Rick grabbed another piece of teriyaki steak with his chopstick and dipped it into the white rice, then scrunched the sticks together to lift them to his mouth. He was eating for the sake of it now, in order to make up for the lost appetite and sacrificed sleep of the day before.
Kristina-Anne had called him from the hospital, and though on the video screen, she looked more energetic, more herself, it might have been for his benefit. His wife’s mother was a well-dressed demon who’d punished every instance of fragility and weakness her daughter had ever expressed. The few times Rick’s wife had shown him her vulnerability had become treasured moments to him. That she wouldn’t show him that side of herself now, when she was most ashamed, didn’t offend him. He’d been through this before.
He belched and reflexively said, “Excuse me,” then fetched two more beers from the fridge and sat to watch Sonny Esposito’s Greatest Hits on the AR array.
He chose the most recent tournaments, and something became immediately clear about Sonny Esposito—he truly was a game-trained fighter. The man didn’t have Rick’s utilitarian sensibilities, instead opting to use what he had on hand to stunning effect. His opponents seemed equally stunned and put out by the bizarre chains of attacks. Sonny combined capoeira with sambo, and each of those with the most poorly advised kung fu moves, but more important than Sonny’s mixed bag of tricks was that he fought at an elite level with that style-that-isn’t-a-style. Alex had told him a tourney fighter got to keep some permanent techniques as they moved up the ranks, but Sonny fought like he’d taken whatever shit hand he got, and more often than not, he spun it into pure gold.
Sonny had been losing more lately, and that was clearly due to his lack of concentration. In later matches, the fighter looked tired and unfocused. Is he on drugs? Jesus, he’s got the same look Kris has when they put her on mood-stabilizers.
Kristina-Anne. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and protect her from the world, but he couldn’t even fend off street thugs or burglars. The extra money from Hector was helping, but his time away from home… he wanted to kick his own ass for telling his wife that Alex was a woman. He loved his wife with all his heart, but she feared losing him all the same. Like anyone wants a broken fighter making dirt wages working for a shady employer. Her fears were irrational, and Kristina had told him many times she knew that, but all the same, she couldn’t not feel what she felt—she’d explained it to him again and again.
He shook his head. One foot in front of the other. Keep the four walls up, then change them, then change… It was an old slogan from his fighting days. The last part was “then change the world.” Maybe—once—he could have done that. On this night, in the glow of the AR array, he’d have settled for what his parents had once taken for granted—a wife, a family, and a future that didn’t scare the hell out of him.
He switched to some videos of Sonny’s earlier matches. There was no lack of focus or fire in Sonny back then. Even five years ago, the man had been an absolute force. Rick had been a force, too.
Is this their idea of a joke? Match up two broken has-beens and see them struggle to be what they once were? A memory of Hector flashed in his mind and it made him dismiss the idea as paranoia. Hector was a never-been, and though he showed touches of true villainy, he was efficient. Hector wanted to make money and rise in his organization. The danger in the boss’s eyes flashed most intensely when he thought he was getting screwed or someone was lying to him. Rick learned right away he’d always get a better outcome with Hector if he admitted his fuck-ups. To the extent Rick respected the man, it was for that. Honesty and loyalty were rewarded; the way to favor was plain as day.
Until recently, Rick didn’t care about getting on his boss’s good side. There were dangers there, too. Hector might slip up and tell Rick something he really shouldn’t, and there was no way to tell if or when that might get him in trouble. That’s why Rick avoided “those” jobs—not out of some foolhardy adherence to honor or the law.
Look at that! A skillful series of strikes from one of Sonny’s older videos drew Rick’s attention. Alex wasn’t joking. Even if he’s getting tired, the man’s a monster. He started to open one of the beers, but stopped. It might have interfered with the pill he’d gotten from Hector on the way out. The pill had come with a lecture about how his wife could have endangered Hector’s operation, and Rick had talked him down, reassuring him his wife wouldn’t ever talk about where she got the pills. “That’s a real psycho you got there,” Hector had said. It had been enough to put the fire in Rick’s eyes, but even the thought of punching his boss had triggered his conditioning.
Some fucking day, Hector.
He sighed. Who are you kidding. Aside from the simulation, you’re a declawed tiger. No one who knows your situation fears you—they pity you.
He changed his mind and opened the beer, then chased the pill with it. He made it through one more of Sonny’s matches before he was out.
*************************************
When the simulation sent Rick back to the training room Manuel had loaded the first day, it surprised him. More surprising was Alex—who’d taken an avatar that looked the spitting image of Santino Esposito.
“I want you comfortable with him before you meet him,” she explained. “Did ya watch his matches?”
“Yeah,” was all he said.
“And?”
“And what? He’s… unconventional.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Alex nodded and took her position across from him. “He’s always changing what he does, but I’ve pored over the videos, and there are a few techniques he seems to lean on. First off, like you, he always boosts stamina, though he tends to augment strength next, and speed is his trash stat.” Alex raised a finger. “He changes that up every now and again, though, so we’ll have to train both ways, just in case.”
Rick looked around the room. It looked as it had before the glitch, and that brought back memories of his first failure. Hardly my first.
Alex—who still looked like Sonny—took a few playful jabs at him, and he backed away.
“You really do look like him,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Check your move list and stats sheet. We’re practicing the final fight, so I’ve given you some boosts and”—she shrugged—“just take a look.”
Strength: 3
Speed: 5
Stamina: 7
His stats were the same as they’d been the day before. It was his skills that made him groan.
