Chapter Five:

Violet Kisses

Lunchtime at Los Lados High was disgusting nine times out of ten. Today, the cafeteria was serving greasy sausage links with some stale ass hot dog bread and a side of canned corn. Their carton milks were also nothing to write home about, more or less because the chocolate milks were almost always spoiled. Jazmin groaned as she got her lunch tray and walked over to the table where she, Portia and Talon sat at—located all the way in the back, just between the hip-hop heads and the nerdy sophomores who liked trading card games. Talon looked at this lunch making a face and Portia didn't even bother. She brought her own lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich and cranberry box juice. Jazmin sniffed the sausage and threw it in the trash and just stuck with drinking the milk. She would eat when she get home because the industrial slop they served here wasn't it. Talon didn't bother eating it either and sighed, simply poking at the sausage. It squeaked with each poke.

"Man!" He flipped the lunch tray, "This is some bullshit. Every fucking day they serving some nasty shit, bruh!"

"Free lunch my guy," Jazmin sighed, "Free lunch means shit lunch."

Talon groaned. Lunchtime was at fifth period and considered cutting to get something from the local fast food joint a few blocks from the school. As he pondered this, Naz Rose came up to them. He didn't have a tray of school lunch, rather his own food and soda.

"What the hell you want?" Jazmin snapped.

"Ay girl," he said, "Yo…can I talk to you real quick?"

Jazmin glared at him but Naz offered her the soda.

"Whatever you can say to me you can say it right here in front of my friends," Jazmin said, folding her arms and refusing the soda.

"It's private," Naz insisted.

Jazmin sighed and got up, with Portia looking concerned and Talon appeared annoyed. She followed Naz towards the back staircase that was behind the cafeteria. It was a double staircase that led into the guidance counselor's office and out into the hallway of the third floor. Jazmin looked down at what she was wearing compared to Naz. He always dressed nice—wearing brand name black skinny jeans, converse, a gold designer belt and an orange top that contrasted nicely against his green skin. Whereas Jazmin was simply wearing a white zip-up hoodie, a pink camisole top with a heart on it, jean shorts and neon colored sneakers. He walked up a few of the steps and sat on the third one from the top. Jazmin sat next to him, folding her arms again.

"Yo I'm sorry Jaz," Naz began, he was twiddling with his phone, doing nothing important with it.

"Sorry for being a fuckboy? Oh sure," she scoffed.

"Yeah. Look, I'm—"

Jazmin's ears went flat against her head, "Why don't you be with Nines, bruh? I'm fuckin' tired of you lame niggas with this shit!"

"Nines don't wanna be with me bruh—"

Jazmin laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh, "So I'm yo second choice. Man, fuck you, Naz."

"Ion wanna be with her trifling ass either. Look, when we hooked up, it was just once, I swear on my moms, bruh. She don't even like me like that."

"Yeah, keep lying nigga," Jazmin snapped, sucking her teeth. Naz shook his head.

"Bruh I'm serious! She ain't into me. She ain't even into niggas, bruh."

Jazmin blinked, her ears going from flat against her head to erect, "The fuck you talkin' about?"

"She gay fam," Naz insisted, "I mean, she in the closet cuz she dating niggas, but she gay."

"Nines? High yellow Nines," Jazmin reiterated, "…This some bullshit." She stood up, "Ion know why niggas like you think you can lie to me. Cuz I'm a freshman? Cuz ion dress up to school or some shit y'all think you can play me?"

"Ay yo I ain't lying—you can ask her! I only smashed once. And she only did it cuz rumors were starting to spread about her being gay."

"R-rumors?"

"Yeah bih," Naz said, "Look—I ain't gon lie. She bad. I wanted to hit since I was a freshman. But I swear on my moms, she not into me. She got all vexed with you cuz she hates seeing girls with me. Cuz…" he sighed, "I'm a fuckboy…" he sucked his teeth, shaking his head.

"Ion believe that. If she's gay why she care so much that I was around that day—"

"Nigga you cared! She wasn't all into it cuz she don't like you but you cared more than she cared. And she don't like you cuz she think you stupid, bruh."

"Yeah, stupid for dealing with you…" Jazmin muttered, leaning against the wall as she stood.

"Okay, okay, look. Yeah. I'm a fuck nigga, I get it. But I'm tryna get better, I swear, bruh. I'm really trying. Jaz…Jazzy Jolt, c'mon…we had fun. I wasn't all bad."

