Throughout history, from the fluorescent skyline of Paradiso to villages of clay huts, men have found ways to rise above their peers. Most proved they deserved allegiance because their skills, in whatever regard, were unmatched. Many were fierce chieftains and warlords, who earned fear and respect as the number of decorative skulls lining their abode grew. Others were servants to their people, handing out bread and washing the feet of the ill, surrounded by loyal followers by virtue of their kindness. Some, even still, were simply blessed with magnetically charismatic personalities. Whether or not he knew it, Rush happened to be all four. He was easily the best rider. The Headhunter most unafraid of death. An older brother to each member. Somehow, the best singer. Like many of his songs, the one Rush currently sang made next to no sense, though the Headhunters sang along all the same. They were too drunk on bloodshed to care.

Parties at The Cave, the Headhunters' uninspiredly named base of operations, were great spectacles of chaos among the gang long before Rush had risen to power, though he certainly hadn't done a thing to curtail the practice. Flaming oil drums cast shadows on the glowstick-splattered walls, clashing against the green-and-yellow oily projection of the liquid light show taking place. Within the graffiti'd and thoroughly gutted interior of what had once been a water treatment facility, motorcycles tore up and down the hallways, doing donuts around crowds of raving gangsters. Rush stood atop a pile of trash in front of the liquid light projection, holding a lit molotov cocktail in one hand and a pistol in the other as he sang, with a thrusting sway to his hips somewhere between Elvis Presley's signature shuffle and onset Parkinson's. A dancer, Rush was not. Aside from his shiny red helmet, a mask that might as well have been a face, he wore a black and silver racing suit, overshadowed by a tremendous sequined mink coat that could only be described as "Excessive". This party was to celebrate that day's heist at the Synthi-Fur store in Diamond Heights, and so Rush took his lion's share with the fanciest coat, whether or not it made him look more like a great furry moth than like a proper gangster. Then again, there was very little that was proper about Rush.

The Cave was filled with Headhunters and their associates and friends, nearly a hundred grubby looking youths from the ages of ten to twenty in total, dancing among the iron rafters, tossing empty bottles of soda and beer into the tepid tanks of green sludge lining the room's four corners, and rubbing a concoction they called Kamikaze -- Neon, Sturmstaub, and smokeless gunpowder -- into small cuts on their arms. Several Headhunters danced around the trash mountain Rush stood atop, one of many veritable termite's mounds of smashed electronics, tires, soiled paper, and pulpy grey plastics that were halfway through their decomposition cycle, all singing along as best they could. Without a word of warning, Rush flung his cocktail into the air, high above the heads of his fellow gang members. He fired two shots, the first missing and ricocheting off of the ceiling, and the second shattering the molotov, raining fire and glass onto the surrounding area like a savage fireworks show. Like most of his reckless antics, this was met with applause. It was an eerie sight to see. A single masked figure atop a flaming heap of trash, surrounded by enraptured children and teenagers with neon spraypainted pistols, cast against a bright psychedelic projection. Those who didn't know the words to his song -- a vast majority of the Headhunters -- simply sang the open syllables, muddling the song with a slurred, cacophonous harmony. Something tribal about it seemed appropriate for such a primal hideout as theirs.

"Boss," A squeaky, rasped cough of a voice spoke up, "You are on fire." A short Headhunter no older than fourteen pointed to the train of Rush's magnificent coat, which sure enough, had been caught alight by his celebratory explosion moments earlier. Rush stopped his singing, turning around to examine the fire burning away at the fur trim of his coat. "You are right." Rush said through his helmet. "Rush is on fire!" He threw back his head and cheered, firing another two bullets into the air, met with another round of applause from his captivated audience. Rush dropped his pistol, pulling his arms out of the oversized coat before spinning it over his head like a matador. He threw the smoldering coat the the Headhunters below unceremoniously, who caught it with reaching arms like concertgoers hoping to catch a guitar pick from the pope. "Here you are. New blanket. You welcome." Rush squatted and slid down his trash hill, his attention having been completely broken from the song he had been singing, and the pistol he had essentially thrown out. His mind was now blank, and like all the times his mind had gone blank, it had defaulted back to one thing. Speed.

