The Wanderer's Tournament

1990, Three Months Before The Tournament: (London Backstreets, Great Britain)

"And stay down!" With a loud THWACK, the final thug went crashing down onto the concrete ground, the sound of bones snapping like wet twigs echoed through my fist. No doubt the foolish ruffian's lower jaw was completely shattered, and not even the heavy, pouring rain could silence such an excruciating pain.

As the fool howled in pain next to his unconscious friends, my thoughts were only on getting to one of the embassies for the tournament. I was ready, finally. My father won't have to feel the shame of his failure no longer if I just win one fight. And now I knew I can. Without another thought I broke away from the scene I made, straight towards the familiar round shaped, single floored building. Our country is falling apart, nearly all of parliament is on the verge of collapse and if that happens, all of us will be no good vagabonds and refugees. This our last chance to make a dent. My last chance. Father once entered as a boxer, and while his technique as a slugger was impressive, it was fairly predictable. If I'm going to get anywhere in this Tournament, I'll need a combination of technique, surprises. Thankfully the only way to play dirty in this competition is to use ranged weapons that were built by man as they require low skill and no technique to win. Besides which If you have neither you would still probably get taken down by the pros.

Finally I was at the front doors, fumbling my way through the entrance and to the national sheets. I eyed over the Wanderer sheets for a while, had it been even a year ago I might have chosen the solo path. But I'm a better man than I was then.

"Now, we have a chance. I won't let anyone else down." I said to myself, signing my signature into one of the many vacant lines. There was only two other names jotted down, but by the identical penmanship of them it was most likely written by a government official. They're probably not even too great, but they would rather enter somebody into the Tournament than risk /not/ participating, especially after what happened to New Zealand. A feeling of pride started to engulf me. I was one of the few of my country who has signed themselves up since... well that was decades ago, before even father. "Better to move forward than to be eaten by the past," as he puts it. If only I could understand what he meant sooner.

"Well well; Simmons is actually stepping forward. Seems foolish, you'll just go down more disappointed than most." I immediately turned to face the one calling me out. Of course it was him.

"At least I'm doing something Francis. I don't see you writing down anything, or showing any pride past knocking out people who have a higher pay grade than you." Francis was my rival in many respects. We both grew up relatively poor, both took classes at the boxing club as children for the past five years. But we couldn't be more different. He used what he learned to make himself the alpha of anything. From hitting the hardest, the most solid of techniques, to even having a bigger vocabulary of words to speak with, he always had to be the best. I instead practiced for the chance to enter the tournament ever since my father first returned from his chance there. Francis glared over at me for a moment, the comment of people getting a higher pay than he having an immediate effect. He and I have scuffled before, but I was never able to knock him down. Now though, now I'm eagerly waiting to pummel his face in like he did mine so many times before.

He chuckled to himself, relaxing as he slid his hands out of the pockets in his black leather jakcet to reveal he was wearing his custom velvet boxing gloves. The letters on his right knuckle had "K.I.N.G." and "Q.U.E.E.N." appropriately on his left both sealed to the gloves. His jacket was unzipped and underneath he wasn't wearing a shirt of any kind, exposing his tanned and scarred chest from all the trouble he's gotten himself in and out of. With a tone in his voice that reeked of superiority he continued off what I was saying.

"So much talk from one who's yet to prove that they can take a left hook." He grinned as he continued to assault my confidence, "You think any one of those other combatants are going to take an easy on you because they rocked your daddy so hard he couldn't walk anymore?"