Bronze Tiger: Becoming The Tiger

Ch 1. To Live And Die In Gotham City

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As far as everyone knew, I was a good, upstanding young man. I did my years of High School, graduated with passing grades, stayed out of trouble, and even helped my community out here and there. It helped that I somehow found my way into the gym and took up boxing. In Gotham, there weren't a lot of options for a 'young Black man' like myself; if you didn't want to end up dead, more dead, or in jail(where you'd probably die), you had to find something that kept you off the streets. Boxing was it for me.

*BEEP*

"C'mon, T!" My trainer, Mr. Grant or 'Ted' as he told everyone to call him, beckoned me from inside the ring with a salt-and-pepper coated smile like an old man excited to beat the brakes off someone. "Get yo ass in here, so I can whip it some mo'! Break's over!"

And by someone, I meant me.

I killed the last of my water and picked up my headgear and gloves from beside me on the bench. I slipped 'em both on before stepping into the ring that was as weathered and old-looking as the man standing in it.

Grant's Boxing Gym, named after the famous, or infamous, heavyweight boxer Ted 'Wildcat' Grant. Named for his penchant to finish fights wildly and the inhuman ability to take the kinds of punches that would knock any old person out cold and get back up. Some even said he had nine lives like a cat would, and I believed them.

I watched some of the old, low-quality tape they had on him and those fights? Whew. Back in the day, Mr. Grant was built like a brick house. He wasn't Ali looking, but more like Mike Tyson, as if a linebacker put on a pair of boxing gloves and shorts. God knows how many years later, and Mr. Grant still somehow looked like he could wrestle a bear and come out on top.

I swung myself into the ring and eyed Mr. Grant as he leaned back into the opposing corner with that same smirk on his face. He wasn't wearing any headgear like I was, his bald head was shiny under the lights as all bald heads would, but it didn't glisten with sweat. Neither was his grey tank top. Yes, people, this older than dirt ass old man hadn't even broken a sweat sparring with me. And here I thought I was the next best thing.

"It's just the two of us in here, Mr. Grant," Like usual. "You don't have to yell."

"I'm not yelling," The exclamation points I could literally feel told a different story. "I'm just loud; there's a difference. Anyway, stop being such a baby, and come on. Let's finish this session, and you can head home. You got a fight coming up, and I can feel it in my loins that it'll be the one to put you on notice, kid. We need you sharp as a knife," he 'joked' and laughed...at his own joke.

Never meet your heroes kids. They'll only turn out more corny than you ever expected.

I adjusted my trunks, popped my mouthpiece in with my free hand, then slipped the glove on and strapped it down. Again, Mr. Grant didn't wear a mouthpiece, only gloves, trunks, and shoes. I used to make a problem about it early on, like 'oh, Mr. Grant, you need protection.' The guy laughed in my face and said the day he used protection when sparring with me was the day he'd retire and sell the gym. Considering he was still here and the gym was still open, you can guess that Mr. Grant proved his point.

"Ding, ding," Mr. Grant was his own bell, and he waded out of his corner, and I went to meet him. We touched gloves in the middle of the ring, and usually, he'd have done his little dance around the ring that he liked to do, but this time after we touched gloves, I went on the offensive.

I went right at him, kept my hands up, and threw out a couple jabs to establish my space. He danced away from them with an agility that hadn't faded even after all these years. I kept at it, though, feinted a body shot, and threw a hook that he blocked. He retaliated with a cross I swerved back from.

Another couple jabs peppered then hand against his guard, and still, he kept that smile on his face. It irritated the deepest pits of my soul, knowing he could smile like that and get away with it. I didn't let it get to me like it used to. I kept my pace and threw more jabs, then changed it up and threw a lunging hook. It was blocked, and I leaned back from the counter that never came.

Instead, Mr. Grant pushed back and threw a couple jabs of his own. He danced away from the corner, which set the tone for the rest of the sparring session. Like Mr. Grant said, it wasn't anything too strenuous. I tried harder than he did surely, and he threw some heat my way to keep me on my toes. It wasn't like this was a walk in the park. Every time Ted 'Wildcat' Grant put the gloves on, someone had the possibility of getting hurt.

I just had to make sure it wasn't me this time. This went on for some time. I never knew we didn't have a traditional timer or ring bell. Everything ran on Mr. Grant's own time, but I'd grown accustomed to it after all this time. I practiced some combinations live, some spotting and feints that I'd been working on. I had worked back up to a sweat when we were interrupted.

