The story of The Blind Boxer

  I’ve been into anime from a very young age. Four-year old me would wake up at seven in the morning during the weekend, get out of bed and instantly run and turn on the TV, hoping he hadn’t missed the new episode of Digimon Adventure 2. There was also 2001’s Zoids and Yu-Gi-Oh! Duelist Kingdom. I loved the ideas of animal mechas, children’s card games with nyeh real monstas and virtual beastly companions because they differed from the standard Saturday morning cartoons like Sandokan and Thundercats. (Though I was also fond of these shows.) There were instances when the local channel would broadcast anime such as Slam Dunk, but I needn’t be into sports to appreciate the style and flashy matches that it offered.

  This fondness of mine carried on well into middle school, when the Big Three (Naruto, Bleach and One Piece) were starting to take over the western world. I picked a side, so to say, that being Naruto, and spent a big portion of my adolescence investing time and passion into watching / reading it. In-between my hype for Naruto I’d watch anime like Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood and Death Note, albeit more casually. Eventually I’d start collecting manga and settled for Bleach. (At that point, the Hueco Mondo Arc had won my edgy heart.)

  Now, there is a connection to make here: I grew up with Shonens, particularly Shonen Battle Manga. Series like Naruto, Bleach, even Digimon had a teenage audience, so it seems natural I’d grow to love them so during these times. I like to tell myself I’ve grown up since then. I still love anime and manga, (despite many, many quips that I refuse to admit I’m fond of) but my focus has shifted as of late. Shonen Battle Manga have grown stale and trope-filled, with Naruto and Bleach ending very anti-climactically, to add salt to the wound. I’ve come to find more enjoyment in series like Berserk, (which has become my favorite manga) JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Holyland and Vinland Saga. The few Shonen that still captivate me have been reduced to sports-related titles, the vivid examples being Haikyuu!! and Hajime No Ippo. And yet, despite all the changes, there came a Shonen Battle Manga that dragged me right the fuck back to the abyss that is weekly serialization…

  Boku No Hero Academia (or My Hero Academia, as the casuals say) has blown my mind. It takes standard Shonen concepts and tropes and flips them on their head. It goes directions I don’t expect and occasionally plays with my feelings. It’s also super hype, but not the accustomed Shonen hype; bigger, I’d say. Sports Manga levels of hype. (Which is part of the reason I read them in the first place.) It’s got a diverse and at times really relatable cast, with bright, colorful designs and captivating personalities. At the same time, the author, Horikoshi, doesn’t appear to dismiss more mature themes about the world, especially in the later arcs. (Or so I’ve heard.)

  Like the title of the series suggests, the Shonen role model on display isn’t pirates, ninjas or gods of death, but western heroes. It’s not all that original, I won’t lie to you, but you know what else I liked to watch alongside Digimon, Zoids, Yu-Gi-Oh! and Slam Dunk? DC’s Justice League and the X-Men’s Adventures. I love superheroes, that’s a fact. To this day, Batman remains one of my top fictional characters for all the pounds of badass he carries around with him. I feel that’s what adds a spice to BnHA. It manages to take two concepts I’ve loved since childhood and mashes them together in a hype-rollercoaster with an intriguing enough story to back it up.

  I’ve mentioned to a few people in DMs and whatever that this blind boxer I’ve been writing for nearly two years now is, in a unique sort of way, an anime character. He’s got power, but not too much. He’s had hardships, but they don’t weigh him down. He strides forward and achieves victory with sheer willpower. He’s almost like a hero from the comics, where you can hurl literally anything at his direction and he can answer with either witty banter or his fists.

  In case you’ve come this far and still haven’t made the connection: This post is about Brandon Lee’s Boku No Hero Academia AU.

    (I’ve been waiting ages to use this gif :’) )

   I’m a weak man and easily fall prey to my aunt’s allures. If you see me blinking twice, it’s a signal for help. Usually, the way I go with sharing my AUs with the world is via a few drabbles into a headcanon post. However, seeing as how summer work is but a couple of days away and I still have my bowl full with activities, I decided to write this one in a flood-like manner, akin to many other peeps’ headcanon sharing. I will write a drabble or two about this Verse one day, (It’s the anime protagonist determination speaking) but this post is already big enough without the headcanon as it is, haha.

  Without further ado…

  -Brandon Lee is born in China, the country of the first recorded Quirk. He is the oldest of three kids, as well as the sole male.

  -At the age of four, Lee’s Quirk awakens. He dubs it Resonance.

  -Two months later, he is diagnosed with childhood blindness. Lee is fully blinded by the age of six.

  -Resonance allows Lee to create small, gravitational fields in the palms of his hands. Furthermore, he can ‘glue’ them on surfaces and pull his body to them. With the same logic applied, he can also push himself away from them.

