Until you're all that's left

Ladies and gentleman, hold onto your horses, because this is the one you’ve been waiting for: the final match of this season’s Level Three X-Treme Streetfighting Cincinnati Circuit, sponsored by SodaCola, live and modded up like never before. Introducing Tomi “Mad-dog” Twimbell, weighing in at 220 with mods, and looking like he’s got a grudge to pick. And here to defend his title, we have Dramian “Crusher” Couts, weighing in at 234, mods included. He’s been in the ring since age 12, but has the King of the Scraps, Cincinnati’s own bone crushing killer, finally met his match? We’ll see soon enough!

The announcer runs through the obligatory list of sponsors -- Tomi’s Kill-Crush arm underwritten by Big Slice, Dramian’s Curb-Stomp-2000 legs by Shopmart -- as Dramian watches the other man’s lips pull up into a snarl. Good. Caring that much is a certain weakness. As the plexiglass bubble slides down over them, locking into the asphalt floor of the arena, Dramian lets his eyes close for a moment. Tonight could be the last time, though up to this point he’s never been that lucky. But if nothing else, tonight promises pain. That, at least, is as inevitable as it is comforting.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The buzzer goes off and the crowd screams, squirming over one another for a better view. Dramian hears nothing but the dull roar of blood thumping through his skull. He keeps his arms hanging easily at his side as the other man slams an iron coated fist into Dramian’s stomach. Dramian feels the shock course through his body, breath catching on a wave of bile that churns his insides. Pain is a messenger, and he steps back, letting it become captain. Tomi dashes in for another strike. Dramian ducks, pivots, and smashes his metal fist into the other man’s cheek, splattering the plexiglass bubble with a lacework of blood. Unthinking, automatic, he flips Tomi over his shining arm and onto his back, then propels himself onto his chest, armored knees first. He hears the gentlest of splintering cracks and sees the man’s eyes widen, pleading. He disposes of the issue with one, open handed smack.

And then, far too soon, it’s over.

The crowd goes wild as the referee holds up Dramian’s arm, declaring his victory -- the SodaCola arm, they paid extra to be featured in all winning broadcasts. But Dramian barely sees the cheering, throbbing bodies. He’s holding on to the pain for as long as it lets him, keeping his mind pried open to the flood of nausea. By the time he’s back at the locker room, the throbbing has dulled. Reality is painting itself bright again. He knew he should’ve let the guy get in another shot. Last match of the level three season, and he all but wasted it.

“You okay there, champ?”

His agent hovers above, face creased into an exaggerated attempt at concern. There’s no more escape into the washes of pain, not tonight. Dramian nods.

The agent unfolds his lips into a wide smile. “Glad to hear you’re fine, Dramian. Gotta protect the goods, don’t we? A few more takedowns like that, and there won’t be a sucker you haven’t beat in the whole circuit. Bet we could even get Burger Time to upgrade an arm or two with some top-of-the-line pieces. That’d be pretty sweet, right, champ? Right?”

Dramian meets his eyes. You can almost see the little money signs swinging around in the pupils. He grunts. Sure.

“Thatta boy. Your check for tonight will be posted soon. And don’t forget about your maintenance appointment on Monday. The guys want to make some tweaks to your right arm. They’re seeing some disappointing metrics in terms of blood spillage. A blow like that shoulda knocked his block off!” He laughs in a short, high-pitched burst. “Anyway, meet me at the stadium Friday. I have a surprise.” He winks. “Good talking to you, kid! Don’t party too hard tonight!”

He claps Dramian’s shoulder and saunters out, humming cheerfully. Dramian suits up quickly, hoping to escape before any fans can scout out the back entrance. His arms and legs don’t need additional coverage. The mist can’t penetrate through their top-of-the-line iron sheaths, that’s part of the point. But his face and torso aren’t so invincible. He slips on the goggles, clicks the respirator into place below, and pulls on a slick black poncho, smashing the pneumatic button on his chest so that it seals, airtight, around his chest and skull. The most expensive things he owns, this gear. Well, besides the arms and legs. But he doesn’t own those, not really. Those are under the contract and care of SodaCola, Burger Time, Shopmart, and Veracity Investments, Inc.

Rushing home through the brisk cold, Dramian barely notices the mist as it glints softly under the glow of the streetlights. Not that it would mean much to notice it, anyway. The mist is shimmering, inescapable. There’s not a crumbling apartment in the city that isn’t being eaten away slowly by the stuff. And other than the richest few with their armored Secure Suits and impeccably sealed homes, there’s not a body that isn’t gradually wasting away from the inside out or the outside in. Dramian counts himself lucky. His limbs, sponsored and wrapped in the toughest iron, are safe from the weeping rashes and muscle decay that the mist incurs. He coughs up blood a couple times a week. But he’s not like the atrophying masses. He’s still strong.

Soon, he’s home. Living in luxury near the stadium has its perks. Even as the rent eats away at most of his winnings, the double-sealed infrastructure gifts him the blessing of breath, air that doesn’t poison his insides. He lets the doors seal behind him with a hiss and clicks off his respirator, inhaling deeply. It’s harder every day to remember the time before this one. Harder to see the point in remembering, too.

He remembers the trash, though. How it filled the streets with that sweet stench during wave after wave of landfill crises. But despite the media’s wailing, they didn’t drown in the seas of plastic bags and decomposing slop. The country’s top scientists cracked it, found a new chemical to sprinkle on the landfills, one that dissolved everything it touched into harmless mist. The streets got clean, the trash kept coming, and no one wondered much where those particles went. Why would they? Not until years later, when the miracle chemical started to decompose, when there wasn’t a corner of the earth that the wind and the clouds and the currents hadn’t carried it to. When people started to get sick, when the air started to sting and shine, and no one with a stake in their own life went outside with an inch of skin showing.

