A/N

Hello, Zoey here.

Just a short note to say some things about this fic. I am hoping to keep to a consistent upload schedule of once per week, probably at some point on Sundays. Also with this fic a little note (and excuse) I am writing an American character, however am myself British. Due, to this my word is very confused about my spelling of words, and ill probably get some of the Americanized language wrong. Try not to be too annoyed. Anyway Hope you enjoy.

Gwen awoke with a pounding headache, wobbly legs and shaking arms.

"Fuck" She should have eaten before she went to sleep, at least drunk something.

Hauling herself out of bed, she went to her tiny kitchenette. It felt like more of a mental struggle than last night had been.

She repeated her expletive. Random street tough number three had struck her, and it was still hard for her to believe it. She was better than that. And lucky that she had got up from that. One mistake and her flawless record could have gone. For the millionth time, she cursed her body. She had long accepted the disadvantages of being a woman; she was simply better than the men she fought, training could overcome that gap. But why was she cursed to be a 5'2" girl? The weight difference, the reach difference, the raw strength differences that the universe had cursed her with would never be overcome. It didn't matter how hard she trained or how skilled she became. Her fights in Al's ring had no weight classes – not that anyone within a foot of her fought. That curse dictated that she had to be flawless; otherwise, she would be caught, as she was by Len Lviv, last night's opponent.

It was time to leave the past behind and move on. She shook away the memory of the fight and left it in the past. The first step was going to school.

Gwen had a strange relationship with the school, loving and loathing it. It was one of few parts of the day away from the gang, able to let her guard down. It was also where there were the most questions, questions that she couldn't answer. As well as this, she had never managed to make friends. People feared her bruises, the cold glint in her eye, and the intimidating physicality all fighters develop. It was the only time in her day that Gwen wished she wasn't alone.

Math, the day's first class, went as it always did. Before returning to her desk and trying to keep up with the class, Ms Williamson asked the short girl about the "nasty" bruise. Gwen gave an excuse they both knew was bullshit, and then she sat at her desk and tried to keep up. It wasn't that the content of the class was too challenging, though it certainly pushed her. The problem was it was boring. And as boredom set in, the bruise on her cheek ached and throbbed, demanding her attention and distracting the usually attentive student.

After Math was over, it was time for History, which had only one advantage: the group tables. Tables in the history room were arranged so that three tables were pushed together, two side by side and one at the end. With six students sat around it. Whilst no one on her table was her friend, they got along well enough. And Sofia, the girl that sat across from her, was incredibly hot. Not that she would let anyone know that she felt like that - she didn't need another avenue for her schoolmates to tease and didn't want to give the gang any ideas about 'weaknesses'. Sofia definitely had a thing for Matt, and they were cute together (even if they were not yet together-together). Jason, who sat next to her, was the kindest person she had ever met- though that wasn't a high bar - In fact, Gwen struggled to conceive of a kinder person than Jason. He was always willing to bring her into conversation or ask her opinion on something if it seemed she would be left out. It was for everyone, not just her, but Gwen mainly focused on what he did for her.

In the end, History flew by; even though they could only talk when the teacher wasn't around, they had plenty of time to chat, and the aftermath left Gwen buzzing with an energy she couldn't describe.

Next came lunch, and Gwen watched as her history pals split up, each going to their separate friend groups. Despite the desire to speak to them, the nagging feeling that they wouldn't want to talk persisted. That they only put up with her and were rolling with the punches when in History; after all, they hadn't chosen to sit there; it was the seating plan.

Following a solitary lunch, Gwen went to her last class of the day, Biology. The Sciences were the best subjects, which she had once upon a time dreamt of taking forwards and making a career. That had been before the heart-wrenching day, though. Before everything went wrong. Her father used to be immensely proud of her whenever a report came. Gwen could still remember how her father would light up in a way he hadn't done since her mother had died. It was a memory that Gwen treasured greatly.

Once she arrived in the classroom, the teacher moved toward her; while not a run, it was more intense than she had any right to be in a school, in Gwen's opinion.

She asked the question as if she already knew the answer would disappoint her, "Do you have the money, Gwen? The field trip is tomorrow." After all, no typical 16-year-old would be able to magic up a hundred dollars over a weekend. However, the young teacher's face morphed in surprise as Gwen nodded in the affirmative. She reached into her bag and retrieved the money hidden in a pocket at the side.