"Ted!" A voice broke through the air and caught my attention for a split second. I took my eyes off Mr. Grant and spotted two women walking up to the ring in that split second. One had red hair, and the other one had blonde, but that as far as I got because-

POW!

I blinked, expecting pain or embarrassment for taking my eyes off my opponent, but all I saw was darkness. Pure, pitch-black darkness. Where was I? What the…? Wasn't I just in the gym with Mr. Grant? Where was…

"Theodore."

That was my name, but the voice was unfamiliar. Plus, nobody called me Theodore. It was either T, Theo, or Ted. Or double-T from Mr. Grant cause he liked to be complicated. Still, I didn't see anything. I tried to speak but found I couldn't. So I couldn't talk, I couldn't move, I couldn't blink.

Damn, did Mr. Grant accidentally kill me?

"Theodore, you have to find it. It can't be no one else; it's gotta be you."

God, was that you? The voice was deep enough to be like what I'd think God would sound like - thanks, Morgan Freeman. And find what?

"Find me."

The voice came from behind me; the heat of it slapped against the back of my neck and straightened me out. I couldn't see, but I could feel a presence behind me, large with a weight to it that easily outclassed my own. It breathed in and out again, hot breaths crashing against my skin. It moved, slow and lumbering, and something big and orange revealed itself from the back pocket of my vision.

The first thing I noticed was the whiskers. Then came the stripes, and as the creature unveiled itself to me, I saw it for what it was.

A big, hulking tiger. It was as big as I was and looked me dead in the eyes. Its yellow eyes made me feel pinned like a dart in a board. They were so intense and so focused yet…beautiful.

The tiger itself was majestic too. The orange, white, and black coloring was unique; it popped against the darkness and stood out like a beacon of light.

It took a breath, and it hit my face, oddly smelling of fresh-cut grass and dirt. Almost like a garden or a flower bed?

"Find me, Theodore," it spoke. Yes, its mouth didn't move, but the words went directly into my brain. I knew it came from the tiger without actually knowing.

Find what? Find who? Tigers were in India or Russia or something? I'm from Gotham City; any tigers were miles away.

I was compelled then. Suddenly, I could feel my arm moving and my hand reaching out towards the most enormous tiger ever. No, don't pet the tiger. Do not pet the tiger!

I wasn't controlling it. It was like a cutscene from a video game. Slowly, I watched my hand reach out, and the moment I felt the slightest touch of soft fur I-

SPLASH!

I shot up feeling wet as a rag after doing the dishes. Water dribbled from my eyelashes, and I wiped it away. I was dazed and confused with images of a giant tiger prowling about in my head. What the fuck was that?

Then I heard the rough laughter like an old car engine starting up, and where I was before all that mumbo jumbo came back to me.

I sighed and felt the embarrassment creep up through me.

There was zero chance Mr. Grant was going to let this one go easily.

"Here," went a softer voice, and I peeked through my wet lashes to find a towel offered in my face. I took it, wiped my face and found who gave it to me. It was one of the women that I saw coming into the gym, the red-headed one. And gahdam was she pretty! I'm taking out of a magazine pretty.

My mouth dried up as she smiled at me, and all sorts of fuzzies went off in my gut. She had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen and long hair so red I thought it was dyed. It fell like a curtain around her beautiful face, and there was no other way to describe her than beautiful.

"You okay?" I didn't even register that she asked me a question; I was so dumbstruck I could only nod.

It was Mr. Grant's laughter that broke me from my stupor, and I realized I was still on the ground. Fuck that, I moved to get to my feet, and the lady extended a hand to help me up.

I took it and was pulled up with more strength than I thought she'd have; it was like I was yanked from the floor. I landed unsteadily, not cause of my head but cause I was caught off guard by how strong she was.

"Easy there, big guy," she smirked at me with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "Ted got you good there, didn't he?"

I nodded a couple times. "Y-yea," everything still felt so out of whack. I was having a hard time getting my bearings. "I-,"

"Got knocked the fuck out! Hahaha!" Mr. Grant interjected with big hands crashing down on my shoulder and his even bigger laugh. "I thought we worked on your ability to take a punch, Double T. I even held back; why back in my heyday you'd have been spitting teeth, hahaha!"

Against all sense, a hand whipped across the back of Mr. Grant's head and deaded his laughing. It was like smacking a bowling ball, no doubt, but it got his attention.

The second woman who came in with the red-haired one was blonde with blue eyes and looked like she stepped out of one of those fashion magazines. She had blue jeans that flared out at the ankle and a gold tank top spaghetti strap thing. The belt she had on was admittedly cool, with the buckle being initials BC, whatever that meant. Probably some clothing line.