He scans his retina in the elevator and it whisks him up to his 47th floor apartment. Stunning views of the city, the realtor chimed. He hasn’t opened the blinds in months. He pulls a 6-pack from the bedside minifridge and starts to work away at it. It’s his ritual for a win, and would probably be a ritual for a loss, too, but he hasn’t lost in a long, long time. Not since becoming a level three, and not much as a level two, either. A part of him wonders what losing would feel like, after all this time, to get punched so hard that everything paused, at least for a while. But it’s best kept to speculation. An apartment like this doesn't pay for itself. Wins do. By the time he passes out, he’s too drunk to dream.

The week scrunches along in a flat, grey line. Training, modifications to his right arm to up the hit velocity, more training, a practice scrap with a guy who can’t land even a glancing blow. Friday evening finally unfurls itself, along with a text from his agent. Hey champ! Reminder to meet me at the stadium. 8PM. Big surprise! He’s not sure what the guy is up to, but he doesn’t expect to like it.

Dramian slips in through the VIP entrance, weaving his way to the stadium-side box. The crowd is too sparse, too loud, jeering and sloshing beer across the stands. They’re crusty drunk already: typical for a level one match. What kind of guy would pay, even for a cheap ticket, to see a match with no mods?

He settles into a seat, glancing up at the ring. There’s not much to see here in the way of finesse, just two rookie girls taking wild swings at one another. But there is, as always, the promise of blood. If one of them can manage to land a blow, that is. He watches as the smaller one darts about the ring, looking for an opening, her eyes wet and dark. She’s trying hard. Too hard, Dramian can tell, blocking her own shots with hesitancy. With a guttural yell, the other woman leaps onto her, kneeing her in the stomach and clasping her arms to the side. It’s a sure loss, and Dramian leads forward, magnetized to the impending doom. The girl is pinned, wriggling like a fish on a line. For a moment, she’s entirely still. Then she twists her torso up, rears her neck back, and head butts the other woman so hard that Dramian can hear the sick thunk of skull against skull. Both of them crash to the ground, knocked cold.

Dramian feels a bony hand squeeze his shoulder.

“That’s our girl! The littler one, that is. Marketable for a level one, isn’t she?”

He puts up the obligatory pushback, rolls his eyes and tries to make his agent see how ridiculous the plan is, but as Dramian well knows, the contract has been signed and his limbs, along with the rest of him, have been contracted out to SodaCola’s newest marketing ploy. Mentorship Matchups. A level one paired with a level three, complete with made-for-TV training segments, juicy exposés, increased viewership on even level one matches. It’s chronically dumb, but Dramian isn’t worried. A girl like that will frizz out or get her brain bashed in before the whole thing becomes too insufferable.

Tonight was supposed to be their first meet-up, the TV crews there to capture this level one god taking a newbie under his wing, but the girl’s barely conscious and still vomiting up water. Two days later, though, they meet at the gym for the first mentoring segment. Dramian shakes her hand as the cameras flash, glancing above her split lip and purpling nose to meet her eyes. They’re ink black, so dark he could get lost searching for the pupils. He expects to find gratitude at this opportunity to train with the undefeated champion. Or maybe fear. Fear would make sense, too. But he’s not sure what he sees. Just that wet, dark stare that makes him uncomfortable enough that he averts his gaze first, then immediately regrets it.

He decides to give her a piece of advice. To help her out.

No. He decides to let her know that he knows.

He leans in close, moving her hair aside and cupping his hand around her ear so that only she, not the cameras, can hear.

“You’re in it for the pain. Look, I get it. That’s what keeps me going too. But a headbutt like that? Suicidal. If you want to keep yourself around -- not making any assumptions, that’s an if -- there’s better ways. Free up your stomach, maybe. Your shoulder, since you have no mods. Not your head. Take it from me.”

Raising his voice for the cameras, he tucks her hair back into place. “I like the cut. Very tough.” It’s true. The jagged bob looks like she sheared it herself, haphazardly at that, but he likes how it softens the sharp little bones of her face. She stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly open. Then her face closes off, mouth pinched shut, chin jutting up towards him. She pokes him in the chest. Hard.

“Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Honestly? Don’t care. But I’m not here for some cheap self harm. I’m here so my mom can afford to cover her skin out at the Yards with more than a piece of cloth. I’m here to win. So can you help me with that? Or if you can’t, can you shut up and stop pretending you know a thing about me?”

He stands there for a moment, unsure what to say, suddenly self-conscious before the whir of camera shutters. Face flushed, he nods, walking wordlessly towards the ring. Dramian hadn’t given much thought to these ‘lessons,’ figured it was more of a PR stunt than anything. He realizes, as she stares steadfastly at him, that she probably doesn’t expect much out of this, either. Out of him. He feels his pulse quicken and meets her eyes, daring her to look away. She doesn’t. Dramian feels flush with the need to prove her wrong. To prove himself right, to see respect instead of that blank hostility in her gaze.

He walks her through the fundamentals of how to throw a punch, pivoting at the hips and drawing energy from the full weight of her body. That part is a problem. After years in the mist, she’s wiry and uncentered. He barely feels an echo of impact as she slams against his arm mods. Dramian tries to remember what it felt like to be that naked in the ring, but those years are long enough behind him that they feel like a story he read.

Back in the blackouts of ‘08, when the air was just becoming poison, he was like that, nothing but flesh. Slipping out his bedroom window while his parents slept, creeping through the pitchblack town to see the crowds writhe around the streetfighters. The mist was eating away at fiber optic cables at that point, so there was no TV, no boxing or football or internet, just petrified fear for the future, that fear caking into violent, aimless anger. Nothing made sense, the future was an abstract and unlikely prospect, but the street scraps lit something up in him. Made him feel alive. They still do, in a way, but feeling alive… it feels different now. He was big at 12, it seemed like the world was ending anyway, and most importantly there was no one stopping him. He got in the ring, and hasn’t gotten out since.

