Val gasped awake, cold sweat rolling down her forehead. Her eyes darted left and right, trying to examine her surroundings. It was all too familiar, but there was something covering her left eye that made it all the more harder to work out. What the hell was it? She felt around—it was soft, like fabric soft.

Bandages? It was the first thought that came to her mind. Her head ached as if somebody had hammered her with nails. A figure was next to the bed, slumped down on the sheets next to her. A familiar figure…

“Coach?” she croaked. Her throat was so damn sore. “Is that you?”

“Val?” He stirred from his slumber. “Are you fine?”

“What… happened?”

“It’s alright, lass. Take a rest.”

“Coach, what happened?” She could feel her heart beating a little faster. Her eyes started to water. “The fight. What happened to the fight?”

She clenched her teeth hard; her hands balled into tight fists. She already knew the answer. She knew the moment she had woken up. The events of the fight immediately started playing on repeat. The moment of the punch, the fall…

Coach softly held her hand, tenderly rubbing her palm to the pitter-patter rhythm of the drizzling rain outside. His face was taut, pulled thin by his expression—he was as frustrated as she was.

The steady drops of rain couldn’t manage to soothe her enough. She could feel something soaking through her bandages.

Stop it. She didn’t deserve to cry. What had she done right to deserve that? She pinched herself in the arm; the pain would temporarily distract her from the moment. And instead, she focused on the storm. That torrential downpour outside…

“Here. Take one.” Coach pulled out a small pill from the drawer.

A nutrient pill. It was replacement for food.

“And this.” He pulled out a few more and held them out. A bottle of water was already on the bedside table beside her. “For your injuries.”

Painkillers… She reached over but fumbled, accidentally scattering them away. The drugs clattered to the floor. The same way she had thrown her chance away—a chance of a lifetime, a chance of redemption…

“Ah, that’s fine. I got it.” Coach leaned over. “You’ll have to get used to that.”

“What?”

“Your eye. You’re lackin’ peripherals, lass.”

“Right.” Her left eye was gone.

“Here.” The pills were gently placed in her palm this time. There was no chance of dropping them.

She had a split second of hesitation—an invasive thought to just throw them all away. What good would all these pills do anyways? It wouldn’t turn back time; it wouldn’t even help her feel any better. Maybe she deserved to feel all this pain… But she shook the thoughts away and steadied herself, then swallowed the colorful assortment with a single gulp of water.

“It’s my fault, lass. I knew we should’ve waited.”

“No.” Her nails bit into her palms. She wanted to scream. Loudly. She couldn’t stand her pitiful state. “I could’ve won. If I just—just…”

“It’s not your fault.”

The feeling didn’t ebb; she couldn’t take it. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry so much. It felt like maggots were crawling through her skull, chewing and ripping away at her. She tried to forget—the loss, the anger, Beady, everything that she had done wrong. But it kept coming back. It kept pouring back like the rain.

“I should’ve trained you more for clin—”

She jumped out of bed. She couldn’t take it anymore.

“Val?”

She hobbled forward, heaving herself towards the backdoor. Her legs ached, her arms were a mess. And her left eye throbbed, ebbing and flowing like an old, unforgettable nightmare that constantly haunted her entire being.

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“Val! It’s raining!”

Then she stumbled out into the pouring rain and screamed—a wild, visceral scream that was muted by the deafening roars of thunder. She screamed and screamed until her throat was sandpaper. She yelled as if her life depended on it. Then she fell to her knees, smashed her fists into the mud. Smashed away all her frustrations… until her tears would stop falling…

The dizziness returned, and she finally felt herself slipping away—back into the abyss, back where she belonged.

…

“Beady…”

Bits of glass shards littered the floor from the mercenary attack; the door was ajar, unhinged at the top. And in the corner, above all the dust and rubble, was Beady’s urn resting on top of a shelf.

Val was back at her old shack.

She hadn’t been here since she’d started boxing. Several years since. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten. Far from it. Beady was always on her mind whether she’d liked it or not, but it didn’t change the fact that she’d lost.