Jazmin smiled to herself a bit. Naz was somewhat fun. He made her laugh, bought her lunch and shit. But he was also a big flirt and had a tendency to go silent because he was too busy with his fuck ass friends. She didn't like that.

"I ain't into gay bitches Jaz—no matter how thick they are. And Nines and I…we don't even get along. And honestly, I rather just be friends with her, ya dig?"

"Look," Jazmin began and then sighed, "I don't wanna date nobody right now, okay Naz? I ain't ready."

Naz raised an eyebrow, "Really girl? I fucked you up that bad?"

"It's not about you. Ion know what I really want right now. And…honestly, right now, ion think we good together anyways."

"I get it," Naz said, sighing, "Welp…I tried…"

Jazmin shrugged languidly, "Ion know what to tell you, Naz. You ain't shit, but a lot of us ain't shit. We ain't shit…"

"Nah. You fine, Jaz. You nice and you stick by yo friends. It's me who ain't shit…" Naz trailed off. As he said that, Jazmin sat back down next to him, sitting quietly on the stair. She wondered if Naz was actually starting to change. He was just a dumb kid, after all, who sold dime bags on the side every so often. But soon he would be an adult. They were all growing up and it was going way too fast. Relationships were confusing and Jazmin wasn't sure how to handle them. After all, Naz was her first and only boyfriend and that was at the beginning of the semester. By the end of the school year, she would be a sophomore, fifteen years old and trying to deal with the next set of problems. And by junior year, Naz would be gone—moving on to college or something else, but it would definitely not be with her. Jazmin patted his hand, holding it for a second, simply sitting quietly. The future was uncertain and Jazmin hated gambling for it. He held her hand back as they sat together. Perhaps… we… could… be friends after all this.

"So…" Jazmin said, letting go after a while, "If Nines is gay…who is she really with? If she with anyone at all?"

Naz leaned back against the stairs, "Uniqua."

Jazmin looked surprised, "Uniqua…the junior? I thought…" she blinked a few times. Uniqua was friends with Strika and people knew Uniqua was gay. But if Nines was keeping it on the down-low…Strika may not have known.

"Yeah, Uniqua—but you ain't hear that from me. And you better not tell anyone."

"I won't…I'm just…surprised. Like, those two are so different. Uniqua is so…so…"

Naz shrugged, "Antisocial as fuck? Uniqua don't like nobody. But she definitely likes Nines. I saw a pic of them together on Nines' phone. They looked happy…and even though Nines trifling most of the time, she deserves to be happy."

Jazmin nodded, feeling the anger for Nines melt away and she began smiling, laughing to herself. As Naz was about to drink his soda, there was talking coming from below. Someone was coming up the stairs and Jazmin listened closely. The voice was faint, but slowly getting louder. When she pinpointed where the voice was coming from and got up, startled.

"It's Mr. Roak," she whispered frantically.

"So?" Naz asked, still sipping his soda. Jazmin looked around and began running up the stairs. Naz got up, confused.

"We can't stay here," Jazmin whispered.

"Why the fuck we whispering?" Naz whispered back, following her up the stairs. Jazmin looked up, seeing that there was a window fixture against the wall. She wanted to listen to what Mr. Roak was saying.

"Can you reach that?"

Naz looked up at the transom she was pointing to. He lifted up his hand and the vine that was wrapped his wrist that had the blue rose blooming from it, stretched out and snaked itself around the slightly cracked fixture. Jazmin jumped on Naz's back and he grunted, wincing.

"You ain't as light as you look," he mumbled, pulling himself up to the windowsill. Jazmin put a finger to her lips, gesturing to him be quiet. Naz looked confused, but listened to her regardless. Mr. Roak was in the stairwell, on a burner phone. He looked irritated as he spoke—his words soft but pointed.

"I don't give a fuck," the math teacher spat, "You knew she was crazy. I don't give a fuck, she wanted to keep it. And I did what I had to do."

Naz looked terrified, but Jazmin listened, turning her ear to hear more clearly. Mr. Roak paused, allowing to the voice on the other end to say their piece. Jazmin couldn't hear what the person on the other end of the line was saying, only picking up small phrases here and there.

