A/N: Hey guys! SteinMon here!
So, updated my browser a few weeks ago, and it decided that I didn't need my bookmarks, and deleted them all. So in addition to the other stuff I lost, I lost all the websites I was using for research for all my stories, so everything is behind a little behind right now.
In addition, I'm struggling to write mature scenes in another story (because every mature scene I've read in other stories are either over the top or... vile), so I'm skipping back over here a little early until I can figure out how to write it more wholesome than smut.
Not sure how long it's been now, but I've seen a lot of people have noticed that Fanfic isn't sending alerts out (thought it was only affecting me, but nope). Which sucks, considering I think it's been a month or so now. One way I've been coping is leaving a separate tab for my 'Alerts' open, and reloading the page once a day so I get my occasional fix. It's not a perfect system, and won't work for everyone, but hopefully it helps you guys.
Finally got the meds I needed, and they're not working. So, yay :(
In other news, we lost all natural gas and heating for several days throughout the region I live in, and we were lucky to get it back on a couple days ago. So some good news.
So life has been a... bit of a challenge. But that's life.
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:
- P34644563: From what I could find online, yes, they do. Though this generally requires physical proofing, like an I.D. or a birth certificate that they then have to run like a background check. The process can be expedited if the person in question commits a crime (or is framed, as was implied by Fisk), where they are jailed for approximately 24 hours before arraignment in court. Illegals immigrants found guilty of said crimes are sent back to their home countries really quick.
Problem is, Marcus doesn't have anything from anywhere, and it's safe to assume that ghost denizens don't get treated well. So he'd most likely end up in a black hole getting interrogated to talk by spooks-in-black. The point is Fisk using this to not only coerce, but also provide a lifeline by simply having him imprisoned, using his resources to keep Marcus in a state of perpetual limbo.
- "Guest": Thanks man, I appreciate it.
- QuirkySavage: Not weird. Although if your still curious, you're question is still listed in the 'Reviews'. Just takes a little digging to find it.
- "Guest" 2: Hmm. Not sure how to answer without 'SPOILERS!', so yeah, I guess the only thing to do is keep reading.
- Triden117: That's... actually a good point. Huh... When I get around to editing, I fix and spruce it up. Thanks for the help! I appreciate it! :D
- ItsDante: I appreciate your appreciation.
- EdgyNoir: Thanks!
- branphillips001: Hey no problem! If ya ever wanna talk about it, there's always Private Messaging.
- Fressneid: No problem man.
- "Lamont": Me too. Me too.
- Doxxie: I'm not on AO3. I thought about it for a while, but Fanfiction is what I was introduced to, so I've been sticking with it.
- cjali2222: Hmm, maybe. I've had some people say otherwise, but it's reassuring to know you think so.
*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 9: Sand Castle Lights
{…New York City, New York… June 23th, 2007…}
The turnout was bigger than Marcus had anticipated. He'd taken a peak before entering the locker rooms, just after being cleared of his drug-test, and… it was a lot. The cascade of overlapping conversation from what must have been ten-thousand people at the venue washing over him. He wasn't sure exactly how many there were, but he swallowed down the vertigo that threatened to creep up.
He changed quietly, the vibrations of so many people moving and talking trickling over his skin as he did some warmup punches to get his blood flowing. He'd have preferred something smaller for his final fight, something a little more comfortable, but it was out of his hands.
And as had become a ritual for his anxieties before his fights, he sat down on the bench, and pulled out his wallet from his 'Inventory'. Opening it, he slide out the photographs he otherwise kept hidden, staring at the familiar faces of his family. The balm and ache it provided was it's own kind of catharsis, with hopes that they were doing well and good in his old world. As great as it was to see their faces though, even then, he could already tell that he was beginning to forget their voices. When it came to memories, that was the first thing people forgot.
That sometimes, he'd hear a particular tone, inflection, or voice when on the streets of New York, and his head would shoot up, searching for that familiar association that he intellectually knew wasn't there. But instinctively... he'd scrape by for any little reminder he could grab hold of.
He was no longer panicking, but he wasn't overtly at ease either.
The squeak of the locker room doors opening alerted him as the sounds of the audience grew louder for a moment before fading as it closed, George walking in with a weighted look on his face, a weak attempt at a smile crossing his features. "You ready?"
Marcus nodded, returning the smile as best as he could. "As I'll ever be."
George clapped him on the shoulder. "Then let's get you set."
Nodding, he stood up, sparing one last look at his families. Clenching his eyes closed and taking a deep breath, he brought the photos to his lips. "Wish me 'LUC'."
Giving a watery snort at his own joke, he quickly stowed them away, and once more returned them to his 'Inventory' the moment George's back was turned. With another couple deep breaths. he knocked his fists together, pumping himself up for what was in store.
Rouise sat in his own locker room on a bench, staring down at the blood red pill. What was going through his head was anyone's guess.
"You ought to take it now," his manager stated, leaning against the lockers. "If it takes ten minutes to fully work, that's about three rounds. The more time you have to absorb beforehand, the quicker you can end the fight."
A soft huff exited Rouise's nose as he picked up a nearby water bottle. "You just make sure to have some cold water and icepacks on hand between rounds."
"I'll worry about keepin' yur temperature down. You worry about Kendrick."
Taking a moment to lift the pill to the light, it appeared almost semi-translucent, like a ruby, but with a consistency that appeared closer to amber. Beautiful in its own way. He quickly popped it into his mouth, downing it with a nearby water bottle. For something that was supposed to improve his performance so rapidly, he half-expected to feel the effects immediately.
The sound of the locker room door opening caused both of them to jolt. One of the security crew walked in, causing both men's hearts to begin beating wildly. Just as quickly he tapped on the lockers for attention, only giving them a brief look. "They're about ready for intros. Be at the walk in five," he stated, just as quickly walking back out of the locker room.
Rouise swallowed heavily, quickly shaking off the trickle of nervous sweat that had quickly built on his face. That had been close.
As consistent as always, the power of friendship had netted them some seats. Marcus had always left an open invitation to his fights. They made some, and other times, classes took priority. This time though, they had been given ring-side seats. Actual ring-side seats.
The chatters of everyone around them were exceptionally noisy, and Foggy fidgeted nervously. This was a new experience for him, and he'd be lying if he didn't admit that being so close to the action didn't worry him. When he turned though, his worries shifted. "You doing okay?"
Matt looked a little worse for wear, wincing occasionally as the rain storm of noise felt like he was taking thunder to his ear canal. In addition, a multitude of scents rolled over him like a tidal wave from the surge of bodies in the same room; predominantly the scent of fresh sweat and other people's breath. Not to mention he could taste the bitter salt on the very air. All his senses felt like they were being smothered, and trying to breathe deeply to calm down only activated one sense or another.
"I'm… I'm good… I think," he muttered out gently, leaning a lot of weight on his cane despite being seated. "It's… just a lot… all at once."
"Do we need to go?" Foggy asked, rubbing his back. He knew that a person's senses would compensate for a missing one (because Mark seemed to know a thing or two about that). He didn't know what that experience was like, but if it was visibly bothering Matt – who usually appeared so unbothered, even amidst a bunch of loud, obnoxious, and frankly, not-so-fresh scented college students at frat parties – it must've been bad. "Mark will understand."