With a wave of his hand, Rush dismissed the Headhunters following him, signalling that he was to be left alone while they continued celebrating. It was too hot to return to Diamond Heights, and too rainy to piss about in the Lower. Plus, cops would be looking for the Headhunters tonight, so rolling with the gang would only bring about much-unwanted attention. The list of reasons Rush used to justify going out for a solo-ride were endless, but in truth, only one of them mattered. Rush wanted to go faster than he could leading a bunch of bat-swinging hoodlums doing wheelies on bikes half as well-maintained as his. Faster than the fastest of them, times ten. The streets hadn't named him Rush for no reason. He entered a short hallway to a staircase, stepping over passed-out Headhunters who had partied too hard. Rush remembered his first beer, too. He made his way up the stairs, skipping every other step and pulling himself up the handrail has he had a hundred times before, and made his way to the sole locked on the third floor. Rush's room.

It was small, but that was how Rush liked it. Concrete walls and a concrete floor, with the only painting being of a mural of the African continent above Rush's bed. For its lack of comforts, the room stayed warm in the cold winters Rush had grown a boyhood hatred for, and was easy to fill up with decorations -- Namely, tall wooden shields, spears, centerfolds, fake potted plants, and taxidermy so poorly maintained that even moths avoided their ghastly remains. At the end of the room opposite the door was a large, circular bed, with no sheets or cover to speak of. Instead, there was a single pillow, a leopard skin patterned comforter, and a bright red motorcycle. A sagging indentation in the side of the bed made a track in the memory foam from the many times where Rush had ridden it straight to bed, where a lover might await their partner to return to bed. In a way, it was. On one side of the room was a laptop with a thoroughly cracked screen, connected to three humming servers. The other side, obviously, was where Rush put his stuffed lion. He hoisted the motorcycle off of his bed by the handlebars, pressing the ignition with a turn of a key.

He made a quick check of the things he needed to leave the Cave. Keys? He had just put them in the motorcycle. Shoes? He took a quick look down, giving himself a satisfied nod. Piece? Rush smacked his helmet as if to put his face in his palm. Silly Rush. He had thrown that pistol into the trash pile during the party. He looked around for a moment, scrambling around his filthy, trash-strewn room for another pistol. His lion, as always, brandished a machine gun that had hung over his neck with a strap, but he couldn't really cruise with a kalishnikov. The machine gun was really there for any prospective raids. A sudden memory jolted him, and he hopped onto his bed and reached under his pillow, finding the familiar grip of his favorite pistol. The Gold one. He tucked it comfortably into his waistband, and hopped on his bike, rolling slowly out of his room to close the door. He didn't think the Headhunters would snoop in his room, but they were kids, after all. Kids were curious. Rush peeled out of the hallway like a flaming bat out of hell, making his way down the staircase with a rumble. The Headhunters he walked over had moved by then -- thankfully, as nothing dampened a party like squished kids in the stairs -- and so he turned out of the staircase, revving his engine through the crowd of partygoers and out of the Cave, straight into the stormy outside world.

