Singing Robin (Part 2)

Epilogue

Dedicated to MajenBeos02, Babyalex34, 
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Two years and Seven Months Later, on November 26, 10:23 pm, Hudson's POV

    "You think you're all that, you ain't about shit now! Come get some!" I yell, watching my opponent try to stand up before the count.

    "Could he have done it!" The announcer's voice is loud, and I fist my right hand and hit my left pec, making the muscle jump. My opponent stumbles to his feet and sways, beating the count by one number. The flag is waved, and I don't give him time to get his breath. I'm there delivering punishing blows into his abdomen. His fist goes into my already tender rib, and I pull back from him to deliver blow by blow. The bell dings, and I move back from him, watching to see if he can stand.

    'Dude, just won't lie down. That's okay. I'm done playing,' I think, and when the opportunity presents itself, I deliver one blow to his rib and one to his chin. Then my fist impacts his face, and his skin depresses. The elasticity of it ripples back as he falls to the ground—a knockout hit.

    "Chaos, Chaos, Chaos, Chaos, Chaos, Chaos, Chaos!" the crowd chants, but I don't feel it. I look at my opponent and smile when asked about my win.

    "The Champion of the...!" The words blur to one, but I accept the reward and pass on the offered girl. I move to the ropes, step down, and move to the back rooms to change. Strangers pat me on the back and laugh at the dark looks I shoot at them.

    'A mad world in these places. But there are places the rest can't go. I got my name stamped across billboards. They call me Chaos because I wreck it wherever I go. They suspected drugs to amplify, but when those came back clean, I knew they would sniff me out. Except instead of me being beholden to them, they court me. And in the process, I get names, locations, and the underbelly dirt the others have to dig for months to get.'

    I enter the showers and grab a towel from my locker, about to find the nearest shower. But a voice pauses me.

    "Chaos, right?" He questions, and I tilt my head, wanting to give a sarcastic answer, but this guy is too small and eager to be a part of this pit.

    "Who wants to know?" I ask, reaching into my duffel to grab my soap, but my hand wraps around my gun.

    "Don't need to shoot me." He says with a quiet sniff. I look up at him and cock the gun back. 'Might not need to, but I may want to.' His eyes widen, but not in fear as if impressed.

    "Oh, come on, I'm a little memorable." He says, then pouts, and I squint again, but more so because of the blood threatening to run into my eye.

    "Can't say I know you," I say and begin to raise the gun, and his hands come up.

    "Code word." He says in a panicked burst, and my lips twitch.

    "Did you just say a code word, as if that was the code word?" I say, and he winces and nods.

    "So there is a code word?" He challenges, and I grow tired of the banter and level the gun at his head.

    "Oh, wait, I remember!" He says and then taps his chest.

    "I'm Arno. You really don't remember me." He says sadly, and I trail my eyes over him to find the best place to shoot with minimal blood spilling.

     "They said you were the nice one. That all I had to do was find you—why did I come to Las Vegas." He whines, then right before I decide to shoot him, he blurts out the code word... 'the real one.'