Matt shook his head gently. "No. I need to be here."
While he didn't protest, Foggy didn't look so sure. Frowning in thought for a moment, his face lit up before he started digging in his jacket pocket. It took several moments but he finally pulled out a misshapen flat of reflective material. "Here."
Guiding it gently into Matt's hand, Murdock frowned as his thumb gently brushed across it tactilely before lifted it to his nose with a gentle sniff. "Gum?"
"It might help," Foggy stated in concern. "Dunno. Figured stimulate one or two sense to muddle out the others. Mark might know more about that though."
Matt smiled appreciatively, gently unwrapping it before popping it in his mouth. He was right. The sharp minty taste was very focus-grabbing. The particulates of mint crystal almost bombarding his tastebuds like a garden hose to an ant nest; and the sharp, cooling scent flooding his nose in a chilly pickaxe in a blizzard.
While it was merely a substitute of one overwhelming experience for another, it did help dull the tastes and smells he picked up from his surroundings, even if he could taste the inside of Foggy's pocket on top of it and the entire factory process the single stick of gum had undergone.
It was the thought that counted.
"Thanks."
Unaware of how in-depth Matt's senses reached, Foggy smiled. "No problem."
The waiting was a little more bearable at least.
In his private booth, Fisk stared down at the ring, unblinking in awaiting the inevitable. The empty room around him was quiet. Silent. Giving weight to his unmoving figure, standing front and center as he anticipated the coming event. His stony face might have been contemplative, but it was too impassive to tell.
He didn't so much as blink when the door opened, quiet foot-strides entering.
"They're about ready now," Wesley stated as he stood at attention with his hands behind his back.
"Thank you, Wesley," he returned, unmoving. "Mister Domingo?"
"Has kindly accepted your offer," he answered.
"Schedule a trip," he directed. "I believe a gift for Madame Gao is in order."
"Would you prefer I choose something, or are you looking for a more personal touch?" he asked, pulling up a small notebook from his jacket pocket and clicking a pen. He'd need to arrange an extended opening in his schedule.
"It is best… that I go in person," he articulated slowly. "Better to be in good standing with potential allies, especially when dealt in good faith."
Wesley nodded, anticipating his next orders.
"And Mister Kendrick?" he asked.
Wesley masterfully kept his eyebrow from quirking at the lack of formality. "Not as resigned as one might expect. He has the beginnings of a plan, at the very least."
"Hmm," Fisk hummed thoughtfully.
Wesley was aware that this was from a young man who had managed to not only catch his employer's attention, he continued to hold it; even rebelliously. He still couldn't decern if it was dumb luck, exceptional intelligence, tranquility under fire, or some combination of thee above. But he didn't want to leave any of it up to chance.
"Should I expedite his arrest?" he asked.
Fisk was quiet for a moment before answering. "Not yet." Wesley was almost surprised by the response, but he continued. "Call it foolish, but… I want to see what he'll do. A test… to see how he handles his back against the wall."
Wesley could admit to a similar curiosity, but was grounded by even the miniscule chance that Marcus Kendrick could evade them. With one as calculating as he was, one must always account for probability, no matter how small. The improbable wasn't impossible after all. Mitigating those improbabilities didn't erase them; just made them less likely.
"If that is what you want," he answered, trying to keep his disagreement down. Apparently, he failed.
"You don't agree?" Fisk asked, slightly turning back, having picked it up in Wesley's tone.
"I don't like the idea of gambling with a potential asset," he answered opposingly. "While he is as likely to change his tune as he is to buckle down on his morals, the idea of him completely out of our reach is not a pleasant one."
"You think he's so resourceful?" Fisk asked, frowning in thought.
"Given what little we've seen and how little we know of him? It would be a disservice otherwise," he replied strictly.
"And you don't think we are overestimating him?" Fisk inquired slowly. "He is but one man."
"I think we can agree, sir, that Marcus Kendrick is full of surprises, man or no."
Humming again, Fisk returned his attention forward. A good point, even if it was indeed troublesome. "Very well. I'll trust your judgement on this. Put a man on him as he leaves, and once he's in custody, have at least one officer on him at all times."
Wesley nodded sternly. He still couldn't shake the feeling that either Kendrick was going to do something completely out of their purview, or just simply slip out of their grasp. Regardless of the precautions. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.
Marcus smiled nostalgically at the sandy-yellow robe that had become familiar to him over the past few weeks, trimmed in a more golden-orange. In bold black lettering, Marcus "The Sandman" Kendrick, was pressed across the back.
A representation of all his hard work made tangible as the fabric brushed through his hands.
'Well… this is it.' He breathed out heavily, a lump in his throat as the corners of his eyes prickled. Soon, the end of one journey, the beginning of another.
[Courage, Marcus. Perseverance and courage.]
Smiling at the simple words, and despite the overwhelming trepidation he felt swelling up in him, he donned the robe, pulling the hood over his head. He wrapped his hands in tape and donned the blue gloves.
While he waited for the announcements to begin, he eased his way down into the Lotus position, quietly breathing. He wasn't even trying to activate a 'Skill', only to prepare himself for what was coming.
The beat of aggressively thrown punches smacked against the wall from underneath his green robe, his gloves impacting harshly with each hit, his blood pumping as he sent jab after rapid jab against the concrete bricks. Growls and huffs were already exiting his mouth as sweat began to pool within his pores.
Rouise Domingo was shaking with anticipation, the energy it provided crawling and gnawing at his body as he tried to relieve it with jittered movement.
It was his time. He was gonna show Kendrick that he was more deserving. That he didn't deserve to be in the ring. That he didn't deserve the wasted time that had been spent training him.
Rouise had been working for this for years! He'd put in the work, looked for sponsorship, and dealt with a manager that was all but riding his coattails! And Kendrick had come from nowhere, somehow convinced a professional to train him, and even had his enemies talking him up.
Rouise had people counting on him, so if he had to bend and break the rules, then he would. He had no choice.
He deserved it. Him!
"And we've got an exciting match for everyone tonight, John. Rouise Domingo is squaring up against Marcus Kendrick. Two rookies who are crossing gloves for the first time."
"Looking at their stats for the season, Domingo with 8 wins and 2 loses, has been back on the weekly, seemingly with a chip on his shoulder. Running a strong offense and passing defense; he's highly aggressive, preferring to charge into his fights."
"That aggression is a boon in most cases, quickly overwhelming most people. But when faced against calculating and patient opponents who can weather him, it's a bad match-up. As we've seen how he faired against both Packer and Jameson."
"His opponent is Kendrick, sporting 12 wins and no loses. He's been the rookie to beat, with a good portion of his KO's taking place within the first round. He possess a tremoring offense and aggressive defense; if his opponent is still standing after one of his more powerful hits, he takes to defending and countering just as effectively."
"Despite his record, he was closest to taking a loss from Jameson. Constantly changing the flow of the fight appears to throw him off balance as he tries to keep up. Where he struggles with rapid changes in the fight, his sheer tenacity has allowed him to outlast his opponents, and even make calculated sacrifices to turn the game around."
"What are your thoughts on the match-up, Aaron?"
