A/N: Hey guys! SteinMon here!
Things are a little better. Still not great, but hopefully getting somewhere with the doctors.
Sorry it's been a while. Got caught up on pacing a later chapter, and it's been stumping me.
That being read, I welcome your Reviews. If you have criticisms, I welcome those too. Please keep them constructive. I want to grow as an author, and I can't do that if people aren't willing to critique, or only want to tear me down. I'm not here to please everybody, but I am here to learn. There is a method to my madness, even if I don't always fully understand it. 90% of what I write, I don't write baselessly. If there is something not canon or changed from canon, there is generally a reason. If something doesn't make sense, feel free to let me know (constructively), and as long as it doesn't creep into SPOILER! territory, I'll do my best to explain it.
If you don't like it, DON'T CONTINUE READING IT!
Review Responses:
- medatron: Party systems are more than just sharing EXP, and even that has its limits in videogames.
If the part your referring to STR is the one I think it is, reread it. It literally states he was throwing some sass. Context dude.
153 pounds is on the high-end of the Welterweight class, just a pound short of the Super Welterweight class (at 154 pounds). This is above the Minimumweight (which is as low as 105 pounds soaking wet), (Light, Normal, and Super) Flyweight, (Normal and Super) Bantamweight, (Normal and Super) Featherweight, and (Normal and Super) Lightweight weight classes. It's about 7 pounds short of the Middleweight class.
Bro is not that small in the world of boxing. He's by no means a beast, sweating Gatorade, bleeding chicken smoothie, and snorting whey protein powder between reps, but he's not overtly small either. He's on the lithe side, and it's going to show.
- latestbeard224: Yeah, I'm back!
- "Guest" 1-3: I'm going to assume you just skipped as many points as possible to hurry the reading along. If you're not gonna bother actually reading it, why bother posting on it? Everything you've complained about has not only been wrong, it's already been covered in the story. Literally, all of it. I'm not gonna hold the binkie for you and explain the subtext and open text when you don't even seem to care enough to make an actual effort. Sorry dude, but intentional or not, you come across like a conceited whiner, and it's not a pretty read.
Also, you're using a "Guest" account. I've had more brutal and degrading Reviews from far better people who at least had the dignity and integrity to use their actual Fanfic handle. If you've even bothered to read my response, knock it off. Be better. Or just don't read my story. Nothing stopping you from ignoring the crippling disappointment you must feel over my 'gamer-lite' story (I lower-cased the 'g' on purpose by the way).
- vtorx: Turbine and everything.
- "Gamers Mind": Since when can't powerful enough outside forces disengage people from games? And Adrenaline can shake focus and critical thinking while playing videogames. It's not only plausible, it's been studied, and reduces the Over-Powered nature of [Gamer's Mind]. It makes it more of a functional tool than a cheat-hack 'Skill'. Regardless, I suppose, rather than threaten to drop the story, you should just drop it. Play it safe, so neither of us is continually disappointed by the other.
- QuirkySavage: And take the fun out of it? Nah! Spoilers! Sub-species will be derivatives of his base 'Human' species though. Do with that info what you will.
- FieldTested: Thank you. I appreciate it.
- Giltlawyer9000: Oof! Now the hype is just making me nervous.
- puppyking: Me too, man. Me too.
- Han-Daewi: Yep! Still kicking.
- BurntWang: No problem.
- Clam the Zooted One: Soitenly!
- P34644563: Notice he calls the internet in his time (2023) a proverbial and literal monster. It wasn't that the internet or Youtube didn't exist in 2007, but how accessible it had become for just about everything. How it was something he was always tuned in to, never far from his reach (literally, the world in the palm of his hand). Always accessible, and just a click away for most any form of entertainment, stray thought, or errant question. At that age, he would have grown up playing outside, slowly transitioning into a screen-monkey. But now he's no longer in that time. The internet has come a long way in 15 years, so going back to those "good ol' days" would feel like a proverbial Dark Age.
Also, you are correct about the iPhone 2G, but it was still an experimental product that had trouble running internet and Data. And, understandably so. It was apart of the first generation of smart phones available, when they only had a glancing understanding of what they had created. But Broadband internet was only accessible to about 50% of users in 2007, and Dial-Up was still a large factor (believe it or not) for computers; particularly home computers. We've come a very long way since then.
The irony here is that he's technically still an American, in a version of America (albeit, seperate Universes), with no way to prove he's an American. He's technically both citizen and alien simultaneously. If he did get deported, he'd be deported out of his own country; double-irony. Because of this, he wouldn't know where he was getting shipped off to in the event he was deported, much like how he didn't know he was getting sent to the MCU. Bit o' complex humor.
- Solti: I'm glad. And here's more!
- branphillips001: I can agree with that. There's a few likeable characters, though I think it's mostly how they end up written in later comic renditions that can ruin them.
Common sense is a wonderful superpower, though I intend to couple it with a balance of more serious tones. I get it's a superhero franchise, and kids might see the movies, but they kinda gloss over some really messed up stuff (everything from torture, to brainwashing, to war, suicide, and even mutilation). I understand why they did it, but I think they did a disservice to some of the characters because of it. There's a whole depth to explore there.
"Little acts of goodness". I like that. I don't know if I'll be able to keep Marcus at that level, but even if I don't, I at least want to keep him aware of it. He's not going to brush off the small stuff. It might not be so one-on-one, just because his main goal is broadened at saving half the Universe. But my hope is that he won't be so peripheral-blind. There will be awareness of the "small" stuff.
Not exactly sure what your 'Chapter 8' review is directed at. I'm not piecing together context very well, so sorry about that.
I think 'Fighter's Perception' is a good idea in theory. Maybe as a more inspective form of 'Danger Sense', as opposed to instinctive. Requiring awareness and focus. Almost sounds like the Sharingan a little bit, but without the copying capabilities. Though it does give me some ideas for simulation-based 'Skills', so there is that. In an active real-world fight, the two-minute cooldown would make it a one-shot per fight in most cases, which would make it virtually useless in the long run, especially without a specific trigger; so it would probably be more passive and intellectual, or actively draining on his 'MP' as it would require a mental focus. Just a thought.
We'll see. Maybe. Maybe not. The problem is where he stands in the timeline, and how much time I can afford him with each interaction before the next point, or where his current position will put him in relation to the approximate timeline. It's going to be an arduous task, but hopefully it'll come out okay.
However, his similarities to Fisk will come up occasionally. You can be sure of that.
- Camsonius: Sorry to read about the non-sense man.
Thank you. The commentary was probably one of my better trails of writing if I'm honest. Just glad it worked out so well. We'll see about Plan B. I'm kinda hyped for it myself.
- M2R: Fair enough. Can't guarantee a lack of mental problems unfortunately. Not only is Marcus carrying over all his baggage from his old world, but he's now in the MCU, and I don't intend to gloss over serious stuff. I appreciate it, just... heads up.