By the time the politicians got society back to a place of scrabbling stability, the streetfighting that arose during the blackouts had become the nation’s most popular sport, quickly scooped off the streets by TV stations. Dramian watches her face scrunch in concentration as she throws feeble punches at his shining arms. It reminds him of the early days, watching a bunch of frail, dying people go at each other. Terrible television. SodaCola was the first to think of it, to gift fighters a branded bionic arm: an asset in a fight, a permanent logo, and much more resilient to the mist than flesh. The fights got nastier, quicker, and people were jumping into the ring in pursuit of a limb that wouldn’t atrophy.

That’s what she really needs. Mods, and soon, before she gets her face beat in. But first things first. Dramian sets her on a round of pushups, thinking through strategy. Strength training for now, and learning how to jab and pierce and make the most of her bony limbs. With a win or two, maybe they can get her an arm that can do some damage. A low grade sponsorship, probably, but something.

He runs her through intervals of punches and curl-ups till she’s red and soaked in sweat. She agrees to meet him back here on Thursday and leaves without another glance back. He feels something surge through his chest, but doesn’t quite know what it is. Sadness? Anger? He doesn’t like it, doesn’t want it, and he suddenly feels the urge to push her, push her harder than she’s ever known. To see her win, somehow. To see her look up at him, grateful, and smile. He wonders what that smile would look like.

He doesn’t find out. When she arrives Thursday, hair buzzed close to her skull, he feels his heart drop and makes the mistake of asking if she cut if off because he said he liked it. She gives him a look of such disgust that he almost steps back before telling him no, she cut it off so no one could grab it in her next match. Dramian stumbles through practice that day, sloppy with embarrassment as he holds the punching bag and works her through rounds. He skips his own training sessions for the rest of the week, glued to his laptop as he watches hours of recorded fights between level ones without mods, recording the takedowns and winning strategies. By their session on Tuesday, he has a full blown analysis.

Dramian talks her through his findings and they practice, going through evasive maneuvers to tire out an opponent, then rapidly cutting in with a blow at the neck, nose, ear, or throat. By the end of the day she’s exhausted but, Dramian thinks, not hopeless. She pauses after packing up her bag.

“Hey. Thanks for that. It was actually helpful.”

He bites the inside of his mouth for a moment to stop himself from smiling. “Well, yeah. This is my whole life. I better have a useful piece of advice or two.”

She nods, gives a little wave, and slips out of the gym. He watches the door slam shut. He has to admit it, even if it makes no sense: she’s caught his interest. It’s not like, as a local celebrity of sorts, he doesn’t have options. Options much shinier than this woman, her face still bruising greenish yellow. But for some inexplicable reason, that light in her eyes has stoked something inside of him that he can’t ignore. Whatever it is, he wants her. He wants to win her over. And he hasn’t lost in a long, long time.

They book out the next two weeks for practice, running through strategies for the opponent archetypes who may show up in the ring. They’ll probably be bigger, could be stronger and faster, but she can be trickier. Use their power against them. She doesn’t need to hit that hard if she hits them where it hurts the most.

He runs through mock scraps with her till she’s close to passing out, and he gets the feeling she’d drop to the floor before asking for a break. It’s quickly clear to Dramian that even without much in the way of things going for her, she’d do anything to win. He builds that into her strategy even as the thought makes him uneasy for reasons he can’t quite explain.

When the match finally comes, Dramian’s throat is too tight to squeeze words through. He stands next to her in the holding pen, counting down the seconds till she’s called into the ring. He’s trying not to look at her, trying not to worry about why he feels so worried. It’s anxiety that he hasn’t felt since he was first starting out, before he accepted the inevitability of the ring. She turns towards him abruptly.

“Hey, I… I wanted to thank you. For real. I don’t think… I didn’t expect you to care about this, not really. About me. But it means a lot. Thank you.”

He opens his mouth just as the buzzer sounds. The door slides open, beckoning her towards the ring. She nods at him and stalks forward, shoulders squared, fists balled at her side. He rushes around the perimeter back to the stadium-side box, light with hope. The way she looked up at him, that determination set deep in her eyes: she could win this. The odds aren’t with her, but really, she could.

She doesn’t. As soon as Dramian sees her opponent, it’s clear that she won’t. He’s nearly twice her size with shielded biceps, technically legal for a level one since the mods, while embedded in flesh, don’t do anything for hit power. She weaves and ducks till her face is scarlet, tries to sneak in a blow at the guy’s neck, but he gets in one solid punch that sinks into her stomach, sending her flying onto her back. She spits and splutters on the floor, trying to get up, but the referee counts down from 10 and the whole thing is over before she has a chance to touch the guy. Dramian taps his iron fingers together anxiously, the clicking inaudible over the roar of the crowd. Without mods, she doesn’t stand a chance, no matter how hard she scraps. She needs sponsors. Now.

A match like that would never get post-coverage, but it’s not just a couple low-power level ones. Dramian’s the mentor, after all. Dramian waits with the camera crew for her to peel herself off the floor of the ring and join him, watching her hunch over in pain then quickly straighten, walking a bit too stiffly to be convincing. The moment she joins his side, the reporters barrage Dramian with questions: how does it feel to coach a level one? Does it bring you back to your old days, starting out? Tell us more about what it was like being a child fighter during the blackouts? Finally, they turn to her. “As such a new fighter, it must have been quite the honor to be coached by a champion. Tell us more about what it was like working with Dramian?”

She smiles at Dramian, and he feels his heart skip a beat. She has little dimples when she smiles. He wouldn’t have guessed that. “It was incredible. I may have lost, but two weeks ago, I couldn’t even imagine that I’d be anywhere close to the streetfighter that Dramian has helped me become. He has such an insane amount of skill and knowledge, and he’s been so generous in sharing it with me.”