"Not as tough of a sell this time, John. Win-loss stats aside, I still think Kendrick is gonna come out on top. Just from what we've seen in them beforehand, not only do both his offense and defense surpass Domingo's, but he's more adaptable, knows how to time his counters when he's dodging, keeps a cool head, and knows when to risk getting hit to land one of his own."
"A fair assessment and– Oh! It's looks like we're starting. Making his walk to the blue corner…."
"Now! In the blue corner! Weighing in at 155 pounds! An astounding record of 12 wins and no loses! From Hell's Kitchen, New York! The Blurring Fist! The One-Hit Wonder! The Serenader of Bitter-Sweet Dreams! The Let's hear it foooor! Marcus! "The Sandman"! Kendrick!"
{Playing "Enter Sandman" by Metallica}
Not for the first time, Marcus rolled his eyes at the introduction as he walked out, taking deep breaths as he was suddenly hit by the roars of the stadium. Thousands of people all at once; it was almost enough to make him feel faint, forcing him to swallow down the queasy bile that caught in his throat. Gingerly, he lifted his hand, greeting the fans that had gathered around his entrance tunnel, all of the squealing and screaming in excitement. It was a little much.
He briefly smiled a truer smile when he noticed a kid, a little girl – maybe six or seven – waving at him furiously from behind the divider with an unsure grin on her face. The fanaticism of the child's elders non-existent behind that innocent adoration. Looking her in the eye, he gave her a little wave, causing her to duck and hide in embarrassment.
[Well aren't you a charmer.]
'Guess so,' he replied good-naturedly, continuing to walk toward his corner, waving to the cheering crowds the whole way. This was probably the last time he'd see it all. Best enjoy it while it lasted.
"SANDMAN! SANDMAN! SANDMAN!"
The hood did a good job of blocking out the camera flashes as he approached the ring, hearing his name chanted with such zeal and fervor that he couldn't deny, it made him uncomfortable. Being an object of adoration rather than a person, a idol thrown up on a pedestal… it left a gross filmy feeling over his skin.
As he made it to his corner, George came up behind him, patting the mat for him to hop up, lifting the ropes for him. He stripped off his robe, setting it to the side as he climbed up the corner stairs, parted the ropes, and slide into the ring.
Once more, he lifted a hand, a little more practiced and refined now as he turned and greeted the crowd. There cheers near deafened him. He did a quick once around before returning to his corner, a folding chair already set up.
"You good?" George asked, patting Marcus on the shoulder.
He nodded, taking deep, calming breaths.
"Good. Just take it easy."
"In the red corner! Weighing in at 163 pounds! Fighting 8 wins, 2 losses! Got ourselves another contestant from Hell's Kitchen, New York! Give it up! Fooooor! The Swarm of Rage! Hood Bearing! Mad Striking! Rouise! "The Spitting Cobra"! Domingo!"
{Playing "Spitfire" by The Prodigy}
Rouise Domingo charged out of his entrance, shocking Marcus with how fast he moved to the corner, an almost beast-like hunch to his body as he all but tore off his robe. His body was a light sheen of sweat as he flexed for the crowd, roaring mightily, and getting roars of approval in return.
His manager offered up a bottle of water, which Rouise snatched up, mouthing some of it before spitting it out in a spray. The people just cheered harder. As soon as he was done, he swigged back a bunch of it.
[That the 'Spitting Cobra' aspect?]
'No idea,' Marcus responded, frowning in curiosity. 'Is that even sanitary?' He quietly turned to George while Rouise was busy showing off. "Is it just me, or is something wrong?"
George frowned as he looked over the competition. "Not just you, kid. Can't quite put my finger on it though."
'But I can. [Inspect, Observe]. Please and thank you.'
{Rouise Domingo, Altered lvl 18
"Rookie Boxer"
Max HP: 1060 (+180) | Max MP: 640 (locked) | Max SP: 1230 (+180)
STR: 51 (+19)| VIT: 34 (+11) | DEX: 28 (+4) | INT: 10 | WIS: 12 | LUC: 6
Damage: Unarmed
Hit: 68 (+13% Unarmed, +8.5% Pugalism), medium chance of inducing 'Staggered'.
Staggered – temporarily negates any guard mitigation against damage.
Armor: 3 (+2)
Status: Basking. Elevated Aggression. Lingering Effects Active (temporarily disabled). Temporary Effect Active.
–Lingering Effects: 'Side Effects ?' –Temporarily Disabled
–Temporary Effects: 'Active Effects ?' {Enhanced STR 6, Enhanced VIT 5, Enhanced DEX 2, Physical Negation 4, Armor +2, Empower HP 5, Empower SP 5, Over-heat Effect, Aggressive, Temporarily Disables Negative Effects, Unstable Composition}
+Over-heat – -50% SP regen. Massively increased 'Hydration' drain. 'Tired' effect becomes active once effect ends. May lead to 'Heat Stroke' and/or 'Exhaustion' if not managed. Low 'Hydration' can deal periodic 'Subtle Damage'.
+Aggression – assertive attacking. Reduced defensive actions. All attacks are 'Power Attacks' that drain 'SP'.
+Unstable Composition – Effects are unstable. Duration of Effects is greatly diminished. Negative withdrawal is greatly increased. Cannot be fully absorbed.
+Effective Peak Absorption: 1 minutes 23 seconds left.
+Peak Metabolic Duration: 10 minutes.
Weakness: Short-fused. Short-sighted. Ego can be played. {Increased Aggression}
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: Brawler's Might, Power Attack Lvl ?, Unarmed Fighting Lvl 13, Pugilism Style Lvl 17}
.
['Observe' has gained a level.]
['Inspect' has gained a level.]
.
'Oh fuck,' he cursed in wide-eyed realization. 'He's on something else.'
[And… that is one helluva boost.]
.
Marcus couldn't help but nod at the screen prompt, despite being the only one who could interact with it. 'Sys, do ya think you could–?'
[Way ahead of ya, buddy.]
[Quest Parameters, updating…]
.
[!Updated Sub-Quest: Defeat Target: "Rouise Domingo, Altered"!]
Your opponent has taken '?', providing him a substantial increase in his physical capabilities. His Effective Level is +8 higher (Lvl 26).
Requirements:
- Defeat 'Rouise Domingo' while he's enhanced during your Boxing Match
Reward:
- 1147 EXP (+286 EXP)
- $382.50 (+$95.62)
- 1 Evolution Point (Opponent is 5+ Lvls stronger than you)
Entertainment Bonus:
- $2500 (+$625)
Additional Rewards:
- 420 EXP (+105 EXP)
- $252 (+$63)
- 3 Evolution Points (Opponent is effectively 10+ Lvls stronger than you)
- 4 Evolution Points (Opponent is effectively twice your level)
- 8 Evolution Points (Opponent has ingested '?', which is derived from '?', to temporarily increase his fighting performance.)
Failure: Severe damage to your body.
Reduced time to implement 'Plan B'
- $1500 (+$375)
.
'Not what I meant, but that'll do,' Marcus muttered to himself, only catching some of the details before he minimized it. He trusted Sys to not screw him over, and he knew he was gonna have to bring his A-game. 'That +8 ECL… does that apply to damage resistance based on level difference?'
