Whatever Is Left

Prologue

His heart beat with a steady thrum as he approached the ring, neither fast nor slow. It was the only thing he could hear—not the persistent buzz of the crowd that was gathered around the ring, nor the voice of the host who was announcing his arrival. Not that that mattered to the crowd. Here, your identity didn't matter. The crowd was there for one thing. Nay, two things: pain, and to find out whether they would win their wagers.

His opponent came into view then. Wiry, tattooed, and grim-faced. His usual opponent, their individual identities forever lost to him after each match. As he slid the clear plastic mouth guard inside his mouth, his opponent met his eye and sneered. "Yeah, you'd better protect them clickers, boy scout." His opponent wore no mouth guard.

Connor felt the steady rhythm inside his chest accelerate. Sweat had already begun to form in cold beads at his temples. He approached the center of the ring, and his opponent followed suit. "Sure you up to this, boy scout?" Connor didn't reply.

The host was speaking in a megaphone, adding more noise to the babel of the crowd. Connor understood nothing, until the bell was rung. It was the only signal he needed.

Connor advanced, knees bent. His opponent appeared to mimic his stance, but backstepped before Connor could reach him, smirking. "Eager, boy scout. Eager," he said, side-stepping out of reach again. Connor changed tactics, slowing his advances, waiting for his opponent to hit him.

His opponent fell for it, throwing a quick jab. Connor ducked away from that, and again from a wide-angled swing. Too easy. His opponent grinned, letting Connor know he was being toyed with. Boy scout, he mouthed. One of his lower teeth was missing.

Connor stopped deflecting then, and allowed his opponent to catch him full on the jaw. He reeled for a second, seeing stars. And then he was back.

He blocked another wide-angle swing that was coming on too slowly, replaced it with a jab of his own. The blow caught his opponent close, sending him a step backwards. He recovered quickly, seeking to close the distance with another hit, but Connor ducked, jabbing his elbow into his opponent ribcage, and then catching him in an over-shoulder throw.

His opponent got up in a heartbeat, still more annoyed than hurt. But by then, Connor had cleared a small distance between them, ready for what was to come next. He dropped low, avoiding a sloppy roundhouse kick from his opponent, then using his position to throw a series of quick jabs to his opponent's gut. He got up with a big swing, staggering his opponent. Then ended the fight with a final kick to the solar plexus.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as his opponent went down—a mixture of dismay from the people who had bet against him, elation from the people who had bet on him. He was vaguely aware of the host approaching, and looked up only as the host held his arm up in victory. Connor scanned the crowd, recognizing no face. Of course, this wasn't the kind of place that the people he went to Highland with would be seen in. Satisfied, he pulled his arm away and moved to the edge of the ring, in the direction of the backroom where his things were waiting. The crowd parted like the red sea to let him through. Some people gave him a few pats on the back as he passed.

They were starting to recognize him, he realized. And this was only his fourth fight. This made Connor uneasy, knowing that his hard-won acceptance to Highland would be jeopardized if this information ever reached the wrong person.

In the backroom, Connor wiped away as much of the sweat and dirt from the fight as he could. The door opened and closed, announcing the entry of his opponent. Connor was indifferent to the arrival of his opponent, until he realized that the other man had not moved from the door and was standing there watching him.

Connor turned, with indifferent slowness, but dropped the façade when he realized that it wasn't his opponent standing by the door. Although the man at the door was dressed like any other member of the crowd, he was evidently older upon closer inspection. And bigger.

Connor tensed, rearing himself up for another fight. These things happened, he knew. Some fighters had a crew to back them up, get back at their opponents after a fight. Sometimes, it was the people who lost the bets who wanted to get violent. Seeing Connor's reaction, the man smirked. "Relax, boy scout. If I wanted you out, you'd be on the floor by now."

The man waited, seeming to expect questions from Connor. But Connor had always made it a point not to speak at these things, unless it was completely necessary.

Unfazed by his silence, the man continued "You're going to have to follow me."

Connor cocked his head to the side, and if I don't?

The man appeared to expect this response. There was an edge to his smile as he said his next words. "Then I guess we're going to find out if you're good enough for this job or not right here, boy scout," he said, before lunging at Connor.