He sees her face crumpling up, nose wrinkling, and after a moment, a tear runs down her cheek. She takes both his hands in hers, and his heart slams against his ribs. He can almost feel the warmth of her skin through the sheen of metal covering his palms. “Things haven’t been easy for me. It’s hard to talk about, but… I have a lot riding on this. On winning. Everything riding on it, really. But I know Dramian can make me into a winner. If anyone can, it’s him.”

She looks up at him, black eyes sparkling under the spotlights, mouth slightly parted, expectant. He forgets about the cameras, forgets about the roar of the stadium behind them, already screaming for blood in the night’s next match. Desire coursing through him, he cups her head in both his hands and kisses her, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweet warmth of her mouth. He hears the reporters gasp, the incessant click of the cameras, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all.

The reporters are alight, bombarding them with questions about their relationship, but he takes her hand and pushes through the crowd, guiding them to the locker room. The moment the door closes she collapses onto a bench, arms hugged around her stomach as her face contorts in pain. Grimacing, she looks at him through half slit eyes.

“Sorry to lay it on so thick. But that’s my second loss. Two more and I’m out of the circuit for good. And let’s be real, we both know I don’t stand a chance without mods. Thanks for the kiss, though -- that was a great idea. If that doesn’t bring in a sponsorship, I don’t know what will.”

For a second, everything shifts out of focus. Dramian leans back against the lockers, feeling the soaring in his chest collapse into a tight knot behind his heart. He nods, avoiding eye contact.

“Sure. Yeah.”

The next day Dramian gets a call from his agent, who’s nearly slapping his back through the phone. Apparently the local news networks are picking it up like crazy, and some real estate company is sponsoring a forearm mod for her. Pretty quality stuff for an amateur, though now that she’s modded up she’ll be moved to the level two circuit. She’ll be paired with other newbies, sure, but one arm, even a very good one, doesn’t guarantee a win. His agent makes Dramian promise to give their training sessions his all, especially in the coming months before his own circuit starts up again.

“Just think about it, Dramian. A streetfighting power couple. You train that girl into a winner, we get her some shiny sponsorships and some makeup, the tabloids will be eating the two of you up. Maybe they’d make a reality TV show about it, for God’s sake. This is gold, Dramian. Keep it up.”

“Okay.”

Dramian hangs up the phone. Streetfighting power couple. It was one kiss. It was nothing, and as usual, his agent has no idea what he’s talking about. He feels his chest tighten with frustration and sinks into the couch, cradling his head in his hands. He should get to the gym, push his muscles till they scream. That always helps when he feels this way. But though it’s been weeks since he last trained, weeks since he’s done much at the gym besides get her into shape, his body begs him to stay in the cool darkness of his apartment. Suddenly exhausted, he lets himself fall back, staring at the ceiling. One more day before he gets back to it can’t hurt.

The next day he drags himself to the gym to meet her. By the time he arrives she’s already there, cautiously maneuvering her new forearm mod through slow punches. It gleams, bone-white under the fluorescents. Dramian crosses his arms, watching her impassively, until she finally notices him.

“Oh, hey! What’s on the docket for today?”

He shrugs. She jogs over to him, stretching and flexing the fingers of her sleek metal arm.

“This thing is powerful. Super powerful, I think, but I’ve been too nervous to really give it a go. I’ve been crushing mugs and my toothbrush and stuff by accident… how do I get used to it so I can fight with it?”

Dramian looks at her, her eyes bright and eager. His heart skips unpleasantly, and he breaks away from her gaze. “What you were doing seemed fine. Trying things out.”

She looks at him, head slightly cocked. “It didn’t feel fine. Every time I hit harder, I nearly fall over with the force of it. How did you figure out the balance with this thing?”

“Practice, I guess.” He crosses his arms, looking at the ground.

She stares at him for another moment, then steps forward, stroking his upper arm with her unmodified fingers. Or rather, stroking the thick iron encasing his upper arm, tracing over the SodaCola logo and lettering. She’s close enough that Dramian can smell her sweat, can see the little furrow in her forehead as she looks up at him through long, dark eyelashes. He never noticed how thick her eyelashes were, how they framed the wet darkness of her eyes.

“You’ve been wrapped up in these for so long. More than a decade, right? If anyone can help me go from nothing to crushing scraps with this arm, it’s you.”

Dramian pulls his eyes away from her again, silent. She slides her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, and onto his chest. He feels an electric tingle where her fingers press against the thin cotton of his shirt, feels them almost as if they’re brushing the skin itself. A warmth starts to fill his stomach, unknotting the tangles of sorrow and anger he hadn’t realized were there. She steps closer, her body pressing against his.

“Please, Dramian,” she says, softly. “I don’t think I can figure this out on my own. I need your help. Please.”

He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think at all, really, just instinctually sweeps her up so she’s straddling his waist and pulls her tight against him and kisses her. She folds into him, tiny in his bulky metal arms, and it’s a long time before he pulls back, a touch of hope fluttering through his chest. Her mouth curves into a half smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then?”

Dramian stares at her, blood rushing to his face. “Yes.”

They don’t spend much of that day training. Dramian guides her back to his apartment and they find other ways to occupy the afternoon, and much of the evening, too. Dramian blocks off another few weekly slots for training with her, deciding to cut out his own workouts entirely. He still has a couple months before returning to the ring, but she needs to get into winning shape, now.

He pushes her as hard as he ever pushed himself, letting her buckle under the barbells, crash to the ground with the momentum of her own punch, wheeze out bloody spit as she sprints endless intervals. The last one concerns him. She needs to get out of whatever hovel her family is living in, find an apartment that’s better sealed off from the mist that’s slicing up her insides like powdered glass. But that won’t happen without money. And money won’t happen without winning. So he works her through drill after drill, forcing the modded arm into her muscle memory.

