#classic brawler

Mitch Heart, The Brawler, shrugged his shoulders, giving a slight frown at the poll results. “Sucks, but it’s not so bad. Least it cut short the time I have to waste hanging out wi–” “With me. Right?” Mitch looked up. Auggie Heart was striding toward him with purpose. His voice, usually jovial or at least casual, was tight. The look on his face was one Mitch hadn’t seen on the older man before, but had caught a glimpse or two of in the mirror before- usually on really bad nights. Auggie continued his advance, that tight, too quiet tone continuing. “You couldn’t listen, boy. I told you to follow my lead and you couldn’t even fucking do that right. This isn’t my fault. No. This is yours.” “Christ, old man! What the hell is your problem? Heh, are you really that bent out of shape over losing a stupid-” Whatever Mitch was going to say next was blown out of him along with the rest of the wind as Auggie gave an inhuman lunge forward, balled up fist sheathed in spike-studded leather driving itself into the young man’s gut. And another. And another. There was no opening, no chance for a counter. Everything Mitch knew was wrong. August Heart was a liar, a carouser, a shameless serial lover- and the most dangerous pugilist that any part of the industries had ever seen. And yet, he didn’t yell or even raise his voice, even as he continued to strike his son in every vital area he could reach. “That’s the word, boy. Losing. I do not lose. Ever. I’ve never lost a damn thing in my life. But I did today. Because of you. Because you’re such a cold fish, without a scrap of your daddy’s charm or the will to work the marks at all. That’s why we’re out in the first goddamn round. That’s why we lost to a couple damn charlatans pulling rabbits out of their asses. Because damn near nobody liked us enough to vote for us, and it’s all your fault.” Mitch was reduced to a bloodied heap at this point, blinded by crimson flowing into his eyes. His breath wheezed, blood dribbling from between his lips, shaking hands reaching up out of pure instinct to try to protect himself, and thankfully, the hail of punches stopped. Unfortunately, they were replaced by the repeated kicks of a steel toed boot. Slam after slam. Kick after kick. “All. Your. Fault. It’s all. Your. Fault! You! Stupid! Waste! Fuck! You! FUCK! YOU!” Auggie’s voice finally rose, his face a twisted mask of rage. Whether his aim was to kill Mitch or just cause him as much pain as possible. But whatever it was, after a couple dozen more kicks, he began to slow, as if his anger was slowly burning itself out. Mitch felt fewer and fewer cannonballs being fired into his already black and blue midsection. He could feel his ribs moving around unnaturally, though. He could also feel a thick, wet wad smack against his cheek just before the other man’s footsteps receded into the distance. But between the cooling mass of saliva and phlegm, his own congealing blood and broken bones and missing teeth that were probably halfway across the base, Mitch could feel one more thing. Something hot blooming in his mind- a determined thought. He would train every day. He was damn good but he would get better. He would get stronger. Faster. He would break and rebuild himself again and again if that’s what it took, until he was the version of himself that could get even. Auggie Heart had never lost before now, so he said. And Mitch would make it his personal goal from now on to make sure he lost at least once more.  These were the thoughts that comforted Mitch as he felt his vital bodily functions grind to a halt, and until he woke up again in Respawn with a splitting headache.