Ms Henshaw's surprised expression changed upon looking at Gwen's face. More specifically, looking at the large bruise formed over the whole of her cheek. As of now, Gwen could only imagine that it was pronounced. Her surprise changed into an expression of evident worry. However, she said nothing for a long, almost awkward moment, standing in the way of Gwen and, thus, the student behind her as well.

"Ah, brilliant, thank you, Gwen." She was back to her seeming standard setting of excitable, though a little of the joy had left her, if only briefly. "Can you see me at the end of the lesson?"

Gwen mumbled back something in the affirmative before moving to take her seat. And allowing the lesson to begin. As it turned out, the class was preparing for the trip the following day to LexCorp Pharmaceutical. They were getting a guided tour around one of the world's leading genetic research laboratories and the centre for infectious disease prevention. Obviously, some of the research was not going to be safe for the presence of teenagers, and as such, the students were to listen to all LexCorp Personnel or else though the or else was never specified. The rest of the lesson continued in that general vein. Explaining what they would see in the laboratories and what they should be taking note of, as well as reminding them how lucky they were that LexCorp was allowing them to do so.

After the lesson, Ms Henshaw called Gwen back, waiting until all the other students had left. Her concern over the bruise-stained pale skin was apparent for all to see.

"How did you get that money, Gwen? How did you get that bruise?" the tone was accusatory but not hostile. Still, it set the aching fighter on the defensive.

Gwen didn't respond verbally, showing the teacher a shrug and looking down at her feet. The silence dragged on awkwardly.

"I didn't steal it." Gwen's voice came out rough, the tone conveying that she was both uncomfortable and defensive.

"Good, I suppose. But Gwen, I need to know what you did this weekend. For your own safety." And then, when this didn't promote a response, her tone changed to one much softer, more consolatory "and for my own sanity. Gwen, darling, look at me…" when the young teen obliged, she continued, "you aren't in trouble, please, tell me what happened."

Gwen looked away sharply before muttering something incoherent under her breath.

"I couldn't hear that, dear."

As if expecting a retaliatory punch, she replied, "I went boxing." However, nothing was forthcoming; instead, Ms Henshaw took a deep, shaking breath.

"Gwen, be careful; what you've got up there is worth more than anything you'll be paid to be beaten up by some brute; hell, it's worth more than this trip, however much I'm delighted you'll be joining us."

"I won!" It was the first time Gwen had shown any of the fire she was often known for, and it seemed to burn through her like an inferno at the insinuation she had lost.

An eyebrow raised.

"That is beside the point; I will have to report this to the safeguarding lead. Is that all right?"

Gwen nodded her head, not trusting her voice not to give more away. At this, Ms Henshaw dismissed her.

After school was over, Gwen had some time to kill. The fated interview with Alberto wouldn't happen till at least 8 - when 'business' opened. That gave her five and a half hours, plenty of time. Gwen had one last place away from the gang, and it was Wildcat gym. Named after the superhero it had trained. It was a short twenty-minute walk from her school. The gym was the biggest reason she could outbox all the other amateur boxers in the gang. Whilst she still went to Jim's, he knew nothing about boxing. In spite of this, he was an expert in strength and conditioning, so they were massive, muscle-bound behemoths. However, the less said about their technique, the better.

As she entered the gym, she saw it was empty, not a hugely rare occurrence; it was early. Although she wasn't sure what the criteria for joining Ted's club were, she was both grateful and lucky that he had allowed her to train under him.

Quickly getting changed, she began her warm-up, starting with skipping. As she settled into the thumping rhythm of the rope, she reminisced. Skipping had been the first part of boxing that she had fallen in love with; in many ways, it was her happy place. She always had to remind herself to slow it down, at least for the moment, this was a warm-up, and her usual pace for jump rope was too much for that. After a couple of minutes, she began moving toward her high knees. Her body settled into a comfortable burn, the familiar pain settling into her muscles like an old friend. As the clock ticked over, she went all out, the rope slamming the floor at a furious pace, her body burning from the exertion. And then the minute was up. At that moment, she finished skipping, moving on to the next part of her warm-up, sweat sticking to her gym shirt, but her breathing remained even. Arms burning as pain caressed taut legs.