She takes to it eagerly. Too eagerly, Dramian thinks. She nearly flips over when a punch doesn’t land, her small body caught up in extreme force that it can’t yet handle. Dramian focuses on accuracy, works her through keeping balance, and her tumbles become less and less frequent, her blows more targeted. In the leadup to her next match, they spend nearly all day at the gym, working through practice maneuvers. Dramian frowns, watching her dart around him. He’s done what he can. But is it enough?

Her next match, up against another newly christened level two with what looks like a pre-used arm mod, is barely a competition. She pounces forward, slamming the other woman in the ribs as her competitor clumsily tries to block the shot with a modded arm that she can hardly maneuver. The woman stumbles back, and she slams a blow into the side of her neck, sending her crashing against the plexiglass. She slides down, limp, onto the asphalt.

The referee starts counting down, the match is all but won, but Dramian sees her scanning the audience, eyes black and unreadable as the crowd swells with cheers. She slips forward, crouching to a knee, and uppercuts the woman, whose head lolls unnaturally backwards. The crowd goes wild as she waves at them, beaming. She ducks under the plexiglass bubble as soon as it starts to rise, folding into Dramian’s embrace as the other woman is pulled onto a stretcher. Dramian takes her gleaming arm between both of his shining hands.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

The sponsorships flow in after that. A complete left arm mod, two heavily motorized leg mods, and a slim fitting but fiercely powerful upper right arm. Almost as soon as the limbs are fitted onto her, Dramian has her doing drills, getting herself accustomed to her rapidly changing body. She’s modded up way above the skill level that any rookie should rightfully be able to reach. He’s never seen anyone get this sponsored this quickly, let alone with limbs so powerful. And it shows: she easily wins her next few fights.

There’s a few reasons for that, Dramian thinks. She’s getting trained by him; her mods are top-of-the-line; and for some reason, despite the power of her mods, her competition continues to be level two rookies that she can easily bash to pieces. That reasoning isn’t beyond his comprehension, though he tries hard not to think about it. The station knows that she pulls views. Not only is she the all time champ’s girlfriend, but an attractive woman whose eagerness to draw blood keeps throngs of men glued to streetfighting streams.

His stomach squirms at the thought of it, at the scoopnecked tank tops and blood red lipstick she’s been wearing to matches since her first level two win. He doesn’t know if it was his agent’s idea or hers, and he doesn’t ask, just makes sure to keep her metal fingers clasped between his whenever they’re out in public. He realizes that at some point between throwing punches at the gym and the hours spent wrapped around one another in bed, she’s become the most real thing in his life. And while he can’t keep people from looking, he can make sure they know that what they’re looking at is his.

He knows that the spoonfed opponents won’t last forever, and he pushes her even harder. Getting accustomed to that many mods, so much power in such a short period of time, just isn’t natural. He trains her nearly every day, and it shows. Even as her rivals become markedly less pathetic, she claws her way through win after win.

One day he’s at her match, idly watching her stomp on her opponent till the shell around their arm cracks, revealing the pale flesh below. Suddenly, something inside of him that he can’t quite place clenches with worry. That night, holding her close, he realizes what it was. His throat uncomfortably tight, he shifts position to look into her eyes.

“You know they won’t last forever. You know that, right?”

Her forehead furrows, confused. “What are you talking about, Dramian? What won’t last forever?”

He swallows. “The mods. Once your career is over…once you can’t fight anymore. Or once you can’t fight well enough to keep the sponsors interested. They’ll stop paying for your maintenance appointments. Or they’ll just decommission the limb.”

She looks at him, face unreadable. He feels his breath quickening, but continues anyway. “I’ve seen it happen to other guys, guys who were in it for years. Their muscles…they haven’t used them in so long that when they pry off the metal, you’re all that’s left. Just these thin, limp sticks.”

His heart is racing, now, filling his throat. “I can’t see that happen to you. I should have told you. Told you before you got all of these sponsors. I know it feels like it, but it won’t last forever.”

She holds his cheek in a cool metal hand and smiles at him, shaking her head slightly. “Dramian, did you really think I didn’t know that?”

He looks at her, confused, unsure what to say. She stares into the distance for a minute, then meets his eyes again.

“I’m taking care of my family now, and they’ll take care of me then. I’ve just got to stay in this long enough to pay off our mortgage, and to put something extra aside. Then, whenever it happens, I’ll have a bed to rest in. They’ll be fine and I’ll be fine.”

Dramian swallows, nodding. She looks at him, intently this time, something strangely soft in her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it more?”

He shakes his head. No.

They fall asleep. By the time he wakes up, she’s gone, headed across the city to film an advertisement for some new protein drink. Checking his phone, Dramian realizes with a start that it’s October 1st. In just a couple weeks, the level one circuit will start up again, and he can expect to get the dates of his next match any day now. The thought makes his head pound. In the thick of her trainings, he’d almost forgotten that he, too, would be returning to the ring.

He should get to the gym, he knows that. For the first time in over a decade he’s decidedly out of shape, and he needs to start making up for the months of training he missed to get her up to par. Instead of pulling himself out of bed, though, Dramian feels his arms yank the sheets back up to his chin. It’s still early, he tells himself. Still plenty of time to get to the gym today. A little more rest can’t hurt.

By the time he gets out of bed it’s past five, his head is aching and his stomach panging with hunger, and it’s nearly time to meet her for an early dinner. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, fists pressed into his eyes. He’s hungry, they have plans, and the noodle shop is right around the corner. But there’s something about today, some sickly dread in his chest that begs him to creep back under the warm sheets. With a grunt, he forces himself up, throws on clothes, slips on his poncho, secures his goggles in place, and walks out towards the elevator, slamming the door behind him.