- ItsDante: Good to read.
- agmmagm: The only time so far that Marcus has used 'Skill Points' has been when his life is in danger. Everything else has been his own effort. There's a combination of sportsman conduct, self-accomplishment, and no exact priority to what he should spend those points on. It's a better bet to spend them when needed.
- brainless19: Glad to read it. I'd like to keep this story going as long as possible, so, fingers crossed.
*End of Responses
Disclaimer: I don't own the Gamer, or the Avengers, or any of their subsidiaries. Those rights belong exclusively to whoever owns them, and anyone else who had a hand in their creation. I just get to have fun with it all.
I would also like to point out that I don't own any other media or content that may be mentioned as further enrichment to the story.
If the story isn't to your liking, I can respect that. But I'm not concerned with writing a surface level story with a surface level character and surface level plot that makes things easy to explain or understand. I want to read a story with depth, about a character with depth, so I'm going to write depth. I'm gonna write stories I would want to read. And if other people like what I share, then I've already done more than I set out to do.
Without further ado. *Que the dimming of the lights*
Chapter 8: The Wind Up
Marcus licked the chap from his lips as he sat in silence. Judging by the little bit of hair that caught on his tongue, he was gonna have to have a proper shave soon, or at least a short trim, before he started saving leftovers in his facial hair like his grandpa.
Jokes aside, he waited. Waiting was all he could do. He didn't like it, but he was good at waiting.
"How long?" Matt asked, the tension in his hand palpable as he twisted against the handle of his cane. They were taking seats in their dorm, and Marcus had done his best to explain the what had happened; which in turn, lead to trying to explain his former life in the most honest and level way possible and how it was being used against him... but without all the brain-frying, otherworldly aspects of it. Transmigration was an odd concept, even for Marvel, and Marcus wasn't confident in his ability to explain that to civilians (albeit, a younger Daredevil) with little-to-no concept of the preternatural and supernatural. And he'd left out any details that might endanger them, or might lead them to snooping, and thereby endanger them. Any of the weird stuff could wait.
Suffice to say, his roadmap of an explanation had a lot of pot/plot holes in it, with no way to properly fill them in. He was just glad that they didn't press too hard for answers.
"As soon as this next fight is over," Marcus answered, almost afraid of looking up. "That's all the grace-period I got. Not exactly an option to run, and even if there was, I don't think I would." Matt just nodded, apparently in some form of understanding.
"And there's nothing we can do?" Foggy asked, trying to look for a solution in vain. Marcus half-hoped he'd find one, if only because he couldn't. "Some… big money, wants you to lose, and he's holding your, admittedly, less-than-legal citizenship hostage?"
"Well, when you put it like that," Matt stated with a slightly head-tilt.
On some level, he didn't want to leave. Even though it had always been his plan, being here, having made friends, having felt something like kinship with them.
He didn't just feel accepted. He felt wanted. That was worth its weight in starlight. And it was hard for him to even contemplate moving on from that. He'd never been the one to move on before; he'd always been the one left behind, and in knowing how that felt, didn't like that he would be inflicting it on others.
But he had a goal. A responsibility even. Maybe not a purpose yet, but it was something. Even if he could stay, it would be disingenuous of him to ignore that. One step at a time.
Marcus shook his head at Foggy, appreciating his dedication. His loyalty. "Nothing short of a miracle, Foggy. And I need to be saving any of those I can milk for later."
"But doesn't it count as extortion of illegals?" Foggy protested before backtracking. "No offense."
"I'm totally offended," Marcus commented with an easy sarcasm. "Well, what's the law say as far as that's concerned?"
"The transportation, smuggling, and harboring of illegal immigrants has been punishable by law since the early 1900's," Matt informed adjusting his seating to get more comfortable. "Unfortunately, there are no concrete laws as of yet that prevent the extortion of said illegals once they're over the border."
"But aren't you from Idaho? That's what you told us," Foggy pointed out. "Unless that was a load of BS."
"Born and raised," Marcus stated proudly, but it faded too quick. "But I don't know how to explain it." He sighed in frustration. "It's so simple… and yet way more complicated than I'd like."
"Your not some… you know… government sleeper agent or something?" Foggy tried.
Marcus couldn't help it. He laughed. He laughed out loud, and so hard it hurt his stomach. So hard he coughed as his lungs ached. "Oh! Oh that would be just the thing. But no. If I was, I'd have like, twenty I.D.'s lined up to disappear." He huffed as the last of his humor was spent imagining that kind of scenario. Him? The Jason Bourne type? Nah!
"Best case scenario, any identifying papers he had are missing or were destroyed," Matt pointed out. "Worst case… he never had any. There are plenty of stories to spin, but… none of them would be anywhere close to the truth."
"But you have a way out of it, right?" Foggy kept going, his mind racing. "This isn't the end of it, is it? Are you going to be deported to the middle of nowhere? Are Matt and I gonna have to visit you in prison?"
Marcus shook his head. "I have a plan. It's high-risk, high-reward. But if it works…." He paused at the unease in his voice. Somehow being alone with his "plans" was easier, with only himself to worry about the details. Now being with Matt and Foggy, he felt a creep of doubt working in. He had something to lose, and it wormed its way in. "It has to work."
Foggy, God bless his heart, seemed to be struggling with this. Like he had so much to say and didn't know how to say it. He finally looked defeated, which was something Marcus never wanted to see. "So once your fight is over, then its goodbye?"
Marcus put on his best smile, despite how much his chest hurt, [Gamer's Mind] be damned. "No. Not a chance. It might be months, it might be years, but I'll see you guys again. Plus there's always the mail. I hear that's a thing. And I have Matt's number, so if I get the chance, I can call.
"So it's more like, "See you later, Alligator"."
Foggy managed a weak smile, though his eyes said a whole other story.
"So what now?" Matt asked, far quieter than Marcus liked. But he didn't point it out. Even if the situation was forced progression, he wanted to enjoy what he had left of it while it lasted.
"Well, it's about 12:30, so lunch is on me you poor college kids," Marcus teased, slapping his thighs as he sat up.
"That's it?" Foggy asked incredulously. "We just… lay down and take it?"
Marcus held back a sigh as he turned back around. He could poke holes, he could get frustrated, maybe even a bit snippy… or he could be straight with them. "Foggy… this was always going to happen."
Aaand… just let that hang in the air for a moment. Not awkward whatsoever.
"What?" Foggy managed to get out.
And there was that sigh he'd been holding back. "Eventually, I planned on getting out of New York. Find a direction and… just follow it. Dedicate my time to something bigger than just throwing my fists. Find ways to grow beyond anything I've ever attempted before." He smiled thoughtfully before shrugging. "This whole… situation… just accelerated how quickly I'd be heading out." Not wrong considering what he was aiming to go up against.