"She was unstable," Mr. Roak said, "And she came onto me. Okay, look—I paid you, you better not fuck shit up for me. I got a wife, I got a job, I got kids, I can't afford no dumb shit happening to me right now." He tapped his foot against the floor and looked at his watch and then scoffed, "Listen, just call me later. I have a class to teach in five." He hung up and put the burner in his pocket, taking out his smartphone and scrolling through his newsfeed. From this angle, Jazmin could see he was looking at articles about Keisha's death. He sighed, angrily slamming his fist against the wall and then walked up the stairs to the third floor, where he would be teaching class. When he was out of sight and hearing, Naz lowered himself and Jaz back into the stairwell.

"…The fuck was that!" Naz snapped.

Jazmin shivered a bit, "It's…a long story. But I can't tell you that right now—"

"The fuck—why?"

She gave Naz a quick peck on the cheek, "Because ion know what really happened. But I promise, I'll tell when I do."

"…" Naz sighed, touching his cheek when Jazmin sped off, zipping down the stairs and back into the cafeteria. He looked up and decided to climb up the stairs and follow Mr. Roak to his classroom. He opened the door to the hallway of the third floor, feeling unnerved. Most of the students had their lunch period around this time, so it was fairly empty up here. The bell would soon ring though and people would start flooding in. He peeked around the corner of the second hallway that connected to the main one, where the math department was. Mr. Roak was opening the door to the classroom, prepping lessons and writing equations on the blackboard for the incoming class. Naz jogged down the hallway and stopped in front of the room, peeking through the small glass window on the door.

Mr. Roak was simply preparing his lessons, cleaning off his desk. He looked so…innocuous. What the hell Jazmin talkin' about, Naz thought as he looked through the window. He turned away, confused, scrolling through his phone and selecting the video recording app, going live on social media. But before he could say anything, Mr. Roak opened the door. Naz, who had been leaning against it, fell into the classroom, cracking his phone in the process. Mr. Roak stared at him and then scoffed dryly, picking up his phone and handing it to Naz.

"Naz Rose?" He inquired, "You're early. Also you don't have my class," Mr. Roak said, "What are you doing here?"

Naz put the phone back into his pocket, "Yeah uh, I was just chilling, Mr. Roak. Don't worry about it."

Mr. Roak raised an eyebrow, "Chilling outside my classroom?"

Naz nodded, trying to not look like he was snooping. Mr. Roak gave him a dull, longsuffering glare and turned around.

"Well, you're not part of my incoming class. So…" he folded his arms. Naz took the hint and nodded.

"Y-yeah…see you around," the junior said, walking off and heading back to the staircase.

The dismissal bell rung and the students were flooding out the school. Jazmin met up with Talon, who was waiting outside with his skateboard. When they met up, they walked together. When they were at least a block away from the school, Jazmin began talking.

"I overheard Mr. Roak on his busted ass burner," Jazmin started, "He was talking about how he paid someone and how Keisha came onto him."

"That nigga a damn liar," Talon said, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag, "He a fucking rapist. Keisha shy and quiet and all these hoe rumors…so what? He's an adult and she a kid. But…who did he pay?"

"Ion know," Jazmin said, shrugging tiredly, "I couldn't hear the voice on the other end that well. Maybe it's his lawyer or something."

Talon took another drag, "Fuck."

Jazmin sighed, shaking her head, checking her phone for any more news updates. There were none. Keisha was barely a blip on the news cycle's radar. To them she was another dumb hood chick who ended up dead in Los Lados—a statistic, nothing to mourn over. The thought that Keisha's death was so dismissed made Jazmin sick to her stomach.

"Yo, I'm going to Alto's crib," Talon said, "You wanna come? Andre and Gale will be there."

"Yeah sure, lemme just tell my mom," Jazmin said, shooting Lakeda a quick text. When she did she smiled at Talon, who got on his skateboard and began sailing down the street as Jazmin easily kept up with him, jogging alongside.

"You cool with Gale?" Jazmin asked, "I thought y'all stopped talking in middle school."

"Nah," Talon said, taking another pull of the cigarette, "We cool—we just drifted apart a little. Ya know, different interests and shit. Oh, before we go to Alto's, I gotta pick up something."

He pulled up to a house that was wedged between two other run down homes, with a dried up yard that had wild weeds growing around it . The chain-link fence was slightly rusted and the house itself was marred with graffiti. The sidewalk leading up to the crib was smashed up as well, covered in collapsed concrete and dirt. Jazmin blinked a few times, making a face but said nothing. Talon skidded to a halt in front of the house, kicking it up and putting it underneath his arm walked up to the front door. He knocked exactly three times and someone opened up.

