Author's Note: Managed to get this done a few days earlier than usual! Not medal-worthy, but quite an achievement in my current state. I do think updates on March and potentially April might be stretching it, though, because I have SO MUCH ELSE to do. Gahh! T-T But Alphabet is nearly over, so I guess that's good on its own. Comments on the last chapter are:

Paparazzi - Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. Bald Bull was pestered by the media and shows very little regard for them, while Super Macho Man simply loves them to bits. This one came about when I was wondering how on earth those two personalities could stand each other in the WVBA, especially when the former's berserk button would be triggered every time he saw Super Macho Man's paparazzi posse. It was a sort of hilarious yet strangely interesting picture that had to be written. Bald Bull's comment is harsher in hindsight, of course. None of those boxers actively mean any offense to the other. But regardless of all that, it can't be said that no one learnt any lessons through their experiences, although they tell themselves otherwise. Little Mac is again the catalyst to these changes, I see - either I use him too much or he is just that big of an influence. O_o

Quintessential - A non-boxer drabble as you saw in 'Melancholy', which was dedicated to Carmen. I hope these come across as interesting and not just pointless ways of cutting down on having to write for boxers, gahhh. This one really comes from understanding what's going on in a few boxer intermissions in the Wii game - the Referee has the unenviable position of keeping in control two boxers in the game, one of which is probably out for your blood (if in Title Defense, probably all of them are), and he manages it. Also his look is so classic and gentlemanly that it's sort of remarkable how he manages to juggle all of those things. Referees by definition take care of the rules of the game, but I extended his role further in here. Of course, to do all this in a fair manner, the very essence of the boxing spirit needs to be concentrated in him. Despite some humiliation and some injuries suffered from his job, he keeps going. He's a good man.

Reflection - This is a serious drabble that deals with Glass Joe's struggle with his past and self-confidence. He's three years younger than in the games. This is really best understood if you've read 'Solitude' from my other collection, Written in Fine Print. I see Glass Joe as an orphan who's gone through some horrible things in his life and still suffers from the remains of it. I like to focus on his helplessness and inner angst, though arguably I do it too much, considering how much stuff I write for the man. x.x I feel that I've done a good job in this one, personally, it's quite focused and takes part in a time frame that can't have taken more than ten or so minutes. Also it's quite happy at the end, because he realises that he is not alone - this is an important realisation to make for him in order to recover, and he's taking small steps towards it. Consider it an almost sequel to 'Solitude'.

... These comments are getting ridiculously long. I swear this section gets longer than some of the drabbles here with each update. But anyway, this is the seventh installment featuring drabbles S-U, starring Von Kaiser, Glass Joe, Piston Hondo and Super Macho Man in that order. Von Kaiser and Glass Joe share the same one, 'Suppress', but it's very much just for Kaiser. No slash, but I do think this is one of the best incarnations of Von Kaiser I've ever written. These drabbles were far easier to write than the previous set, but I do fear that 'Suppress' veers too far into oneshot territory. I do think it's a fine piece, although some pretty non-family friendly descriptions of violence and PTSD are included. However, don't expect anything from me at March - going to Italy for a trip for a week then and working furiously on my coursework too.

Chaos Wielder/ Yep, Piston Hondo would very much like his privacy and honour kept in pristine condition! I've added that small aspect to his drabble. I worried that Super Macho Man's attitude to the press may be seen as too out of character, but I'm glad that it didn't seem completely out of proportion. I mean, the guy needs to have cameramen and journalists coming from somewhere to add to his fame - I wouldn't be surprised if he gave them plenty of slack and gave consideration to their demands to keep them happy and safely on his side.

Read on.


Suppress - Von Kaiser

"Have you ever wondered how to kill a person with a bayonet, Joseph?"

The younger man, better known as Glass Joe, blinks and stares at the man sitting next to him. This isn't quite the conversation opener he expected. "What do you mean?" he asks in turn; the other man doesn't reply but rummages around in his pockets for a second or so before taking out a small white packet. He plucks out a thin cigarette and places it delicately in between his lips, fishing out a slim silver lighter and lighting the tip of it. All this is done in a few deft movements; Glass Joe watches, half spellbound at the other's dexterity and the surprising amount of elegance the older man displays. He leans back and takes hold of the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, inhaling the smoke slowly and seemingly savouring the sensation. His name is Von Kaiser, thirty-one years of age, four years Glass Joe's senior; he's a military man, disciplined and stoic, much admired within the WVBA. Rumour has it that he was a baron once, but he has neither confirmed or denied it; he's a very thoughtful man, it's rare that he starts up any conversation on his own, and even rarer that it should be about personal matters.