Foggy looked thoughtful while Matt pushed himself to his feet, cane extended.
"So you were always going to leave?" Foggy asked.
Marcus nodded. "Eventually Fog, you and Matt are going to graduate college, pass your bar exams…." He chuckled aloud to himself. "…become the morally ambiguous arm of the law. It might be a few years afterward, but eventually you two will make partner, or start your own practice. That's what you guys are aiming for.
"I'm still looking for what my place in the world is. Where my odd little puzzle piece fits. I know I don't want to still be fighting for entertainment, facing off against people's bets or deny rich mobs the chance to bust my kneecaps 'cause I don't throw a fight. I don't want to stagnate again. Too afraid to move when I know I can achieve more. I don't want to be stuck in my own personal butcher shop, wondering if I missed my chance to do something amazing with my life. Do… do you get that?"
It took several moments of careful contemplation, but eventually, Foggy did nod. "Yeah. I think I get it. I know I want to be a lawyer, but… you're still looking for what you want. And you don't think you'll find it here in New York." He shrugged half-heartedly. "Not that you'll get the chance if you end up arrested."
"My mugshot would look good though. Maybe I could pick up a modelling job in prison," Marcus teased back. It was suddenly feeling more and more real. In just a few days, he'd have to make or break his way through this world. He didn't know if this feeling of trepidation was ever going to let up.
"Just let me know if either of you decide to settle down and get married," Marcus stipulated. "I'd love to meet any poor sweet girl that could make honest men out of either of you rascals."
"Hey, you too," Foggy protested with a reluctant but returning smile. "Just… try not to be a stranger."
"Okay dad," Marcus teased, before growing serious as he opened his arms. "C'mere." Foggy was pulled in, clenched his eyes shut as he hugged back, holding on with what might be one of the last times he got to see his friend. He didn't know how long it would be, but it already felt like forever, even if he might catch one or two more moments with them before his departure.
Foggy sniffed heavily as he tried to bite back tears. The hug had already gone on longer than what was socially acceptable, but he didn't want to let go just yet. And Marcus was such an excellent hugger. Like he was taking on some of the imperceivable weight he hadn't known he was holding. And it felt like Marcus might be holding back tears too.
Eventually, Foggy was the one who pulled away, breathing deeply as he reoriented himself. "Gonna feel a little weird when you go."
Marcus smiled appreciatively. "You mean you're gonna miss all the free breadsticks."
"Damn straight," Foggy nodded sharply, looking completely serious, causing both of them to break out into small smiles. Sniffing slightly, he wiped his eyes. "Speaking of… Matt! Come get some of this while I go get my jacket. Those breadsticks aren't going to eat themselves. And in case it wasn't clear, I was calling dibs on Olive Garden!"
Matt and Marcus both shook their heads as Foggy shuffled to his dorm room. It was quiet for a several moments, Marcus not sure what to say, and Matt seemed inclined not to be the first one to break the silence.
"I don't like it," Matt finally stated with a huff. "I get why you don't want us going after the guy strongarming you, but guys like that… they make you play their game… and they like to rig it so they always win. They make the rules, then break them whenever they like."
Marcus nodded in understanding. He got it. He might not understand it, but he got it. "That's why I've kept my cards so close, Matt," he stated. "And one day… this is all going to come to a head. But that most likely won't be any time soon. I just… I don't want you to believe that I'm abandoning you guys."
"Odd choice of words," Matt replied, his brows furrowing in confusion. "But we want you safe, Mark. And if you have to go away to make that happen, then it's the best call. For now, anyway."
Marcus smiled appreciatively. He didn't know about being "safe", but he was glad they were at least understanding. "How are you feeling? Honestly. No bullshit."
Taking a deep breath, Matt leaned on his cane while he articulated an answer. "I'm… angry, Mark," he admitted. "Here…." He gently patted his stomach. "…and here." He lifted the end of his cane to tap his temple. While he seemed calm, his face betrayed a kind of restraint that Marcus couldn't even begin to fathom. Like he was wrestling with the Devil himself. "And I don't know what to do about it."
Marcus nodded in understanding, before looking out the window. He knew what that was like. Maybe not in the same context, but the feeling… oh, he was very familiar. Just a little reminder of someone he had been. And if he could steer Matt from the decisions he had made in those states, even better. He could either serve as a good example... or a horrible lesson. "Well, do something. Just don't bottle it up. Action is usually better than inaction. Just make sure it's the anger in your gut leading you."
Matt was quiet for a moment, twisting the grip of his cane as he breathed. "I get you already planned to leave eventually, but this person… his holding your citizenship status over your head… keeping you nearby for his convenience… he wants to control you. Foggy said it best. He's extorting you. And it just–" If he didn't constantly live in the dark, Marcus thought Matt might actually pinch his eyes shut. "And he's going to get away with it. It's not fair. It's not… right… or just.
"And I don't know how to reconcile that anger."
"What would you do normally?" Marcus asked.
"Confess to my priest," Matt replied with shrug that said 'maybe'. "Probably."
Marcus smirked as he shook his head, patting Matt on the shoulder in appreciation. "I wish I knew how to help you there. Unfortunately, I'm not exactly the poster child for a healthy mind. I spent most of my life just learning to roll with the shit. But the fact you're angry on my behalf… I appreciate it, Matt. I really do. But I'm gonna ask you to save the anger for the people who don't have someone in their corner, because the world is full of those people."
"And you?" he asked. "Who's gonna have your corner?"
"Well, my momma didn't spend my teen years praying for nothing," Marcus stated with a smile. "I figure if there's one person who had God's ear, it was her. And she made sure her babies had the angels of heaven watching their back. I think I have enough faith to know they listened when she prayed." 'Even through other realities.'
"Catholic?" Matt asked.
"Charismatic," Mark stated. Matt responded with a pointed exhale and an 'oof' look on his face, causing Marcus to smile. "That's a funny face when the Catholic jokes write themselves."
"Fair," Matt admitted. "Just be careful. If this "card" you're playing doesn't pan out, best case scenario, you're looking at jail, and possibly prison. Worst-case, you'll end up wherever they decide to send you."
"Got a feeling I'd recover better from the worst-case-scenario than the best-case," he commented.
"If it comes down to a legal matter, Foggy and I can try to help, but… we don't have much of a case if you don't have any means to defend you. You didn't leave us much of a papertrail to work with." He sighed, his hands tied legally as far as the matter was concerned. "Just make that "card" work."
"That's the plan. One door is closing, and I'm getting my ass-kicked to jump out the window," Mark responded easily enough. Sounded about like the rest of his life.
Before Matt could reply, Foggy walked out of his room. "Got it! You two ready to go?! I'm starving."
