Fighting Chance Vol 2 #3

Chain links wrapped snug around his waist, links almost biting into skin with every breath. It didn't hurt, his security blanket made of magic steel and potential violence but having it close... it just felt right.

Plus, if he needed to fight, no fumbling for the Shen Gong Wu,

Just yank and swing. Simple. Effective. Exactly how he liked it.
  

The late afternoon sun hit the cracked sidewalk outside Chikara Dojo as the yelling of other kids hit his ears. School had let out at least half an hour ago, reminding Zain that he still had no legal identity.

No legal identity meant no going to school... he hoped so, at least.

Even though she wasn't claiming to be in charge of him or nothing, Colleen hadn't said anything about him going to any sort of school. All she had asked of him was to let her know when he wanted to leave and also give her half a grand every month for rent, which was... fair.

Besides, who needs school when I'm rich as fuck, boiiiiiii? He snorted at the thought.

Jab-cross-hook-teep-back. Rhythm burned into muscle memory by now. A couple months back, he'd been all wild swings and sloppy footing—throwing haymakers just because they felt strong, not because they’d land right. Now it was different—still chaos, but contained.

Controlled fury instead of just... swinging and hoping. His feet adjusted almost on their own, barely lifting off the ground. He could feel it—power flowing from his heels to his knuckles, not wasted. Not sprayed out like a broken faucet. He didn’t stumble forward when he threw a teep, didn’t overextend on the hook.

Each hit had intent.

He took a breath in as sweat rolled down his neck. He breathed out, knuckles scraping against the air like they had somewhere better to be. He couldn’t help the grin that split his face, teeth flashing against the bright light. God, I love this.
  

He knew he was stronger than he had any right to be. Realized it the first time he hit the ground from two stories up and didn’t break anything—just rolled, gritted his teeth through the sting, and got back up like nothing happened. Didn’t make sense, and he couldn’t explain it. Not without sounding crazy. But facts were facts.

He was strong. Way stronger than anyone his size or age should reasonably be. Stronger than most grown-ass men, probably.

But still... not that strong. About twice as strong as a regular dude who actually worked out.

Useful, sure, but not Captain America shit. He knew where his limits were, knew he wasn’t some super-soldier just because he could punch harder than some high school athlete. “Yeah,” he muttered, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, chain clinking faintly. “No Captain America shenanigans here.”  

It was the same for his speed too. But even still, that was strength for a grown man. Not a five foot fourteen-year old (Happy Birthday to me!). Which made even more sense why he could jump so high.

Still, with all that strength it meant he had to put some real work into his workouts.

"One-two-three-FOUR!"

Zain's voice bounced off empty storefronts, counting cadence to nobody but himself—like that made it less weird to be shirtless, chain-wrapped and sweating in public. After the final combo, he dropped straight into pushups. Not the bullshit half-assed ones the gym teachers back home tried to make him do, but chest-to-ground, full extension, core-engaged pushups.

Twenty, thirty, fifty—and he was barely even breathing hard. I’m too light.

He pushed up one last time, balancing weight on his palms, then slowly lifted his legs off the ground. It took a second to find the right position, chain links shifting against bare skin, but once he got there—handstand, perfectly still.

It wasn't the weight, it was a full body exercise. That's what Colleen kept telling him, anyway. "Balance isn't about strength, it's about focus..." Blah blah, fortune cookie stuff, but she wasn't wrong.

"Down," he muttered to himself, slowly bending his arms, lowering his head toward the concrete before pushing back up. "And up."

One, two, three handstand pushups, sweat dripping up his face instead of down, triceps starting to burn just enough to feel like he was actually doing something. Four, five—

Noise.

Footsteps. Whispers. Movement in his peripheral.

Zain didn’t think; he just moved. The teenager kipped up in one fluid motion, flipping from handstand to a fighting stance, hands already up, chain almost sliding loose from his waist, metal clinking softly as his body coiled.

Wait.

Kids.

Just kids.