"I asked you if you'd ever wondered how to kill someone with a bayonet," he finally says, letting the pearly smoke out in one long breath, sounding uncannily like a sigh. The younger man coughs lightly and he looks over with under-ether green eyes. "do you mind that I smoke?"

"Non, not at all, Monsieur Von Kaiser," Glass Joe says, his cheeks lightly flushed, adding the name for firm emphasis - in truth he does mind the smoke, but he doesn't want to get on the other's bad side. Besides, there is also something fairly striking about Von Kaiser and the way he holds his cigarette - he doesn't want to lose that image, it's such a powerful one. Not yet, at least. But of course like most beautiful fantasies in life, this goes unrecognized - Von Kaiser simply takes another puff of the cigarette before dropping it on the ground and unceremoniously crushing it out with the heel of his boots.

"Ich entschuldige mich," Von Kaiser says tonelessly as he looks over, his eyes still fairly distant. They resemble a sort of thousand-yard stare, only vaguely focused on Glass Joe's form. "it calms my nerves."

The younger man remains silent. Something deep and personal is coming, and he simultaneously anticipates it with a sort of eagerness and braces himself for it. Von Kaiser is a man of a thousand secrets and it's rare that he lets on one like this.

"Well, do you?"

"Non, Monsieur."

"Understandable," the German replies in the same blank tone and looks at the sky. "I trust you haven't had military experience, let alone ever kill someone," a long sideways glance. "or have you? Thought of it, even?"

The Frenchman shakes his head, horror evident in his features. "Non, non! I would never dream of such a thing! Mon Dieu, c'est-"

Von Kaiser suddenly turns sharply towards him, his gaze narrowed. "Do not judge me," he cuts in, his voice considerably more embittered than the Frenchman has ever heard. "compassion was not a part of my job. Ich habe keine Schuld! I had to, no matter how much I tried to avoid it. I would like to make that very clear to you before I tell you anything else. Verstanden?"

Silence. Glass Joe nods, his face quite pale.

"Killing with a bayonet is not a simple process, Joseph. People make the assumption that one or two stabs will do the job, but it seldom will. It will likely be all right if you aim for the heart and get it right first time - but simply stabbing and withdrawing a couple of times on any other part of the body doesn't work. He will get up and chase you before he bleeds to death. You cannot risk that."

"No."

The German takes a deep breath. "We used to practice killing men with bayonets. We were taught to stab deeply in the stomach. Not the heart or anywhere else we deemed weak spots, because the abdomen is a larger and easier target - and twist it sideways so that it will tear the intestines to shreds. Then he will die a slow, painful death lying on the battlefield; of course should the damage be bad enough, or someone else finishes them off, death may not be slow by all means. But if you just stab and pull the bayonet out, he will likely get back up and tear you to shreds instead before he goes down. That was what we were taught to do, stab and twist before we had the same done to us. Do you understand?"

Glass Joe is paler than before and twice as quiet, but he nods even as the terror is evident in his eyes. Von Kaiser looks at him in the eyes - soft brown ones meeting piercing green - before he resumes his tale. "But being told what to do and actually doing so are different things, Joseph. I went into combat knowing that and not much else," he runs his fingers through his dark red hair as he says this, tousling it lightly. The Frenchman looks at him and thinks that the tousled hair gives the older man an oddly boyish look - that's what he must have looked like when he was a soldier, he thinks to himself. He can almost imagine a young Von Kaiser in his uniform, his posture straight and focused; the Frenchman rather fancies for a moment or two that he can even see a sleek, polished Eisernkreuze gleaming from his uniform jacket. "But I was lucky in a way - I was successful the first time."

"You mean..."

"Ja, I did kill him," Von Kaiser answers, a hint of annoyance entering his tone, and Glass Joe remembers that the German is not a man of much patience. "what did you expect, Joseph? It was a combat situation! I had to, or else he would have killed me instead-"

"Je sais," the younger man quickly cuts in to defuse the situation. "please continue. What happened?"