She moved into the ring to see a rope was already spread across the ring from corner to corner. So, Ted knew she was here, the lazy bastard probably wanting a couple of extra sleep. She moved into the ring and went ahead to do Duck and weaves. Throwing a lightning quick 1-2 before ducking under the rope and repeating, taking a half step sends with each weave. Once she got to the corner, she turned, crossing the ring five times before finishing. By now, she felt warmed up but knew she had just begun her drills.

Next came the one that Ted always emphasized the most and Jim the least, which was enough to convince her of its importance. Shadow boxing, with this, she practised combinations and got her arms and hips ready for hitting pads and people. Whilst moving around, the lithe teen also practised her footwork. As she began, this Ted left his office and moved over to her.

"There's a flaw in your footwork on your uppercut; you plant your foot too much, meaning you're fully committed to the punch; it's impossible to back out."

Letting out a grunt of acknowledgement before trying to implement what he said. At first, it felt unnatural, but it started to click by the fourth or fifth uppercut. It was a tiny change and not one that would work for everyone. However, Gwen had always had an excellent natural balance and could use a slightly awkward angle and maintain power. This, however, allowed better control of her weight so she could move in, committing to the punch as she always did. Or, if the opening wasn't as large as she thought, she could push back off the foot and retreat.

"Keep your hand up when you throw. Gwen, I know you like to dodge but keep yourself protected at all times; the ref reminds you at the start of every fight."

She knew that it wasn't a great revelation.

"Don't pull that face; when you throw your right, you're lazy with your left; keep it raised."

He was right; of course, he was; he missed nothing. It was a small mistake, but a mistake, nonetheless. Last night, the elusive fighter was caught clean due to the combination of both errors.

"Right, you're done."

Following a moment's rest for her. Ted had padded up and began calling out increasingly complex shots and dodges. He had never ascribed to having pre-set combos, liking instead to train himself and thus being adaptable. As a result of this predilection, they seldom repeated the same order of punches, breaking up what could have become repetitive with dodges. Working the speed up until the old timer was running at what the duo knew to be his full speed and then held it there for two sets of punches, then stopped.

"'Right, Gwen, Monday's speed day. Get the circuit set up."

He knew it was her least favourite day, one she would avoid if he didn't push, at least a little. Getting to work setting out a ladder, two mats, one for burpees, side crunches, squat jumps and one for Russian twists and then a box for box jumps. Designed to increase foot speed and therefore improve footwork. Gwen had found it odd to put so much focus into footwork, but Ted told her that speed came from the feet and that boxers' trained from the feet up.' five years had convinced her. The core was also essential; it was the center of the body's energy transfer; it allowed the legs to power punches in the arms. . However, the problem with Speed Day was that it was a circuit. And it was brutal.

She began my first set, five lines of the ladder, stepping in and out, side to side, a workout in its own right. A 30-second break preceded her doing burpees for a minute, a dreaded task. Ted yelled at her for sixty seconds to speed up, saying he had seen his grandmother move faster, and she had been dead 50 years. It hurt, stung in a way that no other exercise did. After the second break, she did 30 side crunches on each side before taking a 30-second break. Next, I had a full minute of squat jumps to complete, and Ted was expecting at least 35. Squats were tough, but squat jumps were brutal.

Afterwards, she moved on to Russian twists using a medicine ball, fifteen repetitions, and the pain was lancing her sides. But this was not the first time she had done this.

The final exercise, box jumps, was next. And these were almost the most important, as they trained that explosive power in my legs that allowed those driving uppercuts. The muscles trained in this exercise were the ones she needed most—5 reps on a seventy-centimetre box.

A minute later, the second set began.

Completing four sets, four agonizing repetitions of the whole circuit, 40 minutes had passed. As her body burned in glorious agony, Gwen thought her shirt should be considered chemical waste.

Despite the pain, the tenacious fighter was glad to be over with the worst part of her day. An hour and a half of hell had passed, but now the fun stuff could begin.

First, we moved on to the double-end bag; it was an excellent exercise to follow the circuits, as it could be a low-intensity workout.

Instead of focusing on power or speed, we began paying attention to accurate, well-timed punches.

From earlier sessions, she knew it would take a solid 30 minutes to regain enough energy to continue training intensively.

Forty minutes spent with the double-end bag, plenty of time to train her accuracy and recover energy before upping the intensity on the bag. The lower intensity allowed the two to talk, Ted towering over the small girl, his six foot five looking almost comical next to her five two.