  -The gravitational fields disappear either after a set amount of time, or when Lee moves a set distance away from them.

  -His uncle, Hai, is a hero. His alias is Dragon’s Rage.

  -Hai notices the similarity in his Quirk and Brad’s, and offers to train him and help ease the young, disabled boy’s frustration whenever he has spare time. They start when Lee is twelve.

  -Through intense training and better handling of his body’s inner flow, Lee manages to control the volume of the gravitational fields in his hands.

  -He learns to launch them with his fists at the age of thirteen.

  -Lee’s uncle dies in an accident when he turns fifteen, putting his training to an abrupt halt.

  -In the year he turns eighteen, his father and mother propose he travels to Japan, where some of the greatest heroes are currently operating.

  -Through a series of mishandled communications, Lee ends up in Naniwa-ku, Osaka. (On top of mumbling his words in this Verse as well, his Japanense is rather bare-bonded at this stage of his life.)

  -Eventually, he winds up in the Crossman Hero Agency, ran by Michael Goostave. (A very American person in a very non-American place.)

  -Goostave was once a ‘great hero’, as he stated, named The Mike. It was meant to be a pun for ‘the might’, but no villain ever got it, so he always had to explain it to them. Those were more light-hearted times.

  -The Agency once belonged to the Boxer Hero, Crossman. He retired at a young age.    

  -Goostave was the Crossman’s trainer. He eventually took over the Agency at the hero’s personal request.

  -Goostave sees the potential in Lee’s Resonance and teaches him boxing, so as to complement his Quirk’s insane mobility, but lack of power.

  -The training continues from where it’d left off all these years ago. Lee, being a creature of habit, is quick to readjust.

  -At the age of nineteen, Lee makes his debut as a hero, titled The God Fist.

  -Despite his blindness, the God Fist has amazing reflexes, crazy good accuracy with his gravitational orb-shots, and packs a devastating punch.

  -An interviewer once showed her gratitude by offering him a walking stick. He accepted it under the condition that she’d go out on a date with him. This has become a running joke ever since.

  -The ladies that are interested in him still do it. After all, the good jokes are those that remain funny even when they’re repeated countless of times.

  -Goostave uses the walking sticks as canes from time to time. He says it shows class.

  -By the age of twenty-three, Naniwa-ku has been cleared of villains and Lee is left without a job.

  -Lee decides to hang his hero costume in the closet and devote himself to Quirkless prize-fighting.

  -His boxing persona basks in the spotlight during the next two years and the district recognizes him as the audacious Knockout, Brandon Lee.

  -His Agency still accepts internships, but Lee is the worst example of a mentor. (He’s the kind of guy that orders the trainee to be in the Agency at eight in the morning, then arrives with the ten o’ clock bus.)

  -This is also because of the years he’s spent outside of the fray. They’ve have made him lazy and uninterested in the fundamentals that once greatly strengthened his Quirk.

  -To elaborate further, the power of the God Fist comes in the masses upon masses of small, gravitation fields that he can muster in a single fist. In order for Lee to sustain this much raw power and then unleash it in a controlled blow, he must be in a Zen-like state while he uses Resonance.

  -This includes a life of daily meditation, fasting and sweat-inducing training, all which culminate the strength that builds in the numbers of gravitational fields and resulting in a punch that’s capable of turning skyscrapers into toothpicks.

  -Since Lee gave up on the above soon as he took up prize-fighting, his God Fist has been weakened severely.

[{ You FOOL!! You’ve broken Study Island’s space-time continuum! A different universe is tearing itself open right before our eyes!!!1!!one!1! }]

[{ I can’t imagine the UNIMAGINABLE horrors that can spring out of it..!! }]

<<Wεll, wεll, wεll...>>

<<Mυ ευεs dεcειvε mε nοτ.>>

<<Ιf ιτ ιsn’τ Νικ nακ, lαsτ hειr οf Ηουsε Pαddυwαcκ.>>

[{ Okay folks, it closed all on its own. We good! Everything’s coo-- }]

[{ Wait, what was that meme I just heard..? }]

[{ Masaka..! Bakana!! How can this be..?! }]

[{ It’s... It’s..!! }]

[{ My shirtless nemesis; Sir Fatherus Kinkius!!!1! }]

[{ Y u got so many zits on your chin tho bruh }]

[{ And for all the vigilant, congrats! You earned a proper Munday picture :’) }]

   The narrowness of the corridor stretched for approximately fifteen steps, but opened up preemptively on the thirteenth, so as to allow for the walls to curl outward and lead to the seats. Upon taking the twelfth step, the atmosphere was flipped on its head. It transitioned from a solemn, damp breeze to a stagnant air; a collection of heavy breathing, loud chatter and even louder cheer.