[Luckily, no. If it did, you'd be screwed.]
'You mean like I'm not screwed already?' he prodded.
[More screwed.]
'Helpful,' he muttered sarcastically.
While Rouise got into his own corner, a judge walked around, doing checks on their wraps, gloves, and mouthguard. Marcus clopped his mouth a couple times to get used to the feeling before wiggling his jaw to ease up the tension. He didn't bother paying attention to Rouise, too focused on his own shit. Wasn't like he could do anything anyway since they'd already been tested... well, he'd been tested. He couldn't speak for Domingo.
"Same shit as usual," George stated. "If this carries into multiple rounds, I'll give ya some tips between each round. Keep your gloves up, and yur eyes open. Ya got it?"
"Gaw i'," Marcus nodded from behind his mouthguard, biting down so it was more settled in. "Same shit, different cow."
"Pretty much."
"Fighters! Front and center!" the announcer called.
Marcus almost started at the call, hopping up quickly just after George clapped him on the shoulder. Meeting in the center of the ring, Marcus was standing calm, waiting for the dress-down the ref would give, while Rouise was taking large, deep breaths as he bounced forward. Marcus had seen sugared up kids that jittered less.
All at once, Rouise was up in his face, snorting his breath on his face like he was a bull. Marcus fought the instinct to head-butt him to create space (because that was frowned upon in boxing), but quickly cancelled that order and put a hand out, keeping him at arms-length as Domingo continued to lean into his glove, like he was making a weak effort of trying to get in closer. His chest was puffed up, his chin tilted down and eyes up, jaw tense.
"Dude, back the Hell up," Marcus ordered sternly, looking at him like he was fucking nuts. They hadn't even started yet, and he blew past 'asshole' and straight to 'what the fuck?' Marcus could already smell his breath, and he didn't want that any closer to his face if he could help it.
"Uh-oh. Looks like Domingo is looking to pick a fight."
"Alright, alright! Break it up!" the ref stated, getting between the two of them, hands out to keep them both at arm's length as he split them up. "Save it!
"Now! You've heard it before, but I'll say it again: I want a clean fight," the ref stated, giving Domingo a stern eye. "No holding, no biting, no hitting below the belt, and no hitting the back of anything. Keep all strikes to your fists. No stupid shit or you will be penalized. If I say break it up, you break it up." He seemed to be looking at Rouise specifically when he said it. "This is a sport gentlemen. Act like it.
"Now, touch gloves and back to your corners. You may start at the bell."
Marcus did as instructed, lifting his gloves to tap gloves, only for Rouise to snort at him again, turning on his heels and backing to his corner. Left hanging, Marcus shook his head in exasperation, gently fist-bumping the ref before moving back to his own corner.
DING!
He'd barely taken more than a couple steps forward before he was dodging the first strike. He hadn't even activated his 'Skills' before Rouise had bull-rushed forward, fists swinging at speeds that Marcus was trying to comprehend in his base state. It wasn't as fast as his [Full-Roster], but he could feel the brush of displaced air tickling across his facial hair.
[Danger is present. Opponent intends bodily harm. Activating 'Danger Sense'.]
['Danger Sense' has gained a level.]
[DEX: 38 +8%(+3) = 41
Move: 15% +41% +8% = 64%
Time: 92.5%]
.
[Danger Sense] flared, like an all-consuming buzz in his head, chronically aware of Rouise's general position. While the 'Skill' only activated for evasion – and added nothing to [Full-Roster]'s damage, even when counter-attacking – it hadn't even been a few seconds in, and he was already milking it for all it was worth.
The combination of improved evasion and slightly improved processing time as he was sped up was a boon as he avoided the slew of wild and aggressive attacks.
"And there Kendrick is dodging a massive opening onslaught from Domingo!"
Marcus lifted glove to intercept a right swing, when he was almost jarred by the impact.
[SP: 900 = 746/900]
.
'Holy shit!' Marcus moved laterally, hoping to avoid another hit like that. [Block Guard] used his 'SP' to tank the shot, but he could almost feel it plummet just from blocking a single hit. A combination of whatever Domingo was on plus their level difference, and pending what few resistances Marcus possessed.
['Block Guard' has gained a level.]
['Impact Diffusion' has gained a level.]
.
"Oh! That looked like it hurt!"
He ducked another swing, deciding to deflect rather than outright block in order to preserve his 'SP'. He kept an eye for an opening, side-stepping another fist aimed for his head, sliding a body blow, before finding what he was looking for a moment later. He stepped in with a test jab and….
[You dealt 10 bludgeoning damage.]
'My regular hit with 'Unarmed' and 'Pugilism' is 40 damage. Simple math, 10 divided by 40 is–'Putting his 'INT' to work making the necessary calculations was suddenly interrupted as he felt a glove brush past his cheek. Close enough to trade paint.
[0.25. You're dealing approximately a quarter of your full-damage. Now. You. Focus.]
Meaning their level difference and the 'Damage Negation' Domingo had was about 75% damage reduction (charitably) from all of Marcus's attacks. Level differences was precalculated, and acted as a base, and then additional resistances were applied afterwards.
Before he could ponder it more, he stepped back against another swing before stepping in to make another hit, only for Rouise to step into a spinning back-fist, clocking him in the brief moment he was off-guard.
[HP: 880 = 706/860]
['Impact Diffusion' has gained a level.]
[You have taken a massive hit of exactly '17.5%' of your total 'HP'.]
[You have been 'Staggered'.]
.
Marcus stumbled. A combination from the hit itself, the 'Status' effect, and the full realization of just how much damage Domingo could do with a single hit. While he barely kept his feet, a follow-up uppercut had him pushing himself back, almost tripping over his own feet to avoid the hit.
'Must be one of those 'Power Attack's',' he gritted, narrowly avoiding another hit like that. Now that he was getting a feel for it, he was pretty sure all of the attacks Domingo had tried to land were 'Power Attack's. Part of that 'Aggressive' effect he was under, no doubt.
To think, this had been what his other opponents had been hit by. It sucked being on the receiving end.
He popped off another brief hit, only to strain as he avoided another glancing blow.
He wasn't winded. Far from it. But he still panted.
'Sys, [Full-Ros-'
Marcus's thought was halted as he dodged one attack, only for the follow-up to curve straight into his ribs. Processing it in slow-motion as he felt the impact ripple through his torso.
[HP: 748 = 552/860]
'Fuck! [Full-Roster], now!'
The pain faded quickly as adrenaline hit his veins. Deflecting another blow, he landed a full-powered right overhand to Domingo's jaw. He didn't hesitate to follow through with a winded-up left uppercut as his body twisted back into it's original stance.
[You dealt 87, 87 bludgeoning damage.]
'Are you shitting me!' Whatever 'Damage Negation' he was on, it was clearly working; and Marcus was now down near a third of his 'SP'. He hadn't even done 'Precision Damage' like he usually did when landing a headshot.
.
"Domingo is leading the fight right now. Kendrick, has landed a double-combo of his signature 'Sandman' punches, but Domingo is relentless!"