"I know you didn't rest yesterday." He never missed anything, not that she had tried particularly hard to hide it.

"... No, I didn't."

"No excuse, no reason?" On asking this, the muscular trainer leant on the nearby wall, looking casual if it wasn't for the annoyed look that was evident across his face.

"I had a fight."

"Thank you for being honest." As he spoke, his voice choked with regret

"I want you to take tomorrow off." As he said this, Gwen's turned sharply, missing her punch and the bag came shooting for her head, smacking off her blocking left hand. Ted's voice became far firmer, more assertive, more authoritative.

"I know that you hate rest days, but they are necessary. If you feel like you need to improve yourself, do some fucking yoga, but don't you dare lift no weights, let alone hit a fucking bag." Anger was starting to seep into his voice now. He was a big man, and whilst she often beat men bigger than her, she had to admit that he was pretty intimidating.

"Do you promise me?"

"Yeah, okay." she wasn't that opposed to rest days, just preferring to be in a gym than with the gang. The knowledge that crime was taking place in the rooms around her left her feeling dirty even though she had not done anything illegal.

"I've heard about your fight." There was a distinct lack of judgement; his voice sounded almost entirely neutral now.

"I won."

"You shouldn't have; you were sloppy. Let the big bastard hit you... You're better than that." Once more, with the emotionless tone, it was almost creepy. She kept focused on the swinging bag, not wanting to make the same mistake again.

"I know, still won."

He snorted at that; it was almost a chuckle.

"I've seen miracles in my time, but a little thing like you, getting up from a punch from a big fucker like him, a punch you didn't even see coming, inside a ten count. Fuck, inside a hundred count, that ain't happening. Hell, the bookies were already paying out. I would think it an exaggeration if I didn't see that bruise. And you not only got up but fuckin won. I think that was some divine intervention for you, kid."

She didn't have a response to that.

"Look, kid, I don't like what you do; I don't think you like what you do. However, you have got real talent. You are one of the best boxers I've trained, and you're only sixteen. You've got the talent, the drive, the work ethic, and now we've seen you've got the chin. You could go pro, no doubt in my mind. Fuck the gang, fuck the Falcone's. Fuck Jim Fucking Steele. You'd not be fighting lugs like Len Lviv; you'd be fighting actual fighters, people who could challenge you in skill and who are your size, not going to take your fucking head off if you fuck up. Please, Gwen, kid. Think about it." There was a passion born of something though she wasn't sure what. But it was the most enthusiastic she had ever heard the man, and he was always excited when talking about boxing. And she only met him in a boxing gym.

"I'm sorry, Ted, it sounds great, but I can't." As she said this, a tear came to her, though she wasn't sure why. Perhaps because she was letting down the only man left that she actually respected - again.

"I know, kiddo, I know" It came out resigned. A sigh showed Ted's age - not that she knew how old he was.

At that, the alarm blared; forty minutes had passed. And it was now five o'clock. Time to move on. This also heralded, however, the slow arrival of other people, four in total. And thus, the end of one-to-one time with Ted.

She stalked over to the speed bag; she didn't need him for this anyway. Soon the repetitive drone of the speed bag bouncing off the backboard filled the gym like the beating of a hummingbird's wings.

The workout ended as it did every day that wasn't a 'technique' day, exactly as it began, with the skipping rope; now, however, with a different intent. The pace was as fast, the rope whipping through the air in a whistling, thumping rhythm. As well as this, on the minute, she alternated between several types of skip, from boxing skip, which she used to find the rhythm, to one-legged skips to high knees, to Crisscross and then back to the beginning. The first ten-minute set, done at a pace, was followed by the second, which would be the fastest, where the rope would hit the floor twice for every jump. Then the third ten minutes would be the warm down, thus much lower intensity. Every corner of her body ached as it only did on speed days; it was undoubtedly the most tiring day, with minimal breaks, and everything done at the highest pace possible and always left her on the floor. And because of her size, Ted scheduled it for twice a week, the absolute sadist. However, she had seen its pronounced effect over the years. Making her the quickest of fighters, including those trained by Ted, and able to move in a way others couldn't. They only did one day of speed training and never did it as intense as she did. The exhaustion seeping into her bones was only exacerbated by the ache throbbing in her heart. However, the pain was never going to make her stop.

After all, pain is temporary, glory eternal.