   Michael Goostave led the party of three into the auditorium. Matthew Hughes followed last. Between them was Brandon Lee, adorned in a simple robe to keep him warm. To Brad, it was a trivial matter what he wore. He didn’t know -and didn’t care- what it looked like or what material was used, but it was light as a feather and more broadly tailored near the shoulders. If there was a positive to point out, it was the coziness of movement that it offered.

   They walked through the neighborhood folk and with every row they passed came a different shout of support from townsfolk that Brandon Lee was well acquainted with. Macknenzie’s clapping was the first that reached Brad’s ears. Both of his palms were cupped in such a manner that, when one fell on top of the other, it produced that distinct, heavy wave of sound. Mackenzie always closed his one-man business early when a boxing night was in sight. As a result, he’d be one of, if not the last lad to purchase his ticket, thus ending up in the far back.

   When they reached the ring, Brad climbed the three short steps, leaned forward and swept past the opening between the ropes that Goostave had momentarily widened for him. A pair of hands, most likely Hughes’, removed his robe and revealed his finely toned body, already glistening with sweat under the plethora of lights situated above him. His head rotated slowly from left to right and he could feel the roar of the crowd following his non-existent gaze. He then moved to the wooden stool in the corner and took his seat.

   Goostave sat on one, pudgy leg and checked on Brad’s muscles. “Your stomach full, kid?” he asked.

   “It ain’t never been, coach.” Brad assured him. “Yours is?” He had picked up the hints in Goostave’s timbre, from the depth of his pitch to the unusually shaky intensity between each word.

   “Not a lie in my words, that tin can’s givin’ me the creeps, an’ your posture ain’t helpin’ me much neither.”

   Brandon was well aware of what Goostave was referring to. He had hunched forward, his forearms now resting on spread thighs. His wrists hung stiffly and the backs of his gloved hands met near their ends. The characteristic grin was also missing from Brad’s face, his lips sealed tight in a bland, thin line. “What’s the plan, coach? What we got goin’?”

   “Ain’t go no clue myself, kid. Ain’t never seen or ‘eard it fight. I were you, I’d stay damned away from that hunk o’ junk.”

   “Y’ ain’t the one fightin’ it, coach, not a single worry to you.” Brad flashed a short-lived smirk and raised himself soon as Evangello Marcher called for the fighters.

   Goostave slapped him on the back before moving behind the ropes and muttered, more so to himself than to Brad, “Ye, ‘s what I’m fearin’ the most.”

   Brandon strode to the middle of the ring. A whole six steps, enough to declare a silent war on his opponent. As he neared, the sonic aftermath of metal stomps became more distinguishable. He captured its repetition four times before his ears converted the footprints to an odor of engine oil, similar to the kind used to lubricate the engine chains of the Handyman’s still operational water heaters.

   “A’ight,” Evangello begun. “The rules are standard procedure. Under the belt ‘s out of the question, and so is behind the neck. Rabbits, livers, I’ll have none of ‘em. My word ‘s law in here, y’ all understand me loud and clear?” Brandon answers with a curt nod and a mechanical whir follows right behind him. “Final words?” There was no response from either side. “No? A’ight, uh, back to yer corners you head.”

   Brad turned heel and walked back to where he’d come from. There was nothing he wanted to say to this construct of nuts and bolts, and even if he did, there wouldn’t be any genuine reaction coming out of it. On the occasion that it triggered a response, it certainly wouldn’t lead to any heated verbal exchanges that would, in turn, cause Lee’s blood to flow hotter within him, as it did many times before.

   “Reckoned I thought of a strat,” Goostave told Lee while the latter held the ropes and stretched. “Test the waters first, see what works an’ what don’t.”

   Brad rolled his shoulders and neck. “An’ stick with it from there on out?”

   “Key ’s to think straight, kid, an’ think sharp too.” Goostave reached for his pocket, whipped out the mouthpiece, polished it with his thumb, then shoved it in Brad’s mouth.

   “That the case,” Brad mumbled, “I’ll finish it early as possible, leave the fancy with a sour taste in ‘is throat.”

                                                 Round 1          Ding! Ding! Ding!

   The bell has rung. Brad turns right after the third strike, his fists already in the air. Guiding with his left, he presses on his toes and swiftly closes the distance gap.

   Test the waters, he remembers and sets the first firework with a jab. His glove hits solid steel, a surprisingly clean hit on the robot’s face. Brad lunges forward once more, throwing another jab and follows with a straight this time, the classic one-two.

   He doesn’t hear any limb movement coming from the robot. Its cogs hum peacefully.  It’s likely standing at a halt with its arms hanging by its sides. Whether it’s experiencing a technical malfunction or not, it convinces Brad to keep wailing on it free of worry.