"I dunno, John. Despite Domingo's previous fights playing out with him as the aggressor, right now he's fighting like an unhinged animal. It's certainly not his usual style. That aside, he took that hit straight to the jaw without so much as flinching. I don't like to point fingers or name names, but it appears Domingo is significantly more aggressive, resilient, and striking much, much, harder since his last fight."
"Abnormally so. Understandable. Unfortunately, that's for the ref and the judges to decide, and it doesn't look like anyone's calling it despite something clearly being up. Whatever the case, it must be taxing, because even from our booth up here, we can see Domingo sweating profusely."
"At this rate, Kendrick's best bet might be to wear him down."
Something was wrong. And Matt didn't need super senses to feel it. Sifting past the scents permeating around him, something almost mildly bitter-sweet in the air – like a blend of pear and kiwi – but more… pungent; like the fruit was in the middle of decaying. Almost like a note of cologne that had been building up since the fight started.
And it wasn't Kendrick's scent attached to it. He didn't know what it was, but it didn't smell… right. Or natural.
"C'mon Mark!" Foggy shouted as Marcus landed several more basic punches, cheering as their friend was dodging in and out.
Matt could feel the turbulence of Mark's movements, so unlike previous fights he'd attended. He wasn't so much on the defensive as he was on the retreat. And after those two hits he'd taken, he understood why. He'd heard Mark's ribs creak in protest even through the undulation of the crowd.
"Step right. Step right! Yeah!" Foggy yelled intensely, arms shaking in reserved celebration.
Thump!
"OOOOOOH!" Their side of the crowd seemed to wince all at once as Mark was nailed once more, falling unceremoniously face-first into the mat.
"Nonono! C'mon Mark! Get up!" Foggy continued yelling.
'C'mon,' he urged mentally, trying to sift through all the stimuli bombarding him as he kept directing it to the ring, twisting the grip of his cane.
DING!
"Kendrick, saved by the bell. Oh, that was a nasty fall."
"While Kendrick's been knocked down before, I think this is the first time we've seen him eat the mat like that."
.
Marcus blearily came to while he was being helped to his corner, everything in his line of sight a blur, the lights fracturing into stary halos. He was briskly sat down, his face being looked over, and someone shined a light in his eye, causing him to wince and blink as his pupil painfully contracted.
"He's clear," he heard the ring-side physician state.
['Impact Diffusion' has gained a level.]
'Joy.' Even his thoughts were groaning.
Just as quickly, he felt his vision clearing up, George just behind the ropes looking at him. "You good?"
It took Marcus a moment. He felt his head pulsing with his adrenaline-powered heartbeat. With some effort, he managed to nod. "What happened?"
"He clocked ya, and ya went down," George stated, staring off the ring. Marcus turned and saw he was glaring at the referee, arguing furiously with the judges. "And it looks like the powers that be don't give a shit that Domingo is on something."
Marcus couldn't help but glance up at one of the boothes. 'Or they were paid off.'
Marcus winced, accepting the straw of water that was practically shoved under his nose. He sucked some of it down, gasping in relief, feeling a trickle of 'Subtle Damage' restore.
[Water Bottle, 30oz. (Common)
A standard, non-descript pull-top water bottle.
Tap Water, lukewarm: 26 fl. oz. remaining
+3 'Hydration' per oz. consumed.
+5 'Subtle Damage' recovered per fl. oz. consumed.
Weight: 2 oz. +1 oz. per remaining fl. oz. (approximated for simplicity)]
.
Whether or not he sweat anymore, it was still refreshing as he took more mouthfuls to recover a little bit. Slowly. While sleep was still the best recovery tool, it helped in small increments. "Wha'cha got for me?" he asked, gently closing his eyes to reorient himself, still taking mouthfuls every now and while he listened.
George gave him a stern look before speaking up. "He's faster and stronger than I've ever seen 'im. But you're still faster. He's sweating up a storm. Outpace him, and wear him down."
"And avoid getting hit?" Marcus asked.
"That goes without saying," he stated. "Ya can't get hit like that again. You got lucky with the bell. Another hit like that, and you might not be getting back up."
Marcus winced, hardly a thought passing before the stat appeared.
[HP: 428/860]
It had been '398' before he'd started drinking. Less than 50% of his health left. And he couldn't drink more without risking puking it up if he got hit in the stomach. Digestion and absorption wasn't instantaneous like in actual videogames. He frowned though when he noticed an odd, more crucial detail. Usually, when 'Subtle Damage' was dealt, it appeared almost as layered bars; like how some bosses in old arcade games had multiple bars stacked over each other, each one different colors and bleeding into the next one as it was whittled down.
It was the best way he could describe it. In his mind-eye, immediate 'Subtle Damage' appearing yellow – acting like a shield – while his true 'HP' appeared in red. Some of the red bar was missing, revealing a slate gray behind where his actual 'Health' should have filled up to.
He'd taken some 'Lethal Damage'.
Not much, and if he was knocked out, the ref would probably stop the fight right then and there. But the fact that it was there was a worry all on its own. Either Domingo's was actively trying to bludgeon him to death, or the side-effects of the drug he'd taken were just that potent. Plus, being effectively 14 levels higher than him might have something to do with it. Again, over twice his current level.
'Shit.' He eyed how Domingo was practically sucking down water. And it looked like his manager had placed little ice packs on him. He couldn't get enough. Whatever was pumping through his body was clearly causing him to shimmer with buckets of sweat. And he wasn't really recovering; unable to find relief as he drank.
"And the judges?" Marcus asked, leaning back and sucking down some more water.
George shook his head gently. "All you need to worry about is outlasting him. This is bracket fighting. No need to worry about scores. Not that they're operating fair to begin with." He clapped him gently on the shoulder, a sign that it was almost time for Round 2.
Marcus turned his head, taking a moment to glance up at the V.I.P. booth, the screening almost seeming tinted with the overhead lights. He could just make out a figure standing in the middle of the window, looking down at the ring, and – it might be a little presumptuous – him. He could almost feel the silent and stoic satisfaction from where he sat.
He'd tampered. With Domingo? With the judges? The ref seemed okay, so he was clear for now. He couldn't be sure what all Fisk had stuck his finger in. But for some reason, still unknown to him, he wanted Marcus to lose.
Just as quickly as the short break had happened, the referee was back in the ring.
[HP: 443/860]
Just over half would have to do.
Rolling his neck as he stood up, Marcus made his way toward the center, his chair getting quickly folded and pulled from the ring. Domingo yanked the bottle from whoever had held it for him, taking a few more good draughts before dumping the contents all over his face, letting it splash and dribble down his bare chest and back before smacking his gloves together, gasping for breath.
"Fighters ready?!" the ref asked, looking for confirmation.
Domingo grunted in acknowledgement as he was wide-open, hopping on his toes impatiently. Marcus nodded, gloves high as half covering his face, both eyes narrowing over the padding.
The referee nodded. "Good. Back to your corners! You can go at the bell!"
Marcus's neck prickled as his gloves creaked, gently walking backwards while Domingo couldn't stop bouncing, despite the fact that it was costing him some effort. Like a very angry kid on a sugar rush. No matter. All the better for Marcus when he finally crashed.
DING!
Rouise blitzed forward, swinging with all his might to Marcus's head.