"You shouldn't be punching your students that hard in the first place Ted," she chastised and stepped beside the redhead, crossed her arms, and gave Ted an unimpressed look only a woman could pull off. "And you wonder why you don't have many students nowadays."

Standing next to the redhead, they both were dressed like they had somewhere nice to be. Not for a visit to a singly old gym with me and Mr. Grant.

"Bah," Mr. Grant waved off her observation with ease. "It's cause all the boys nowadays ain't got what it takes. It's all about who can get to success the quickest, not about the grind like it used to. The dirty work."

"Dirty is one way of saying it," the redhead said while looking around, but the small smile she had taken the edge off the jab. "You oughta hire a janitor."

The blonde woman giggled. "Yeah, if this is how you take care of your gym, I worry about how your bedroom looks, Ted."

"Oh, you think you're funny? Joking about an old man and his beloved gym, do ya? Hop in the ring; I'll show you something funny."

The two women smirked and chuckled, and even Mr. Grant had a smile on his face. He left my side and opened his arms up to the two ladies. "Come here, you two, give old Ted a hug."

They tried to escape, but Mr. Grant was too quick. His bear-like arms gobbled them up into the most uncomfortable-looking hug I'd ever seen. I'd rather get punched again than be subjected to that. He even started rocking side to side, and by the looks of their faces, they weren't enjoying it.

"Hey uh," I wiped the last of the water from my chin and felt myself smiling at their antics. "Mr. Grant, who are…"

"Oh!" He let them go and turned to me. I even got two thankful smiles sent my way. Score. "Let me introduce you all. Ladies, this is Theodore Turner, my current student. T these are my former students: Barbra Gordan,"

The redhead gave a little wave. "Sup."

"And this pain in my ass is Dinah Lance."

"Hey, kid," the blonde said, then gave Mr. Grant a little shove. "She gets a regular intro, and I get 'pain in my ass'? This is why I don't visit."

"Oh, is that why?" Mr. Grant wriggled his brow in a way that sent Ms. Gordon into a fit of giggles and had Ms. Lance on hush mode. Probably some inside joke. "I don't know what they're doing here, though…."

The two women exchanged a look that chilled the air. Any levity left, and I even noticed Mr. Grant looked a little more...serious.

"We need a favor, Ted," Ms. Lance said.

Mr. Grant eyed them for a long moment; his stare was hard as granite before he relented and turned to me.

"T," he said, but I had already got a sense of the direction things were headed.

"Imma hit the showers, Mr. Grant," I said, already heading towards my bag on the bench. "It was nice meeting you two, Ms. Gordon, Ms. Lance."

They bid me goodbye, and I felt their eyes on my back as I grabbed my stuff and entered the locker room. The feeling didn't let up until I was inside and the door was shut. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but my ears were open as I went to the little rinky-dink shower and cut it on.

It was old, so it'd take a few moments to warm up. That gave my curiosity more than enough time to fester and grow to the point where I found myself leaning towards the door to try and hear something of their conversation. I don't know how long I stood there or even why. I couldn't hear anything over the shower running, and the thought that I was intruding kept blaring in my head. I clearly was not meant to listen to any of this, and I knew how the saying went about curiosity.

So, I gave up and returned my attention to washing up. The gym's showers were real communal, with no walls, just shower heads and a small window that let light inside. At least it was spotless. I remember cleaning it after all because some days, this was the only place I'd be able to take a shower.

I stripped out of my sweaty clothes, grabbed my towel and body wash out of my bag, and stepped in. Whatever Mr. Grant had going on was none of my business, and I didn't think it would be in my best interest to make it my business either. They'd probably went into his office anyway for privacy.

I had my own things to worry about anyway, like what I saw after getting knocked out. I closed my eyes and let the shower rain down on me. The noise and relief it brought helped me think more precisely than I ever could outside of it.

I don't know what happened if I was honest with myself. I was in the ring one moment; next, I'm punched and in this 'shadow-realm' unable to move. Then, on top of that, I see a freaking tiger that talked. Well, it didn't actually speak, but words were spoken, and I heard them. Something or someone was talking to me during all that, and I didn't know how or why.

There was that line about finding something? And me being the only one who could do it? If that wasn't the vaguest thing ever, I don't know what was.

Then this tiger. Why a tiger of all animals? It couldn't have been a duck or like a cat or something smaller and less capable of killing me? Why a tiger? I wasn't connected to any tigers, didn't have a tiger tattoo or tiger anywhere in my name. I didn't even know what tigers represented.