Without a single word, the person who owned the house gave Talon a pack of something and then shut the door. Talon walked back to the street where Jazmin was waiting.

"What's that?"

Talon opened the bag showing her. It was weed.

"…You're going to sell that?" Jazmin asked, looking upset. Talon shrugged.

"I need the money," he said, "This hustle ain't kicking it and my mom's getting worse."

Jazmin shook her head, folding her arms, "So who you hustling for? X?"

Talon nodded, putting the merchandise in his backpack and zipping it up tight. He didn't want to look suspicious or be caught with a pound of weed on his person by any cop. Jazmin looked unsure and but sighed. She reached into her pocket, giving him a twenty. Talon took the twenty and gave her three grams in small baggie he had on his person. She pocketed the weed and he pocketed the twenty.

"It's kush," he told her, setting his skateboard down again and getting on it, "Gonna sell to the guys."

"Just…be careful," Jazmin insisted. Talon nodded, skating off with Jazmin jogging beside him.

The sky was a medley of colors at sunset—gold, orange, violet and azure. The world around them was boiling, the first notes of summer. While those of Scion City enjoyed the comforts of a regulated climate, those who lived in Los Lados had to deal with the extreme weather shifts. 15th Avenue was a melting pot of kitschy, tacky, warm toned colors, drowned in high contrast orange rays of an increasingly torrid sun. The wilting palm trees, the sea of graffiti, the torn up roads littered with garbage, potholes and overflowing sewage and the collapsing infrastructure of filthy high rise project complexes or small shacks that could not be maintained was the mark of this area of Los Lados. Alto was sitting outside his shack of a house that was owned by his grandmother. He was smoking weed and drinking some soda. He was a skinny short boy with sky blue skin and a huge white afro, almost the size of a basketball that nearly covered his eyes. He had long ribbon-shaped matching tail feathers that emerged from his tailbone. His cute cheeks had little white circles right above the bone. He was of the Altaria-line.

"Alto!" Talon called out. Alto looked up and waved.

"Ay, Talon! Wassup! Hey Jazmin!" He said, hiding a small blush.

Jazmin smiled a bit, "Hi Alto." She remembered Alto from middle school. He used to have a huge crush on her and still did.

"I got the shit, gotta cut it up in to baggies," Talon said, giving Alto a dap and pound, "Andre inside?"

"Yeah he is."

"And Gale?"

Alto nodded, opening the door, "My gran's asleep, so don't be too loud bruh." Talon nodded, heading inside. Alto's home was somewhat dingy—peeling wallpaper, a dirty carpet, sparse furniture, a broken light fixture, a television three decades too old with antennae poking out from the side. They had blinds, but no curtains and the kitchen was very basic looking, with broken tiles and only one burner on the stove that worked. The microwave was on the counter and there was only one light, hanging from the low ceiling. There was a kitchen table, full of claw marks and marks from razor blades from cutting lines of coke. Andre walked into the kitchen, drinking a 40 from a paper bag, greeting Talon and giving Jazmin a quick hug. Gale was in the bathroom, taking a bump of cocaine. He opened his bag while Alto got a scale and dusted it off, setting it on the table.

"Iight—it's a pound, let's start."

Talon sat down and began separating the strains, putting them into dime-bags and weighing them for exact weight. Andre lit a blunt and took a puff, using his prehensile tail hands to hold his 40 as he coughed a bit.

"I'm a bit hungry," Jazmin said. Gale came out of the bathroom, sniffing heavily and gave a nod of acknowledgement to Talon. He was a tall senior, skin almost as white as paper, with shaggy icy white-blue hair. He had sharp blue eyes that looked constantly coked out and small knobby black horns that poked out the sides of his forehead. He was of the Glalie-lineage.

"We got some frozen pizza," Alto said, "Or we could order some noodles and broccoli."

"Noodles sounds good," Jazmin said, sitting down and watching Talon painstakingly separate the weed into baggies.

Gale took out his smartphone, placing an order for noodles and broccoli for Jazmin and another order of tempura shrimp and tofu with brown sauce. He sat down next to Jazmin and she shivered when he did. Gale always looked like he was going to murder somebody and his aura was literally cold. He sniffed again, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag.

"How big of a cut is X asking of you?"