['Danger Sense' has gained a level.]
His eyes tracked the slightly slower movements, a sense of third-person or disorientation present as he leaned just outside the hit, stepping forward as his and Rouise's momentum clashed. Then it was back to what he'd been doing: dodging and looking for openings. He hadn't been able to tank too many hits from most of his previous opponents, but none of them had played nothing but 'Power Attacks', and Marcus could sometimes lean in to absorb some hits before they hit their full momentum.
That wasn't going to happen with Domingo. Trying to absorb a hit would only leave him open to catch another punch to the head when his 'SP' tanked.
He back-stepped, moved laterally, ducked, bobbed, weaved, deflected, redirected. Anything and everything as his eyes became unblinking orbs, searching for that moment the juggernaut Rouise had become, would falter. He kept his counters short and sweet, whittling at Rouise's 'HP' with the tenacity of a Fromsoft game. Unfortunately, he'd never been very good at those games.
.
"Kendrick is opting for mainly defensive this round. It's clear to see that he has the speed on his side, and he's putting all available effort into it. He's not risking any of Domingo's hits as he looks for an opening."
"It may be the only thing keeping Kendrick afloat right now. While not an ideal strategy, if it works, it works. But until Kendrick can find his footing on the offensive, it's little more than a stalemate."
.
He grunted as he slid a nasty straight, feeling the abrasion of the impact, before leaned away from a massive swipe that tickled at his stubble. Despite favoring agility at the moment, he managed a solid 'Full-Roster'. Underwhelming or not, he was taking all he could get.
DING!
The referee quickly stepped in between them, interjecting before the rush of the fight could bring about another clash. Marcus paused for a moment before breathing and backing away to his corner, only lowering his gloves once he'd been seated. He didn't want to risk taking a cheap-shot; not with how Domingo was at the moment. Domingo was harder, pressing forward with a laser focus so intent, the ref had to push him toward his corner, yelling at him to back off until he finally took the hint. Kudos to that guy.
George's hands clapped his shoulders as Marcus eased up on the adrenaline a little. "Good. That's was good."
"Is he petering down yet?" Marcus asked, gratefully taking a long swig. While he could have just done a quick evaluation with his 'Skills', he was preserving his 'MP' for when his 'SP' ran out, as he had about a third of it left. He could trust his trainer's judgement.
"Hardly. He's still going strong. It might be this coming round. Might be the one after that. Just keep it patient."
"How much can that guy sweat?" Marcus asked rhetorically. His 'Hydration Bar' always plummeted a bit after every fight. Whatever drug was pumping through Domingo at the moment must've been intense. He could swear he was seeing the moisture pumping out on his forehead like heartbeat.
If Domingo hadn't been an absolute ass from Day One, Marcus might have actually been impressed at his fortitude. It wasn't a hard thing to do, but credit where credit was due.
"He's got several months more conditioning and resilience on ya kid. Plus whatever he worked before hand." George gave Domingo a hard look though as the opposing fighter was practically sucking down water like it was going out of style. "Still, no one can last forever. Especially sopped like that. Keep wearing him down. The more water he tries to drink, the faster he's gonna sweat it out trying ta cool down."
Marcus nodded in understanding; a few years in 110+ (and one 122) degree summers had taught him that well enough. The faster you drank, the harder it was to retain water, the faster you sweat it out. And you sweat cold water the fastest.
Taking another controlled sip before closing his eyes. He hummed gently and deeply in his chest as he swallowed, activating [Harmonic Meditation] for however brief he had, feeling the water vibrate as it went down his esophagus. Every second active was that much more he recovered beyond his passive 'regen', even if he had less than half a minute to recover now.
The 'Subtle Damage' recovery of sipping water, and the all-round recovery of 'Harmonic Meditation' had been a combo that had helped outlast some of his more tenacious opponents in previous fights, if only by small margins.
George tapped him on the shoulder far too soon as he stood up, making his way to the center of the ring for Round 3 as the ref approached. Marcus watched as Rouise was going red in the face trying to drink water, even up until the ref had to call him forward.
He was panting heavily now, water and saliva dribbling down his chin and mixing with the sweat on his chest. With that in mind, Marcus adjusted his strategy.
"Fighters ready?!" the ref asked once again. Once he had Marcus's confirmation, and a delayed confirmation from Domingo, he nodded. "You can start at the bell."
DING!
Marcus immediately blocked a jab to his face, before gritting his whole body as he sent a straight into Domingo's chest. Domingo retaliated by swinging into Marcus's arm, but he'd stepped in, only taking a part of the hit as he tried to went for another shovel into Domingo's chest.
[Marcus: 453 = 402/860]
[Rouise: 849 = 683/1060]
.
The abuse to his chest beginning to show as Domingo began wheezing softly with each breath. He was slowing down, and it was enough for Marcus to begin weaning off the defensive stance as he tried to press the advantage, wanting to end this quicky. For both of their sakes.
He hadn't noticed the lack of a pop-up for 'Status Infliction'.
Stepping in to land some more hits, Rouise suddenly moved, a check-hook catching Marcus in the cheek, stunning him as he was suddenly 'Staggered' by the unexpected blow. Rouise immediately dashed behind his guard striking with a brutal uppercut. Marcus barely blocked the slamming overhand Rouise didn't hesitate to follow with, sending Marcus plummeting to the mat faster than was healthy as his head struck, and bounced.
.
"An absolutely brutal two-hit combo from Domingo. Kendrick is down for the second time tonight!"
"Let's watch that in 'Replay'. Right there. See how Kendrick's head bounced when he hit the mat. That was an exceptionally brutal blow by Rouise Domingo. I don't know if Kendrick can take anymore."
"It looks like they're gonna start the countdown."
.
Marcus coughed violently, his mouthguard spitting up as he rolled over onto his back, limbs rigid and tense as he tried to regain some semblance of control over his body.
"ONE!"
[HP: 402 = 2/860
['Impact Diffusion' skill has gained a level.]
[You have taken extra 'Precision Damage'.]
[You have gained a Status 'Infliction'.]
[Status Infliction – Dazed: 113 seconds.
+Dazed – 20% reduced INT, Confusion, Sight is blurred. Accuracy severely reduced. Skill activation temporarily stalled.
Status Infliction – Spasticity: 113 seconds.
+Spasticity – Uncontrollable muscle contraction and stiffness.]
['Gamer's Mind' has cancelled 'Confusion' Infliction.]
.
Small mercies. So in video game terms, he was as closed to "Stunned", "Confused", and "Paralyzed" as he could get. All at once. Fuck!
"TWO!"
Marcus winced, forcefully unclenching his body with an exceptional effort.
"THREE!"
He gently began flexing his muscles, contracting them as he pushed himself up to roll over; very aware of the countdown taking place.
"FOUR!"
Huffing, and still 'Dazed', he grunted as he felt his back cramp up from trying to move his body.
"FIVE!"
Hissing in pain, his whole face contorted as he forced himself to his knees.
"SIX!"
With a consistent throaty hum and several quick, mouthy breaths of preparation, he felt a soft cringe through his system as he forced every signal under his control to oppose the errant ones.
"SEVEN!"
Hissing, he pushed himself to his feet, shakily catching his balance. He gently stretched out, standing to his full height.