Bless Foggy and his timing, but damn if it wasn't a little inconvenient now. "Yeah, we're ready," Matt replied, settling with what had been said for now.
"Let's go," Mark ushered, hurrying them along. "And someone call a cab."
"Still haven't gotten a phone?" Foggy asked as he pulled out his own phone.
"I keep forgetting to pick one up," Marcus stated weakly.
"You literally just drop by the store, pick up a phone and a sim card, and pay for some minutes," Foggy retorted.
"Now who's a sleeper agent?" Mark teased back. "Should I get a handful of sim cards to change out while I'm at it?"
Matt didn't know what to do. There was something about talking with Mark that almost leeched away at his anger. Not peace exactly; because Mark always seemed to worry about something. At least until someone started to worry about him; then he bottled it all up. But a kind of assurance that he was prepared to get absolutely flattened by a coming storm; and he'd weather through it, get up, then prepare for the next one. Almost a… resigned determination.
It was as reassuring as much as it worried him.
But at the same time, Marcus didn't strike him as a guy who liked to talk, much less about his problems. He liked to listen. The typical "I'm fine" kind of guy, while opening himself up to hear what you had to say. The fact that he had talked to them at all was… a small relief. Or was it just that serious of a situation? Something he didn't want them blindsided by once it came crumbling down?
And yet, despite the situation, with all its terrible implications, Mark's heartbeat continued to thump at its usual mechanical pace, seemingly unaffected by anything.
Matt couldn't help but worry.
A beat was formed from rapid popping, followed by a sharp growl as the next hit was mistimed, throwing the beat off. With a growl, Marcus stopped hitting the speed bag, taking a moment to reorient himself before trying again. Unlike hitting the punching bag, most of the speed bag movements wouldn't be used in actual boxing. Rather, it focused on training the level of timing, precision and coordination necessary for the sport.
It was about attempting to achieve and maintain a smooth, almost flowing combination of movement, intensity, and control. In the hands of a practiced pro, it was like they could weave the very air.
As it was, he was having more trouble establishing a flow for any extended period of time. And never all that fast. Even starting slow and working his way faster wasn't netting him advancement.
God, he loved music, but he couldn't quite apply that sense of rhythm to his body. And to think, he'd wanted to play the drums like his dad as a kid.
He was pushing himself. He wasn't allowing his SP to recover more than necessary. [Pushing Limits] had tanked his MP on more than one occasion. And afterwards, empty of SP and MP, he'd sit in the Lotus Position, and engage the regen of [Harmonic Meditation] to recharge.
At his current regen speed, plus the bonuses he gained during meditation, it took a little over 9 minutes to fully recharge his SP, and over 2 minutes more to fully recharge his MP. So once his SP was back up, he could immediately jump back into training, keep a measured pace, and then break into [Pushing Limits] once again. While had yet to keep timing and rhythm for any extended period of time, he had quickly and intuitively, facilitated and executed the most effective use of his time on this particular exercise.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
It was an intensive way to train, but he was stepping up as much as he could into these next few days. It made his normal workouts seem tame by comparison.
As a consequence, he was leveling those associated skills with ferocious intensity, despite the fact that it was taking longer and longer to level those skills. Per usual, skills leveled best under actual application rather than just in practice.
[Harmonic Meditation lvl 8 = 10]
[Unarmed Mastery lvl 9 = 10]
[Pugilism Style lvl 14 = 15]
"Alright! 'Nough of that! Take a break, kid," George ordered as he observed Marcus's training. "Trying to force a result will only hamper any progress you make."
[Agreed. And remember to hydrate.]
"I've been taking breaks," Marcus retorted, going in for another round of punches, only for the beat to fall flat almost instantly as Marcus miss-timed a hit. His whole face scrunched with the effort of containing his frustration. "Fine, I'll take a break," he finally relented after several seconds of tense silence.
George just flexed his eyes in a "Told you so" manner. "For a guy who's effectively retiring from the ring after his next fight, you sure got a fire lit under yur ass. So what's bustin' yur balls, kid? It ain't Domingo, is it?"
Marcus took a moment to suck on a water bottle as he thought it over. "I'm practically leaving with my tail tucked between my legs, George. It doesn't mean I can afford to stop getting better." He shrugged, the slightest upturn of one of his cheeks. The half-smile didn't really reach his eyes though. "If I stop, then I'll stall, and I don't know if I could come back from that. It's already hard enough to cultivate the motivation to get up and move; so when that finally caves, I need to have the discipline to keep moving so all my effort doesn't just fall flat."
"That's good," George stated with an approving nod. "Self-discipline is a start. Wish more young men would learn some. Motivation is as fleeting as puppy love, but discipline? That's a requires training, and dedication."
Marcus agreed. Not that he was any good at it yet, but the comprehension was there.
"But if ya don't ease up on the reigns a little, kid, you'll burn out. Discipline is all fine and dandy, but if you don't give it time to breathe, it's not gonna stick. Pace yourself. Just 'cause you don't sweat like the rest of us, doesn't mean you don't tire too. Even machines need maintenance sometimes."
"I wish I was more offended by that notion," Marcus snorted humorously.
[Is he wrong though? You've hardly done anything but train. And when you're not training, you're thinking about training.
It's not healthy bro.]
Marcus hummed thoughtfully, acknowledging Sys's point.
"Well you can take your offense and shove it," George shot back with a dismissive wave, before a strained expression crossed his face. "Speaking of offenses though…."
[Jerk alert.]
Frowning at the familiar phrase, he turned around in curiosity to see where he was looking, just in time for Rouise Domingo and his trainer to walk in.
"Well shit."
'I thought you didn't watch movies,' he thought accusingly, as his focus temporarily split.
[I said I have no downtime.]
'Is that why none of your pop-ups will drop for extended periods of time? You got home movies on the side? Bit o' Netflix in your little pocket dimension?'
[…Maybe.]
"Fuckin' Hell," George cursed through the strain of standing up. "Little bastards know that fighters aren't allowed to interact before they compete. And I made it clear you have the gym today."
"Why's that?" Marcus asked. And due to his rapid recovery time, whenever he wasn't at the gym, he spent his extracurricular time jogging. And having proper meals had only boosted his ability to maintain that stride. They were small bonuses mostly, hardly worth the effort really, and no cooking skill in sight yet, but at the very least, good food had upped his spirits. It was a full schedule, though he was curious now that it was brought up.
"Someone says something, the other says something else… pretty soon one of them is in the hospital with a broken femur, and the other guy wins by default," George stated. "It's not fisticuffs outside the ring, kid, it's fighting. Plain and simple. And not everyone is willing to keep the gloves on outside the ring."
"No rules, no regulations, no enforcers. Just all that is visceral and raw," Marcus stated, following that line of thought. "What about you?" he asked. "It's your gym. Isn't that a conflict of interest?"