Dramian gets there before her, grabbing a corner table and ordering for the two of them. He waits, clicking his fingers against the table. She’s late. He swallows a wave of frustration that borders on anger. She never used to be late. There wasn’t a single practice where she wasn’t there beforehand, waiting for him in the ring. Nowadays, though, it seems she’s always rushing to some promotional shoot or another, that he’s the one waiting on her. He toys with the fork, bending the tines in half, one by one.

Finally, she rushes in, kissing him on the cheek before settling into the booth across from him. She’s excited, face flushed, talking about some new mod that Electrolyte Lyfe will be sponsoring with a four-part promotional series. Dramian nods along as she explains, slowly unbending the fork. Their bowls arrive and they dig into them, falling into silence.

Dramian slurps up the noodles, feeling her eyes boring into him. He refuses to look up, scraping the bottom of the bowl with his spoon. She reaches across the table, resting an iron hand on his forearm.

“Dramian. What’s wrong?”

He shrugs, taking a gulp of water. “Nothing.”

She shakes her head at him. “Really? Come on. You’ve barely said a word this whole time.”

He stares down at the table, mouth twisted around swallowed words. Maybe he should tell her. Tell her that somehow, he’s not ready to go back into the ring. Not yet. He just… he just can’t. But how can he tell her something like that, something that fills him with queasy shame to even think about? How could she look at him, Dramian ‘Crusher’ Couts, the same after that? He forces himself to meet her eyes, to look into the concern knitting her brow together. Maybe she would understand. If anyone would, wouldn’t it be her?

He hears someone clear their throat and looks up. It’s the waiter, standing there apologetically with the bill. Dramian grabs his card and taps it against the iPay, which flashes red. Frustrated, he taps it another time. The machine flashes red again, beeping shrilly. Unauthorized transaction. Unauthorized transaction. Dramian slams his palm against the table, sloshing broth out of her bowl.

“Can’t you get this damn thing to work? We don’t have all night.”

The waiter squints at the iPay screen, then looks down at Dramian, not quite meeting his eyes. “Um... it, um, says the account is overdrawn. Do you, um... do you have another card?”

She slips a card from her purse and hands it to the waiter, smiling. “Just use this one, please.”

Dramian feels his heart racing and knots his hands into fists under the table. It’s nothing he didn’t already know, he reminds himself. Things get tight between seasons. They always have. But the new season starts in just a couple weeks, and with it the guarantee of a paycheck. Ducking out of the ring wasn’t an option before. On some level, he must have known that. And it sure as hell isn’t an option now.

They walk out of the restaurant in silence. Out front, there’s a man curled on a square of cardboard in the shelter of an abandoned storefront. Dramian hadn’t even noticed him on the walk here. Now, though, he stops to stare, eyes skating over the man’s pockmarked clothes and scaley, mist-ravaged skin. He feels a yank on his sleeve.

“Dramian, what are you doing? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He lets her pull him away, lets her walk him down the street back towards his apartment.

“Please, just tell me what’s wrong. Things have been off with you lately, I can tell. And why didn’t you tell me you were having money problems?”

He looks away. “I’m fine. And it’s not a big deal. Season’s starting up soon, so I’ll get paid in not too long.”

She takes a deep breath. “I deserve to know what’s happening with you, Dramian. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Dramian shrugs. “Nothing.”

She sighs and pivots, walking away down the street. Dramian lunges forward, grabbing her by the shoulder.

“Hey! Hey, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me. Want to come up and hang out for a bit? I’ve barely seen you this week… I miss you.”

She crosses her arms. “Can’t. I’ve got more training tonight. There’s a couple practice spars I set up with some of the other girls.” She looks up at him intently. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get back in the gym, either, with your season starting up so soon.”

Chest tight, he says nothing. She stretches onto her tiptoes, pulling herself up to kiss him on the cheek.

“Well, I should get going. I can come over tomorrow, later in the evening. Just text me.”

Dramian watches her slip away into the darkening night. She’s right. But somehow, getting back into shape doesn’t feel particularly urgent. His chest feels heavy, his mind sluggish, and he wants more than anything to turn it all off. To rest. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow he’ll get back on it. Tomorrow, though, becomes an easily extendable prospect.

By the time his agent calls to let him know he’s booked for a season-opening match next week, Dramian feels a flat kind of peace. He’s rid of that strange illusion that he has some kind of control over whether or not he gets in the ring this fall. He reminds himself that his mods are top-of-the-line, that he has more than a decade of muscle memory and an undefeated track record in the level three circuit. She may need to constantly train, but she’s new and inexperienced, clumsy with the power of her mods. He’s anything but that.

On the day of the match, the stadium is bursting, the crowd stomping their feet and singing along to corporate anthems so loudly that his ears ring. He remembers what his agent told him as he half-listened on the phone, that it’s not just Dramian’s first time back, it’s the first match of the level three circuit this season. He’s the opener, and in return for his celebrity status they’ve given him a softball: Sammy 'Sweet Hands’ Swanson, a newly christened level three with a weak guard and a stringy goatee. The guy doesn’t stand a chance.

Dramian’s agent ushers him to the press box where she’s waiting, laughing with some reporter. Dramian feels a pang of jealousy and puts his arm around her waist. She folds into him, smiling for the cameras as Dramian stares stoically ahead. This close to the match, it’s best to shut down as much of his mind as possible.

The buzzer sounds. Five minutes till the match. He kisses her, nods at the cameras, and marches towards the ring. Sammy Sweet Hands is already there, waggling his ice-white metal fingers at Dramian from across the ring. Dramian stretches, looking at Sammy impassively.

The plexiglass bubble begins to lower itself, then grinds to a halt onto the asphalt floor. This is when it all clicks into place, when that magnetic thrill courses through him, when thought becomes redundant as his mind and body lock into an undeniable harmony. He waits for it to happen, for his muscles to automate into the deadly machine he’s spent over a decade becoming. He blinks, hard, but that electric feeling doesn’t come. In its place, he feels only a bleary fogginess that he’s spent the last three months concertedly trying to ignore.

