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( CHAPTER ONE: YOU GOT SERVED ) December, 1988
❝nothin's ever gonna be good enough, man ❞
◯
The conviction of the moment was a slight dis-factor in the favour of the rivalling teams as the heat of the moment began to catch under their heels. With a boisterous group of heckling people crowded around the cleared concrete, random dancers spaced out into the open circle, busting out their best dance moves, attempting to take on the reigning champions who had gained the significance of victory over their previous dance battles.
The streets of New York cramped with the heavy beat of some NWA song, giving the advantage of impressing the ruthless crowd, who wasn't shy enough to show either their miss-taste or admiration for the battling b-boys and B-girls that thrilled along the dance floor.
Along the many individuals that stood in the large circular formation, Devon Emmet pushed through the gathering, brown eyes narrowed as he worked his way to the front, immediately eager as he observed the movements of the current dancers, battling for the death.
He couldn't help but smile as he ooed and aed along with the synced mob, complimenting and favouring the unique styles that each dancer brought to the table, their individuality one of the many things that inspired him from his day to day life. He smiled wholly, his brown skin glimmering from sweat, watching as his mind mentally jotted down notes of practice.
However, his jamming session was put to rest as the losing dancer was roughly pulled out of the dancing ring, hailing the champion as he stood there in an ebony of glory, vanquishing in the cheers of the crowd. "These playas ain't got shit on me!" the winner cockily jeered, quickly busting out a short move to get his point across.
Devon couldn't help but roll his eyes at the arrogance that this dancer reeked, his critically formed brain spotting lots of technical errors that was evident in his dancing style, but who was he to judge, he won that battle fair and square. "Alright homie," Devon said, pushing amongst the pressed crowd so that he evened out into the centre of the circle, "You might've beaten those trainees, but let's see how you'll deal with me."
With that, the young twenty-year-old shrugged off his small backpack, the straps slipping from his broad shoulders and falling onto the curb, probably being trampled by the energised horde of passionate individuals, Devon's threat another excuse for them to see more. The winner raised his brows at his mild challenge, quite surprised that someone had even dared to test his limits after the impressive display of talent he showed just moments ago.
"Ya sure homeboy? I don't want ya embarrassing yourself," he cackled, fist-pumping and patting some guys on his left, snickering along with them as they praised his poor-excuse of a comeback. "If y'all are done with your stand-up session, I'd like to battle now," Devon probed, placing his hands on his hips as he looked upon his opponent, dark brown skin already going red from anger and irritation.
