I had known full well what was going to happen even before I stepped into the ring. There was absolutely no question that I had to lose. Be that as it may, the abstract notion of throwing a fight was worlds away from the crushing knowledge that I had willingly chosen to let down everyone who had supported me this far. My trainers were basically decent people, some of whom seemed to genuinely sympathize with and support me, and I knew that they would be surprised and probably somewhat worried by the results. None of this was improved by the fairly substantial amount I drank before the fight to ease along the process of losing.
My head hurt, half from the alcohol and half from being hit. A few other places hurt, too, although not too badly. Nothing more than a few bruises and a cut on my face. Losing such a mismatched fight had essentially meant choosing not to defend myself for a few minutes before choreographing a "mistake" to allow a hold that would "force" me to end the fight or face a broken leg. Not defeating such a useless fighter took a great deal of work.
All of this tumbled through my mind over and over again as I wearily made my way to the locker room. The short, subdued exchanges with a few trainers and a somewhat dejected gang representative seemed to run together and drain away in an instant. I might as well have not been there. The reality of what I had done continued to sink further and further in, dragging me down to depths of despair, a place where I felt I essentially belonged. Even if I had had no other options, everything felt wrong.
The door shut as the last trainer left, leaving me alone, bandaged, and thoroughly angry with myself. This sort of powerlessness was entirely new to me. A few words from one person, one woman, and I threw away a great deal of reputation, plenty of money, and, more importantly, my self-respect. Collapsing onto a bench, I let out something resembling a growl, too exhausted with myself to bother wording anything.
"My, my. Some of that looks quite painful... how does it feel?"
That voice was the last thing I wanted to hear right now. I stood and spun to face it, common sense already forgotten. She had prodded a wounded bear, and I was in no condition to let any further wounds to my pride pass unchallenged, life and death be damned. If her gang was going to kill me, I would take her first. That was all that mattered.
She was not hard to find, even in the shadows of the dimly lit room. The same powerful figure, this time concealed beneath a down coat and baggy combat pants. The same sunglasses, and the same maddening, supremely confident smile beneath them. A long brown ponytail was the only feminine touch, but it did nothing at all to dull the edge of pure, deadly power that she radiated.
"Happy to see me?"
Had she not said anything, I might have at least stopped to consider my response, planning at least a punch or two. No such luck. I charged like a rabid dog, roaring at the top of my lungs, loud enough that the words hurt my throat coming out.
"Fuck you! Fuck you, you smug cunt!"
I was angry and tired enough that I barely even saw the face I threw my fist at, driven by every last bit of power I could muster. My technique was downright pathetic, and I knew it. Sheer frustration and rage had wiped away years of hard training. All I wanted to do was to hurt her, to fight back, to make her feel some of the pain she'd forced on me.
In a way, the fact that my knuckles never connected failed to come as a surprise. Deep down, I knew I was wasting my time and probably throwing my life away to boot. Anyone with a shred of common sense, let alone training, could have sidestepped me. She went the extra mile. In a flash of bright metal, my wrist was trapped in cold steel. Her laugh was even more icy than the handcuff.
"Bad move, Champ."
I had no time to react. She kicked my knee in from behind, pulling my other wrist and cuffing my hands together behind my back. Already tired muscles protested the sudden twist, and I winced a little at the pain.
"I'm sure I can expect an apology, right? After all, that was really rather rude of you."
The needles of mockery didn't instill any more rage. The cuffs had made it very clear that, once again, I had lost and she had won. My body, my strength, everything I had worked for was useless now. Once again, I was defeated.