But the fragile atmosphere of secrecy has already been shattered. Von Kaiser turns his head away, a small frown crossing his face, and is silent. The moment is gone and whatever secrets he may have wanted to let out will now remain secrets for a while more - cursing himself for his clumsiness, Glass Joe nevertheless carries on looking at him, hoping he will say more.

"Our superiors did not tell us anything about what it feels like to hold a bayonet within a writhing human body. The only thing I could think of in that moment was how heavy his body was - and then everything became clear," the older man finally says before he stands up. "but I don't blame them. There were times I thought I would never forget the screams, the agony on his face, the blood pouring out of him - and I doubt I ever will. Now excuse me, Joseph... I have to wash my hands..."

Washing hands is one activity that Von Kaiser does very often, and the Frenchman has noticed that before. Now's a good time as any to ask; he supposes that it's good that Von Kaiser isn't angry at him and he probably can ask one thing more of him. If the German doesn't want to answer, he can pretend he didn't understand. "Mais pourquoi, Monsieur?"

He looks at the younger man, suddenly looking tired, suddenly looking as if he has lived through all of human sorrow. "I have not felt clean for years," he says, before he goes back inside the building. Glass Joe sits in a daze for about five or so minutes before he tentatively follows the other inside; there, he finds the older man standing by the sink, hot steamy water running over his hands and staring straight ahead in the mirror. He really should do something about that, the water looks hot and his palms are red from the heat - but one look at the man's expressionless face stops that chain of thought.

"Verzeih mir," Von Kaiser whispers, his voice echoing softly around the room. And only then does the younger man understand that it's not over for the older man, will never be completely over for him, that he will always be suffering - and that he needs to suppress his own emotions for fear of losing himself. That's why he can ignore the burning sensation of the water, because that is far less painful than the other things he has to live with day after day. Von Kaiser's not quite done with that bayonet of his despite having left the army - now his opponent is not an enemy soldier, but himself. He'll need to fight, stab and twist and keep his emotions in check for many years to come, for fear that he should ever be consumed by them. Glass Joe stands in the doorway, gazing sadly at the older man, and Von Kaiser stands by the sink, blankly gazing ahead in a thousand-yard stare, locked in that eternal moment in his past when something inside him died forever.

As the sounds of the ticking clock and the running water merge together - somewhere back in time, a young Von Kaiser is kneeling on a cold bathroom floor, desperately praying and weeping.


Tea - Piston Hondo

His morning begins when he opens his eyes at exactly six thirty in a well-lit room.

Piston Hondo never needs an alarm-clock or coffee to wake him up in the mornings; he does not like laziness, so waking up comes very naturally to him. He opens his eyes, stretches lightly and gets up - after a few more stretches, he opens the window and folds up his futon neatly before stepping outside his room. Opening the curtains, he lets the sunlight in and the rest of the apartment is soon bathed in sunlight as he goes straight to the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove. It is time for his morning tea.

It is his third day waking up in a different country. He has rented a small apartment for a month while training and attending matches; normally he prefers to commute by plane just for the match and leave for home afterwards. He tries to not stay for more than five days or a week at the very maximum, but because his second match with Little Mac is coming up - and because the boy is the new Champion, this time is an exception. It will be the most important match of his life so far. Because of that sheer importance, he has decided to stay and train longer - but in return for getting to observe Little Mac's techniques more and being able to train under WVBA conditions, he has had to compromise some of his uniquely Japanese daily routine for a while as well. He can't exactly have his usual half-hour of meditation in utter silence, for one; it's far too full of noise in his apartment. But wherever he goes, noise is always present in some form, and never entirely pleasing sounds either. He can't exactly appreciate nature every day - he has a rock garden back home, but there aren't many things even remotely like that near where he is now. And the thing that pains him the most is that he can't perform his daily tea ceremony properly, because he didn't bring the necessary equipment for it - he only has the whisk, a couple of tea bowls and packets of matcha. He doesn't even have the obligatory wagashi sweets to sweeten his palate before drinking the bitter tea. But, for the time being, it'll have to do.

