Disclaimer: I don't own Divergent or Rocky.
There're many different kinds of pain out there. The lash of Marcus' belt, carving angry red lines into my back. Sean's big fist hammering against my face, pounding my nose until it's bloody. The cutting words of the teachers at school, who all said I was slow.
No matter the type, though, they all have a similar effect. Long after the assailant's moved on, the pain stays for ages, like a bothersome fly circling over my head. Forcing me to relieve every jab, every insult, every blow that knocked me down.
I feel blessed the Dauntless offered me that surgery. Now all my pain is, miraculously, gone.
As I change out of the clothes I slept in, I'm amazed and grateful that I can move with ease. There's no complaint from my ribs, no soreness in my face. It's like my body's been tricked into thinking I won against Sean. Even my once-broken hand's fully functional now.
"Ten minutes to the first fight," I tell Eric. Is he listening? He's taking longer than usual to pull his shirt over his head.
Finally, he turns to me. "'Kay, then," he says, sounding like he's only half there.
I don't think he's done brooding. For all I know, he could still be hearing, over and over, the crunch of Amy's jaw against his right knee. I try to wake him up. "Got your game face on, I see."
"Like I have a choice," is his muttered reply. He won't even meet my eyes.
"Quit stressin'. You'll be fine," I say with conviction. The other transfers are leaving the dormitory, a steady stream of students heading for the training room. If Eric and I don't report there by eight sharp, the Dauntless will accuse us of slacking off.
It's a strange turn of events. I got the shit kicked out of me by Sean, but I bounced back and am now a contender. My best friend? He survived the first round, but if he doesn't get his shit together soon, he'll be worse off than the girl he beat.
"You two, face off," Amar orders. He points at Amy, then his finger swivels over to me. I don't ask questions, I just step into the arena. Amy does too, and we look at each other without malice or aggression.
The Candor girl's jaw is no longer so swollen. Her skin, which was patched with bruises yesterday, is practically glowing. Was she also offered a free surgery by the Dauntless? If so, it won't be as easy a win as I originally anticipated.
The match officially begins. Amy and I size each other up, taking it slow, so we won't end up wasting our energy. I remember something Eric said, that the most powerful weapons I have in my arsenal are my knees and elbows. I only need to wait for a good opportunity.
Amar's voice breaks my concentration. "Don't let yourself get comfortable," he says to both Amy and me. "This ain't a recreational activity."
I know!
The tension in the room is palpable as Amy makes the first move. She throws her whole body weight behind the punch, so her fist is loaded with a ton of force. My defensive skills aren't too bad, and I'm able to guard my head and face. But it's obvious Amy's learned a lot since her loss. Enough to keep me on my toes.
"Good," Amar comments, once we've broken up. "Baby steps forward."
Things are gonna escalate now. I have to be the one to attack next, or Amy could take over and dominate for the length of the fight. I search desperately for an opening, a chance to put my hands on my opponent without getting clocked myself. Finally, I go in swinging, hoping Amy won't call my bluff, hoping she'll think I'm going for her face when actually, my sights are set elsewhere.
The feint pays off. Amy keeps her face shielded, but doesn't see the liver shot coming.
Bam. Just like that, my opponent goes down.
I'm breathing heavily, waiting to see if she'll rise again. Time slows to a crawl, at least from my point of view. I blink, closing both eyes then sluggishly opening them again.
Logically, I know I didn't go anywhere. I've barely even moved a muscle. But my imagination is vivid, and it's saying I'm not in the training room anymore.
I'm in my old house in the Abnegation sector. Staring at a face that should no longer exist.
My mom's face. Painted over with a careless hand, so it resembles a vulgar cartoon from the past century. Her skin stained with greens, blues, and violets. Bruises flowering underneath, left by one man.
Marcus.
I glare at the back of my own hand, recognizing the monstrous knuckles and pulsating veins of my mom's husband. My father. Her worst enemy, and mine.
Is this really how it feels, becoming the person you despise the most? Literally?
I don't want to know the answer, so I blink again. I find myself back in the training room. The person lying at my feet is not my beloved mom, but my opponent. Amy.
All of a sudden, I'm finding it difficult to try to hit her again.
Damn. I owe Eric an apology, I think. But now I'm primed to commit the same errors he did. I give Amy time to pick herself up off the floor. I let her come at me with a powerful uppercut. I stifle a groan of pain as I'm struck beneath the chin.