"That's why I've had ol' Rob Sutton taking care of those days," he explained.
"So no undue advantages," Marcus summarized, nodding so-so. "Keeps things fair and simple."
"Now yur getting it. Plus there's that little bit of insider knowledge when you know how your opponent is training, and how well they're doing with it. No sense in taking chances. That's the sport. What's fair should stay fair," George agreed, walking toward them. "Oi, Walsh! What's the meaning of this?!"
"Just getting in some extra training before Saturday's match," the other trainer stated nonchalantly.
"In case you forgot, Kendrick's on the mat today," George growled out, the gruff New Yorker coming out in him. "Pack it up. The gym's yours tomorrow, so keep it that way. If yur that itchin' ta get some gloves on, there are plenty of other gyms."
"Really, McKinnon, what's a little warm-up between rivals?" Walsh asked back easily enough.
George's eyes narrowed. "You know exactly why. Now I don't care what your boy wants. You're his manager. Now manage him."
While they were talking, Marcus had to bite his tongue to keep from interjecting, their previous conversation forefront in his mind. Making a jab at Rouise needing extra training was a sore temptation, if only because he didn't usually come up with good comebacks until a day or two later. Or in the shower. Or randomly five years later.
But, he respected George enough to let him handle it, and just waited patiently, taking the time to meditate a little bit.
[A wise decision.]
'Aw! No stat boost?!' he teased back.
[Wise-ass.]
'Cheeky,' he shot back.
His attempts were stonewalled when a towel was thrown in his face, sucking in a deep breath as it flopped into his lap. "A pleasant afternoon to you too, Domingo. Gotta say though, a simple 'Hello' would have done wonders." Que his sarcasm.
It was irritating, but he managed to mask a curious look on his face; looking passive would only prove that he had gotten under his skin.
Domingo just smirked. "Seen how you've been doing in the circuit, Kendrick. 12 and 0. Those are some steep numbers."
"Heard you've been doing pretty good yourself," he stated matter-of-factly. "8 and 2. Packer and Jameson are the steepest competition running the circuit for us rookies right now."
"And not you?" Domingo prodded testily.
Marcus didn't grace him with an answer. "For someone who wants to talk stats, you seem to have it all figured out." '[Inspect, Observe] please.'
{Rouise Domingo lvl 18
"Rookie Boxer"
Max HP: 780 | Max MP: 640 (locked) | Max SP: 880
STR: ? | VIT: ? | DEX: ? | INT: ? | WIS: ? | LUC: ?
Damage: Unarmed
Hit: 47 (+13% Unarmed, +4 Pugalism), small chance of inducing 'Staggered'.
Staggered – temporarily negates any guard mitigation against damage.
Armor: 1.
Status: Taunting. Self-assured. Lingering Effects Active.
–Lingering Effects: 'Side Effects ?' {Nerve Damage 1, Sleep Deprivation 2, Increased Libido 2, Mood Swings 2, Immunity Reduction 1, STR Build 2}
Weakness: Short-fused. Short-sighted. Ego can be played. {Increased Irritability}
Notes: Orthodox (Right-handed). Has more training than you do. Doesn't like being told 'no'. Self-entitled. Is currently riddled with 'Side Effects'
Noted Skills: Brawlers Might, Unarmed Fighting Lvl 13, Pugilism Style Lvl 17}
.
'Yeesh!' Marcus winced internally, focusing mainly on those lingering effects. And while he was no medical practitioner, simple 2 and 2 together did give him an idea.
While he wasn't one to snitch, he also considered himself a sportsman, and as such would be making the call to see if Domingo could be tested. But given the nature and locale of the sport, and that drugs didn't just disappear from the human system overnight, in correlation with the frequent testing required, best prepare like it was business as usual. The fact that Domingo was still fighting despite these things already stunk something foul.
[You're telling me.]
Usual business in mind… the base STR and 'Skill' gap was something to watch out for, where his higher 'Attributes' and 'Stat' diversity gave him the edge. Still, he preferred caution. While [Inspect] allowed him to understand 'Stats' in a numerical and compartmentalized value, people were dynamically unpredictable.
So it turned out, George was right: meeting his competition had netted him an advantage.
"Why? You scared to fight me?" Domingo taunted. "We could always jump in the ring. Go a round or two."
Marcus had to resist the urge to visibly roll his eyes at his one-track mind. He didn't want to deal with this again. "We'll be fighting Saturday. Some patience dude. There'll be an audience and everything. Besides, the way you said that made me distinctly uncomfortable."
Without waiting for the confused pause, he stood up, draping the towel over his shoulder, but leaving his boxing tape on as he walked over to their arguing managers. Just in case.
"And what do you suggest, McKinnon? Rouise was training here long before that kid was."
"I suggest, you come back tomorrow and stick to the God-damned schedule," George stated sternly. "That was the whole point. You know better, Walsh."
"Let them," Marcus stated as he walked up to them.
"'Scuse me?" George demanded as he turned around. Domingo's trainer looked like he'd just won some grand victory, trying and failing to completely restrain the smug on his face. "Kid, now's not the time for horseshit."
"Let them," he repeated, completely serious. "If they want to use this gym's facilities that badly, then why not let them? We can still work. We just pick a bench to sit on and start taking notes."
Domingo's manager caught on quickly. "Now just a minute here–"
"I mean, why not? I'm not stingy about sharing," Marcus stated easily. "And technically speaking, I'm not violating any agreements. I'm using the gym on the days agreed upon as originally designated by our managers. In fact, them training here is a complete win on our end."
He struggled to keep a straight face when Walsh's jaw locked. George deflated slightly before chuckling and shaking his head. "Well, you heard the kid, Walsh. What's it gonna be?"
The gears grinding in Walsh's head were almost audible as he attempted to counter Marcus, but growled as it dawned on him how small of a corner he'd backed him and his client into. "Rouise! We're going!"
Domingo had a sour look on his face, like he'd just been forced to admit defeat before throwing the first punch. Again, he seemed to glue his glare to whatever part of Marcus's head was visible. Marcus wasn't even sure if his up-and-coming opponent understood his previous jab at all, only that he was intent on burning a hole into the side of his head. God-forbid that man ever get superpowers.
And yet, still. No clarification on what he had done to draw such ire. And while asking was always an option, Rouise struck him as the type to snub his nose at a genuine question. He didn't need any exchange with Sys to tell him that.
By the time his attention had come back around, Domingo and his manager were gone.
"Ballsy move, kid," George commented. "Was that all pulled out of yur ass, or was there an actual plan there?"
Marcus just dropped his shoulders in a sigh. "A little of both. I'm not usually good at thinking on my feet. It all tends to catch up to me in the shower. I'm just glad it worked in our favor."