Passive Skills:
Slippery Motherfucker: 20% less likely to be caught in grab counter. Note: Only applies to grab counters. Combos that begin with a grab are unaffected.
Shin-Licker: Muy Thai and similar kick-striking moves are 12% less effective.
Active Skills:
Drunk: “What the hell does ‘drunk’ mean?”
“What the hell does “drunk” mean?” He didn’t get a chance to read the rest, as he began giggling, and the ground came up to meet him. “Hee-hee! Nice floor…”
There was a weight atop him and the whole world was spinning. Something had him by the neck, restricting his breathing. “Hey now, that’s not nice…”
Everything faded to black for a moment before he blinked back into existence in the training room.
He was no longer befuddled. “What the absolute fuc—”
She’d ditched the Sonny Esposito avatar and shook a finger at him. “I told you not to read the skills out loud.”
He wanted to attack her. “What kind of bullshit skill is that?”
She laughed, then switched instantaneously back to the Sonny avatar. “Some people use it to mellow out and overcome their twitchiness, but that’s not why I gave it to you.”
He glared at her.
“I gave it to you because it’s a dangerous skill and I didn’t want you to get it in the middle of your match. It only comes up randomly, and it’s not a common skill, but I’ve been telling you not to vocalize the damned skills for a week and a half. Do you get it now?”
“I have to say the whole phrase to activate that?”
The avatar of Sonny Esposito shook its head, and its voice was lower. “Just the word drunk.”
“And no warning?”
Alex-as-Sonny laughed. “You won’t get a warning out there, either.” The avatar smiled. “Check your stats and skills. They’re different again.”
“Oh Christ…”
Strength: 3
Speed: 5
Stamina: 7
“Okay, same stat boosts…”
Passive Skills:
Grunge: 20% chance your clothes will rip away, allowing you to escape a hold or throw.
Slap-Proof: Slap taunts or interrupts against you fail 100% of the time.
Active Skills:
Hard Right: Exactly what it says on the tin: A hard right straight that hits as though your strength stat was 10. Note: This skill has a 30 second cooldown.
Drop/Roll: In the event you can’t block or dodge a strike, you can drop and roll immediately afterward to regain better footing. Note: Doesn’t work if the strike knocks you unconscious.
The Bean: 20% higher jump. Note: Not a combat-only skill.
“Hmm… These aren’t that bad. Have you seen my skills?”
The Esposito avatar shook its head. “I know your boosts are the same, but this one is truly a random roll. However”—the avatar paused for emphasis—“I’ve allowed myself the same number of boosts and replaced my permanent skills with random rolls. This might be Sonny’s style, so I’m trying to match.”
“How does he do that?” Rick asked.
She sighed. “It made it hard to train against him in the beginning and he’s said that’s why he still does it. Can you get flexible?” The avatar winked seductively at him.
Rick grimaced. “I’ll try. Please don’t ever try to flirt with me as Sonny again, okay? He’s kind of…”
The avatar laughed again. “Not as pretty as my normal avatar?”
That brought up a point he’d meant to ask. “Does your normal avatar look like you?”
“More or less,” she said.
“Which is it? More or less?”
“Yes.” She winked at him, which meant Sonny Santino winked at him.
That was enough to make him punch her, which he did—with a light jab to her chest that knocked her back an inch or so. He didn’t follow up.
She did, though, landing a hard left hook, then angling to his side to hip throw him. Though it was only a 20% chance, his clothes did, indeed, rip away, letting him pull away in only what appeared to be a loincloth.
“Are you fucking kiddi—”
He hadn’t backed far enough away, and so the Sonny avatar’s elbow came right for him.
It got him, but he remembered Drop/Roll, and her followup right hook missed. He was on his feet again, and stepping backward. She followed, so he reversed course and punished her with knee to the abdomen. When she bent at the waist, he followed her down, pressing her into the rubberized floor of the training arena. The avatar of Sonny was much larger than Alex’s usual one. That made it hard for him to cover the man’s broad shoulders. She slipped out; he scrambled to keep her pressed down. An elbow got him just over his right ear, but it wasn’t enough to shake him.
It was, however, enough to give her the room to roll to her back and get her knees underneath him. She launched him forward, and he tumbled end over end. His stamina was drained by the time he could have rolled to his feet, and by then, it was all over except for the choke that knocked him out.
***********************************
The rest of his matches went much the same way. Every time, his stats were changed. Once, he’d had only his speed stat boosted, and while he enjoyed flying around the Sonny avatar for half a minute, that was as long as he had before his stamina was drained and she knocked him cold with jab-straight-elbow combination.
After the tenth defeat, she sent him home to watch more of Sonny’s videos and “get the fuck ready.” Alex had looked genuinely afraid when she’d said it.
After a meal of ramen and some leftover sausage, he plopped down in front of the AR array again and studied Sonny’s fights. It wasn’t long before his conscience began to eat at him. He drank three beers trying to get it loose, but every time he let his mental guard down, the specter of Sonny’s death because of the loss came up.
His mind flashed to the look on Hector’s face in the office the day they let it slip. Manuel’s face, which had the air of gallow’s humor on the day it happened, morphed in his mind into the true skeletal face of death.
And there was his wife and their shitty apartment. Was the trade worth it?
He popped the pill—Hector had insisted he have one the night before the fight. It was only 8 p.m. Maybe he could study in the morning.
He drifted into a dreamless sleep.