star chasers

v.

Red was best described as a block of muscle - though stocky in stature, a flex of his arms told you otherwise. Deep red ink, permanent, swirled in a path along his warm brown skin, moving with his muscles whenever he threw a punch. Red mud caked his close-shaven head in a pattern of two stripes. Every morning, he would visit the nearest puddle, wet the mud in his hands, and mark himself again, almond shaped eyes and wide nose crinkled from smiling. He was the most laid back fighter Lefty ever knew, often leaving the barracks late at night to look up and hum a song to the sky and holding back those who preyed on newcomers. Without Red, Lefty would have perished in the camps, withered like seedlings in the scorched fields of Remus territory.

"What's your name?" Red asked when they first met, seven days, four hours. Lefty used to count, holding onto the dream that he'd get out one day. He couldn't remember the day he stopped.

Back then, though, he sat on his cot, silent. For months, he couldn't speak - only scratchy, mangled noises escaped his mouth when he tried, like his voice left with his mother. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the village burning down.

Red lunged for a small, leather book - the only thing from Lefty's mother that the boy could sneak in. He shot up, still sore from training, full of bruises and cuts. He reached for it, but Red held it in the air, pushing Lefty's chest so hard he reeled back.

"To survive here, you have to speak. If you can't," he pushed him once more, holding up a fist, "Talk with this."

The first step at camp was to be broken. Though the Remus guards worked hard at it, the prisoners themselves helped with the process, stealing food and water from the newest fighters. Soon a night came when he and Red met eye to eye. He was dizzy from lack of food, a permanent pain in his stomach, his cheeks slender when he gazed into puddles of water or piss. He felt himself changing - and back then, in more ways than one.

"What do you want?" Red asked, knowing silence was the answer.

Lefty grabbed the leather notebook from Red's bed, quicker than he'd been before. Red grabbed his arm, but he quickly escaped his grasp. They paused for a moment, facing each other.

A distant voice cooed for a fight.

Red lunged for the book in his hands. He couldn't remember much else, but what he could remember was landing a punch, and Red reeling back, eyes wide in surprise. Almost amusement. He let the boy have his book, rubbing his jaw and offering a dry chuckle.

"Lefty." Red spoke that night, as the boy wrote the same words over and over in his book. He looked to Red, who held a smile on his lips.

"You write with your left hand. My people say you're destined for greatness."

That was his name from then on. When people asked what it meant, he'd hold up his left fist with a smile. Names were powerful things. The only ones you spoke of were the ones you earned.

"I didn't like how that went. And I didn't like what you did back there," Chu spoke, eyes on the road, snapping Lefty back to the reality of the caravan. "I could see you losing control. It's important to have on a mission. It's the difference between life and death. Don't you have something to say?"

"No." Lefty mumbled.

"Why didn't you stop?"

He was run by fear, the fighter thought to himself, staring at the blood, now dried, staining the fabric around his fists. He'd do anything to survive. It was instinct. "I don't know."

"He stopped fighting back."

"I don't know," he repeated.

"He'll go back with those scars and tell someone about us."