"Makes you seem like yur itchin' for an express ticket to that fight," George pointed out as they both began making their way back to the speed bag.
[No bias… but he started it.]
Holding back a snort at Sys's comment he just shook his head.
"Not itchin'. Just don't like being walked all over," he corrected. "If drawing the line and putting my foot down is considered "picking a fight", I'd love to see what actual hostility is like."
"No kid. You really wouldn't."
Marcus eyed George for a moment before nodding in acceptance. George was old, and had experiences Marcus couldn't fathom as he was. And experience was a helluva teacher. "No. I don't suppose I would," he relented.
Slapping his hands on his thighs, George began walking back toward the speed bag. "Whelp! Now that that's over and done. Ya got any more left in ya?"
Marcus nodded, quickly flexing his hands to make sure they weren't cutting off circulation, snug as his tape was. With a meditative inhale and exhale, he nodded. "He's juicing you know? Domingo."
George huffed in confusion, staring at Marcus intently. "Where's this coming from?"
He smacked the speed bag back and forth, as if in thought. He wasn't sure how else to introduce the info he obtained through the System. "Dilated eyes, somehow more irritable, a little duller on the uptake. Looks like he's gained some muscle way too fast. I know it's all circumstantial at best, but would it even be worth reporting him to the Circuit? Even just to check?"
George sighed something fierce; the resignation of a man who had grown up in very different days. In some ways better; in many ways not. "All honesty, kid? Probably not. If Domingo's been juicing, and he hasn't been booted by now, then it's unlikely. Either they got someone on top pullin' some strings, they're loopin' through the rules, or they're payin' off someone to keep quiet.
"No matter how you slice it, it's not positive."
[Not all battles are meant to be won. Some are lost before they're even conceived. Sorry Mark.]
He was prepared for it, but it still stung to read. With frustrated sigh, he hit the speedbag harder, causing it to shake.
"Were you expecting any different?" George asked.
"Honestly? No," he replied, frustration permeating his tone. "But I hoped. God, I hoped there was even a shred of decency, or fair-play, or competitive integrity in the sport." With a sigh of his own, he began working slowly, weaving his hands against the speedbag to gently create an idea of a beat.
God knew he'd been holding back on overly exploiting most of his 'Gamer' capabilities. Besides, he liked grinding the skills himself. Made him feel like he'd earned them. Of course, there was gonna come a time when simply working out, or reading books, wasn't going to net stats fast enough, and he was going to have spend those 'Skill Points' eventually. He wouldn't be able to stand against any of big stuff otherwise.
"There is," George reminded him. "It's hard to see sometimes. Especially when you're pulling out of Hell's Kitchen. All the gambling, drugs, pay-outs, buy-offs, and threats. With all the corruption in the sport, it is hard to remember, but most of those young fellas that walk into that ring do so with only their skill and the will to reflect it."
Marcus closed his eyes, nodding. While it may not have changed his mind, the truth of it did broaden his perspective. Made it a little less morose.
"Some of those kids Domingo fought worked their asses off to improve and move their way up with nothing but skill and what God gave 'em. And here he is, taking a cheap route for… whatever he considers worth it."
Marcus didn't even know if he was someone who could preach on fairness. But he'd already accepted that 'The Gamer' ability was a part of him. Always activate and present. As integrated as any natural-born affinity. It was as unique to him as being a Southpaw was to some boxers; just… vastly rarer.
With a sigh, he straightened up and smacked the speedbag again, this time, with more oomph. "Just means I have to overcome what he's taken for granted. If he's become an exception to the rules, chances are, his already inflated ego is just bursting at the seams."
'And chances are, he forewent the development of skill in favor of a bigger swing,' he added.
[It is a fair assumption.]
George actually broke into a smile as he looked at Marcus. "Well, you got your eye on the prize at least. Even if ya sound like you only see the worst in it."
Marcus snorted a laugh. "Yeah. Bit pessimistic, I know. But I'm not wrong either." He tapped the speedbag gently before breathing. 'Now. Again!'
Rouise Domingo huffed as he splashed cold water on his face, shivering as the air hit his wet skin. He blinked rapidly, looking up to the mirror. His face was starting to sink, bags prominent under his eyes. A kind of tension chronically rolled through his gut in such a way that his whole body ached; coupling with some itch in middle of his brain to unsatiated effect.
Licking his teeth, his jaw set as he stared into his own eyes. His nose twitched as the barest hint of a snarl curled across lips. '8 to 2? I'll show you 8 to 2?!'
Just thinking about Kendrick's smug little face pissed him off. Not just a rookie, but a complete amateur when it came to boxing. And somehow, he'd convinced old "Gatling" George McKinnon himself into training him; something that pissed Rouise off, considering he'd already tried to get training from the former boxer, but he'd turned him down flat. And somehow, despite Kendrick's lack of… well, anything… he was dominating the Rookie Circuit.
'What's so special about him?' Rouise couldn't fathom what his fellow rookie had that he himself lacked. Not only that, but he refused to fight, dismissing both of Rouise's offers outright – even before he'd started the circuit – without a second thought. Like he didn't even matter. Like he was inconsequential. 'I'll show him. I'll show him.' No one disrespected him like that.
Sniffing at the image he currently presented, he pushed away from the bathroom sink, some iota of restraint coiling in the span of a moment to dissuade him from punching the mirror. Last thing he needed was to shred his knuckles just a few days before the fight. He wanted to be at 110% when he punched Kendrick into submission; he wanted him to retire in shame, knowing that he was the one who put him there.
"Rouise! Get out here!" his manager yelled out. "Ya got a visitor!"
Growling, he huffed as he stepped out of the bathroom and into the locker room of the gym they were utilizing for the day. His manager sat on one of the benches, turning to look at him as he exited the bathroom, looking exhausted and grumpy. After their encounter with Kendrick and McKinnon, he could understand why.
Standing at the foot of the bench, closest to the door, was a man in an expensive-looking suit and carrying a briefcase. Rouise wasn't one to put stock in anyone he didn't need to interact with, and immediately said, "You a fan or something?"
"Or something," the man answered, the corners of his mouth barely upturning, though he looked anything but amused as he resituated his glasses.
"Listen cabrón, just 'cause you in a penguin suit, doesn't mean I like playing coy," Rouise bit out. "Either say what ya want, or leave and quit bothering me. I got a fight to prepare for." He angrily turned to his manager. "¡¿Me hiciste perder el tiempo con esta mierda?!"
His manager's face turned sour. "English if ya don't mind. You know I don't understand a lick of Spanish."
"Tal vez, deberías asegurarte de que tus palabras no se entiendan," the man responded in fluent Spanish, if not for the very matter-of-fact American accent that coated his words. "Just a guess, but that must make you at least… oh, third-generation Hispanic immigrant? Maybe fourth?"