   He roots himself in place and takes the initiative, charging the robot’s head with a barrage of consecutive combinations. From jabs to straights and from jabs to crosses and uppercuts, each blow is more powerful than its predecessor. With every passing second, this match feels more like punching bag practice.

   This is Brad’s chance to put this pretentious pile of scrap to rest early.

   After weaving a powerful jab with an even stronger left cross, Brad lowers his upper body and uses the momentum of his bent legs to spring himself upward. His right fist, wound up and ready, soars over his head and collides with the robot’s metal chin, the force of the punch strong enough to arouse a cheer from the crowd.

   And then the unexpected happens.

   Were it a human opponent, this Gazelle punch would have been enough to drop the opponent in a heartbeat, except Brad knew full well that was not the case. Even so, he had made sure to put the necessary power behind the punch. He was confident it would knock that thing’s head clean off. Instead, a persistent whir buzzes in his ears and Brad soon realizes that the robot is pushing his gloved fist downward with its chin, steel grinding against fiber.

   Despite Lee’s persistence, the robot is gradually regaining its territory, driving his arm further and further down. Brad’s toothed pincer on the mouthpiece tightens and he presses harder. His elbow joint starts to tire out, but that was never an excuse for him to back down before.

   Ding! Ding! Ding! the bell suddenly roars, signalling the end of the opening round. Marcher gets between the two boxers and yells at them to head to their respective corners. Brad complies and returns to his starting point, where the wooden stool awaits him.

   Goostave wipes some of the sweat on Brad’s back and admits, “Lookin’ like it’ll last till the endin’ rounds.”

   “I got a sayin’ in this, call ’s on the third or fourth.” Brad answers between long-winded breaths.

   “You feelin’ good, kid? Body ’s up to a hundred?”

   He looks over his shoulder. “What’s the question for, coach?”

   “Seemed to me like you done flash froze near the end.”

   “No sir, I stood my ground, I did. ‘S near the end when I done figured out what it tried t’ tell me.”

   “Tell ye? The hell ‘d the tin man wanna say to you?”

   “Stared me dead in the eyes, it did, tellin’ me ‘t was nothin’, an’ it pissed me off.”

                                                Round 2          Ding! Ding! Ding!

   He hasn’t got a moment to rest. With a straight stance and fleet of foot, Brad rushes closer to the robot and opens with a jab. A second of surprise occurs upon the sound of compressing cotton. The robot has raised its arms and is now properly covering its face.

   It’s time for Lee to pick up the pace.

   Without a moment to hesitate, Brad lunges at the robot, moving his left fist back and channeling a body blow. An overhead swipe stops him in his tracks and he almost flinches. He takes a step back and moves his fists an inch higher to ensure his recovery.

   It’s starting to fight back. He can’t allow it to continue. He doesn’t want to allow it. Swaying his body from left to right in the shape of the figure eight, he inches closer and attempts a one-two, but his jab is quickly pushed out as the robot lands another punch, a straight this time. It hits Brad right between the eyes.

   The robot had just counter-punched, simultaneously stealing the tempo from him.

   Lee bites on his mouthpiece, instantly regaining his composure. It’s been two successful hits so far and the robot still hasn’t moved an inch from the center of the ring. Brad can exploit that. With his guard raised, he nears the robot and throws a jab, same as before, except this time he expects what’s coming.

   Counting down in reverse, he bobs his head to the right and the iron fist whistles past him at deafening velocity. At the same time, however, Brad has pulled his other fist back. His front foot switches to his right and he pushes hard onto it before unleashing a wide swing with all his weight following suit. The bolo lands with an otherwise bone-shattering crunch on the robot’s chin.

   Brad feels his fist pulling through and the robot’s head falls back. It takes Lee less than a second to conclude that no sound comes after it. The robot didn’t collapse. Overcome with surprise, he forgets to retract his arm. He doesn’t even have the luxury to think of the action before the construct’s glove smashes into his face and launches him back.

   He spins mid-air, then falls on his chest. The impact steals a breath from his lungs. Down! shouts Marcher and begins the count. One! Lee crawls on the canvas in search of the ropes. His whole body trembles with an unknown uneasiness. Two! Something stirs within him. It builds up at an alarming rate, until it eventually escapes from his mouth. Three! He coughs up a shingle of spit, phlegm and blood. The latter leaves a sour taste in his mouth as he rises. Four!

   Brad shakes his head clear of the sucker punch and tells the referee, “I can go.”

   “You sure, lad? You’re good?”

   “I can go!” he snaps.

   Box!