"Uh-oh," I hear from Amar. Black spots suddenly spring up in my field of vision. They form a fuzzy curtain over my eyes, and for a second I'm terrified I'll lose to Amy.
I squeeze both eyes shut, willing the dizziness to go away. It doesn't.
Too late, I see Amy coming closer. She wraps her arms around my torso and knees me hard in the stomach. All the air's forced out of my lungs, replaced by a gut-wrenching agony. I land hard, flat on my ass, stabilizing myself on one of my palms. Simply sitting upright will be a challenge.
Will the match conclude here and now? I thought I'd win with ease, given my bigger size and greater strength.
"But it ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward."
Suddenly, I'm in grade school again, sitting at my desk in the back row, Eric next to me. The television's on and we're watching a documentary about a boxing legend from the twentieth century, decades before the war. The substitute teacher, a fitness instructor from Dauntless, wouldn't stop gushing about the "life lessons" we'd learn from the late Rocky Balboa.
I believe I get it now. In the grainy black-and-white footage shown to us, Balboa was pitted against a top athlete from a rival nation, a steroid-filled hulk of a man. And that man hit harder than anyone I'd ever seen before. Balboa was given the thrashing of his life, absorbing one heavy blow after another, to the point where afterwards, they thought he'd been left with permanent brain damage.
But what he didn't do was give up. The blows only seemed to motivate him further. They seemed only to make him madder, to fortify his resolve to pound Ivan Drago into the canvas. And that was just what he proceeded to do. He survived his punishment long enough to stun Drago, allowing him to knock the brute cold.
That was what made him a true fighter, and what set him apart from miserable cowards like Marcus Eaton. Marcus hit harder than most men, but only with the assurance that his wife wouldn't fight back. On the other hand, it was through enduring great pain that Balboa could achieve the greatest victory of his life.
I force myself to get up, ignoring the deep ache in my gut.
"Keep going, keep going!" Amar encourages. I do just that. In seconds, I'm standing at my full height once more. It fills me with joy to see the shocked look on Amy's face.
We trade a few punches and end up wrestling each other. The fight becomes a sweat-soaked, desperation-driven smackdown.
"Come on!" shouts Amar. "Just push through!"
I do. Not once do I consider lying down and giving up. Neither does my opponent. Whoever triumphs in the end will have earned the win.
And I'm winning. I've got Amy pinned, and her energy levels are going down fast. In her head, she might want to continue, but physically she can't take much more. Before she can tap out, her body suddenly stops wiggling and she blinks out of consciousness, just like that.
I'm received like a hometown hero who just won against a national champion. Everyone's screaming my name, even Jason and Sean.
"And there you have it," declares Amar. "The underdog came out on top." He pats me on the back and winks at me, and I get an instant boost of serotonin.
But haunting me like a ghost is the memory of that image I saw, the image of my mom's bruised face. A reminder that, no matter how you spin it, I committed the same evil as Marcus in that arena. I wish I could get rid of the feeling, but I can't.
Eric hammers it home further when I reach him. "Understand now?" he nudges me. "It's not the same, beating up a rookie."
"I know," I whisper. By now, they've stopped chanting my name. Everyone's gearing up for the second fight of the day, and I'm simultaneously thankful and scared.
"Eric! Get in the ring!"
Amar's shouting like war has just started and he's going to round up the conscripted. Hoping no one can see his reluctance, Eric trudges toward the center of the room, where he eventually enters the arena. Amy's already been transported to the infirmary, so the floor contains no evidence of her and Tobias' altercation, except for a bit of dried blood.
Amar continues with his announcement. "And your opponent…"
All the hairs on the back of Eric's neck stand on end. "What the hell?"
"Jason from Candor," Amar finishes. The bearish boy from Candor comes forward, swinging his arms excitedly, his feet loudly stamping the floor. It seems no other Dauntless initiate is as prepared to fight, both physically and mentally.
Just how formidable is he in the ring? He may not be formally trained, but his gargantuan frame could make up for it. Besides, he's no slowpoke. He learned quick how to dodge and block, and to keep his head out of the way of brain-damaging blows.
Well, being the bigger guy counts for nothing against years of experience. Especially when that experience was gained fighting the best of the best. It's just that, even knowing how easy it is to hate Jason, Eric still dreads accidentally knocking his head off.
As the start of the match draws near, Eric pulls Jeanine's words of wisdom out of his memory. Think logically. Allowing himself to lose is not an option, unless he wants to put his rank at risk. Think long-term. Was his heart in the right place when he held back against Amy, or was he being childish? Part of growing up is adapting to the harshness of the world around you.
