A Holy Place

Another night, another fight. He’d seen the messages go out across the board, and heard the talk about it in the usual places. A date, a time and a place. That was all any of those who were walking the path of combat needed. As he pulled up on his bike, he saw the gathering crowd entering the building. It was some abandoned industrial building in Neo Tokyo, one of dozens of identical places from the outside. Walking in, there was an excitement in the air, and more than a touch of primal desire for blood that follows many spectators of events such as this. The crowd was full of people, from the idle rich who wanted a walk on the wild side of things, to young fighters getting a look at what awaited them if they should so choose. A few of the truly old timers stood around, reliving the old days, or perhaps looking for a promising fighter to take on as a student.
 
“I’d like to enter.” Roland said as he approached what passed for the event desk.
 
“Twenty credits, and your fighting name.” The bored elf said, clearly having been through this many times tonight, and untold number in the days before this.
 
Roland slid the cred stick over. “Roland.”
 
The elf look up at him, clearly annoyed or thinking that someone was just fucking with him and he didn’t have the time or patience for such things. “I said your fighting name, not your actual name.”
 
Roland chuckled, a little heat coming to his cheeks, flushing them a dark green as he scratched the back of his neck. “Don’t have one yet.”
 
“So, just make one up.” The elf stated as if it were the most obvious fact.
 
“Nah, I’d rather earn one the right way.”
 
The elf stared at him for a little longer, then shrugged, signing a sheet with the letter R. “Fine. I don’t truly care. Walk around, don’t cause trouble, and no fighting unless you’re in the circle. Break the rules and you’ll be tossed out and blacklisted. Got it?”
 
“Absolutely! Thanks.” Roland gave him a nod but the elf just waved it off as another fighter came in behind him. He’d done this dozens and dozens of times, slowly getting ever better, but he still refused to follow what so many others did and just pick a name for himself. His father had a name. Warchild he’d been called. And just like his father, he wouldn’t take a name, he’d be granted one by fate or go without one.
 
In the very center of this abandoned building, on a floor of dirt compacted so hard it might as well have been concrete, was a large circle outlined in a thick rope. Inside the rope, it was a different world that might as well have been on the other side of the planet as far as Roland was concerned. Outside of it you had everyone, from the most honorable to the most corrupt, from good people to punks who want nothing but to harm people for the laugh. But inside, inside that circle was a place as sacred to Roland as any church had been in the old world. Because that was where two warriors met, and tested themselves. Inside there, nothing else mattered, just the thrill of the fight, the feel of blow and counter, block and dodge. For those like him, inside that circle was the closest to heaven they’d get.
 
There were no weight divisions, there were no skill divisions. If you entered your name and stepped inside, you accepted whatever hand you were dealt. You could have someone who was having their first time opposed by a veteran of twenty years. It was rare but it happened. The honorable fighters would take the opportunity to give the newbie a taste of true combat, while also teaching them valuable lessons. The dishonorable ones, they’d utterly destroy the weaker person, guaranteeing that they’d be sent to the hospital with all kinds of injuries. Most of us did not like those fighters, and delighted in the chance to show them their cruelty didn’t mean they’d win every fight. That some of us could, and would, fight back harder then them.
 
Roland heard his name being called, or at least his letter. He walked to the edge of the circle next to the cybered human doing the announcements, his voice easily booming above the crowd. “I’m R. And I’m ready.”
 
The announcer just nodded and then called for his opponent. “Zephyr, to the circle to face your challenge!” With a grace that spoke of either exceptional training, or very expensive enhancements, a lithe human woman took her place next to the announcer. “Fighters, enter the circle when you are ready.” Zephyr stepped in without hesitation. Roland slipped out of his jacket, his tanktop underneath tight against his chest, showing his well earned physicality. Leaving the jacket at the edge of the circle he stepped inside, and as if by magic, everything else faded away. Beyond the edge of the circle was nothing but noise, quickly tuned out into silence. Where outside was controlled chaos, inside was harmony, and anticipation. Roland and Zephyr met in the middle of the circle, right arms in front and crossed across their chests. They crossed arms and nodded to each other accepting each other in this holy place. They stepped back from each other, outside of striking range. The announcer cried out “Hajime!” and the fight started.
 
She blurred, moving far faster than he expected. Two shots straight to the stomach and one across the jaw sent Roland to the ground before he could blink. Distantly he heard the crowd cheering. He picked himself up off the floor, a fire burning in his heart, and a smile to his face. This is why he’s here, this is what he wants. Steel sharpens steel his dad kept telling him. She was nearly as strong as him, however she outclassed him in speed. He looked over at her and her face gave away nothing, but her eyes, they glowed with the same fire that burned in him. He took up his stance again, and as Bruce Lee had done in the movies, he beckoned her over.
 
The fight sent fire through his blood, as they traded blows. More than once they sent each other to the floor, only to get right back up and get back to it. She was good, very very good. But Roland was just slightly better. For every punch or kick he got in, she got two on him, the only thing saving him being her lack of strength. But enough hits would bring down even the largest fighter, and both knew they were approaching their limit. Zephyr came at him, and he saw the opening, one that was only there because of the exhaustion that clawed at her. He spun, building up force, and let the kick fly out, catching her straight in the stomach. He didn’t hold back, she would have considered it an insult at this point, as would he. The force sent her flying several feet back, to land sliding across the ground.
 
As Roland recovered and let his leg down to go back into his stance, it buckled, sending him to his knee. Then he felt it, or didn’t feel it. His entire leg had gone numb. That’s when he realized what she’d done, a hell of a gamble. She took the hit, betting she could, and that gave her the chance to punch her knuckles into some of the nerves on his inner thigh. His leg would be practically useless for at least the next five to ten minutes. He looked up at her and saw she was in somewhat the same shape. She’d taken his hit, but he’d hit her hard enough that it bent some of the metal of her cybernetics, forcing her to be partly bent forward. However, he knew how this fight had ended. They’d both gambled, but she’d won. Even damaged as she was, she was still fast enough to get behind him and take him out. And he couldn’t move fast enough to counter with a dead leg.
 
Laughing in pure joy he raised his hand as high as it would go, then slapped the floor three times, the gesture of yielding. Zephyr was grinning from ear to ear as well, though her breaths were much shallower than his due to the damage. She came over to him and offered a hand, helping him up. Noise from outside the ring started filtering in, the otherworld holy place coming back into alignment with mundane reality. Cheering was loud, as were curses. But none of that mattered to him. At that moment, what mattered is he faced a truly amazing fighter, who took him to the very edge, and taught him a valuable lesson. And then, offered a shoulder to him so that he could walk out of the circle, his head held tall.
 
He bent to pick up his jacket and they moved over to an empty bench where Roland could be sat down. There they drank water, and talked about the fight, sharing what each saw and what each did. They were oblivious to the stares of angry patrons who likely lost money on this match. But in the end, they didn’t matter, they were spectators, not fighters. Not warriors. They watched other fights go on until both felt able to move better. Afterwards, they said their goodbyes, Roland heading out before things ended and the crowds made leaving difficult. Back on his bike and riding home carefully, a joy filled him so completely, as only this one thing can.