[You have negated the 'Status Infliction – Spasticity' through sheer physical will.]
.
As soon as the effect cancelled, he felt full control return to his body, no resistance. It was like his limbs had been taut rubber bands that were now suddenly slack. But it didn't completely erase the ache running through his body.
['Pain Mitigation' skill has gained a level.]
.
"Kendrick, back up just before the 'Eight'. That did not look pretty."
"Or easy."
"Still a minute and change left in the Round. We'll see how this plays out."
.
Bending down, Marcus snatched up his mouthguard, coughing harshly before gesturing to his corner. They immediately propped up a spit-bucket, allowing him to quickly clear the bile from his mouth before he returned to the center.
"You ready?" the ref called.
Marcus sniffed harshly, looking worse for wear before he nodded stiffly. He could barely see in his 'Dazed' state. A misshapen slew of colors blending together to form something resembling shapes. He did his best not to constantly blink and widen his eyes for clarity, but it was a difficult ask. And he still had over a minute left on the 'Infliction'.
Looking at both of them for confirmation, the ref dropped his hand for the signal.
Marcus took a gamble as he shifted left, relying purely on whatever little he could glean from 'Danger Sense', narrowly avoiding a swing before blindly stepping into Rouise's guard. His aim might have been off, but he had enough awareness to still aim for the center of the visual fuzz that was his opponent.
Without the ability to activate his 'Skill's, he struck as hard and as fast as he could, continuously socking Domingo's chest for all his was worth before he blocked a hazy hook to the temple.
[Status Inflicted – Chest Contusion: Reduced 'SP' regen. Pain.]
.
Domingo really was wheezing this time. Both fighters backed away to catch some space. Even with his one-track aggressive mindset, Domingo sounded worse for wear, clutching as his chest as he tried to steady his pained breathing. Which was fine. Marcus didn't mind running out the clock. He couldn't see well enough to get a read on Domingo, but he had to assume that neither of them looked pretty.
DING!
Marcus stumbled back to his corner, and he assumed that Domingo did the same.
[Macrus HP: 2/860]
[Marcus SP: 436 = 285/900]
[Rouise HP: 683 = 659/1060]
.
His 'HP' had never been that low before, 'Subtle' or not. And he was definitely feeling it. His 'SP' had taken time to recover, before that last block struck it down again.
To his chagrin, it looked like it was going to take a miracle to bridge the gap though.
Foggy had been wincing nonstop into the conclusion of the 3rd Round, half-poised to slap his hands over his eyes. While there thankfully wasn't any blood, the fact that Mark was taking that kind of beating was causing him to flinch at every punch thrown. "I thought Domingo would be easier."
Matt didn't know what to say to that. What little he had heard from the referee arguing with the judging panel, it was both amazing. And terrifying.
Mark. Regular, plain ol', regular human Mark, was contending against Rouise Domingo while he was juiced up. God only knew on what. What little he knew about Domingo implied he was a decent fighter by himself. But now that his performance was enhanced, Mark was rising to the challenge, stubbornly holding on by his fingernails as he dealt and took each hit. Defiant and uncompromising.
"The judges say anything?" Matt asked through a tense frown as he sent Foggy's attention to consider what he already knew.
"Not really, but the ref has talked to them at the end of every round. You– You don't think Rouise Domingo… cheated… do you?" Foggy asked in a lower tone, unsure, and not wanting to draw unwanted attention to them.
Matt was smelling a lot of fish, even through the minty gum in his mouth, and they weren't that close to the water. It was taking all his willpower just to sit still and grip his cane. Any more twisting, and the handle-grip would rip off. His anger was quaking, and it was taking every fiber of his being just to temper it.
Someone really wanted Mark to take a fall. The reasons didn't matter. The actions they had taken to ensure it, did. Anyone that could bribe the physician and the whole judge panel wasn't someone to take lightly.
"It wouldn't surprise me, Foggy," he answered. Even some of Mark's other fights hadn't been this brutal. They had been straight-forward bouts for the most part. This was… bordering on visceral. It didn't play out like a sport; it was set up to be a slaughter, with Mark seemingly only delaying the inevitable as he was bled for the mass's entertainment.
The persistent taste and smell of gum had consolidated his senses, fogging the minute details while making it harder to discern what exactly was taking place. But he could still pick out the breaths that rasped in Domingo's throat, gulping desperately for water and air as his body couldn't decide which one was more important.
Mark might pull through yet, as long as he could wear Domingo out.
Wilson Fisk hadn't noticed it, but he had been leaning forward the whole fight, his stoic and statuesque pose ended by such a stimulating display. He was drawn in, captivated. Not by Rouise Domingo's brutality and savagery as one might expect, but once more by Marcus Kendrick.
There was an intense glint in his eye as he gritted his teeth in excitement. He never gritted his teeth; it was a bad habit. His hands clenched onto the railing for stability, leaned on it as if he could edge just a little bit closer to the action.
Kendrick was something else. Knocked down twice, and yet he persisted. The odds were purposefully stacked against him, but he retaliated. Was it defiance? To rage against the odds? Some childish form of rebellion? Or a pure sense of perseverance? Determination?
He had weathered his opponent. For every wound he received, he repaid it. One might argue he left more. Hitting Domingo repeatedly in the chest was smart, and had tipped the odds ever so slightly in his favor, and would persist long after the fight ended. It might even affect Domingo's future prospects in fighting if it became severe enough. A chest contusion could weaken such vital organs as the lungs and heart.
It was a tremendous display, dancing on the edge of revenge and retribution.
Whether he knew it or not, even if Kendrick was slain by the beast, he may yet have permanently defanged and declawed it before falling.
But Fisk could see that it was useless. Domingo might not have too much longer with the drug, but Kendrick was at the end of his rope. It was a spectacular fight, one Fisk would always keep to mind. One he would associate with the indominable spirit. But there was only so much the average human body was meant to endure, and Kendrick had endured it retributively. He'd done far, far more than Fisk had ever hoped.
It was commendable. Pushing himself to such lengths that it appeared to near destroy him. The sheer tenacity.
"Wesley," he stated past his intense focus, unable to turn away. A soft sound informed him his assistant was listening. "See if we can get Mister Kendrick some better accommodations for his long-term stay. I'd say he's more than earned the courtesy."
"Of course." The soft scribbling of pen on paper was answer enough.
"What motivates him?" Fisk wondered aloud. "How does a man like him spend his time? What is his obsession? It's… curious."
Despite the similarities Kendrick had pointed out between the two of them, it was those mysterious differences that continued to capture Fisk's interest.
Wesley for his part, silently wondered the same thing.
Marcus shivered as he sipped at his water, shaking as the 'Dazed' effect wore off and his vision suddenly sharpened, causing his eyes to hurt as they rapidly adjusted to the intense light overhead.
"You're doing good, kid," George encouraged, gently slapping Marcus's cheeks to focus him. "You're doing good."
Gasping a harsh breath, Marcus tried to gain some semblance of control. His head throbbed. A stitch had formed in his abdomen. His ears were pounding with his mechanically beating heart, far too calm to be normal, but compensating by beating harder.
