Act 2: The way of inhaling and exhaling is with hardness and softness.

Believing

The weather was perfect at Southtown Municipal Park. The clouds filtered the sun's heat, making for a pleasant, dewy morning. The air was brisk and enlivening as evidenced by the swaying trees.

King regarded Jean as he easily kept pace beside her. Upon reflection, she hadn't noticed how accustomed she had grown to hearing Jean's squeaking leg braces. Nevertheless, she considered their absence a godsend, seeing her brother walking sure-footed along the trail. His stares betrayed his curiosity at the mysterious oblong package that she carried with her, and she smiled.

Jean looked to her when they stopped in the open clearing. "Where are we going, Sis?"

"We're already here," King replied. She presented the package and said, "Remember when I told you that we would do something special when your legs were strong enough?"

Jean smiled as he took possession of the proffered object. His eyes widened when he removed the wrapping. "A kite?"

King giggled along with her brother, and she helped him put it together.

"Thanks, Sis." Jean's expression softened. "The last time we flew a kite was with Maman and Papa... Before..."

"I know." She stroked his hair.

"Can I fly it now?"

"But of course—after I get it started for you." She grabbed the spool of string tied to the kite and held the sail up into the wind.

Jean rolled his eyes. "I know how to fly a kite."

"Yes, but we'll have to take it slow, Jean, since there isn't enough wind to catch an updraft—"

"Then I won't go slow." Jean snatched the spool and took off with the kite before King could stop him.

"Jean, wait!"

King started after him but was soon stilled by her surprise. In spite of the operation and physical therapy, she had thought nothing could top the joy of seeing her brother walk without crutches for the first time since the accident.

That is, until she beheld him running.

Her hands covered her gaping mouth in both shock and elation as Jean ran in to the wind. His kite caught the breeze and ascended into the sky. When the kite was steadily aloft, King joined him.

"You see, Sis? It's like riding a bike."

"I'll never doubt you again, Mon Grand."

—oOo—

It remained windy well throughout the afternoon. King zipped her jacket as she walked the long city block. It took some time, but she was starting to get used to dressing up like a girl in public again. She didn't even mind the stolen glances of the men that passed her on the street. King's wind-swept hair had grown long enough to tickle the tops of her ears—it was a long-forgotten sensation.

King turned into the alley leading to the side door entrance of La Illusion. Shielded from the wind, she could now hear her heavy tread caused by the thick soles of her leather boots. She fumbled for the keys in her pocket as she approached the door.

"You look good as a girl."

Startled, King's head snapped in the direction of the familiar voice. "Mickey?"

A tall Black man came out from behind the dumpster. Mickey Rogers brushed aside the braids that covered his face—he had aged considerably since King had last seen him. She steadied herself as he approached, the stagger in his gait telling of the contents in the unmarked glass bottle that he was carrying.

"It's a nice place you've made for yourself, King."

"Unfortunately, it still belongs to my investors."

"Meh, that's the way it is all over." The big man upturned the bottle to his waiting lips to take in the few remaining drops of rotgut. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Did you hear what happened to Geese?"

"I'm afraid I don't keep my ear to the street anymore, Mickey."

"Someone chucked him out of his penthouse window." Mickey grinned. "Not that he didn't have it coming."

King snorted. "First Big, now Geese? Crime bosses are dropping like flies nowadays."

"You were wise to pull out when you did. A guy can't make a dishonest living no more."

"So, what are you doing here, Mickey? Did I forget to RSVP to the hired thugs' reunion, or something?"

Mickey chuckled. "Same old King. You've come a long way."

"I should; I worked my butt off."

"Naw, you still got plenty of butt left"—he sneered—"for a White girl."

She took her hands out of her pockets and folder her arms akimbo. "Your charm with the ladies certainly hasn't improved."

"Sorry, bad joke." His smile faded. "You and me... we used to watch each other's backs back in the old days... it's gonna make taking your invitation to the King of Fighters tournament harder than I thought."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you on about? If Geese is dead, then there is no more King of Fighters."

He shook his head. "Word on the street is the King of Fighters franchise is under new management."

"Then I'm sure I'll get passed up: everyone knows I'm a woman now. They don't let girls fight, remember?"

"You changed all that, baby. Women's Lib."

King was not impressed. "Sorry, but you came all this way for nothing."

"Don't lie to me!" He threw the bottle to the ground, and it skidded by her feet, but it did not break. "If anyone in Southtown got an invitation, it was you!"

King's jaw clenched as she unfolded her arms, letting them hang loosely at her sides. "What is this Mickey? I don't here from you in two years, and now you suddenly show up, out of the blue, half-drunk and making demands?"

"Look at me... this is my last shot at gettin' back into the ring. You don't need it like I do."

"Still, I don't think I'd give it to you—even if I did have it." King squared off.

Mickey raised his fists and assumed a boxing stance. "Why are you lying!"

The fighters circled each other in the narrow alley. When King saw Mickey twist his back foot, she knew he was ready to make his move. Mickey lunged, leading with two left jabs. Even with the tell, and her opponent half-drunk, King barely managed to parry Mickey's attack. Fortunately, Mickey's follow-up, a right cross, was much slower; she easily ducked the punch, hopped off the ground and planted her knee into Mickey's ribs.

Tiger Kick!

The former heavyweight champion slumped to his knees, cradling his side and coughing up spittle.

When she sensed that Mickey had had enough, King stood down. "I saw that right cross coming a mile away. Your arthritis has gotten worse, hasn't it?"

Mickey looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. "I still got the fastest left jab in Southtown."

"It takes more than a quick jab to be the King of Fighters. You'll get torn apart."

He snorted. "Die fast, or die slow... what's the difference?"

She kicked the unbroken bottle back in his direction. "You wanna die, do it yourself. I'm not going to help you."

"What else am I gonna do if I can't fight?"

King shrugged. "Start over. That's what I did. Who says you can't do something else?"

"Don't you think I tried?"

"All I know is, people with less have done more. What would your father think if he was alive?"

Mickey rose, his hand covering his ribs, and he regarded her with a glower. "That was a low-blow, King."

King erred on the side of caution and resumed her Muay Thai stance. "Would he want you to go out like this?"

The boxer averted his eyes. "No. It's just that... When I was in the ring... It was the only time I felt that people believed in me." He turned to leave.

King waited until he was halfway to the sidewalk before closing her eyes and sighing heavily. She called out to him, saying, "Hey, Mickey. As it turns out, I need a handyman to fix up the place and lock up for me at night. Come by later, after you get yourself cleaned up, and we'll talk."

He glanced over his shoulder warily. "Why are you helping me?"

"It's not out of the goodness of my heart; it's going to be a lot of work. Do you want the job, or not?"

Mickey nodded. "Thanks, King." And he left.