   Agitated as he remains, Lee pushes forward. It’s the second round. His elbow joints hold up and his legs respond accordingly. It’s far from over. Re-adjusting his mouthpiece with his tongue, he enters the robot’s range and slithers alarmingly close. After all, this is his area of expertise; In-fighting. The robot is quick to try and break his guard with a left cross into a right uppercut, but Brad is tenacious and responds with a blow to the iron juggernaut’s body, and another one thereafter.

   Ding! Ding Ding! The bell signals the end of the second round and both fighters drop their arms, the robot more willingly than Brad. It takes eight steps for the blind man to reach the stool, where he sits and sits his arms on the ropes. Matthew Hughes presses the water bottle on his lips and Brad take a long sip. He swallows part of the liquid and the rest he shuffles in his mouth, cherishing the refreshing sensation before spitting it in the bucket that is held out before him.

   “Wished it stayed dead,” Goostave scoffs while massaging Brad’s arm muscles.

   “Cut me loose.”

   “What..?”

   Brad wipes his sweaty forehead with his equally drenched forearm. “Y’ heard me, coach. The gloves ain’t workin’ out. They holdin’ me back ‘s what they doin’. Good ole fist fightin’ ‘ll do the job better. Matt, put the cap on the tap an’ get some bandages in ‘ere!”

   “You got a loose screw, kid?!” Goostave exclaims, throwing his arms in the air. “The hell ‘re you sayin’? You listenin’ to yourself?!”

   “Hell, I’m listenin’!” Brad retorts. “I hit ‘im back there an’ ‘e squealed! Heard ‘is cog skip a snap, I know it did! I gotta hit ‘im harder, then you’ll hear it too.”

   “Seven Hells, kid, you done made a believer outta me before, but lightnin’ don’t strike twice in this boxin’ ring!”

   “I ain’t never been good with the numbers an’ the odds, coach, but this is my ring, an’ if I can count on somethin’, it’s my whoopin’ an’ whippin’ ‘s made you a believer twelve times over. Cut me loose and’ I’ll make ‘em thirteen!”

   Goostave swallows a large lump in his throat before he replies, “Y’ heard the kid, Hughes; bandages. We’ll fortify the new ones with a spare layer. We don’t got no dwindlin’ time.”

   Michael Goostave loved to boast that he was born a gambler. He had been a sucker for these risk-taking games ever since he’d feasted his eyes on the majesty of the four suits; of the royal couples, their wardens and their crests. Goostave was a man who made claims aplenty, except they never transitioned well onto paper, but that barely bothered him.

   This was the rare occasion, one of the few and far between, that he regretted his gamble immediately after putting his mind to it.

   The kid marched away from the corner and Goostave watched him go from the safety of the ringside seats with the gloves now hanging from his square shoulders. The referee stopped the kid in his tracks before the toll and Goostave held his breath, hoping Marcher would fix his mistake for him. The kid muttered something to him, words Goostave couldn’t possibly make out, what with the thrill-seeking crowd and the clicking of picture-captors creating such a ruckus. Soon as they were done with their brief exchange, Marcher signaled for the bell to ring.

   From there on out, it was a complete disaster.

   The third round started out promising, but had spiraled out of control in a matter of seconds. Soon as the kid entered the robot’s range, the tin man went to town. A flurry of heavy punches shredded the kid’s guard like a sheet of paper. By the end of it, he had been knocked down a total of five times and he was on the verge of falling again, were the gong not as merciful.

   In spite of having just about limped back to the corner, the kid demanded for more bandages. His voice boomed with an air of authority that made Goostave swallow his words and abide. However, when he peeled the outer layer and reached the foundation, the layer that sat right on top of the kid’s quivering knuckles, he discovered they were soaked in blood. For a split second, Goostave hesitated to look underneath, but he mustered the courage and tossed the bandages aside.

   The sight of exposed, crimson-leaking circles of flesh stirred something foul in his stomach. Thankfully, Goostave managed to block the exit with his hand and force it back down. The kid wasn’t one to pull his punches. He never was, really, and it showed now more than ever. Goostave contemplated whether or not he felt any pain at all and, if he did, just how deep he had buried it underneath the mountain that was his arrogance.

   Ten seconds! Marcher shouted and Goostave was flung back into reality. The kid demanded new bandages and Hughes was too busy cleaning up a cut above his brow. Goostave desperation grew strong, and so did his desire to talk back. He was the coach and he wouldn’t allow the kid’s recklessness to paint him a fool, a dead man at worst. And yet, upon glancing at the kid and the way he bore his fangs, his hands moved with a mind of their own.

