Simular Beings

Slain in Vain

"Wrong!" Coach shouted again. "You're pushin', not actually hittin'!"

"Who cares?!" Val yelled. "You gave me pow packs for that! Why does it matter if I push the bag instead of hitting? They'll all feel it anyways!"

Coach hovered around her like some sort of space saucer, readying to abduct. His eyes narrowed at the mention of pow packs.

"What?" she said.

"Cyber-ups ain't gonna cut it in the big leagues. Ya gotta get the basics down. The fundamentals!" He slapped at his wrists to make a point. "Don't keep relying on your eyes—"

"I'm not—"

"And don't keep relyin' on the goddamn pow packs! They're like batteries! They'll run out eventually!" he remarked. "Ya know why I installed pow packs on you instead of some burly cyber-up limbs like the rest?"

"Wh—"

"It's because they're non-invasive! You're still mostly left with your natural muscles. And ya know what the difference between cyber-ups and natural muscles are?"

She didn't answer. This was probably another rhetorical question. She hated when Coach droned on about these things.

"Answer it!"

"U-uh... I don't know! You tell me!"

"Muscles can still grow! 'Netics cannot! Simple!"

"Yeah, that's obvious. But cyber-ups are used more for a reason. They're stronger—"

"And they need daily maintenance, weekly tweaks and tuning, and constant check-ups before each match to see if they'll throw any errors! They're unreliable at best. But your flesh? If that ain't a miracle of life, I don't got a clue what else it's supposed to be."

Coach pulled out the long sticks of doom—hand mitts that were held up by long, metal poles. But it wasn't the sticks that Val feared. It was the fact that he'd always gotten into a feisty mood whenever he picked those things up—always ready to smack her across the face.

"Come on!" Coach motioned for her to move. "We still got ways to go."

...

Coach's training had paid off. A year of training and four more for professional fighting, and Val was already declared by the public as the next big thing in boxing. Her nickname was finalized as Valkyrie to symbolize her meteoric rise to fame—an instant skyrocketing of popularity. And the reasons were simple—

Throughout her professional career, she hadn't lost even once. She hadn't even gotten really punched yet. Only a few grazes here and there. Amongst the pros, she was keeping up well. A little too well for a supposed former amateur.

"Coach," she called out. She was resting on a worn-down couch, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes were all droopy from her current predicament. "I'm bored."

Coach shouted from behind the door in the workshop area of the gym, "Then train! I ain't your babysitter!"

"Coach~" she called again.

"What!"

A thin smile stretched across her face. "I'm bored."

A loud groan escaped through the cracks. The banging from the other side stopped, and Coach poked his head out from behind the workshop door. "What? You want me to make you a sandwich or somethin'? Get off your ass and train. Your bout with number two's comin' up!"

"Yeah, and he'll lose like the rest. Not a big deal."

"Ya gotta stop underestimatin' your opponents, lass. Big ego." He gestured widely with his arms. "Hope it's not all talk."