"Say what now?" Rouise demanded, bearing his teeth.
"Fluent local English, rarely ever breaks out into the Spanish in public. Grandparents immigrated without knowing a lick of English, raised children who grew up learning and translating in both languages. Who then raised a child that has completely lost touch with his family's cultural roots, but can still use the language comfortably to communicate with both his Spanish-speaking parent, and his grandparents."
The suit gave an almost exaggerated look of intrigue. "Am I close?"
Rouise was losing his cool, and if they man hadn't been dressed in a suit that meant business, he'd have clocked him face-first into one of the lockers. He hated how close to home that hit. "What do you want?"
"Ah. Business it is then." He quickly drew up the briefcase, setting it on the nearest bench. "My employer… is something of an investor."
"He couldn't come talk this out himself?" Walsh asked, a little annoyed they were dealing with a middleman.
"You could say he's someone who enjoys his privacy," the suit stated. "He recently became something of intrigued in your upcoming competition. Suffice to say, his attempts to persuade Mister Kendrick were less than successful."
"Kendrick?!" he spat, taking offense that this was only a secondhand offer. "If he wants something, he can shove it! Who'd wanna be his second offer?!"
"On the contrary, he's invested in Mister Kendrick losing," he corrected casually enough. "So naturally, when he couldn't come to an… agreement… with Mister Kendrick, he turned to his competition."
"You bribed him?!" Walsh demanded.
"Bribe is such a dirty word. And, no. Mister Kendrick was far too sincere to accept what we offered," the suit replied, looking over at Rouise. "He aims to fight with his all, and as I said, my employer wants him to lose."
Rouise just snorted, shaking his head. "Like Hell I'm gonna take some sketchy deal. Go packing." He was turning to walk off when the man interrupted his thoughts.
"I think it's fair to say, you naturally don't have a chance of winning."
Domingo whipped around to see the man looking as matter-of-fact as he'd continued to present. "What did you say, perro?"
"Oh please, Mister Domingo, you think we don't know about your little habit?" he asked, completely unthreatened, watching as both boxer and manager froze, confirming what was already known among them. "Not to mention those you pay off. It's amazing what someone will do for an extra hundred dollars here and there. One word from my employer, and you'll never see a boxing bag for the rest of your life."
Seething at the threat, Rouise gritted his teeth as he was being backed into a corner. "What do you want?"
"The same as you," he stated as though it was obvious, "for you to beat him.
"As I stated, naturally, you have no chance against him. Kendrick is faster, smarter. Respects his opponents by giving his all in every encounter. No wasted time and energy spent on taunts or facilitating aggression."
"Anything else?" Rouise demanded, seething. It wasn't enough to strong arm him, but to insult him too?
The man flexed his eyebrows pointedly. "When the referee says to back off, he backs off no questions asked, and sometimes even before. And, due to the speculation of his earlier fights, has enough of his medical examinations known to the immediate public to prove that he's 100% authentic. He's a sportsman at heart. Helps his opponents up when their pride does make them sore about their losses. And for someone so popular, continues to operate in the blue corners by his own request, but without putting his opponents on a pedestal. And oddly enough, not an ounce of publicity stunt.
"And then there's you," he stated. Not with disgust or anything suggesting degradation. Just simple and straightforward. Almost apathetic. Then there was him. "Besides engaging in performance enhancement, you've been in what? Three fights outside of the ring? No assault charges, but the drug use alone would end any career you have; sealed by paying off those it involves, but still on record. Not a pretty picture. If word were to get out, getting back into the sport would be near impossible."
"And how do you know Kendrick's so clean?" he snapped back, not liking how dissected his less-than-legal actions made him feel.
The suit actually gave him a droll look this time. Just by how it looked on him, it didn't happen often. "Research, Mister Domingo. How else? You're not the only one I've had to vet."
"Let's hear what yur offerin' first before we get to escalating, yeah?" Walsh asked placatingly, seeing that Rouise was only getting more and more pissed, that short-fuse of his only growing shorter. "And since yur so sure that Rouise can't beat Kendrick, what's yur plan for that?"
A hum exited his lips as he lifted up the briefcase, setting it on the end of the bench as he clicked open the clips that bound it shut. Moving leisurely, much to the continued irritation of those present since they couldn't see the case's contents, he pulled out a miniscule plastic baggy the size of his palm, holding it up to reveal a single dark red capsulated pill.
"What's that?" Rouise asked, much more reserved as he watched and observed.
"An associate of my employer is well-versed in traditional but functional pharmaceuticals," he answered. "This is your key to victory." Dispassionately, he closed his briefcase, setting it on top. "Dissolves and begins absorption within 10 minutes. A little under three rounds with consideration to the one minute breaks between rounds. However, the effects last for a very limited time."
"And what does it do?" Rouise asked, half-expecting his manager to ask, but knowing that he wouldn't.
"Most notably improved strength, coordination, reflexes, and stamina," he answered easily enough. "In addition to accelerated metabolic function."
"And the side-effects?" he continued, only to feel his manager roughly grab his arm.
"Rouise, if he's right, this isn't just about beating Kendrick. This could be our chance to hit the big leagues," Walsh stated firmly.
Roughly yanking his arm away, he glared bitterly at his manager until he backed down. Quickly repeating, "What are the side-effects?"
"Increased but manageable strain on the body, increased aggression, risk of overheating and dehydration, increased heart-rate, and self-induced heatstroke at the absolute worst." When Rouise gave him an odd look, he briefly seemed like a stern teacher. "What did you expect? If you move faster and hit harder, the body would have to keep up with the demand. Increased muscular friction, and with improved heart rate and blood flow, vascular friction. Thus increased sweat production trying to keep cool. Overall, far more manageable than the steroids you've been taking, and since this is a one-time offer and use, no long-term effects."
When Rouise didn't answer immediately, the man stated as he set the baggie on the bench, "Think about it. We'll know your answer soon enough. As a bonus, should you take down Marcus Kendrick, my employer is willing to shell out a bonus of $15,000 and a coverage of any medical expenses you may acquire from the fight." He pulled up his briefcase, preparing to leave.
Licking his lips, Rouise looked at blood red pill that could very well allow him to take down Kendrick, just sitting there. He thought over what the man said; or more accurately, denoted exigent focus to every way Kendrick was superior to him, even with his body riding the increased muscle development of anabolic steroids.
As the locker room door swung shut, he reached down, lifting up the pill to the light. He knew just as well as anyone how something so small could improve results. And the idea of knocking Kendrick's teeth out was oh too tempting a scenario.
Consequences be damned.
James Wesley sighed tiredly as he took a seat in the limo escorting him, closing the door behind him. Some people were more difficult to deal with than others. Especially the loose cannons.