"20 percent," Talon said, "It's fine. I'ma still sell candy and poke treats when I'm at school and deal after work."

"That's wassup," Gale said, "Real motherfuckers trap anywhere."

Jazmin watched, getting bored at seeing them separate the kush and she sighed, scrolling on her phone, still checking for anymore updates for Keisha. It was then she saw she got a text from Portia seven minutes ago. She checked it.

Portia: Bruh! Mr. Ace got arrested!

Jazmin frowned, confused.

Jaz: Arrested for what?

Portia: The cops think he the one who offed K.

"WHAT?" Jazmin said out loud, suddenly getting up. Mr. Ace was the gym teacher for Los Lados High—a man of Cinderace-lineage. He was tall, handsome and well put together and went hard on the students when it came to physical activity. Everyone was looking at Jazmin.

"What's the matter?" Alto asked.

"N-nothing uh—I mean," Jazmin cleared her throat, "Yo…Talon I need to talk to you real quick."

Talon set aside the weed and Jazmin pulled him aside in the den.

"Mr. Ace…he got busted."

Talon looked shocked, "For what?"

"Killing Keisha nigga," Jazmin whisper-yelled, "That creep nigga must have done something—set him up or some shit. Bruh!"

"Jazmin don't even think 'bout going to no goddamn 12," he warned, "This ain't your fight."

"But we saw her—me and Portia! We saw he run off with Roak."

Talon looked stressed and then sighed, "Fuck we gon do, Jaz? They ain't gon' believe you to begin with. And even if you do, they gonna ask why didn't you stop that shit or say something earlier. Nah, fuck 12 bruh, don't do it."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"Ion know!" Talon said, "Look, ima get with you in a bit. Ima finish up making the dimebags—stay for the noodles, Gale ordered 'em."

"Fine. But if shit spirals outta control, then it's our fault."

"No it ain't! It's Mr. Roak's fault cuz that nigga a whole ass rapist motherfucker."

Jazmin snapped her fingers, "What if we got Cel from fifth period to read his mind. She's a psychic type—we could expose him—"

"Bruh, Mr. Roak a dark type. Psychic shit don't work on him, remember?" He said.

"Oh…yeah," Jazmin grumbled, "Fuck."

"We can't do nothing," Talon said, "Just sit back cuz it not we gonna expose this nigga without putting ourselves in some bullshit."

Jazmin looked at him and sighed, shivering a bit, "This ain't fair." Talon shrugged, giving her a gentle hug. She hugged him back, blinking back tears of anger, guilt and overwhelming sadness and anxiety. They hugged for a while until Talon broke it and went back to the kitchen to finish bagging the weed. Jazmin watched him do it and sighed. He looks so tired, she thought. But it wasn't easy doing what Talon was doing. Maybe X-Large might actually help him. I doubt that, she mused, sitting back around the kitchen table. Within twenty minutes, the food came and Gale paid for it, handing the noodles and broccoli to Jazmin. She scarfed them down without a second thought, laughing and smoking with the boys.

Jazmin ended up racing home before the streetlights could come on. As she did, she felt alive. Those with high speed stats liked moving around, showing off their speed. It was only natural as the world around her became of a blur of lights and colors. She sprinted so fast that at certain times she left afterimages of herself that blurred as she ran. The dust that she kicked up when she raced was a large bellowing cloud. But she continued racing through the streets until she reached home in five to six minutes. She came to a skidding halt as she did, standing outside the Section-77 housing projects. She took the time to take in the surroundings of what was simply poverty that stretched miles into the sky.

She walked to the entrance and opened it with her key and headed to the elevator and got off at the seventh floor, heading into her apartment. She had come home at 7 PM, which was soon enough to not get in trouble by Lakeda. She got herself a drink of water and an apple, heading to her room and shutting the door. She changed into her house clothes and went to wash her face and re-do her hair. She looked at her smartphone again, seeing a heart text from Naz. She smiled softly and sadly, deciding not to respond. She was tired and instead of texting anyone, she flopped on her soft bed, snuggling up with her pillow, deciding to sleep off the high instead of doing any homework. I guess we will see what happens, she thought as she closed her eyes.