Well, not kids kids. They were his age, honestly.

Maybe ten of them, probably a whole full dozen spread out like they weren’t sure whether to watch or run in a loose semi-circle all around him.

A couple of them whispered, Zain hearing one of them dare the other to step up and say something. The rest stared at him with eyes wide, half-impressed, half-suspicious, like they couldn’t figure out if he was some kind of street performer or just crazy. One kid elbowed another, and they both shut up quick when Zain’s gaze flicked their way.

He hesitated, tension easing, just a little. “...uh, hey?”

No one said anything.

Then one of them stepped forward and Zain looked her up and down.

She sucked her teeth as she walked up to him and Zain locked eyes with the cocky little Hispanic girl in front of him. Her curly hair was pulled back tight, her hazel eyes narrowed and chin up, like she was daring him to be legit. Tough girl, huh?

“How you do that?” Her tone cut straight through the awkward.

Zain blinked. He didn’t really know how to answer that. He didn’t even know what ‘that’ was supposed to mean. “...Do what?”

“That,” she waved a hand like she was trying to swat a fly, “the kung fu bullshit. And the handstand. You like... some kinda gymnast or somethin’?”

He shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t a big deal, as he did his best to look all the other kids around him in the eye. “Y'all interested, huh? Trynna do like me? Learn some real kung fu bullshit?”

The group murmured, shifting like they didn’t quite know if he was serious. The girl didn’t budge, arms crossed, eyes never leaving his. “Might. What about it?,” she said, tilting her head. “You teachin’ for free, or you tryna hustle?”

Zain snorted and snatched his shirt up off the railing to the building and rolled his shoulders, stretching to work out the kinks (not that there were any, being real). “Ain’t tryna hustle nobody, lil girl." He jerked a thumb at the dojo sign behind him, grin never leaving his face. "You serious, go talk to the lady inside.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Colleen's front kick snapped up, stopping a half-inch from Zain's face. He didn't flinch. Progress.

"Eyes on center mass," she said, dropping her leg back into stance. "Never on the limbs."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." Zain circled left, hands up, shoulders loose. "You telegraph your moves."

"Do I?" Her eyebrow shot up. "Or am I letting you see what I want you to see?"

Before he could answer, she was inside his guard, palm strike grazing his ribs as he twisted away at the last second. Shit! That would've hurt if it connected proper. He slipped backward, chain jingling where it hung coiled by the edge of the mat.

Twenty pairs of eyes tracked their every move. Kids lined the walls of the dojo, some sitting cross-legged, others standing with arms folded like they were trying to look tough. All of them silent, watching the show.

In a week, the place had gone from empty to packed three days a week. Twenty-five bucks a pop for what was basically free babysitting for a few hours to keep these guys out of trouble and off the streets? Yeah, no wonder parents took that deal.

Even with a few kids leaving because they were lazy or whatever, it was still more than enough to cover rent for the dojo. Although... Colleen never said the money she took from him was for rent. And 500 a month for this whole place did seem kinda... cheap.

Goddammit, I've just been paying for all the food I eat.

"Focus!"A hard voice snapped him back, Colleen’s sharp tongue snapping him back to reality as a roundhouse kick snapped toward his legs.

Zain hopped the kick, countering with a push kick that Colleen easily blocked. She shot a smile his way, nodding at him like she approved. "Better. Now try again, but this time—"

Fists came his way in a flurry, the sort of combo that Colleen was so quick to use to trip him up, each one too fast to track individually. Even still, Colleen was occasionally predictable, especially when it came to their training fights. Easier for me, at least. Block, slip, counter, retreat. The flow felt... natural. Like his muscles remembered something his brain was still figuring out.

She slowed down after a minute, giving the students a chance to actually see what was happening. This was the point—showing them what they could learn, not just slapping Zain around for fun (though she seemed to enjoy that part too).

He basically acted as Sensei Wing's junior assistant even though he was only barely skilled in kickboxing and street brawling. Way more than a regular person, sure, but Colleen was damn near a Master on her own.