As the car took off, he ruminated. Even just barely interacting with Rouise Domingo had been a stark contrast to his brief conversation with Marcus Kendrick.
Domingo was a ball of barely restrained anger and haughty self-importance, with a hint of something resembling forethought. But his pride was easily wounded, and it had been too easy to wind him up. Playing up Kendrick as a threat was just about making him feel inferior, and he'd buy into whatever was sold to him. His already weak self-confidence in his own natural abilities was made more vulnerable, and therefore, subject to more extreme re-action.
Kendrick on the other hand was… something. Wesley's brow pinched as he tried to put a word to their brief interaction. He was something… odd, besides being a complete ghost prior to three months ago. It was a good thing he'd be kept close in the foreseeable future, if for nothing else than to observe him, to see what made him tick.
Wesley prided himself on being able to read people and situations well, and turn that information actionable. It was a necessity in their line of business. Especially now, when they were just starting to build the foundations of what would be Wilson Fisk's empire, and by extension, his vision.
Kendrick was by no means a blank canvas or empty book cover. In fact, he'd argue that Kendrick was exceptionally easy to read. And therein lied the issue: all people carried a façade, and Marcus Kendrick was no exception. But that social mask all people put on seemed to work in counter to himself, rather than enable who he already was.
Just from observing his fights, Wesley had deduced he was nervous around large groups of people and being the center of attention, but he continued to greet them upon his entrance into the ring; acknowledging them rather than ignore them. He resisted the easy way into the circuit, until he had a reciprocated agreement. At his day job, he appeared to be the 'Yes man' type, but didn't hesitate to hold his ground against both him, and his boss. Shaky though it had been. He was smart as well; immediately recognizing Wesley as a third-party. Not to mention there was a charm in his sincerity that made him strangely… likeable. And a degree of social and introspective self-awareness that most people weren't capable of.
He'd been aware of Wesley's intentions and position, and had instinctively known that they were not people to cross, and when he had, remained respectful of their positions on the food chain, and never once deluded himself about his own. A sheep that had stood against wolves. A deer against lions.
The fact that Wilson Fisk – a man he was still getting to know, but had a comfortable understanding of – had not only acknowledge Kendrick to his face, he had offered him a job, graciously accepted the rejection, and understood that rejection was the only true choice when measured to Kendrick's character.
Wesley didn't know if it was blind (or dumb) luck, if he was just that amiable, or if he was truly that intelligent; something that seemed an odd toss-up between instinctive and contemplated. Scrambling to sustain himself, while also appearing the barest form of articulate.
He understood why Wilson wanted him. If those traits were simply how he was, untrained, self-represented, and in their base state; what kind of potential did that represent once he was properly taught to utilize those talents to their greatest and most precise effect?
The only problem was, other than his lack of citizenship, he had a obstinately resilient level of moral fiber.
Besides this, Wesley could briefly entertained delegating tasks between the two of them, even if he dressed like any other street goer. If he was truly everything he observed from him, then he was something to keep in the deck. Both he and Mister Fisk could see that potential. And with slowly expanding Fisk's enterprises, Kendrick could very well accelerate their timetable. All the more reason to keep him close.
Though Wesley did have reservations should it come to presenting Kendrick to Wilson's... other associates, that was inevitable. It was just a matter of making sure he stayed respectful, and didn't rile any feathers Fisk didn't want riled.
It was presumptuous, and he was aware of that. Only time would tell if Kendrick became more cooperative when imprisoned. The problem was striking a balance between his cooperation, but not losing what made him a desirable asset. He'd have to be broken down at a fundamental level; have his morality eroded away at without destroying his intellect. But how to do that effectively?
Wesley actually had to take a step back from his cranial tangents. He'd gotten so caught up in the possibilities that he had forgotten to begin operating with what was at his disposal. He'd caught himself daydreaming. 'That's rare.'
Since any unique person operated differently on virtually every fundamental level, he would have to observe and adapt how to best turn Kendrick to their side.
No, Marcus Kendrick was nothing like Rouise Domingo. And if he was candid, he wanted to see how Kendrick would fair against what they were stacking against him.
Name: Marcus Ezekiel Kendrick
Race: Human (standard)
Occupation: Server, Rookie Boxer
Level: 12 (6636/7800)
Title: Masochistic Gamer (+5 STR, VIT, DEX; +25% Cash and EXP)
HP: 860
– HP regen: 3.6% (30.96 HP/hour)
MP: 840
– MP regen: 7.6% (65.52 MP/minute) (1.09 MP/second)
– Magic/Mental resist: 5.8%
SP: 900
– SP regen: 9.6% (86.4 SP/minute) (1.44 SP/second)
STR: 25 (+5) = 30
VIT: 21 (+5) = 26
DEX: 33 (+5) = 38
INT: 24 (+0) = 24
WIS: 29 (+0) = 29
LUC: 18 (+0) = 18
SKL: 86 | EVO: 10
Currency: $41696.36
– Rate/hour: $13.50 (+25%) = $16.875
– Rate/fight: $2000 (+25%) = $2500
Hunger: 82/260
– Standing Drain: 4/hour (96/day)
Thirst: 105/260
– Standing Drain: 6/hour (144/day)
.
.
Passive Skills:
[Gamer's Mind lvl Max]
[Gamer's Body lvl Max]
[Vehicle Mastery, novice lvl 8]
[Mechanics, basic lvl 5]
[Firearm Mastery, novice lvl 4]
[Fishing Mastery, novice lvl 11]
[Information Processing lvl 13]
[Cartography lvl 21]
[Empathic Reception lvl 14]
[Inconspicuous lvl 11]
[Danger Sense lvl 7]
[Critical Hit lvl 4]
[Unarmed Mastery lvl 9 = 10]
[Pugilism Style lvl 14 = 15]
[Knife Wielding lvl 3]
[Blade Guard lvl 8]
[Fire Retardant lvl 5]
[Pain Mitigation lvl 7]
[Impact Diffusion lvl 6]
.
Active Skills:
[Blade Sharpening lvl 12]
[The Zone lvl 4]
[Adrenaline Rush lvl 3]
[Power Strike lvl 9]
[Charge Attack lvl 5]
[Block Guard lvl 4]
[Counter Strike lvl 2]
.
Passive & Active Skills:
[Pushing Limits lvl Max]
[Climbing lvl 6]
[Sprint lvl 17 = 18]
[Inspect lvl 20]
[Observe lvl 21]
[Harmonic Meditation lvl 8 = 10]
Author's Note: Don't forget to READ and REVIEW!
Let me know what you guys think. Keep it constructive. And any help balancing or reinventing certain skills would be most helpful.
Note: From what I could find about immigration laws, there was nothing concrete in place until about 2016 about exploiting illegal labor. I might be wrong, but a wrote Marcus's discussion with Matt and Foggy with this in mind.
Until next time.