Dramian feels his breath quicken, sweat starting to drip down his forehead. He searches for her in the stadium-side box. She’s already staring at him, her face twisted in concern. The buzzer sounds, and he realizes that this is going to be bad.

Very bad.

He moves to take a defensive posture, but months without practice and that dull film over his mind have deadened his reflexes. Something slams into the side of his head, sending him skidding across the asphalt. Dramian lies, half dazed, his skull pounding with pain. He rolls over, starts to pull himself up, but feels a kick to his chest that knocks the breath out of him, and he crashes back to the ground. Then Sammy is on top of him, straddling him, a look of incredulous triumph alight in his eyes.

Dramian’s body aches and he tries to channel that pain into clarity, wills his muscles to remember their years of training. He twists under Sammy, throws a blow towards him with all his strength, but Sammy easily dodges it. For the first time that he can remember, Dramian’s pain doesn’t feel like relief, doesn’t make him feel alive or clear. It hurts, gnaws at him with an overwhelming and crushing despair. Dramian feels a tear leak out of his eye. Sammy Sweet Hands stares down at him in disbelief.

“You’re washed up, dude.”

And that’s the last thing Dramian hears before the previously undefeated champion gets knocked cold.

By the time his mind has slipped back into his body, he’s somehow in his own bed. He watches through slitted eyelids as she stares down at him, a strange look on her face. Worried, but tinged with something else. Disappointment? Dramian reaches towards her and immediately wishes he hadn’t, pain clenching through his chest. He moans, softly.

Her voice is flat. “Fractured ribs. The doctor said not to move too much if you can help it. It’ll be at least a few weeks before you can even think of getting back in the ring.”

Dramian scrunches his eyes shut. If he can fall back asleep, maybe none of this will have happened. He doesn’t lose. Losing is unbelievable, unprecedented. Impossible.

He moves to hoist himself up to a sitting position, but his left arm drags against the sheets. He twists at the shoulder, pain searing through his chest, but the arm just hangs there limply. Dramian feels his breath catch.

“They didn’t… they wouldn’t have…”

She gazes down at him, her eyes bright and hard. “They did. Left a voicemail a few hours ago, when you were still out. They pulled the sponsorship after last night’s match. Effective immediately, I guess.” She pauses, her lips pursed together. Dramian’s head is pounding and he closes his eyes again, willing sleep to carry him back off.

“Hey, don’t freak out. I’m sure someone else will sponsor you -- you lost one match, but you’re still a local celebrity.” Her voice is softer now, Dramian thinks. Comforting, and entirely unconvincing.

He hears her walk away, turn on the faucet, slip a glass of water onto his bedside table.

“I have to get going or I’m definitely going to be late. I have an upgrade appointment for the legs across town, but I should be back by later this afternoon. I can bring us something to eat. Is there anything you want in particular?”

Dramian opens his eyes, squinting at her. “Upgrade appointment? Didn’t they just boost your legs a couple weeks ago?”

She bites her lip, averting his gaze. “Yes, but… well, last night, before you got there… I got the news. They’re knocking me up to level three. The official press conference will be Monday. But some of my sponsors want to make cosmetic mods before then. You know. For the TV.” She tries smiling at him, the corners of her lips inching up stiffly. “Guess we’re in the same circuit now, right?”

He looks at her, his head suddenly aching so much that his vision shakes.

“Good. Congrats.”

She squeezes his arm then turns away abruptly, rushing out the door. He grabs the remote and turns the TV on, ramps the volume up high enough that it extinguishes any remnants of thought.

Dramian spends the next four weeks that way, flooding the apartment with the blaring of the TV when she’s gone. He doesn’t hear from any of his sponsors, but he does get a letter from his landlord. The rent is two weeks late; two more weeks and he’ll be up for eviction. She pays it, quietly, and then all but moves in. She’s worried about him, Dramian can tell. And the gym is much closer to his place, the walls more insulated from mist than her family’s duplex. It’s mutually beneficial.

The moment his ribs start to ache less he calls his agent, sets up a fight with a low level three. He needs to get a win on the books, crush one guy, and then he’s sure he can scramble back to the way things were. He ignores her warnings that he’s not healed enough yet, that he still hasn’t trained in months, that he should wait just a little bit more. She won’t be at the match, anyway, she’s got some poster signing event, and Dramian snarls back that he doesn’t need advice from an amateur. She blinks at him.

“Your choice. Good luck, then.”

As it is, she’s wrong. He doesn’t lose the match because of the shrieking pain in his ribs or his stuttering form. It’s his decommissioned left arm that sinks him. Thirty pounds of dead weight pulling him off balance as he tries to dodge, weave, and punch -- even his clumsy, inexperienced opponent manages to pin him down. By the time she gets home that evening he’s sitting on the floor of the shower, letting the water wash streams of blood off his swollen face.

“It didn’t go so well, then?”

He shakes his head. No.

She helps him up off the floor, hands him a towel. Dramian wraps his right arm around her, squeezing her tight. He feels something dark and desperate wriggling in his chest. What next? What next? What next?

She pulls back, tilting her head at him. “Did you say something?”

Dramian swallows. “No. Just… I love you. I hope you know that.”

Her lips twist into a surprised smile. “Well, I knew you liked me a whole lot. But that’s good to hear, Dramian. Thank you.”

He reaches for his shirt, struggling to pull his limp left arm through the sleeve. She rushes to help him and he steps back, suddenly irritated.

“I’m fine. I can do it myself.”

She shrugs, walking back out towards the kitchen. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m really pumped about how the promo went today. It was supposed to be the last shoot of the series, but they want to set up a whole other shoot for a different product!” She flexes her arm, pretending to kiss the metal muscle. “It’s gonna be a pretty sweet payout, all in all.”