Kite rubbed at the bright yellow lemons on her neck as she waited for Miss Momoko to return back to the living room. She could never seem to get use to the posh lives lived by the people in Diamond Heights. The furniture was too white and windows too clear, almost like they wanted the whole world to see their wealth and personal business. But, then again, Kite supposed that they did. It's what many thrived off of, projecting this fantasy of the daily duties in Diamond Heights. Little girls from the Lower District would watch rich women dance and sing and do all sorts of things from their Geiger tablets and dream of making it big one day. Kite had given up that dream a long time ago.
Miss Momoko. was a usual client, one who was scheduled to receive a new liver soon to replace the last one Kite had supplied a few years ago. Kite didn't have to be a genius or detective to know that Momoko had a drinking problem because of her husband's adulterous habits. She never asked those kinds of questions. The only questions she usually asked were: "What's your blood type?" "Can this day fit in your schedule for surgery?" "How much are you willing to pay?"
Miss Momoko strutted back into her living room, two drinks in hand. "I've been very much enjoying your new work, Kite," the older woman said.
Kite smiled in return and accepted the glass, but did not take a sip. "Thank you, but I'm glad to get away from the shop for a bit and help my other clients out," the girl responded politely. "Now, may we discuss prices?"
Momoko laughed heartily and took a big gulp of her drink. Kite wondered how long many long years it took before the woman had stopped wincing at the fire burning down her throat. "You're always straight to the point, Kite, and I appreciate that very much. I believe you told me this new liver you have comes from a young boy?"
Kite nodded. "A Complex kid, only 18, never touched a drug in his life. His little sister...she is afflicted with the bio-plague. He needs money for treatment."
"But he has no physical contact with her, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am, only through the Databahn. His liver might as well be brand new."
The worry on Miss Momoko's face faded, and the wrinkles around her eyes loosened. She was a beautiful woman, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly how old she was. After all the plastic surgeries and biotech implanted in her frail body, who knew how many years she might have under her belt? She took another gulp of her glass. "You know me so well, so much better than the last people I dealed with. They tried offering me sloppy bio-engineered pig's livers."
Kite forced out a chuckle. That wasn't uncommon. Pig organs match well with human body parts. "It took me a couple months of convincing and coaxing, but the boy has agreed to have his liver extracted tomorrow around noon."
"And I shall be there as well with the money."
The women politely chatted some more before Kite hastily left the apartment before Momoko's husband could arrive home. Kite boarded the monorail and speedily arrived in the Lower District. The place stunk of shit and piss and every other excrement know to man and AI, but the rain did its best to oppress the stench. Passing by a crime scene, Kite paused for a moment to watch as the officers shuffled around through water and mud. They covered the mangled body with a white sheet before carrying it into an ambulance. The work of syndicates, no doubt. It was only one of the thousands of bodies recovered from the trenches of the Lower District. Part of Kite wondered what they had done to be so brutally demolished, who it might be a message to. Was it the Shang Kal or the Headhunters or the Omega? Who the fuck knows. They all have something to be mad about. Kite walked on, kept her head down, and tried to forget the horrific scene. Despite seeing so many similar situations, so much that they seemed to blend together at times, each was as gut-wrenching as the first. It made her rethink taking on gang member clients at Sky Tattoos, but then she would remember the money they brought it, and she would be forced to swallow her discomfort.
Kite stopped at a small sandwich shop run by a few robots and a cyborg manager. She somehow managed to down a grilled cheese without thinking of the body, and the odd sensation in her stomach ceased. Checking her watch, Kite found that it would still be a few hours before Sky Tattoos would open for the night. She settled back in her chair and watched the rain streak against the shop windows and people bustle on by.

It was raining. Or it was just beginning to. The skies could be read like an open book, gray and angry, ready to unleash its fury upon the ground below. For that very reason, Six was in a hurry, if only because he didn't like to get wet when it could be easily avoided. From the hill that he was standing on, he could see the towering building that made up Diamond Heights, though it was a sight you could see them from miles around, even where he lived, on the edge of nowhere. Now, from where he stood, he was barely a stone's throw away from the city proper itself, and because of that, it was all the more impressive to see Paradiso stretch so high that it seemed to tear into the old gray sky itself. Just looking at Paradiso made Six a bit scared. The last time he had been in the city, he had been doing his utmost to get out, though it had felt more like an invisible hand had guided him as far away from the city as it could. Now he was going out of his way to return to Paradiso so that he could finally figure out what was really happening to himself, but it was still a long shot. He had no idea who he'd be able to turn to for help. Even so, he had already long ago come to the conclusion that he had no other choice than to find someone, even if he had to flip the city on its head to get to them. Ignoring the problem wouldn't help him, and it definitely wouldn't help anyone who might get hurt because of it.