   The kid was smiling. Was it a sign that his strategy was bearing fruit? Was the kid making progress? The gambler within Goostave begun whispering promises to his ear again, leading to the rekindling of a spark of blind hope. In the end, Goostave bit his tongue and allowed the kid to dance to the beat of his own drum. The fourth round commenced promptly, but three layers of bandage tape proved insufficient against the robot’s harsh punishment.

   Goostave’s conviction was short-lived.

   The robot was relentless. It pained Goostave’s pride as a former boxer to admit that it functioned with seeming perfection. Its moves, maneuvers and punches were executed with an undisputed harmony to them. It was a fine display of speed, strength and technique. Not only that, but also its performance appeared to improve between rounds at an alarming rate.

   It was the perfect foil to the kid’s early aggression.

   With every passing round, the kid returned with a greater pile of injuries. He craved for more and more water to cool off and, while he didn’t outright say it, he also needed more resting time. Hughes continuously plugged the kid’s nostrils with rolled tissues and, in his struggle to reduce the blood loss to the best of his ability, had invested all the available alcohol and cotton during the middle rounds. This had forced him to take a short leave during the eighth round and head for doctor Steifield’s clinic to fetch some more medical supplies. All the while, Goostave tried to make up for their deficiency by utilizing every massaging trick he had stored in his mental book, but the kid’s left arm had sustained too much strain for him to be able to raise it to head-height for the remainder of the match.

   It only got worse from there.

   During the ninth round, the kid got hit by a devastating straight and the mouthpiece went flying over Goostave’s head. The kid’s head had jerked back with such force that, were it not for the crowd’s groaning, Goostave could have sworn he’d heard his spine snap. On the eleventh round, a jab-cross combination sent the kid for a spin and when he landed with his back against the ropes, the tin man thrashed him with a punishing onslaught of wide hooks. When it finally stepped back, the kid laid sprawled on the canvas, right in front of his coach. 

   Goostave was on the verge of calling it quits and throwing in the towel.

   A pained cry stopped him mid-motion, baiting his gaze.

   Goostave watched with wide-open eyes, the heels of his palms pressed hard on his temples and his fingers arching over his bold spot. The kid had latched onto the ropes and was fighting against both the count and the physical fatigue. Slow and steady in his movements, he bent his elbows and started pushing himself up. His teeth were red with blood and saliva oozed from the corners of his mouth. A pent-up groan crept out of his mouth, building in volume the higher his quaking body rose.

   When the count was at its ninth mark, the kid was back on his feet.

   He was in no condition to fight, let alone stand firmly. Goostave and Hughes had to rush into the ring soon as the bell rung and help him get back to the stool. The kid was a mess. Bruised and more red than tanned, his head had fallen back and short, painful bursts of breath escaped his lungs. The veins on his neck stuck out like sore thumbs, pulsing with burning crimson. His right brow funneled the blood from a constantly re-opening wound away from his eye and his left ear had swollen to such a degree that one couldn’t tell the difference between it and a cauliflower.

   Miraculously, his nose hadn’t crooked.

   They sat him down and a sudden stomach rumble forced the kid’s upper body to a hunch. Thank whatever gods were out there that Hughes was jittery and his senses were heightened. He reached for the bucket and placed it in front of the kid just in time for him to retch a mouthful. Blood, spit and chunks of his breakfast burst out, drenching the used bandages crumpled inside of the bucket.

   “... Wuh... W-whur...” he mumbled with a dry throat. Hughes was quick to pick up on the hint. He lifted the kid’s head to a certain angle and held it in place as he helped him drink some much needed water. Goostave bit on his plump underlip.

   “It ain’t workin’, kid.” he finally admitted. “ ‘T was a mistake to have you keep at it.” It wasn’t his old, boxer self that was speaking out of character, no. This time, it was his pride as a coach and mentor to this blind Chinchang that was shaping his sentences. He had watched the kid for an agonizing nine minutes, wailing on a single spot over and over again, and get hit back thrice-fold.

   In the short span of nine minutes, Goostave had witnessed six years of trial and error go down the drain, and from what? A fancy lad’s school project? No more, Goostave thought to himself.

   For the kid’s sake and his both.

   “T-tuh... Take it... off...” the kid wheezed, his voice coming in low rasps. “Take it... off... T-the blind... the fuh-- the fold...”

   “Dammit, kid, what d’ you got, a death wish?!” Goostave snapped. “Y’ expect me to pay the bride fer your coffin, well, y’ got another thing comin’!”

   “T-take it off...” the kid insisted. “The b--blind...fold...”

   Hot air flared out of Goostave’s nostrils, merely one indication of his increasing frustration. Nevertheless, he reached for the back of the kid’s head, searched for the metal pins that held the blindfold together and clicked them apart. Removing the soggy piece of cloth, he dumped it in the bucket and his gaze met with his blurry reflection, captured more plump within the kid’s half-closed, glassy eyes. What was the kid trying to tell him anyway? What was he supposed to find in their haze?

