The Seventh Avenger: Playing With Fire

Chapter 3: Deal with the Devil

          TRIGGER WARNING: The middle of this chapter briefly contains references to varying forms of abuse. Please proceed with caution.

          Fogwell's Gym, located in the lower west side of Manhatten is low profile, which is what attracted Lydia to it in the first place. Tucked away in a dark corner of the city, it had surprisingly been undamaged during the chaos of The Incident. Its owner, however, had been caught in the middle of the fight that had proven to be fatal for many innocent civilians that day. He shouldn't be alive, but an Avenger with fire streaming from her hands had burned down the aliens that had been seconds away from ending his life. Grateful, he had offered Lydia to come by his gym whenever she wished, free of charge. Too great of an opportunity to pass (and because she couldn't afford a gym membership due to her current financial situation), she had agreed.

          She hadn't known what to expect when she had first walked through the front doors, but the sight of the empty gym had taken her by surprise. The owner hadn't mentioned to her just how low profile the run-down but accessible space was. Apparently, it is so low profile that it rarely gets visitors. The faded and worn posters hanging on the wall, depicting matches from the past such as 'Carl Crusher Creel vs. Battlin' Jack Murdock' suggest that it had once been a popular space. But now, only ghosts haunt the boxing ring in the middle of the room and fill the otherwise silent gym. Incredibly low profile. Exactly what Lydia needs.

          The gym had been closed upon her arrival, but the owner had given her a spare key, weeks prior. Underneath the dim lights, she had quickly lost herself in the punching bag hanging in front of her. Whenever she has needed to blow off some steam in the past few months, she has always ventured to Fogwell's. Every punch eases the ball of frustration bubbling within her, and serves as a distraction from the issues that await her in her apartment.

          Overdue bills, piling up on the table.

          Slam.

          Job applications getting her nowhere.

          Slam. Slam.

          Nightmares.

          Slam. Slam. Slam.

          Being the daughter of a deranged killer.

          Slam, slam, slam, slam, SLAM.

          She finishes with an exhausted grunt, her chest heaving with every breath she takes. Stepping away from the swaying bag, she holds her hands out in front of her, and grimaces at the sight of her red, swollen knuckles and wrists. She has been boxing too hard; again. Swearing, she reaches up with one hand to gently unwrap the tape around the other. Once her hands are free, she tries her best to wriggle her stiff fingers around. Once again, she has been clenching them for far too long.

          Maybe I shouldn't box for that long next time.

          Something that she tells herself each time she comes to relieve her stress. Advice, that she always ignores when she finds her way back to the gym.

          A glance at the clock on the wall informs her that it is nearing midnight; she's been at it for almost two hours now. Deciding that she has left Zeus alone for long enough, she steps away from the bag and goes to grab her coat that she had hastily flung over the back of her chair upon arriving.

          But the sound and sight of a man dressed head to toe in black barging through the previously closed door stops Lydia in her tracks.