As Jazmin slept comfortably in her bed, Strika was in his own room, looking at himself shirtless in the mirror. He was in good shape, very good shape. He touched his face as he looked at the picture of him and his father on his night table. As Jazmin was the spitting image of Lakeda, Strika was the same for their father—even down to the intense look in their eyes. It's so long ago, he reminded himself, sighing. He picked up his phone, checking the text he got from Arty. It was a stupid meme that he was not interested in. He pocketed his phone and slipped on his pull over hoodie, grabbed his keys and left his room. He laced up his airforces and left the house without a word and headed to the elevator. When he was outside the housing complex, he called a Drop. It connected, sending a driver to his location in four minutes. As he waited, he popped in his headphones and listened to some lo-fi hip hop. It started to rain as he lingered, first a light drizzle that turned into a steady downpour once the Drop pulled up. He sat in the back with the driver confirming his name.

"Strika?" He asked.

"Yeah," he said, shutting the door and turning the volume back up, not wanting to hold any conversations at the moment. He leaned against the side of the car, looking out the window as the Drop took a shortcut through 8th Ave. Now that it was dark, the city was alive with a multiplicity of lights. They illuminated the world around him so much that was impossible to see the stars from any vantage point and even though that was a tragedy on its own, Strika preferred the brilliance of the city over the dim beauty of any countryside. He scrolled through his phone, texting the girl he met at the club the other night. He'd discovered that her name was Belilah, which he thought was a lovely albeit unusual name. They'd been texting back and forth and it was interesting. She was twenty-nine but seemed very interested in this senior in high school. It's not weird…it's not weird, I got game, Strika thought. He was handsome and he did date some baddies in high school, but never a grown woman this old who was this fly. He had to be careful not to tick her off or reveal too much corny shit about himself. The Drop soon pulled up to the club he was at the other night—the Underground, as it was commonly referred to. He gave the driver a curt thank you and stepped out in the rain, taking in the smell of the air. The hookers he saw the other night were there, chilling underneath an awning, smoking and talking. He eyed the one that was tall and dark, a lovely woman with huge clear brown eyes and curly hair. She was not a mon, rather, a full-blooded human, something that was not common in Los Lados. Humans tended to live in more affluent areas, away from mons.

He went over to the side entrance, texting Infra, who then opened the door for him. He followed his friend down to the basement level, where there was a crowd again, gathered around the huge ring that was set up in the center. Everything felt so unreal…so much like a dream or a nightmare, as he felt himself disassociating the closer he got to the betting booth. Infra wrote his name on the opponent chart and Strika reached into his pocket, opening his wallet, putting a fifty dollar bet on himself.

The name of the person he would be facing was "Slasher." He inhaled deeply but Infra gave him a reassuring pat on the back. He turned to face the crowd to see someone get knocked out the ring, flying into the wall and slumping down the floor, bleeding from his head. The crowd went wild and the winner of that battle was celebrated, hoisted up on the shoulders of his benefactor, who then gave him his cut of the earnings for winning. The loser was crumpled on the floor and lifted up by the bouncer, put on a stretcher and taken to the back to be stitched up. Strika winced at the sight of this but then looked at the cash the winner was counting. It was five thousand in cold hard dollars for just less than three minutes in the ring. It was his turn now. He took off his backpack, hoodie, shirt and shoes, just in his black socks and jeans. He walked over to the ring, watching as the crowd parted for him as he climbed in. The announcer pulled the mic closer to her mouth, introducing them.

"Today is going to be a special match! Let's see how well you can show off them moves! On the left we have a newcomer, Striiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikaaaaaa!" She yelled, "Cool fucking name if you ask me, don't y'all agree?"

The crowd roared in response as the announcer hyped up the audience, most of them already high out their ass.

"And on the right, we got the one and only, returning winner and fan favorite—Slaaaaaaaaasheeeeeer!"

A young man that couldn't be more than twenty-five walked into the ring. He was shorter than Strika, with smooth light brown skin and a mane of wild thorny brown hair that was tied back in a ponytail. His weasel like ears poked through his hair as his sharp gold eyes met Strika's electric blue ones. He was shirtless, covered in stitches, keloid scars and little pockmarks. His hands were taped up and so were his ankles. He was of a Sandslash-lineage, which he showed when a pair of organic blades slid out of his knuckles. Strika swallowed hard, steeling his resolve.

"Alright! Let's do this shit!" The announcer cried out, "Ready!"

Strika got into his fighting position.

"Set!"

The crowd began shouting in anticipation. Slasher readied himself as well.

"Go!"