Eric's climbing heart rate slows, just in time for the fight to kick off and Amar to say, "Good luck."
"You're gonna need it, Nose," Jason jeers. He cracks each of his knuckles one by one, a move that would look exaggerated and silly if he weren't such a threat.
He's not really taking this seriously, Eric realizes. He'll play mind games with his opponent, but he may not rise to the occasion till he's sure the latter won't put up a fight.
Feeling bolder than usual, Eric chooses to go all out. A knockout in the first minute would satisfy Amar.
And Jason's only seconds away from getting baited. He's practically strutting around the ring, saying stuff like, "Try to beat me, pussy. You ain't got enough strength."
Now.
Eric goes in intending to break the kid's jaw. His guard's dropped and there's little effort on his part to steer clear of his opponent. Eric pictures the Candor stumbling back, then crashing to the ground, then going to sleep. Peacefully. No blood, no struggle.
A flawless victory.
Except… that's not what goes down.
It's as if a switch is thrown inside Jason. He flips from klutzy would-be street fighter to boxer who can play it smart. He defends against Eric's well-timed strikes, not letting a single one land. Slowly, the latter's sureness in himself is depleted.
Aw, hell. Dude hid his skill level from me. I got bamboozled, big-time.
Eric's pride is wounded, and this will negatively affect his game. Doesn't appear like it, but MMA and boxing bear more resemblances to a chess match than any other sport. You stop being able to think clearly, stop being able to read your opponent and figure out their strategy, and you're headed for defeat.
Jeanine was right. Eric needs to bury his emotions when in a fight.
But was he too slow in learning this? Jason's switched to offensive mode, and his much larger size is tipping the scale in his favor. Eric can do little in these moments but duck and deflect, frantically trying to come out on top once more.
Exhaustion begins to set in. For just a second, he lets his eyes close.
When again they open, Eric's no longer in the darkened training room. He's a little kid again, perched on the lap of his mother in their sun-soaked living room. It was a pleasant afternoon in the middle of summer, and Maggie was entertaining him with tales her grandfather had passed down to her.
The story went something like this - a long, long time ago, in an era before the war that eradicated half the world, their family had not yet arrived in Chicago. To them, the city was too foreign, populated with strangers, too alien, too cold. No one who grew up in Thailand would've been used to the violent blizzards and blasts of Arctic wind that frequently pop up during a Chicago winter. According to Maggie's grandfather, his grandfather used to say that there were really only two seasons in Thailand, hot and hotter.
But that was just the surface of how different the lives of their forefathers and mothers were. A few years before they emigrated to the continent on which Chicago stands, Maggie's family lived in Khon Kaen Province, located north of the capital. "Life was better then," so said the granddad of Maggie's granddad. "Whenever the kids had issues, they went and spoke to their parents, the best people to guide them. They showed respect to their elders. They practiced Buddhism and learned mindfulness. They were led by a great king, one of the greatest in history. He wouldn't have sold us out to those Russkie traitors, like your so-called president did!"
Eric still isn't sure what he meant by "Russkie", but does it matter? He believed everything he was told in those legends.
That wasn't the highlight of the story, anyway. The good bits took place even before that time, approximately half a dozen generations prior. Back then, the Thais were not "Thais" but "Siamese", the capital neither "Krung Thep" nor "Bangkok" but another city entirely, a multicultural center and commercial hub sitting at the intersection of a trio of rivers. Ayutthaya. A city of remarkable opulence and incredible diversity, that would still exist in all its splendor if not for those damned Burmese invaders.
That was really where the story began. After that sorrowful day in the year 1767, when Burmese forces succeeded at last at breaching the city walls, Ayutthaya, their beautiful Ayutthaya, was reduced to a pile of smoking ruins. The Burmese took thousands of Siamese prisoners-of-war, among them a warrior with a never-give-up attitude and plenty of knowledge of the ancient art, Muay Thai.
The Siamese knew him as Nai Khanom Tom.
"All Thai kids should know about him," Maggie said. And from there, she told her son about the multiple victories achieved by the Muay Thai legend.
She told him about the Burmese king's visit to Yangon, the capital of his nation, on the day of a religious ceremony that was held at a shimmering pagoda. She described the king's determination to find the best Siamese fighter and pit him against the best of the Burmese. The match was not to be a timed fight with gloves, referees, rounds, and strict rules, but a no-holds-barred, bone-crunching, blood-spilling fight for survival.