If someone or something wanted me to find some stupid object, they shouldn't have been so vague about it because what am I supposed to-

It was only thanks to years of paranoia that someone would walk in on me showering that I heard the door ease open. And by ease, I mean noticeably eased, as if someone did that shit intentionally. If it had been Mr. Grant, he'd have bust in here like he owned the place and made a joke about me being naked cause he was the most immature old man I'd ever met. I doubted those two ladies, Ms. Lance and Ms. Gordon, would've come in like that either. This wasn't some porno. Relax.

No, it was someone else, but for the life of me, I couldn't imagine who it'd be. I got a bad feeling in my stomach as whoever was in here with me was trying their damndest to be quiet about it, and that didn't bode well for me at all. My heart suddenly began pounding in my ears as my fight or flight instinct kicked in like at the beginning of a fight.

'Make the first move, T, and make it a good one,' Mr. Grant told me once upon a time during one of our sparring matches. 'A good opening will set the tone for the rest of the match, so you got to make it count.'

I didn't know where they were, but all logic would point to them coming up from behind me. If they came from up top, well shit, not much I could do there, so fingers crossed they had no imagination.

In a sudden move, I turned and threw my towel behind me. I hit pay dirt, heard it smack against something that wasn't the floor or a wall, and saw some motherfucker dressed in black reel back from having a towel smack into their face.

I didn't get much of a chance to examine them; all I could tell was that they were real, I wasn't tripping, and I needed to do something. So, I grabbed my body wash - Old Spice because I had taste - and threw it at their head as hard as I could. It bonked off their forehead, and I charged at whoever it was with a yell just in case Mr. Grant and them were still around.

That was my first mistake. This is not because the ninja person recovered in time, but because you shouldn't run on wet tile floor. I slipped, my charge turned into a crash, and I collided with whoever had snuck into the locker room hard.

I wasn't sure what part of me hit them or what part of them hit me, but we fell to the floor in a heap. The person struggled, and we grappled on the wet floor as the shower ran behind me. I was somehow able to mount them and tried to punch their face. It wasn't that easy for me, and they somehow moved out of the way. My fist hit the tile, and the tile went 1-0 against me. I cringed, out of reflex if anything else, and my reaction gave whoever was under me enough to throw a strike of their own.

A hand or an elbow cracked against the side of my head, and I tumbled off them. I had taken harder punches from Mr. Grant, like the one that knocked me out, so I was able to shrug it off and get some semblance of footing.

The other guy, however, stood opposite of me. They were dressed in all black with a mask that covered their head and lower face. All I could see was their dark eyes glaring at me with an intent that made me gulp. In a quick move, they flexed their wrist and threw their arm out at me. I wasn't fast enough to duck or dodge, and I barely got my arms up in time before a dagger lanced into my forearm.

The pain was harsh and biting, but I wasn't overwhelmed, only taken aback. A fucking knife, man?! This shitter was trying to kill me!

The realization flicked a switch inside of me, a switch that lay deep in my spirit for lack of a better term. I always believed most fighters had it due to dedicating their lives and bodies to such a violent sport like boxing or any martial art. You learned a hundred different ways to hurt a man, to bring him down in the ring, but there was always that line, y'know? The line you didn't cross, but a deep-seated part of you that knew you could.

That deep-seated part of you that knew you would.

This shit-faced ninja fuck was trying to kill me, and every part of who I was at the moment raged against the idea. I wasn't going to die here. Not without taking this motherfucker with me, at least.

Their wrist flicked again, and I covered my face as best I could and bull-rushed them with a head full of steam. I felt something hit me, but I was too far gone to give a shit. All I cared about was caving this fucker's face in with my bare hands.

I crashed into them again but didn't fall this time. Instead, I picked them up and rammed them into the back wall. I heard the tile crack but didn't give a shit. I pulled the ninja guy back, then banged them against the wall again, again, and again until a punch thundered into my nose. It stunned me, and my eyes watered against my will. I had to blink them away, and the ninja struck again. Two punches to my chest felt like cannonballs. They swiped down on my arms then kicked me off of them.

I stumbled back, didn't fall, and they were on me again, this time swinging a knife. I'd practiced something similar with Mr. Grant because it helped with reflexes, and you never knew who you'd run into on the streets of Gotham. I blocked and diverted flashing knife strikes, but my technique wasn't perfect. I felt the knife's edge slice the skin of my forearms more times than not, but I kept myself alive. They went low, stabbed the knife into my leg, and I yelled in pain.

