(Strive 10:8)
I kicked off the ground to run at Artem as he refreshed his Harden spell with a twitch of his fingers. The inferno around me blurred my vision, and through it, Artem’s own aura made him dark and indistinct. It was a shame that I wouldn’t get to see his expression when I kicked his teeth in.
I swung a fist at him, and he didn’t even bother to block, tanking the blow on his wide chest. I had a moment to gape in surprise before he backhanded me across the arena, my body skittering across the roof like a stone on a pond. Five skips, I thought. Impressive.
As I lay there looking up at the burning sky, Artem said something I couldn’t understand and laughed. With a start, I realized that my translator earpiece fizzed and crackled a few feet away from me, utterly broken. That wasn’t good. I’d have to get another one somewhere.
Artem’s strength clearly far outstripped mine, so attacking head-on wouldn't work. There was, however, one way in which I might have the advantage. I groaned and pushed myself to my feet.
His shadowy figure put out a hand and beckoned. This time, when I rushed at him, I didn’t punch—I went low and wrapped my arms around his torso.
He seemed to be confused why someone half his weight would want to grapple, but my burning aura soon enlightened him. As for me, it’d been clear since the ice machine fight on the sixth floor that thermal resistance didn’t come standard with the Harden spell.
Artem tried briefly to break my hold before he came to the same conclusion I had a few seconds ago: it’s pretty hard to wrestle someone who’s on fire. He settled for elbow drops to my back that felt like the stomps of a small elephant. But I held him tight and pushed, and unbelievably, felt his weight shift back slightly.
With a roar of indignation, he lifted me bodily off the ground, ready to toss me from the arena. This was it. He wouldn’t hold me longer than he had to, or his hands would burn. Squinting my eyes closed, I reversed the signs of Harden. Explosive blasts were concussive in nature, so he’d be okay, right?
My aura detonated, and the world went white.
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When the smoke had cleared, Artem remained standing, his hands and waist slightly charred, but otherwise unharmed. He was at the edge of the circle, still comfortably within the boundaries. With a start, I realized that spectators had gathered on nearby rooftops, cheering and booing in turn. Someone had even set up a deck chair and a bucket of popcorn.
“This is more public than I’d hoped,” muttered Master Shaw. To us, he called out, “Good to continue?”
“Gotovye yesmi,” said Artem, wiping his hands on his pants. I didn’t speak Old East Slavic, but that didn’t sound like a no.
My stomach sank. My trump card hadn’t been enough.
“One sec.” I pulled up my system menu to toggle captions back on, and text scrolled across the bottom of my field of view.
Listening…
“Alright, I’m good.”
“Go,” said Shaw, and we dashed forward to meet in the circle’s center.
This time, Artem actually bothered to dodge my claw-handed strikes, and I counted that in itself as a minor victory. Still, I was flagging, while he seemed comparatively fresh. His elbow strikes had taken an immense toll on my energy reserves, and my knees were beginning to buckle under my own weight.
My left leg trembled, and Artem seized the opportunity to deliver an open-handed palm strike that launched me to the very edge of the circle. He strode up, ready to deliver the final blow.
“Nyemoshchen,” he said contemptuously, striking out with a lazy fist.
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“No thanks,” I said, dodging and grabbing his unprotected arm. Only then did the translation of his statement scroll onto my udjat.
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Artem yelled as steam rose from his skin, striking me repeatedly with the other hand, but I clung on stubbornly. Blood ran from my nose and mouth, but I held on. He stopped pounding me to refresh his aura, and I used the chance to maneuver myself to the other side, putting him against the outside of the circle, all the while signing: N-E-D-R-A…
I released his arm, holding two fingers forward, and for the second time that fight, blasted him with a wave of concussive force.
There was a series of explosions like fireworks, and Artem flew off the rooftop entirely, landing with a crash below. There was a startled scream of passersby, and then silence, before I heard Artem bellow something that sounded impolite. My translator declined to comment.
“Who’s weak now?” I said in a low voice.
An immense shout rose up from the spectators, in a cacophony of languages that I couldn’t understand, and some of them even tried to leap over to Uomo Universale’s roof before Master Shaw waved them off. My vision was overwhelmed by dozens of Language Identified notifications, and I had to toggle the feature off just to see. As the black dialogue boxes cleared, the first thing I saw was El winking at me. The second was a slow smile growing on Master Shaw’s face.
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It was at the unofficial afterparty that I truly began to realize how little people cared for Artem. It seemed like half the city showed up, and they’d gotten me an earpiece at once, seemingly mostly to communicate how jazzed they were at me blowing him up.
“Holy fuck,” crowed a dark-skinned man whose name I’d forgotten but had been talking to for too long to ask. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to see that asshole get his? He’s always mean-mugging me.” He gave a passable impression of Artem’s scowl, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“It felt good,” I admitted, sipping my beer.
“Fuck yeah, I bet it did,” said the man, throwing a few punches in midair. “Hey, Aarav, get over here and say hi to my man Xavier…”
I expected to get tired of the parade of congratulations, but to be honest, it didn’t get old. Maybe it spoke poorly of my character, but I could’ve showered in their praise forever.
The room became stuffy, and I went out onto the balcony for a breath of air. A few minutes later, I found myself talking to a young woman named Makeda. She wore golden earrings, had a lovely smile, and seemed to find me inexplicably hilarious.
“So how do you like the city?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the railing.
As I looked over the Public Quarter, the spell-moon captured my gaze. It was especially clear tonight, and the shadows of the city radiated outward like spokes on a great wheel. Lowering my eyes to the cobblestones, I thought of the life I’d left behind, and realized I didn’t miss it at all. There simply wasn’t anything to miss. I’d rather Artem punched me in the gut a hundred times than have to look at another Excel spreadsheet.
No relationships to mourn, no roots to uproot. I wasn’t a sentimental person at the best of times—there were no scraps in my scrapbook, as the saying went.
“I like it here,” I said simply, looking back at Makeda. “What about yourself?”
“Oh, I like it well enough,” she said. “It can get lonely sometimes.” She drew closer, looking up at me. “Not every day that you get to meet someone new… and exciting.”
I almost laughed at that. “I don’t know if exciting’s the right word for me.”
“It is,” she insisted. “I mean, that fight. You were so impressive.” I could smell her perfume, like dry wood with flowers. “Does it still—”
I stiffened as she brushed my leg in the same way Mia had, and she quickly retracted her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s alright,” I said. “I just—I had a bad experience recently. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile that felt unconvincing even to me, and the conversation ended soon after that with stilted goodbyes.
I placed my head down on the railing, as El shimmied down off the roof.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Say something witty.”
El paused for a moment, as if considering her response, then lay down on top of the railing. “Sorry,” she said, and it sounded odd coming from her mouth.
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Thanks for the assist with Artem.”
“You noticed,” she perked up. “I thought my efforts had gone unappreciated.”
“Harden’s deactivation only causes one explosion,” I said, “and I’d already seen exactly how much effect it had on Artem. Which wasn’t very much.”
The raccoon preened, licking her paw. “Tell me my Firecracker timing isn’t amazing.”
“Your timing is amazing,” I said dutifully. “No one could’ve seen through that. You’re the best raccoon mage-slash-thief in the world. Hey, why’d it get so quiet all of a sudden—”
The door to the balcony swung open, and Artem stood in the doorway, freshly changed into unburnt clothes.
“Party’s over,” he said.