She couldn’t take him back. How could she? How could she take him away when she had nothing to offer in return? Maybe she deserved it—she deserved to lose. Being Champion was just an excuse. Would that ever equate to showing Beady the world? Would that ever bring back the dead?

It was her fault. All her fault from beginning to end. She couldn’t win, she couldn’t save Beady, she couldn’t even do one thing in her life right. If only she had another chance. If only she could turn back time, save Beady, and have that dreamy future where everything had gone right…

But she knew that wasn’t possible.

Now wasn’t the time to take Beady’s urn. Not until she felt like she had done enough, experienced enough, and suffered enough. She had to take responsibility for her actions; she had to repent for her mistakes. And for that to happen, she needed to keep going. She couldn’t stop just yet.

The small shack would always be there; it was paid in full under her name. As long as no stragglers went about rummaging through her belongings, the urn was safe within the dilapidated, but enclosed abode of hers. With her dwindling funds, she’d fix the door, board up the windows. She’d make the place look like an uninteresting garbage dump—a dilapidated hovel of a place. Nobody would pay it any mind. And once she’d finally paid the price, she’d be back.

Later.

…

Coach pulled an arm off the wall and cleaned out the accumulated dust. It was a detailed, intricately designed steampunk-styled cybernetic from his past. He had told Val that it had eventually gone out of style over time. People wanted more efficiency, not aesthetics. At the moment, it had been decorating the room like a modern art piece from one of those fancy museums across the city.

Since he was a punksmith and a former black market arms dealer, he had a hobby of collecting and refurbishing artificial body parts that he’d picked up from the junkyard nearby. Said something along the lines of having wanted to make a cybernetic framework for himself when he was young, replacing body parts for a taller and more robust physique to accomplish his dreams of competing in the ring.

That never happened.

Instead, he started collecting as a hobby and ended up twiddling with used, mechanical components. Apparently, fixing and handling the parts that he had dreamed of using for himself actually relieved some of that pent-up stress he had accumulated over the decades…

Coach groaned as he pulled another artistic display arm off the wall. Then he packed it tightly into his duffel bag. He took a third—a leg this time—and placed it firmly inside too.

“Coach?” Why was he packing everything up? The nervousness in her voice didn’t leave her; it crept up into her throat. “W-what are you doing?”

“Here.” He walked over to the bed and handed over a keycard. It was the key to the gym. “I’ll be gone for a bit—”

“What? No, no, no!” She pushed the card back into his hand. “What the fuck are you saying? You-you can’t leave!”

“What?”

“Don’t leave!” She grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Lass, I have to go. I already—”

“Why now?!” Was she not good enough to fulfill his promise? Did he not believe in her anymore? “I-I’ll win next time! I promise—”

“Val!” He dropped the bag on the floor. The components clinked and clanked in disharmony. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m just visitin’ Greg to sell some stuff.”

“Gambit Greg?” That trash collector? “What? You’re not… leaving for good?”

“No? What made you think that?”

“Oh…” Her grip on him loosened. “Oh, I thought—wait, but isn’t that important?”

“This junk?” He held up the bag full of cybernetics. “It ain’t much except decorations. What else would we use it for?”

“But, I thought…” She didn’t understand. Why so suddenly? She’d thought those cybernetics were extremely valuable to Coach. “Didn’t you say you wouldn’t throw any of them away?”

“Ya want that eye fixed or not?”

“My eye?” She felt around her bandages, reminded again of her loss. She batted the thought away. “You’re not going to make enough for this.”

“Hah!” Coach bellowed. “Ain’t for the eye.”

“But you just said—”

He slowly made his way towards the backdoor, duffel bag in hand. “They’re for buyin’ SHAMs.”

“Shams…?”

“Simulation Helmet with Archived Memory.” He grunted at the mention of the full name. “It’s just some fancy term for the gear used to log into Simular.”

“Simular?” She’d heard about it before. Some sort of high-tech simulation that had been popular all the way back when she’d left her parents. “Isn’t that some video game shit? Why’re you selling that”—she pointed at the bag—“for that?”

“Hah! Trust me.” He pulled open the door to the back. The humid, afternoon breeze rushed in like a tidal wave. “You’ll see. I’ve got a plan of a lifetime!”