Just like what they do in Dauntless initiation.
On that day in the year 1774, the Siamese chose Nai - Mr. - Khanom Tom to represent them, sealing the fate of the Burmese fighters. The Muay Thai warrior entered the arena without much pomp or showmanship. He wore only a simple loincloth that afforded him groin protection, but also freer movement.
Then the all-out assault began. Using a combination of his fists, feet, knees, and elbows, Nai Khanom Tom crushed not just one, not just two, not even just three, but ten of the best Burmese warriors, one after the other, without so much as a pause to catch his breath. "And that, you see," Maggie explained, "is why they still call Muay Thai the 'art of eight limbs'."
Even the Burmese king was won over, and he had to confess - "Every part of the Siamese is blessed with venom, so he can knock down ten opponents with his bare hands."
For Nai Khanom Tom did not fight for the sake of his honor. He fought for his king, his country, his elders, and his Kru, or teacher. Before he threw even one punch or attempted a single kick, he took the entire Burmese audience's breath away with a performance dedicated to his predecessors. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he moved in a circle around the ring, like a territorial tiger on the prowl. But instead of charging right away, he fell to his knees and dipped his head low, so his forehead nearly touched the dusty earth beneath his feet.
He rose up again, then bowed his head once more, repeating these dance-like steps before the Burmese spectators in awe. No, he was not simply dancing, he was not just paying respect to the ones who came before him, he was praying, calling on the spirits and asking them to keep him safe.
Because it doesn't matter how good you are, there's always someone to whom you owe your success.
Back when he still fought, who was the most notable mentor in Eric's life? Who was the Kru he could turn to, to better himself in the ring, and outside of it? It's an outlandish thought, but perhaps, if he could recall some of the most important lessons they taught, he'd somehow pull through and triumph over Jason.
Well, that great teacher definitely wasn't his boxing coach, who was far more preoccupied with ego-stroking than anything. Eric's worst memory of the man is the time he had the former spar with his teenage son, who'd already won a championship belt and wasn't at all willing to hold back. The sixteen-year-old beat Eric, then eleven years old, black and blue in front of all the other students. When it was finally over, all the coach did was tell Eric to think of it as a "teachable moment".
Tobias wanted to know why Eric kept returning, day after day, just to get clobbered all over again. He did have a good point. What gave Eric enough motivation to brush aside the antagonistic behavior of the coach and even his fellow students? How could he keep going back until he finally, finally got good?
The answer swims up through his befuddled mind until it's as glaringly obvious as a red traffic light.
Mom, that's why.
Maggie was the one who forced Eric to train seven hours a day, six days a week, for almost three consecutive months. She videotaped his first couple of fights and reviewed the footage obsessively, nitpicking over every move made, every point scored, every hit that didn't land, every feint that failed. She was the one who, when he very stupidly suggested that he quit, yelled at him to stop being such an idiot.
Oh, she wasn't supportive at first. But she changed her tune when she learned her son had the potential to win several belts, to make something of his life. From then on, she was always in his corner.
Once they were stopped on the street by an older Erudite man, who wanted to know what Maggie was doing, letting her son fight older kids from Candor and Dauntless. Said Eric was just a "small boy". A small boy! Son of a bitch! Was that seriously what he thought?
And how did Maggie react? She went off on that middle-aged prick. Told him to stop being so bigoted, to keep in mind the fact that the legendary Saenchai from the twenty-first century was no taller than five-four, yet he still dominated the majority of his unsuspecting farang opponents! "One day, my son will do the same to those big kids from Dauntless," she bragged.
For the first time in a long time, Eric loves his mother a lot. More than most teenagers do.
He redirects his attention to the fight with Jason, feeling invigorated. In his head he can hear Maggie ordering him to focus, to try to detect where his opponent is lacking. And Jason falls short in many departments. It's plain to see, now that Eric's mind is no longer in overdrive.
The Candor kid can't seem to anticipate, nor defend against, kicks to the body. Especially when they're coming in low. An idea takes root in Eric's mind. He'll stop aiming for the kid's head at once, and go for his calves and ankles instead.
Some would accuse him of playing dirty. But this move's been tried before, and it worked miracles.
It's having an effect on Jason now. The first few times he got smacked, he just pushed through the pain and kept going. But he hasn't adapted, and when his opponent's shin whacks his own for the fifth or sixth time, that's when his suffering really starts to show.