Every day during the last ten minutes of each lesson, he sparred against Colleen while the other students watched. Before? Just brawling. Now? Tactics. Control. Technique. Colleen forced him to refine his movements. Kicks, elbows, clinches. Kickboxing was becoming his first true martial art, and he was getting properly skilled at American Kickboxing after weeks of practice, almost like he'd been fighting for years.

Colleen swept his legs out from under him, and Zain hit the mat hard.

Or maybe not.

"Always mind your base," she said, not even offering a hand up. "Fancy moves mean nothing if you can't stay on your feet."

Zain rolled to his feet, grinning despite the bruise forming on his ass. "Almost had you that time."

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," Colleen fired back, but Zedd knew for a fact he heard pride in her voice. "Alright, that's enough for today."

The students straightened as she turned to face them, some adjusting their gi tops nervously. Zain moved to stand beside her, trying to look like he wasn't still catching his breath.

"Remember kids," Colleen said, "what's the first lesson?"

"Strike first. Strike hard. No mercy," Zain barked out his favorite slogan from an 80s movie, a grin on his face as he winked at the class.

Colleen turned towards him, face blank and eyes half-lidded as she shot him a light glare. He shrugged back at the Japanese woman, watching as she brushed back the red streak in her hair over her ear.. “Something I said?”

Shaking her head, Sensei Wing turned back to the rest of the class. "Ignore him."

The class laughed, tension breaking through the room. It didn’t last long, though, as Colleen gave them all a stern look even as Zain tried to hide his grin. As expected, almost all the laughter stopped immediately.

“The first lesson is,” Colleen spoke up again, “Work Together. Do you understand?”

"Yes, Sensei Wing," they chorused in unison, the class fully focused for one rare moment.

With a sigh, Colleen rolled her eyes hard enough that Zain was surprised they didn’t roll all the way right out of her skull. Finally, the woman raised her hands and clapped them together, the sound loud enough to cut off the rest of the noise in the room. "Class dismissed."

Students scattered, grabbing bags and water bottles, pulling on shoes and chattering about whatever they'd learned today. Some nodded to Zain as they passed, a few of the younger ones even bowing awkwardly.

His bow back was just as awkward, but he really didn’t know what to do whenever they did this for him. As the last students filtered out, Zain started gathering the practice pads they'd used earlier, tossing them into the storage bin by the wall. Colleen was adjusting the thermostat, muttering something about electric bills.

He didn't notice one student hadn't left until he turned and nearly walked into her.

"Jesus!" He stumbled back, dropping a pad. "Make some noise next time."

Angela Del Toro. 13. Sharp eyes. Short temper. The same girl who had walked up to him outside that first day. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching him like he was a math problem she couldn't figure out.

"She ain't teaching us what you're doing yet."

Zain picked up the pad, tossing it into the bin. "It's been two weeks, kid, relax. You'll get there."

"Don't call me 'kid.'"

Her fist came out of nowhere, aimed straight at his face.

Zain sidestepped, the punch missing by inches. Angela followed through with a kick, her form actually decent for someone with two weeks of training. He leaned back, casually avoiding the blow and watching her stumble past.

"Whoa there," he said, half-laughing. "You trying to take my job?"

"Shut up." She threw another punch, then another, each one getting sloppier as frustration set in. "Just—stand—still!"

Zain raised one hand, blocking her next swing without even looking at her, his attention seemingly on a poster across the room. The block stopped her fist cold. He could feel her shock through the contact.

Something bubbled up in his chest—a weird mix of amusement and pride. Was he actually laughing internally? Yeah, he was definitely laughing internally. This was some Neo vs. Smith bullshit right here, and he was loving every second of it.

She redoubled her efforts, throwing wild combinations that might have looked impressive to the other students but were painfully telegraphed to him. He kept blocking with that one hand, still not looking directly at her, which only made her more furious.

"Are you even—trying?" she panted between strikes.

