Inspired by the "Step Up" or dance style movies, even though I have never seen any of them, this is how I would imagine one would go. There will be songs in here and the characters will either be singing or dancing to them, I will specify at them time, and there will be those scenes where a flash mob just randomly joins in with an unexpected choreographed routine. This idea came because I'm trying to prove to myself how difficult it is to write fight/dance scenes. This story will battle discrimination, social status and the meaning of a competition. Kind of based on the song, "The Fighter" by 'Gym Class Heroes', even though I had this idea before I heard the song.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Storm Hawks/any songs used/Step Up stuff (even though it is not a parody, it is an original inspired by the genre of dance movies) and if anything else pops up, let's just say I don't own that either.
Grumble.
That sound he constantly heard erupting from his stomach to tell him he was hungry, unfortunately, this desire was not always satisfied at the appropriate time. With no funds or a job, he struggled to live from day to day without sufficient nutrition, bringing him to his current position.
Bottom rung of the ladder, scum on the foot of society, end of the line.
Speaking of which, that's where he found himself right now. At the end of the line and awaiting his fate. His life was difficult, and every so often he was required to complete a gruelling task just to make enough money to feed himself and survive until the next task.
"Next." The words escaping the teller's lips told him that his wait was over. With his hood still resting atop his head, the skinny boy of only eighteen walked up to the large woman behind the glass. His expression was neutral, his movements lanky and his breathing was shaky.
"Name?" The woman dropped her head down to her desk to watch her pen scratch across the paper.
"X," was his mumbled answer. The woman took a moment to gaze up at the boy in confusion, but only sighed with the shake of her head as she brought her attention back down to the desk and wrote the letter down on the sticker. She handed the small sheet through the tiny arch at the bottom of the window and the boy stared down at the note in his hands.
"Next." Her sharp words repeated. The boy moved out of his current position and decided to prepare for his next step. Without paying attention to his current surroundings, the boy manoeuvred his way through the crowd and straight to a doorway found in the adjacent alley, as though he had done this task a million times before.
He found the small black locker room filled with other men like him; lanky, exhausted and not prepared for their upcoming challenge. Squinting his eyes in the dark the boy walked through the slowly developing crowd, found a small clear area on a bench and began to change.
One by one, each boy in a pair of boxers walked out of a door that stood in the corner of the room. One by one, each boy returned; bruised, bloodied and leaning on another person to help walk, or hobble, back to their belongings, making the boy more nervous about his own fate.
He could feel his breathing increase; the small puff of smoke released was visible in the cold room. The last boy walked back into the change room, physically exhausted and covering his black eye with his hand.
It was his turn. A tall man stood at the door and gestured his fingers to the nervous boy to come to him. Reluctantly and with a quick wipe of his forehead to remove the sweat, the boy stood up and advanced to the man.
With a pair of red boxers on and refusing to remove his hoodie from his body when asked, the boy walked through the door and out into the light.
He had seen this and done this many times before. To get to his destination, he would walk down the aisle carpet between the crowds of roaring people towards the stage lights. It felt like he was walking in slow motion. Sound of cheers and applause blurred to the back of his skull as his heart began to beat in his ears. The boy's face felt heavy and cold as it was suddenly overcome in a full sweat. The sound of Labrinth's "Earthquake" blared through the sound speakers, but quietened as the audience prepared for the performance. Supported by one of the umpires, the young man was hoisted up and into the ring. The gloves were slipped onto his hands and the announcer walked into the centre of the square.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the voice echoed through the loud speaker; the crowd roared to life with excitement.
"Welcome to the final round for this evening. In this corner, a regular amateur boxer, it's...X." The announcer quickly read the sticker on the competitor's boxer shorts. The man cowered slightly under his hoodie as a small chorus of 'boo's' escaped from the audience.
"And competing against him, all time amateur boxing champion...the Finnster." The crowd cheered in enthusiasm as a blonde young man with blue eyes who stood in the other corner turned around and faced the announcer. He looked about the same age as the other boy and sported a huge egotistical grin on his face. The boy rolled his eyes as the blonde competitor held his glove covered hands in the air and began chanting his own name to warm the crowd up.
"Alright gentleman." The announcer brought the two boys together. "Let's have a nice, clean fight-" he leaned even closer to whisper to the men. "-but make it interesting."
"Let's get ready to rumble!" The two fighters knocked their large red gloves together and with the ring of the bell, the match began.
Although he had fought before, the nervous boy had no idea how to compete with a champion. In smooth agile movements, the blonde man manoeuvred himself around the other fighter, gracefully placing his feet around him in a taunting motion. The other boy walked in a circle with heavy footsteps, carefully eyeing the cocky boy's gloves and preparing himself for any attack.
The first swing was fired. The 'Finnster' moved his glove around and towards the other young man's face, which was too fast to avoid. The amateur leant against the ropes to steady himself from the right hook he received. Shaking his head out of its daze, the fighter stood up and held his gloves in a defence stance.
Jumping left to right in a mocking stance, the blonde boy held up his gloves and prepared to strike again. As the red rubber glove came towards his face, the boy managed to block the hit with difficulty, stumbling back around the edge of the ring as the other fighter advanced on him.
With a sudden inhale of breath, the man pushed his hand forward in an attempt to beat down his opponent. The blonde easily blocked the hit, resulting in a loud cheer from the crowd. With his guard down, the hooded boy received a hurtful blow to his right cheek, spitting out a small mouthful of saliva in the ring.
Seeing this as his shot, the 'Finnster' noticed his opponent's feet twisted in a terrible stance and decided that one last throw would knock him down. With one swift movement, the blue eyed boy connected his red glove with his cheek again, and as the amateur stumbled over his feet, the small motion from the blonde's own foot tripped his opponent and he fell flat on his face.
The referee ran towards the injured and slammed his hand on the ground three times. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have our winner."
The announcer held up the winner's hand in victory as the audience cheered for their champion. The failed lay down on the cold floor, bruised and broken, a small tear falling dramatically to a splash on the ground. He didn't dare get up, facing humiliation this bad became worse every week. With a drooping head under his hood, the amateur climbed over the ropes of the boxing ring with difficulty and advanced down the same carpeted aisle through a crowd of shaking heads and ridiculed remarks.
Bottom rung of the ladder, scum on the foot of society, end of the line.
A loser.