I raged against the pain, grabbed them again, and lined up a right.

POW!

The best damn right hand I ever threw smashed against their face and drove them into the floor. I kept my hold on the ninja, though, reeled them back in, and drilled them with another punch, then another, and then another. Then, the ninja pushed the knife into my leg deeper, and the pain was so massive, I saw dark spots in my vision. I looked down at the knife and saw blood, my blood, running down my leg and mixing with the water painting the floor red.

I focused back on the ninja. In my pain, I'd let them go and found them swinging into a kick. It cracked against the side of my ribs, and the breath was chased from my lungs. I had enough sense left in my head to trap their foot. I grabbed their neck, squeezed as hard as I could, and ran us both into the wall underneath the still running shower water. They beat at my wrist hard, the joint threatened to pop, and I knew I had to do something.

With one arm on their leg and the other around their throat, I lifted them into the air. I didn't care if I never lifted someone like this before in my life, that fucker left the ground, and I held them up for a moment and choked them with satisfaction and savagery running through every nerve, every cell, of my body. Then, I slammed them into the floor with a volcanic roar.

CRACK!

Pieces of ceramic tile flew up as I slammed them down. I kept them pinned with my hand around their throat, and they kicked at my wounded leg. Bad for me, good Lord, it hurt. Bad for them because I fell with a knee into their gut. Now they were definitely pinned.

I wailed on them then. My right hand was free, and I just let it fly. Punch after punch after punch. I wasn't even sure I was punching anymore; I was just trying to smash their stupid, fucking face in with all I had left.

Still, the fucker wasn't done. After Lord knows how many punches, their hands grabbed at my face and scratched and clawed. I pulled away and chomped at their fingers, found purchase with one, and bit down as hard as I could.

I read somewhere that to bite off a finger, it took the same amount of force to bite a carrot in two. I never believed it until right now. A hot, disgusting liquid that I distantly recognized as blood spilled into my mouth the same time I bit off their finger.

Whoever it was beneath me screamed once, finally; no doubt having a finger bitten off hurt near as much as getting fucking stabbed! I pressed down harder on their throat, this time with both hands.

They relentlessly beat at my wrists, my arms and tried to reach my face. They squirmed beneath me, but I had the weight advantage and leverage advantage. I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. I watched with vicious satisfaction as their squirming and fighting got weaker and weaker and-

The door banged open. "T!" I heard, and it cut through the haze I was in.

I looked and found Mr. Grant in the doorway, shirt cut up and blood stained. I saw him alive and breathing, and my brain clicked 'safe.' He was alive, and, and, and-

"Kid!" I heard a scream, it might've been from Mr. Grant, but I wasn't sure. Everything felt so murky, so muddy all of a sudden. I felt something in my stomach like a blazing rod of fire, and I looked and found the ninja's hands falling away from the hilt of something that they lodged there. A knife.

It almost didn't make sense. They'd got me. I looked at their face, their mask had come undone sometime in our fighting, and I saw a woman, her nose shifted in the wrong direction and lip busted up and bleeding severely.

I saw her lips move, but the sound had already begun to fade for me. She smiled at me, then clenched her jaw, and some green fuzzy stuff started to fizzle in her mouth. I was grabbed up my hands I couldn't see, and they laid me down. Things got worse there. All I could see were lights and feel a wetness on my back and in my hands.

I looked at my hands, saw them coated in red. My head was moved up, I saw a woman with red hair and a cut on her cheek. Her lips were moving, probably saying something. To me. Did she know I couldn't hear her? She looked pretty, though. Way better-looking than Mr. Grant.

My eyelids got heavier and heavier. It was getting pretty hard to keep them open. Everything was so bright. Demon, demon, demon. That ninja lady was a demon, and she got me. I got her back, though, I think.

I wanted to ask the pretty lady if I would see that tiger again if I closed my eyes. I tried to tell her to find it. Tell it that I didn't even get the chance to try and find whatever it told me to look for and that I was sorry. I wanted to see Mr. Grant and tell him his knife training paid off. Tell him that I gave as good as I got, just like he taught me to.

Most of all, I wanted to-

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AN: Yeah, okay, this has been rolling around in my brain space for a while. Bronze Tiger Legacy story. It's not an SI, but an OC born in Gotham. That's all imma say for right now. I hope this first chapter sets the tone for you well enough. This story will be funny, yes, but packed with real, brutal action as one would expect of close-quarters combat in the world of Gotham.

But until then, read, review, and do what you gotta do, people. Stay safe and stay hydrated. Till next time!