"Nope." He caught her wrist mid-punch, finally turning to look at her. "That's the point."

Angela yanked her arm free, stumbling back. Before she could recover, she launched into a flying kick that had way more enthusiasm than technique.

Zain simply stepped aside and extended his palm, lightly touching her chest as she flew past. It wasn't a hard hit, not really, just hard enough to redirect her momentum and throw off her balance. Unfortunately, he forgot how strong he was.

Angela crashed to the floor in an ungraceful heap, arms splayed, face flushed with exertion and embarrassment.

For a moment, the dojo was completely silent. Even Colleen had stopped what she was doing to watch, though she made no move to interfere.

Angela lay there, chest heaving, glaring up at the ceiling like it had personally offended her.

Zain walked forward and held a hand out. "...I told you, you'll get there."

She stared up at him, frowning, every muscle in her body radiating defiance. He half-expected her to slap his hand away and storm out.

Then she reached out a hand.

"You're still a giant jerky jerk," she muttered as he pulled her up. "But whatever. You gonna teach me that blocking thing?"

"What, this?" Zain raised a hand, mimicking the casual one-handed block. This is literally a move from the Matrix. Literally full Neo. He sucked his teeth, unsure of what to say about that, honestly. Can’t teach her that because… well… duh. 

"Yeah." She settled into a fighting stance. "Show me."

Zain glanced over at Colleen, who just shrugged and went back to organizing equipment, a small smile playing on the eighteen-year-old’s lips. “Yeahhh, you’re not ready for that one yet, so…”

Angela let out a groan that was damn near a growl. “Then teach me something then.”

"Alright," he said, turning back to Angela. "First things first, Angie…”

“Don’t call me Angie,” the girl huffed. Interrupting him.

Zain didn’t even slip for a second, barely holding back from rolling his eyes. “Either way, Angie, you gotta stop telegraphing. Your shoulder moves before your fist does."

"Does not."

Now he rolled his eyes. "Does too."

"What-ever." Angela threw another punch, slower this time, but just as hard even as she paid more attention to her own form. "Like this?"

"Better." Zain adjusted her arm slightly. "Now try again, but keep your elbow in tight until the last second."

She tried again and Zain took the punch to his chest, even though she didn’t put much force into it in the slightest. "Yeah, much better. Now try to hit me for real."

She grinned, a flash of challenge lighting her eyes. "Bet."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Three hours later, Zain collapsed face-first onto his futon in Colleen's back room, a low noise leaving his mouth at the exact same moment he landed.

It wasn’t a sigh.

No, that would be too neat.

If anything, it was more like a fart noise from a whoopie cushion.

A long, heavy, groan filled with exhaustion.

Exhaustion that his body felt but couldn’t voice without him.

It wasn’t from the class, and it definitely wasn’t from sparring with Angela (who'd finally landed a decent hit after what felt like a hundred tries).

No, that came from the private session Colleen insisted on after everyone else had gone.

"You want to teach?" she'd said, spinning a staff that appeared from nowhere. "Then you learn properly first."

His body was a map of fresh bruises by the time she'd finished—none of them lasting more than a minute or so after he summoned his special little healing spotlight, but still painful in the moment. God, I wish that healing light could fix regular soreness too.

Unfortunately, it was no dice for that. The light could fix a stab wound but it didn’t give a shit about lactic acid buildup, apparently. That one was all him to handle.

He stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster. Tomorrow, there'd be more training. More fighting.

But for now, just for a minute, he could rest.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

5K Words (100 DP)

ROLL: Combat Method (Free) [Street Fighter] {Martial Art}: "(Kickboxing) Almost everyone you encounter in this world will have training in a martial art, from normal styles like wrestling or karate to more esoteric styles like Turkish oil wrestling. Think of this perk as evening out the playing field.

You may select any one mundane martial art and gain moderate skill and training in the art of your choice. Not true mastery though, for the road to mastery is a long and difficult one.

Dojo Points: 200