DON'T PRAY TO ME

07 - A Boxing Match

After squeezing herself through the dense crowd of large, muscular men, Rachel successfully emerges out the other side. She can now see the ring without anyone or anything obstructing her. A square panel of light above illuminates the dark floor. Metal fence, shaped like chains, run along perimeter. Two large boards at a pair of opposite corners, colored red and blue, seem to be the place where the fighters will stand. A couple of floodlights turn on from the edges of the building walls, brightening up the entire space. Rachel looks around. The place is more than full. There aren't that many women though. Except for the girls Rachel sees at the opposite. Tall, lean, and clad in what seems to be high end designer clothes. They look about the same age as Rachel. Rachel thinks they could be students of Erno Schola as well, however, these Dhamenci girls are much more fashionable and well off than the girls Rachel saw at the inn. Once she's done thoroughly looking over at the crowd, she sighs. She's the only Deir she can see in here. She looks back and barely can see the entrance past the large torsos of the men standing behind her. She doesn't have the energy to travel through this crowd again this soon. She should at least wait until she has gathered enough strength to leave. So Rachel turns her attention back to the empty ring and pulls up her coat's collar, hoping, as the only Deir in here, she's not going to be in any trouble.

Slade pulls the velcro of his boxing glove harder before sticking it down across his wrist. "My bet is on you. Don't you dare lose," Reagan says. "Don't listen to him. I have my money on Marcel. So, it's fine if you lose. We have everything covered," Bron says. "I suppose that works, too," Reagan says. "Thanks for the pep talk you assholes," Slade says, smiling. He's pumped up, ready for the battle. They hear someone announce it's time. Bron and Reagan leave first to join the audience. Slade shakes his hands, shoulders and neck, and feel the stiffness recede, and starts walking towards the light at the end of the short tunnel.

When the deafeningly loud crowd finally calms down, Slade gets up on the ring, and looks at Marcel, a hairy, gigantic werewolf who towers over even Slade. "You're popular even among the boxing crowd. But just so you know," Marcel says, grinning, "I won't go easy on you just because you're a kid." "I'm counting on that," Slade says. Marcel laughs. A hearty one. "Expect nothing less from a Drazeydan," Marcel says, impressed by the boy's confidence. The Referee raises his hand while thumbing the whistle hanging down from his neck. The remaining noises among the crowd melt away, replaced by an auditory stillness. The referee secures his whistle's notch between his lips and blows a deep breath into it, arousing an unwavering and shrilling sound that pierces out through even the walls of the building. People outside know the match has begun and resent not being able to be inside watching it.

The two contenders start moving towards each other. But not in a beeline. Instead they seem to follow the outline of an imaginary spiral - steadily getting closer to each other, while taking their sweet time. And once they reach a distance their instincts tell them is the right moment, their fists reach for each other, and punches dart through the air. Their feet constantly touch and lift from the arena as if the floor was searing. There's no stillness. No repose for the arms as they work on double duty, on defense of their owner and offense against their opponent. The jumpy, jittery motions continue for what seems to be an eternity, until Marcel's left fist successfully makes contact with Slade's upper left torso. Slade's body involuntarily slides back, stopped by his heels pulling down the brakes. Pain appears where he took the hit and quickly heightens. Slade ignores it and redirects his existence towards Marcel.

Although Slade is proving to be a daunting, nightmare of an opponent, who Marcel is churning out even the last drop of his experience to fight against, the inevitable seems to be that Slade is losing. The only suspense the audience seem to decode is how much longer Slade will last?

Alas, Slade falls to the floor from a compelling blow to his head. He didn't see that coming. Or he did, but didn't have the strength to quickly react. He's experiencing something he rarely does - exhaustion. This seems to be it, he thinks. So do the audience. Slade is not upset, but he is disappointed. He is a typical Drazeydan when it comes to his love for combat. But it's fun only if the opponent is strong enough to continuously challenge him, and he's strong enough to keep up with it. Feeling down that one of the most exciting fights he has been in now has to end, Slade readies himself to accept the defeat. But then he sees someone in the crowd.