   Seconds out! Marcher announced and Goostave looked over his shoulder, growing more nervous by the second. The mechanized behemoth had already kicked its legs into gear, skipping about in small hops and rolling its shoulders with a pretentious confidence hovering about. Should he pull back and declare their forfeit? It was the right choice to make... right?

   A pain-riddled groan came from behind his back. “Put me... buh-- b-back in...”

   The final seconds started to pile and weigh down on Goostave’s conscience. He turned around to look at the kid and his heart ached. He was well aware that his call had the power to cease this tragedy, yet the voice in the back of his head told him otherwise. The gambler’s melody encouraged him to look deeper into the kid’s eyes, and though he knew better than to indulge in this personal conflict of his, Goostave looked nevertheless.

   What he saw was enough to steel his resolve.

   They hadn’t a moment to waste. Goostave reached for a bandage roll and quickly taped the kid’s hands. The process was delicate and of intricate complexity, but if you were in this business for as long as Goostave was, it proved easier than getting out of bed in the morning. He then leaned closer and put the kid’s arm over his shoulders.

   “Hughes! Help me lift ‘im up!” he instructed and Hughes copied his actions. The two men put their remaining brawn to the test and lifted the kid. Once Goostave had made sure he could stand on his own, he squeezed the kid’s shoulder and told him, “Looked you dead in the eyes an’ you told me t’ was nothin’, didn’t ye?”

   Brad bobbed his head positively. It was all the proof Goostave needed.

   “I believe, kid, y’ hear me? I believe in ye. Make ‘em thirteen. You can do it.”

                                              Round 12          Ding! Ding! Ding!

   It’s the final round and Brad’s body weighs him down. His shoulders sag and his arms sway stiffly with every step he takes. His one ear feels numb, picking up only a maddening buzz that heavily hinders his perception of any sound that emanates from his left. Pain is temporary, he huffs and turns to practicality for his solution. By rotating his head and leading with his right ear, he is able to better hear what is coming from the front.

   He finds himself floating inside a sea of noise. It proves difficult to separate the different trebles and pitches with a single functioning ear. Brad pauses his advance and purposefully decelerates his breathing. The crowd’s frequency begins to lower in volume as Brad's focus sharpens. His surroundings narrow, his sense of hearing now contained inside the ring.

   He picks up on the robot’s metallic shuffling. It nears. Joke’s on the tin man, because Brad isn’t afraid of no scrap-iron scarecrow. A current of wind builds up. It hurdles towards him. Brad can’t tilt his head in time, so he braces for impact instead. The gloved fist collides with his face and his head is flung to the side. His heart skips a bit. The sound barrier shatters and all around him hell breaks loose. At that moment, his ear distinguishes the coach’s yelling amidst the roaring racket.

   You can do it, kid!

   Lee ensures his breathing doesn’t falter. Simultaneously, he shifts his weight to the opposite side. He is able to stabilize and hold his ground. The robot hasn’t followed up on its punch yet. An opening is presented before him. The robot’s reach is around half its height. That means three steps will suffice. With sluggish movements, Brad ceases the opportunity and drags his body forward, advancing toward the robot. The scent of polishing wax slithers into his nostrils. It’s faint and the dry blood in his nostrils heavily obscures it, but it’s enough to indicate that he is now positioned right in front of the tin man.

   Brad is quick in his judgement when it comes to the distribution of his strength throughout his body. He’s on burrowed time, he knows that much. With his left arm rendered useless, he is free to place a large margin of his strength solely on his right arm. The rest he’ll need for his legs. It’s crucial that he withstands the coming exchange of blows. He curls his fingers inward and balls them into a fist. He slowly winds up and musters the necessary force. Utilizing the tightness inside the robot’s zone, as well as the inability to counter-punch in this short of a distance. Brad rotates his leading foot to the ring angle, shifts his weight accordingly and catapults his fist forward. Despite his enervation, the punch erupts with exuberant force on the robot’s sides. The tin man answers back with a short-arm of its own. Lee’s left arm acts as the sponge and sucks up the pain. It stings, but he’s had worse.

   In this range, he is given a chance to persist, for in this range, all he needs to do is endure. It’s a race against the clock as Brad repeats his strategy and channels punch after punch. It’s not long before the effects on his body catch up to his actions. His breaths escape in uneven stutters, cut short plenty of times throughout his slog with the tin man. Undoubtedly, the robot hits harder than him, but Brad doesn’t succumb to the pummeling. He refuses to clinch. He’s gotten this far.