Piston Hondo gazes at the boiling water and thinks that it really is a shame that he can't perform the tea ceremony in its entirety; he's spent years perfecting his technique, and he takes much pride in the tea he can make with the full equipment and time. But he has neither and he has to go to work, so he settles for what can be done more quickly while still keeping to tradition. He takes the kettle off and leaves the water to cool down slightly while he goes about preparing the matcha.

He sieves a small amount of matcha into the tea bowl, pours the (not boiling but still hot) water over it, and uses a bamboo whisk to blend the mixture together. This is all done in a slow relaxed manner; the man has done it so much that he no longer even needs to consciously think about what he is doing. Everything, from the exact speed of blending to the time it takes for the mixture to gain an even consistency, comes to him without him needing to consider it. He uses this time to check the clock and see how he's doing for time; quarter to seven. Plenty of time. When the tea is fully prepared, he takes a petit-four out of box (obtained from a nearby deli) to substitute for his usual wagashi. All that's left to do is to take the whole thing through to the balcony where a table and chair is waiting for him - he sits down, gazing at the bright sky and the world coming to life beneath him.

Drinking tea is a sort of ritual for him. It's one of the only times where he can let himself truly relax, and clear his mind from any thoughts that bother him. It's different from tea he shares with people - it's nice to socialise over a cup, of course, and it's fair to say that his daily lunchtime tea break with Great Tiger is one of the highlights of his days. But he vastly prefers tea that he drinks by himself in his own solitude, because he can then lose himself in the scent, his own deep contemplations, and nothing can bother him. He takes a sip of the matcha and nods quietly in satisfaction, closing his eyes and leaning back.

He's a long way from home, away from his family and friends. He's in a different environment, a different lifestyle, a different world. And it's fair to say that he feels swept up in it far more often than he'd like to admit, in the bustling city life. Piston Hondo is a very reserved person and he's still not quite used to being here, in a country where his fights are documented and publicised with almost painful regularity; privacy and quiet isn't something he gets a lot over in the USA. Call it culture shock, but he can see that it's still going to be a while before he can truly settle in.

But at the same time, he knows that he won't lose himself so easily. Piston Hondo thinks back to his defeat in Little Mac's hands, and how quickly the boy tore through the ranks to attain the status of Champion - and inwardly feels a sense of respect towards him. The boy did it through perseverance and his own courage, and there's no reason why the Japanese man cannot. Little Mac is truly a worthy opponent, he thinks to himself, as he takes another sip of the tea. He swirls the nearly-empty bowl around a little as he carries on thinking. He has his family to think of, his honour to maintain, and to achieve the best he can he has to be diligent and self-composed. And he won't let anything take those virtues away from him.

Besides, he still has his daily ritual; it honestly isn't as if he is too far removed from his home to forget himself. The tea reminds him every day that it will be all right, that it won't be long before he's home with his family, and that he's still very much who he is. It's quarter past seven and the tea is finished; with another nod, he goes back inside and puts away the bowl. Now all he needs to do is to make himself clean and presentable and have some breakfast. He steps into the bathroom, noting that he has a lot of time left still - it's just the way he likes it. It's only more relaxation for him, and the more he can settle his mind the more efficient he will be for that day.

After a shower and a light breakfast, he dresses in a calm and slow manner; checking himself in the mirror, he smiles at himself very briefly before leaving the apartment. A long day lies ahead, and he's completed his ritual, leaving only one more small thing to be done as part of his preparations for the day. So he arrives at the station at eight o'clock and outruns a train and he feels so very much better indeed.


Undeterred - Super Macho Man

"Damn," he mutters through clenched teeth as he sits in the changing rooms, flipping the pages of the newspaper with a feverish intensity. "damn. Oh Christ. Goddamn."

He flings that newspaper away and glances at another one (the one on top of an entire newspaper stack, nonetheless), only to let out another exclamation of disgust and utter dismay; acting almost like a man possessed, he blindly tosses down newspaper after newspaper, destroying the stack entirely and seeing the same thing on every headline. He finally stands up and throws down the final set of papers on the ground, letting out a wordless yell of utter frustration; Soda Popinski and Bear Hugger, who have been occupying the same room (and watching the scene unfold with increasing discomfort), stare at him in both alarm and confusion.

"'Scuse me," Super Macho Man says (half to himself), his words coming out in a bare whisper. He's going to lose it at any second, he can feel it coming - and in a moment of genuine consideration for the two boxers, he hurtles out the door of the changing rooms and across the corridor, running towards one of the training rooms that he knows is deserted this afternoon.