Strika moved first, running towards Slasher, his eyes glowing neon blue. The lights in the whole club went haywire, overloading as he discharged an incredible wave of electrical energy that made the crowd scream, gasp and duck for cover. However, Slasher took the electrical deluge, grinning. It didn't touch him at all. Instead, the sparks bounced off him, having no effect. Strika stopped in mid-step as he saw this and Slasher stomped on the ring, sending it shaking, including the foundation of the club. Strika fell over, losing his footing. Slasher grappled him in response, trying to force him down. The senior flipped him as he did, sending Slasher on his back. He groaned in pain but rolled out the way of Strika's incoming stomp. He hacked at him, ripping through skin. Strika screamed, doubling over, his eyes glowing again. The lights flickered as he felt his energy surge. Slasher dove again. He wasn't that fast—but he hit pretty fucking hard, driving his blades into Strika. He sidestepped quickly, narrowly avoiding being impaled. He punched Slasher, giving him a right hook and then left jab. The punch nearly cracked Slasher's jaw while the jab left him stunned. Strika grabbed him, trying to throw him out the ring but he broke his grab and slashed him against the chest, drawing a splatter of blood. Strika reeled back, realizing he might be in over his head. He was certain he was when Slasher charged him with X-Scissor, his blades leaving an X shaped laceration across his stomach as he barreled him out of the ring and into the crowd. Strika fell backwards and hit his head his against the floor, bleeding and unable to get up. The announcer yelled into the microphone.

"SLASHER GOTCHA! HE'S THE WINNER!"

Strika could barely move, feeling a horrible migraine hitting him like a train. Light was starting to hurt his eyes and soon enough, he blacked out.

He awoke in a green-lit room with dull lights. He was on a stretcher and his chest and stomach was bandaged up. He was given a potion that was diluted with water for him to regain his strength and an ice pack for the back of his head. He wasn't horribly injured, but the pain was excruciating. At least the potion saved him from the more potentially fatal injuries. Slasher's…well, slashes, drew blood and if he had gotten an artery, that would be the end of him. Strika groaned inwardly, checking the time on his smartphone. It was 2 AM and so, his mother would be at work by the time he got in. Pain radiated through his body as he tried to get up and so he laid still, waiting for the call-in nurse to finish administering potions for his injuries.

After twenty minutes, he was fast asleep, hoping that this headache would leave him by the time he reopened his eyes. He replayed the match in his head, feeling stupid for opening the battle with an electric type attack. He'd forgotten ground types were completely immune to that. When he woke up again, the vertigo had vanished but there was still pain in the back of his head. The door slid open and there was a young feminine person walking in. They had straight white hair, fair skin and yellow eyes that had swirls instead of normal pupils. When they walked, they moved in a jilted, strange fashion. They wore a pink and blue dress and blue boots. Strika realized they was of the Porygon-Z line—an unusual development, since Porygon was an artificial mon. Such incongruity explained why they moved so strangely.

"Hey," he grunted, "You the girl who gon' patch me—"

"Not a girl, not a boy, just call me Cory," they said, "And yeah, I'm administering potions to you. Also, lemme see your I.D"

"I…forgot that shit at home," Strika said.

Cory gave him dubious look and sucked their teeth, "Right…anyways, this clearly your first time. That match…whew, kid…you got fucked all the way up."

"You don't gotta fuckin' remind me," Strika mumbled. Cory gave him one more potion, spraying it on his injuries and removed the bandages to clean the wounds over. They were ugly lacerations, though not incredibly deep, they were deep enough to get infected and cause serious illness if not sanitized properly. Strika howled in pain when Cory poured disinfectant on the wounds, causing them to hiss and steam, as if they were burning. Then they cleaned them out and sprayed the potion. Once the potion got in contact with the marred flesh, it started to heal. With that, they changed the bandages, tossing the old ones out into the trash.

"You'll be alright," they said, "You can get up now."

Strika did exactly that, wincing and grunting in pain. He limped towards the closet where his hoodie was hung and took it, checking for his phone, which was there. He sighed and picked up his backpack, grimacing as he did. Cory packed up their equipment and headed out, but before leaving they made a quick comment.

"I'll see you again soon," they said sardonically, leaving through the back entrance that led out into the street. Strika grumbled and walked out as well, noticing it was still raining. He pulled the hood over his head and slung his backpack around his shoulder, ordering a Drop to his location.