   He has no mouthpiece in which he can bite on, so instead he leans his head closer and bites on the robot’s iron shoulder. The timer ticks down and the two boxers stand rooted in place, tirelessly trading blows. The tin man proves more consistent with its handling of both power and speed. Brad, on the other hand, requires more and more channeling time with every consecutive punch if he is to continue deepening the dent. This, in turn, forces him to sacrifice some of the power that he’s placed in his legs. Already, they begin to tremble, but Brad doesn’t focus on the negatives, for he starts to see through the robot’s composed posture. He can feel the tin man’s metal surface warmer on his lips. The anomalies within it also echo louder than they did before. The cogs located under its coating skip ticks and whir faster, sometimes in reverse. Amidst them also comes an unexpected addition; a vocal tune of some sorts, its volume low, but with a definite rhythm to it.

   ...thrill of the fight... rising... the challenge... rival...

   Brad recalls the tune after another successful short-arm, but the thought is cut short as his fist bursts through. It sinks into the tin man’s iron flesh and the melody turns to static. Cogs tap his bandaged arm and the tin man stutters. Its arms suddenly wrap around Lee and the robot shoves him back. It’s pulling a clinch. It’s its first defensive move during this whole match. Brad is pushed to the other end of the ring. The robot maintains its course, grinding Lee against the ropes in the process. Break! Break! Marcher shouts and it triggers something inside the robot. It obeys and ends the embrace as abruptly as it had started it.

   Box!

   A few seconds pass in silence and neither Brad, nor the robot take action. His breathing is slow and heavy and he can barely form a fist. He then remembers that the clock is still counting down, and though his feet are unwilling to cooperate, he is able to persuades the through sheer willpower. He is close to victory, he can feel it in his bones, thus he puts one sluggish foot in front of the other while his right fist makes for the bend on the elbow. It quakes with anticipation as it gradually winds back. Brad can hear the robot’s cogs even from this distance, how they snap and tick in a panic.

   At that moment, short as it is, he channels the remainder of his power and forgets about all the pain and exhaustion. He presses his left foot forward and allows it to slide to the right angle. He rotates the waist and then lunges his fist straight ahead.

   You’re mine.

   His fist thrusts with unparalleled might, hurling the robot’s chin away from its path of devastation. The cross is so powerful that even Lee follows its tail. He stumbles to the side, but is fortunate enough to land on the ropes and ensure he doesn’t fall before the tin man does. In that split second, he doesn’t feel the robot’s weight pressing down on the canvas. The moment comes to an abrupt close when the iron juggernaut falls, causing a boisterous thud to resonate inside the auditorium.

   The dust settles. Silence befalls the Ranch. A single man’s footsteps echo from within the ring.

   “Boom Boom is down!” Marcher announces. He runs to where Brad is and raises his arm triumphantly.

   “It’s a knockdown victory for Brandon Lee of Saint Street!”

   And like that, the auditorium breaks into a deafening applause.

   Whu-- You can’t be serious..! W-what just happened..?!

   That, dear ole Marxston boy, was Brandon Lee’s infamous knockout! Yes sir, after a hellish, back-to-back twelve visits to the ring, the Haymaker hands Boom Boom the sweetest piece o’ punchin’ pie! Boom Boom is off to Queer Street, gents an’ lasses, an’ we’ll never hear from ‘im again after this table-flippin’ upset!

   T-this is preposterous! Obviously, it’s a sham! The Mark I’s programming code was flawlessly implemented, there’s no mistaking my capabilities! How..?! The odds were approximately zero percent!

   That ’ll teach ye an important life lesson, fancy boy Marxston; it ain’t the fancy tech that make the boxer, no sir! It’s the trainin’, the fightin’ an’ the fallin’ down an’ the will to fight back an’ succeed! Brandon Lee’s shown it to us once more, bringin’ ‘is record to a thirteen win sweep in ‘is grittiest bout yet!

   A blind man..! A buh-- A b-blind man bested a machine of most intricate design! Dearest mother, the Academy won’t accept this statement as rational, not at all! I am ruined..! The odds were stacked against him! How was it possible that he bested the odds..?!

  Figured the Haymaker ought ‘a hang ‘is gloves an’ go buy a lottery ticket with ‘em chances, yes sir! But while the match is over and Marxston boy ‘ere ‘s ‘avin’ ‘is crisis, I wanna wish y‘ all folks a mighty fine night, ‘s well as the mightiest gratitude for joinin’ me in the Ranch to behold the sweet, sweet science! Till the fourteenth, I ‘ave been the James O’ Spades, James Spaderson, in the flesh! Thank ye kindly, gents an’ lasses, you’re too kind!

                                                     Year 10 in Saint Street

                                              Brandon Lee  VS  Boom Boom

                                      12 Rounds, 11 minutes, 47 seconds