Six's boots gripped into the dirt, grass, and rock as he descended down the hillside, his arms raised apart to help with his balance; he didn't want to take a tumble all the way down the hill. There was water at the bottom that appeared to be stagnant, and Six wouldn't even drink it even if he had a body that needed water to survive, though he feared that the people in the area didn't have much of a choice, especially those stricken with the bio-plague. In any case, he skirted along the water's edge, trying to avoid having the water soak the inside of his boots the best that he could. Then he finally came upon the very thing that he had come all this way for. It was a drainage pipe, whether it was for sewage or storm drainage didn't immediately matter, though the latter was clearly preferable. Six climbed into the pipe, looking over his shoulder as the rain started to pour so hard that he could barely see anything behind him. Inside the pipe, it was a bit cramped, even for him, and he had to pull his backpack to his front so that he could avoid having to crawl into the muck itself. He did have a sense of smell, so Six hurried as quickly as he could, since there was no fear of getting lost in a pipe that only went two different ways: in and out.

Soon enough, Six came to a large metal grated door, where the actual drainage pipe ended and the large underground tunnel began. It had likely been a way in for maintenance workers, Six could only guess- many of the mysteries of the old world were lost upon him. These tunnels were old, older than almost anything else in Paradiso, and possibly among the last of its kind. The others had long ago been filled with concrete or upgraded into a much more efficient waste disposal systems. For whatever reason, some were overlooked and forgotten about, much to the benefit of Six, who had taken advantage of that fact with he had originally escaped from the Lower District nearly a year and a half ago. Six carefully stepped to the side where he would be on stable concrete, mindfully avoiding the wastewater that flowed in the middle. Some of the buildings on the very edge of the Lower District were likely still connected to this, and he wasn’t confident enough to take the chance that they weren’t at the present time. He set his backpack upon the concrete and pulled out a few things that he’d undoubtedly need to navigate the sewers that were before him.

The first was a flashlight. It was dark… so dark that it was difficult to see much in front of him. His eyes didn’t have night vision, no more than they were capable of shooting lasers, at least as far as Six was aware. Most of the flashlights that Six had found had originally required disposable batteries, which was certainly an archaic form of technology that the world was fortunate to do without, at least in Six’s humble opinion. Most batteries that he had come across had long since corroded into dust by the acid that they held inside, so it wasn’t really an option for him. Fortunately, he was a bit of a tinkerer when it came to electronics, so he managed to jury rig several components together into a kinetic charger and retool most of his devices to be compatible with it. All the walking he had did to come here actually proved to have another purpose, and he pulled the device out of his pocket, plugging it into the back of his flashlight. Now there was finally light, or enough so that he wouldn’t end up tripping over himself.

Next, he pulled out an electronic device that were once called a cellphone, if he remembered the terminology correctly. It had a half-eaten apple on the back of it, which made Six all the more fascinated at how branding worked in the old world. He had downloaded a map of Paradiso and the old sewer layout, fusing the two together with a program he had made only days prior. Though he wasn’t able to forget much of anything, when he first ran through these sewers, he had a strange feeling that led him to where he needed to go. In the end, it had only left him with a surreal, dreamlike experience, and hardly one that he could accurately call back upon. So, with this, he’d know where to go, and roughly what was above him. With that sorted out, he zipped his backpack up and slung it on his right shoulder, and began to head on his way.

The walls around him were dark and dank, heavy with some kind of moisture and so very cold. The water flow was picking up, and would only continue to do so as it rained, though he was appreciative of the fact that there was some way to vaguely gauge what the weather topside was like. Being down here almost made him feel like a ninja turtle, who were among some of the many characters that he had read about in the many comic books that he had managed to come across, though he had to admit that his combat skills were sorely lacking when compared to theirs. It would have been nice to have three androids backing him up, but he’d be on his own once he finally made it out of here. That was a solemn note to think on, yet he was more than happy that he didn’t have to live out his entire life in the sewers. They definitely weren’t growing on him.