He groaned when George grabbed him by the back of the head, drawing his attention with a steady hand. "If you want to quit now, it's okay kid. You did more than anyone had the right to ask."
To his chagrin, Marcus actually considered it for a moment. He could stop. The pain would stop. He could continue about his business. Sure, he'd miss out on the rewards, but the odds were stacked against him. Who could blame him for calling it here and now.
"Do you want to keep going?" George asked, a rock for him to consciously cling to in his fighter's haze.
Despite his current circumstances and the logical consideration, his mind betrayed him.
In a brief moment, he could see the Endgame. With nothing there to imagine, having never seen the movie itself, that left it up to his imagination. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was imagining the worst-case scenario. So much death, so many sacrifices. How many were killed by the Snap? How many died to escape the pain and hopelessness of losing their loved ones? How quickly did society collapse when so many died? How many clung so fervently to hope, no matter how thin or brittle?
But the next moment he huffed out a laugh, sounding choked and broken. Resigned. ""The hardest choices… require the strongest of wills"," Marcus chuckled sadly. It was appropriate, even if for so small a moment by comparison.
'I prefer peace. But if there must be war….'
With as firm a grip as he could manage with his cumbersome gloves, he grabbed George's shoulder. As resolute as he could, he stated, "Put me in coach."
George looked hesitant, but nodded in acceptance, giving him a firm clap on the shoulder and ruffle of his hair. "You give 'im Hell. Make them remember. All of them."
Marcus nodded jerkily, swigging back a little more water. His resignation gave him a sense of calm. There was no place for platitudes, or "hopefully". This was his "fuck it" moment. Fully aware of the failure in store, but willing to grab it by the balls. Maybe not unflinchingly, and definitely not fearlessly; but he'd face it.
He put in his mouthguard, clopping his teeth to adjust them before he stood up, rolling his shoulders and huffing fiercely.
.
"Beginning of the Fourth Round, neither fighter has thrown in the towel."
"Honestly, it's hard to tell who's worse for wear. Domingo is gasping for breath, while Kendrick looks about ready to collapse."
"You gotta give him credit. The judges ignoring a potential violation of conduct and his opponent riding the dragon of his choice. Win or lose, Kendrick has majority favor with the crowd tonight."
.
"Fighters ready?!" the ref shouted.
Domingo barely managed a grunt, while Marcus clenched and unclenched his jaw, nodding jerkily.
"You can start at the bell," the ref repeated once again. "Now back to your corners."
Marcus backed to his corner, Domingo doing the same.
There was a prickle to the air, a kind of finality. Marcus maintained his 'brave face' as he sucked in a couple more breaths. Domingo was still huffing, but managed an attempt of a deep inhale as all his focus suddenly sharpened on Kendrick. On some level – enduring through the wounds and exhaustion – they both knew this was it.
A moment of pure, almost slow motion. The sounds of the crowd slowing and fading. Consolidating into a moment of unprecedented calm.
DING!
Both fighters launched at each other. Marcus slid past a punch for his face, feeling the glove leave an abrasion against his cheek as he gritted his teeth, putting all his momentum into a hook that impacted Domingo's jaw, leaving a ripple across his face.
The effect was minimal, just as it had been the entire fight.
Domingo recoiled, driving a shovel hook into Marcus's side.
[HP: 32 = 0/860]
['Subtle Bar' is empty.
You have taken direct 'Lethal Damage'.]
[HP: 740 = 628/860]
.
Marcus felt the moment his 'Subtle Bar' tanked with such clarity, it was like whiplash. Almost at once his consciousness punched out, and he began to fall, only to find temporary clarity and wakefulness as Domingo cocked back an overhand before the fight could be called.
[HP: 628 = 474/880]
.
He collapsed, back smacking into the mat. His eyes flickered open and closed as he grasped for breath. The stage lights were so bright, hazy, and so warm. Uncomfortably so. And he could feel himself slipping into forceful unconsciousness.
Wilson Fisk looked down, both satisfied, and regretful. Had this been skill against skill, there wouldn't have been a contest. He'd robbed Kendrick of victory, but it was a necessary intervention. Business was business. What mattered was Mister Kendrick not only faced the surmounting odds, he faced his defeat with valor. Fighting until he could no longer. To either walk away with his head held high, or to leave carried on a stretcher.
And how many others could say the same.
"It's over," he stated, the beginning of the countdown only vaguely registering.
"I'll make sure he's properly looked over by a physician," Wesley stated.
"Thank you, Wesley." Wilson hummed in satisfaction. A kind of contentment settling in his chest, even if it was somewhat bitter.
The sound of Mark hitting the mat was enough to have Foggy looking down, clenching his eyes shut in devastation while his hands clenched the ring-side railing. While it would be unfair to say Mark did all that hard work for nothing, it was still a painful feeling. To know he had come so far, just to get shafted.
Matt could only grit his teeth. It was too similar. Struck too close to home. Opened wounds too raw. He wanted to leave it be. If he stayed down, he'd live. He wouldn't cross whatever mob wanted his downfall. He wouldn't be shot and carelessly left in an alley.
But Mark wasn't his dad. Mark had given his all from the start. Matt knew this. And yet, an almost compulsory desire to see them win was a familiar weight. That they had both deserved victory. That they were worthy of it.
All available senses encompassed their friend, feeling Mark's consciousness fading. His breathing evening out. His eyes flickering. That unmistakable mechanical rhythm rapidly slowing down.
It was like feeling him die.
Matt bent over the railing, teeth almost gnashing as the heat in his gut turned painful; an unmistakable source of rage burning through him. As if possessing a life of his own, he felt it crawling, rising; first to his sternum, then to his lungs. His chest burned, becoming heavier and heavier, swelling like a water balloon, pressing upwards as it stuck and lodged in his throat. It pushed, almost choking Matt on the sheer intensity, trying so desperately to escape from within him.
Those Murdock boys had the Devil in them; and right now, the Devil had words. It quickly became too much, and Matt couldn't hold it back as it ripped guttural from his tongue. He roared.
"GET UP MARK!"
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: 474/860 (0/860)
– HP regen: 3.8% (33.44 HP/hour)
MP: 840
– MP regen: 7.6% (65.52 MP/minute) (1.09 MP/second)
– Magic/Mental resist: 5.8%
SP: 239/900
– 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: 22/260
– Standing Drain: 4/hour (96/day)
Thirst: 186/260
– 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 = 9]
[Critical Hit lvl 4]
[Unarmed Mastery lvl 10]
[Pugilism Style lvl 15]
[Knife Wielding lvl 3]
[Blade Guard lvl 8]
[Fire Retardant lvl 5]
[Pain Mitigation lvl 7 = 8]
[Impact Diffusion lvl 6 = 11]
.
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 18]
[Inspect lvl 20 = 21]
[Observe lvl 21 = 22]
[Harmonic Meditation lvl 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 help.
I've been thinking about dropping the 'Private' setting on my Spotify for you guys and hand you the info. The music I listen to is a big part of my process, and a part of me wants to share that. The other part of me wants to bury this idea and hide it under a rock. Let me know what you guys think in passing.
The fight is about over, but is there something more? I guess we'll find out in Chapter 11 (Technically 10): Frisson.
Until next time.