Knockout • OT4

3 - Pathetic

Like most, Michael Clifford is imperfect.

The poor thing was instructed to be at the ring early the next morning, disregarding his previous injuries.

His eye was swollen shut and it hurt to breathe, but he still set three alarms on his crap phone to make sure he got up in time.

He made sure to grab his gym bag with everything needed, leaving it conveniently on the left side of the door so it didn't interfere with the bruised knuckles the man named Irwin gave him the night before.

He even managed to stop for a coffee, knowing he needed his caffeine more than anything in the world.

He did all this, yet he forgot to tie his shoes.

His beat down converse have been carrying Michael since the ripe age of 16. The laces were tattered and the once black material is now a dusty grey.

They were crap, embarrassing probably.

But.. they were his.

So fitting to be his, in fact, that Michaels all too smooth morning ended with a trip.

He tripped over his laces, launching himself into a puddle cradled by cracked concrete. His once warm coffee was thrown onto the road and conveniently ran over by some poor person trying to get to work on time.

All the red haired fighter could do is watch as the cup crumbled, just like his dignity.

Because Michael is imperfect, and his imperfections can only push him so far before he cracks.

He sat on the wet cement, looking down at his cut hands in a slight state of shock. Clearly, he was fine. He was alive, nothing was broken, nothing really.. happened.

Yet it all happened too quickly and the red head didn't like change.

After a few minutes of just sitting there, he decided that losing a coffee and getting over it is better than getting beat for being late on his first day.

Unfortunately, he'd get beat either way. It's in the job description.

Carrying on with his walk, Michael arrived at the gym around 10 minutes late. He thought he deserved to sulk over his spilled coffee.

Walking in, his tired green eyes took in the sight of fighters scattered and training either alone, or together.

His eyes found blondie and Irwin throwing punches and kicks, practising blocks and ducks. They fought so flawlessly, each movement made with such precision that it made his head spin.

As he stood there in awe, something- or, someone knocked into his shoulder, hard.

"You're late, punk."

The young fighters eyes quickly met with the emotionless brown ones. Way too calm for Michaels comfort, but he just knew there was more to such a fighter than what meets the eye.

"Right- sorry about that, I just-"

He was rudely cut off with the man walked away, not before twisting his body slightly to beckon Michael over with his fingers.

"Save the excuses for someone who cares, Clifford. I need a punching bag, and you seem like my best candidate."

Michaels mouth was agape, because one? How did he know his last name? And two, what a bitch.

The red head only followed regardless, bruised hands gripping the strap of his gym bag.

"I'm not a punching bag, dickhead. I'd like to train on my own time too." he muttered, shorter legs walking quickly to catch up with the taller man.