He makes the trip successfully, quickly slams the door shut, and starts screaming and pummelling a punching bag. Little Mac's done it again.

He honestly hasn't expected this one. Little Mac's been offered numerous contracts from various agents who want to cash into his success; it's obviously not enough for the brat to take away his fangirls, the white-haired man thinks furiously as he keeps up his assault on the bag. That was insulting enough, losing his fangirls to a boy a full decade younger he is. Little Mac's not even old enough to really enjoy their company anyway, judging from his disturbed reactions whenever they try to barge into the WVBA to squeal over him. But from what Super Macho Man read, the agents who offered Little Mac their contracts are the same ones who've been with him since the beginning of his career. They obviously haven't bothered to tell him that he's being dropped - and the icing on the cake is that nearly all the contractors did the exact same thing and jumped ship to Little Mac, enough of them taking action to end up in the headlines. That is truly the final straw for the man and he carries on yelling, letting out his fury on the (now heavily battered) punching bag and wishing with all his might that he was beating the daylights out of the boy instead.

His stamina eventually loses out to his fury; he collapses on the floor and lies back, actually feeling incredibly disoriented and somewhat sick from the sheer force of his anger and yet too tired to move. As he does so his fingers brush the now-useless punching bag, and he manages to gaze down in astonishment at his bleeding knuckles. He just destroyed a perfectly good punching bag with fists alone and didn't even realise that he hadn't put his gloves on - he would have, he thinks to himself somewhat bemusedly, because he'd been in the process of putting on hand wraps when he'd been checking through these newspapers. Said wraps are still hanging onto his hands, but only barely; they couldn't have protected his hands very well, he never finished putting them on properly. Now that he's calmer and thinking more rationally, Super Macho Man begins to feel the little finger on his right hand aching - he might have fractured it, it's a common but easily preventable injury. The fact that he's sunk so low only really hits him then, and when it does, only a small laugh of utter disbelief escapes him.

Never mind the potential injury; the doctor at the WVBA can patch him up in minutes. Never mind the punching bag; there are hundreds more in the facility. Little Mac, however, cannot be dismissed so lightly. It's kind of incredible and sort of amusing, really, that a little scrap barely five feet seven tall has come this far and reduced so many boxers into shadows of their former selves. And he's singlehandedly proved to them all that the further up one is, the further down one has to inevitably fall - and how! Super Macho Man used to be second from the top of the ranks in the WVBA, losing out only to Sandman, but then the boy came along and rendered everything he'd ever done meaningless. Everyone is an equal challenger to Little Mac now - Glass Joe, Bald Bull, Sandman, everyone. Some boxers have already been felled twice, and sooner of later, the white-haired man is expected to join the ones who failed yet again. But considering all that has happened to the man, his expected second failure might as well have already happened many times over. He was always so consistently high up that being thrown down to a lesser place is enough punishment for his entire career.

So why he's even trying, he has absolutely no idea, but he can't quit now. In a moment he's going to get up, dispose of the useless bag in the trash, and get himself patched up. He probably should track down Soda Popinski and Bear Hugger and say sorry to them too, and maybe clean up all the newspapers from the changing room before heading back home. It's barely lunchtime, but he genuinely can't stand to be in the WVBA any longer. He can train at home as easily as anything. And in a few weeks' time, his rematch with the new champion will come and he won't be able to back out. But Super Macho Man has no intention to back out at all; rather, he welcomes it with what can only really be described as half insanity. Victory or no victory, he's dying to wipe off the grin from Little Mac's face, even just for a little while, and nothing is going to stop him.

If he pulls a win off successfully, it will be the true high point of his career; he'll get the belt of the Champion straight away and get his own back at the boy. It doesn't even matter if he can't hold onto it afterwards, as long as he loses it to someone who isn't Little Mac. If he fails, then he'll never be able to make a real comeback and will have to settle grudgingly for whatever place is left over instead - but it'll give him peace of mind, because at least by then he'd know where he really stands. Whatever happens, he knows that he can't go back to being who he was before.

Godspeed, he thinks, and manages a half-smile. And he's not sure who that remark is addressed to, Little Mac or himself, and his smile becomes even more painful at the thought.