He follows her out to the kitchen, watching her eyes brighten with excitement as she smiles at him expectantly. His mind, though, darkens with resentment, a black anger surging in the back of his throat.

“You know that you’re just getting all this attention because you’re a girl, right?”

She crosses her arms, forehead furrowing.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Dramian shrugs. “All these promos. Getting boosted up to level three so quickly. The soft opponents they’ve been giving you. Look, you’ve gotten pretty good. But you think some guy would’ve gotten half the opportunities you get? Honestly, I assumed you knew.”

Dramian watches her eyes flash. He steps forward, putting a hand on her waist.

“Look, you’re hot, and it’s working for you. I’m glad, don’t get me wrong.”

She slaps his hand off and takes a step back.

“I think you need to leave.”

Dramian raises an eyebrow. “This is my apartment.”

She half laughs. “Oh, is it? I guess I missed when you were secretly paying this and last month’s rent.”

He smacks the wall so hard a puff of plaster sifts down from the ceiling. “You can’t just ask me to leave my own home.”

She steps forward, her hands curling into shining fists. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Get. Out.”

Scoffing, Dramian turns around. “Whatever. Fine.”

He starts towards the door when his right arm starts to hum. It whirs gently, clicks, and goes silent, falling to his side. He tries to grab the handle, but the arm doesn’t even shudder, just swings limply at his side, a useless hunk of metal enshrining flesh that hasn’t had to move on its own for years. He swings his body, trying to get either arm to reach the door, but they just thunk uselessly against the wood. He hears her slowly walk towards him.

His voice is barely a whisper. “I guess SodaCola must have pulled out. After tonight’s match.” He pauses. “You’ll have to… I can’t open the door. Can you… can you open it?”

She looks at him, and Dramian would rather disappear than spend another minute awash in the pity filling her eyes.

“It’s fine. You can stay.”

That part of his insides that’s been slowly splintering finally cracks. He closes his eyes, sinks to the floor, tries and fails to cover his face with his useless arms. She’s talking to him, maybe, but all he can hear is his heart, slamming blood through his useless body. She’s touching his face, pushing back his hair, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly shut. Opening them would make all of this real.

After what feels like forever, he hears her walk away. He gets up, stumbles to the couch, half tripping over the weight of his decommissioned arms. He lets himself lie down and collapse into sleep. When he wakes up, there’s a blanket over him and a glass of water with a straw on the side table. He burrows his face into the cushions. Worse than even this would be to see her seeing him.

She leaves plates of food by his side for the next week as he sinks into the couch, keeping his back concertedly to her. When she leaves, he eats, sticking his face into the plate, his mind in such a dense fog that he barely feels the shame clenching through his chest. She leaves him be, mostly, which he knows is a gift, one that fills him with sickly gratitude. A week later, when she places her hand gingerly on his back, he winces with surprise.

“Dramian…I’ve got to go. I have my first match in the level three circuit tonight. Crazy, right? It’s the big leagues now.” She pauses, her voice strained. “I just thought… I thought you’d want to know.”

She waits for him to say something. She must know, on some level, that he won’t. Dramian lies there, frozen in silence. After a minute he hears her softly cross the room and slip out of the apartment.

For a moment everything is blank. Then he feels himself swivel at the hips, yanking himself into a sitting position. He rises, nearly losing balance and toppling over, but catches himself against the wall. The door is trouble, but he manages to slip the lock open with his mouth, push the handle down with his chin, and it swings open. By the time he’s outside the building his whole body heaves with the effort of lifting his dead arms, and he remembers that he’s entirely exposed to the mist. It stings against his face with acidic little pricks, and he smiles to himself. At least pain feels good again.

Dramian shuffles along the street towards the stadium, his direction sure. He feels his phone ring in his pants pocket. Instinctively, he lurches to grab it before remembering the useless shell around his arm. Unbothered, he continues forward. Soon he can see the jumbotron in the near distance, live streaming the fight to the thronging crowd gathered outside the stadium. Breath ragged over shards of mist-laden air, he staggers forward as quickly as he can.

Finally, he’s close enough to the jumbotron that it casts a warm glow against his face. Then he hears that soft humming, that brief whir, and he slams backwards onto the ground. Dramian realizes in an instant that his legs, too, have been decommissioned. He’s more worried, though, that he now can’t see the screen above the crush of bodies gathered to watch the match. Desperately, he wriggles and skinches his way across the cement, contorting his torso to drag his massive iron limbs. He gasps with exhaustion, sweat streaming down his face.

By the time he gets to a shadowy corner in the back of the viewing area, his shirt is shredded and his chest scraped raw from the pavement. Using his last gasp of energy, he writhes his way up to a sitting position, leaning against the chain link fence. Desperately, his eyes lock onto the jumbotron. Did he make it in time?

He did.

The dome is lowering and she’s standing there, a tiny smile on her lips and her eyes shining. The stadium roars as she pumps her gilded arm towards them, and the crowd outside screams so loud Dramian swears he can feel the air vibrating. She looks at the camera, her gaze so intense that Dramian knows it can only be him. She’s looking at him, and her eyes are dark and determined and utterly, undeniably alive.

He looked like that once, he thinks. More blindly determined than he ever had a right to be. Caught up in the unquestionable and irrevocably necessary illusion that it would last forever. He cranes his neck forward, staring into the screen. She’s turned away, squaring into an offensive stance as the timer ticks down the final seconds before her match.

The mist is burrowing into the soft and unprotected flesh of his face, thin rivulets of blood trickling from innumerable tiny wounds. He tries to wipe the blood from his stinging eyes, but neither arm budges. The twists of his atrophied flesh shudder under their glittering coats of metal. Squinting through the fog of red, he drinks in one last look at her. She’s perfect, shining, strong.

Maybe she’ll be the one who lasts forever, he thinks.

Maybe she really will.