After more than his fair share of twists and turns, Six finally came upon where he needed to be, or probably more aptly, where he wanted to be. It was a steel ladder leading up to a manhole, and it had become slippery. As he made his way up it, he wasn’t able to make out anything on the other side, which he supposed wasn’t all too surprising. According to his phone, which he had already slipped back into his backpack, this was an alley off of a minor side street, leading Six to believe that this spot was the best place to come out at. Six pressed against the manhole cover, and to his surprise, it wouldn’t budge. That was odd. Six strained against against it to no avail, growing increasingly angrier as he did so. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of spending anymore time in the sewers than was necessary. Six only hoped that they didn’t pave over it long ago, but with a city this old, it wasn’t completely out of the question. Still, he was here and he might as well give it another shot. He crouched with his legs slightly, intending to place as much power behind himself as he possibly could. Then he went for it, propelling himself upwards, connecting with the manhole cover with the lower part of his right palm. It practically made the cover rocket itself away, proving to Six that he was clearly much stronger than he had previously thought. The rain was now hitting him in the face, but he chose to ignore it, preparing to throw his backpack out on the street above with himself following soon after.

---

The store was completely empty, despite Paradiso's long-standing nightlife scene and a 24/7 economy, where it was more or less a requirement to be open 24 hours a day in order to be able to compete. Especially as a small time restaurant with a very niche branch of specialties. Seafood. Who even ate seafood anymore in Paradiso when you could get fucked up by some genetically altered mushroom soup, right? An older Korean gentleman slowly closed the blinds of the storefront, put the tables back in order and put the chairs on top of them. Then, once he was done, he switched the light off, flipped the open sign to closed, and left the store. He carefully locked it behind him when he did.

During the brief moment he had the door open, any outside passer-by's would've been able to hear the screams coming from inside, barely audible to begin with due to the very loud music coming from there too, but the man was just quick enough to prevent it from sounding serious by closing the door rapidly.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing? Did you honestly think we wouldn't find out?”

“L-look, I didn't do it! It's a mist-”

The answer was cut short by a fist in the face. The man reared back, his head hanging awkwardly to the right. His face was swollen, blue and purple, but he couldn't even shield himself from further assault. He was tied down to a regular wooden chair, held back by an accomplice of the one doing the punishing. “IT'S A MISTAKE? SO YOU'RE SAYING I'M LYING?”

“N-no, I'm not saying that at all! I'm just saying when you saw me take that NEON, it was because I struck a deal with someone!”

“Ah, really?! So why didn't we know about that deal?!”

“I was gonna tell you lat- NO, WAIT!”

Again the fist struck the mans face, and again, and again. It looked painful but yet - at the same time - it wasn't nearly severe enough to cause permanent, lasting damage. Whoever was doing this was just toying around, keeping him awake and conscious just so he could continue this charade. It made sense, too. They already knew that the man was lying - otherwise, they'd never have taken such serious measures.

The loud music kept playing as the beating continued. Kang Shal politics were nothing to fuck with - the Kang Shal had to assert themselves and make sure everyone knew they were ruthless, savages that stopped at nothing to protect was theirs. After all, compared to other gangs, they were just 'some kids' that dealt drugs and occasionally beat people up. Kang Shal was so much more than that, but 'what is' doesn't matter when it's 'whats seen' that determines your prestige. So, the Kang Shal made sure to let everyone know that they didn't stop at anything to do their business.

Not even one of their own. The man bound in the chair clearly had a Kang Shal logo tattooed on his lower arm, so that left little to the imagination as to who this man swore loyalty to.

“You fucking rat, eat my shit and tell me how it tastes you..” A fist rose into the air, ready to strike. Then the knob to the back door twisted and opened, revealing Min-soo and his brother Seong-ho standing there. Min-soo had a lit cigarette in his mouth and was glancing off to the side, laughing at his brother about something. In his other hand was a can of beer. His face soon turned towards the situation in front of him.