"Shit…" The boy's nostrils flare and his teeth catch on his lip as he starts to go into flight mode. Much like a brash Chihuahua running into a leopard for the first time.
But he can't just turn and run. Eric knows he won't concede the match, either. Gradually he stops attacking and puts his all into avoiding those kicks.
And where are his hands? By his sides, his arms almost idle. That's Eric's chance.
He makes like he's gonna try another kick to the legs, when really, his target's higher up. Jason buys it. He thinks he's gonna check this one. Exactly what Eric wants.
One. He twists his hips, his leg swinging upwards in a graceful arc, bludgeoning Jason's chin and loosening three of his teeth. The Candor's entire body goes ballistic, his brain too panicked to tell his arms and legs where to go. His head's as good as one displaying a bold "Kick Me" sign.
Two. Eric punches Jason in the ear, and he keels over. But, goddamn it, he doesn't go to the ground completely. He has more endurance than Eric thought.
Three. Jeanine's advice resonating through his brain, Eric lunges forward and rams the sole of his foot straight into his opponent's face. Jason folds, like a deck of cards that's been shuffled too many times. One of his front teeth is missing. Well, he needn't worry, he'll find it when it falls out of his asshole along with his dinner.
The onlookers break into cheers. They're totally gobbling this shit up. They call on Eric to, "Yeah! Finish him!"
Eric gives his beaten opponent a cursory glance. Damn. He's still clinging to consciousness. Would it look better if I made him go to sleep, once and for…
No. Eric lets the tension leave his muscles. He drops his hands and proceeds toward the outer edge of the ring, hopefully not in a way that looks like a retreat.
When he gets near his fallen adversary, he notices the kid's no longer awake. His eyes are shut and his hands have fallen limply to the side. Oh God, what if…
Eric knows that question should be asked - and answered - by Amar. Not him. But then he remembers something else Maggie said, before she finished telling the story. Back in the day, Thai boxers could attack with the ferocity of a tiger during a round, but they showed respect to the loser after the final bell. There was little of the "trash talk" that farang audiences love so much.
On the strength of this, Eric approaches Jason's still body. He squats next to the Candor, his worst fears assuaged by the visible rise and fall of the boy's chest.
Jason's eyes open just a crack. Eric sticks out a hand toward him, intending to help him stand.
It's right then that it happens.
Eric couldn't describe the next few seconds using coherent sentences. More like a tangle of exclamations and descriptions of horrid sensations.
Pain! Blinding pain in both of his eyes. Grimy fingernails that feel like slicing scissor blades.
Confusion. A sudden and total loss of coordination. No balance anymore, no steadiness in either of his feet.
And finally, an impactful thud as the back of his head meets the floor. Meets it incredibly violently, with similar force as if he got hit from behind by a car.
"Oh, no," he hears from far away. Was that a passionate scream, or just a quiet, defeated groan?
Eric doesn't have time to wonder. Jason straddles him, his legs squeezing tight, like they're the killing coils of a python. His right hand's curling into a fist, and there isn't anything between it and the soft skin of his victim's face. Nothing to dissuade him from toying with his prey before the kill.
The first of many punches lands. But Eric must've somehow been rewarded for his restraint, because he isn't given a chance to feel any of them.
AN: Lol, so Tobias got a few facts wrong about Rocky Balboa. Well, it's not really his fault. It's established that the people living in post-apocalyptic Chicago have little knowledge of the USA and its culture, let alone the world outside of it. According to my version of events, those in charge figured they could use an old American movie franchise as government propaganda to convince young people to join Dauntless.
As for the legend that was passed down to Eric's mom, well, I know what some people are gonna say. "They wouldn't know about Thai history because they barely even know about the USA." Well culture is not something that disappears easily, even when a new regime is put in place. Anyone who has studied history knows that oral traditions survive, and people continue to pass down languages, customs, and religious beliefs in secret.
Farang means "Westerner" in Thai language.
Eric's strategy in the latter half of his fight with Jason was taken straight from a real-life kickboxing match. Namely, the GLORIOUS victory of Thai boxer Changpuek Kiatsongrit over American kickboxer Rick Roufus in 1988. A win for Muay Thai in the US, and for Thai people in general, considering how biased the ref, judges, and commentators were against Changpuek.
I hope you enjoyed this action-packed chapter, as well as the references to two enduring legends in the boxing world! Let's hope things look up for Eric in the next installment!