Striding in behind me, slapping a hand on my shoulder, the man of the hour flashes another one of his famous smiles before flopping down on one of the crates near the corner of the room. He stretches with a loud yawn, and now that I'm not on the edge of the crowd, I can see more clearly: the bruises are worse than I thought. Previous matches, or maybe a few blows from today's, have left their mark on his shoulders in particular- blue and black spots color the skin.
It's amazing he can still swing a club at all.
I hum a grunt in response, as he's come to expect, and he gives a barking laugh. "You're not hard to spot, you know. Hidin' all shifty at the edge of the group like some kinda creeper." Leaning his head over the edge, he looks at me upside-down. "I'm just so touched you'd come out to watch your good friend kick some ass."
The wild side of it's never bothered me. Personally, I'm convinced the only reason Twilight Town runs the way it does is because we have a way of blowing off steam. A few broken forearms here and there, but it works.
Still, once in a while, I see someone like Hayner, and I wonder.
But I follow his example, and I don't let it show on my face. "Just... scopin' the competition," I say quietly.
He laughs again. He knows my first official match is later tonight. He knows I'm going to win, too, just like I knew he'd win his. "S'a good game," he says. "You'll have fun."
Fun. Sure. But I'm watching his eyes while he says it, and I know that the jokes aren't the point. He doesn't really care about the taunting, or the half-measures of fame, or even the jabs about sex. What he wants, more than anything else, is to get to the very top. He wants the title match, and he wants his name engraved on the Champion's Trophy- anything else would be settling. And Hayner's never been one to settle.
It's all or nothing.
He flips the club- now restored to regulation status- a few times, humming a nonsense tune, looking for all the world like a lazy teenager feeling pleased with himself after a game. But I know better. The Struggle's in his blood, just like it's in mine. A train rumbles down the tracks, and I smile, because there's something else- something even Hayner doesn't know.
I'm going to win the whole damn tournament.