Not a word was said during that small amount of time as the man stood there with his fist in the sky, ready to hit the thief again. Then, finally, Min-soo opened his mouth. “Oi.. what's going on?”

“Ah, Min-soo sir, we caught him stealing neon.”

“Oh,” Min-soo replied, continuing further into the backroom, letting the door fall closed behind him and Seong-ho. He rose a hand to the stereo installation and turned the knob, turning it down so they could actually understand each other. “And why are you beating him up without my orders then? Geong-so, did you order this?” Min-soo's head pivoted towards Geong-so, but an answer wasn't really required. He knew he didn't order this, since he'd been with his brother in a neon lightclub all night. “This isn't how we treat thieves.”

“A-ah, sorry Min-soo sir, Geong-se sir,” the assailant replied, bowing his head down and backing off, lowering his fist only then. Clearly, the man was scared of the two brothers' reaction to his 'transgression' of operating without orders. “I just thought..”

“Bak-jo, you don't need to think.” Min-soo walked closer, putting a hand on 'Bak-jo's' shoulder and patting him softly. “You're too dumb for that. Just leave that to us.” Not daring to talk back to his leaders, Bak-jo only nodded and kept his head down. So, Min-soo turned to the thief. Instead of continuing the assault, Min-soo undid the rope around the man's body and helped him up. The surprise was visible, both in Bak-jo's face as the thieves' face.

“We are rather old-fashioned, as you know..?” Min-soo posed, gripping the thief by the wrist tightly, and holding up the mans' hand in front of his face, so he could see clearly. “No bruises on your knuckles. So, you didn't fight back?”

The man shook his head. “N-no, Min-soo sir, I would never hit another Kang Shal!”

The boss' head turned to Seong-ho then, a sinister smile on his lips. Clearly he wasn't impressed by the mans' answer, but only Seong-ho would know him for long enough to be able to detract the meaning behind his smile. “A rat...” Min-soo slowly posed, “... and a coward.” Suddenly Min-soo forced the mans' hand onto the chopping block that was on the nearby table. Being in a restaurant backroom had its' benefits. In one single, swift movement he reached for a nearby knife - it was a heavy, butchers knife - and raised it high. It wasn't meant as intimidation, either, because before the man could react, struggle or say something, the knife chopped into the block. His fingers had been separated from his hand, roughly around the middle joint.

The mans' eyes widened, then he started screaming. But Min-soo didn't stop, dropping the knife onto the block and walking the man to a nearby stove, where a pan was waiting to be cleaned. “Seong-ho,” Min-soo said while he pulled the man forwards. “Show Bak-jo his reward for taking initiative without our orders.” 'Reward' was the word he used, but there would be none. Not today. Min-soo flicked on the fire on the stove, heating the pan up while holding the thief closeby. He was becoming pale, but Min-soo had all the time in the world. When the pan on the fire was sufficiently hot, Min-soo picked it up and, without warning, pushed the hot underside against the mans' fingers, cauterizing them to the best of his ability.

The goal here was to scare the man into submission, to send a sign out to the other Kang Shal, and the other gangs, about what they did with thieves. “Next time,” he warned, as he shoved the man away towards the back door, “I'll take your others, and you'll be a cripple.”

7AM. Lower District: Frazier's Fight Gym

The automated ring bell chimed three times.

"Thirty seconds!"

The sound of gloves hitting leather heavy bags intensified. Sweat was flying. Body odor was pungent. The gym windows were foggy from the exhaust of twenty humans howling and grunting with every punch thrown.

"15 seconds! Pick it up! If I see any of you slow down, we doin' another set of planks. 10! 9! 8-"

The twenty humans groaned. Each second counting down to zero felt slower than the next.

"-5,4,3,2..."

Where was one? Is he going to say one? Did he say it already? The automated bell rang, but nobody dared to stop until Tariq said so. Twenty bodies were screaming to be put out of their misery.

"One!" Tariq smiled.

Every motion on the gym floor dropped flat like a water balloon pricked by a needle. Some were on the ground, rolling in their own sweat gasping for air. Others hung onto heavy bags like they were life rafters. The few that maintained their composure either walked it off, grabbed some water, or were still in their fight stance ready for the next workout. After a minute went by Tariq clapped his hands, not for applause, but to signify the next drill.

"Grab a partner! One on the mitts, the other one hits! We're working on upper body and head movement today. Mitts throws 1-2, hitter weaves and counters with the 3-4. Let's go! Let's go!"

Tariq increased the gym music volume with the interface on his wrist. The acoustics vibrated the walls with loud boom bap and bass, drowning out the bemoaned cries for a longer rest period.

"You trying to kill these folk?" Davey Frazier laughed. Tariq smiled before he turned around to see the old man in his famous khaki cowboy hat. It contrasted with his dark skin and piercing green eyes. "Can't have nobody dying in my gym, boy."

"They signed waivers." Tariq smirked, scratching his bald head.

"Well," Davey began, guiding Tariq's attention to the boxing ring behind them. At the center were two young men in red and blue sparring gear. The one in red was clearly outclassing the other. "That boy in blue sign a waiver?"

Tariq stepped towards the ring.

"Hey, Ricky!" Tariq called out, "Light sparring! You're in there to learn, not take each other's heads off!"

Ricky didn't listen. He was like a cat playing with an injured mouse. Lefts and rights were starting to land flush in between and around the blue's guard. Tariq jumped onto the ring and whipped between the ropes in a flash. Like a referee, he stepped in to break up the action, but Ricky was still in kill-or-be-killed mode. A wild right hand intended for his opponent ended up grazing Tariq's cheek, knocking his glasses off of his head and out of the ring.

"Hey!" Davey's yell stopped most of the gym members, mid-workout. All eyes were focused on the incident. "The hell is wrong with you, boy?"

Tariq stared Ricky down but the boy offered no apology. Instead, he spat his mouthpiece out onto the ring floor and grinned. There was a brief, infinitesimal thought that crossed Tariq's mind to react in such a way that would end Ricky, but he let it pass.

"Get the fuck out." Tariq pointed to the large sliding door exit. “We don’t do that tough guy bullshit in here. You know that.”

"Whatever. Shit is weak here anyways." Ricky exited through the ropes and went to grab his gym bag. "I'll go where the real fighters are at, not no washed up champs and has-beens like here.”

As he made his way for the door, Ricky stopped to look back at Tariq for one last insult. “Oh wait, that’s right. You never were a champ, huh? Ha! Just has-beens then."

Ricky slammed the entrance door behind him. There was a moment of awkward silence. Davey wasn't having that.

“What the hell y’all standin around for? Drills ain’t done yet!” Davey pulled the whistle out of his pocket and began blowing at it repeatedly, herding everyone back into their workouts as he went to go fetch Tariq’s glasses.

Tariq, unfazed by the whole scene, was more concerned about the boy in blue. Jermaine was his name, and he was bleeding from his left eyebrow.

“Go wash up and I’ll take care of that cut.” Tariq said, ushering the boy out of the ring. Davey walked over to hand Tariq his glasses, whistle still in his mouth. There was a crack on one of the lenses. Tariq clicked his tongue. He'll have to go downtown and get them fixed. That's two pairs in one month now.

"Ain't nothin' good to look at in here anyways.” Davey said, patting Tariq’s back then quickly rubbing his hand in pain as it clanged against his cybernetics. "And pay that bitch boy no mind."

“You’re not that washed up.” Davey laughed, making a stink face as his eyebrows moved up and down in comical fashion. “But you do need a good wash!” Davey laughed again, sashaying back to the twenty gym members, dancing to the beat of his own whistle.

That was Old Davey for you. Tariq carried on with the rest of his morning. Ricky’s words would sting him every now and then, but like always, the silent stoic made no fuss about it. Instead, he kept it balled up inside, tucked deep and unexposed to anyone and everyone around him.