So you think you can fight? || OPEN

Inhale, inhale, exhale, exhale, rinse and repeat. That was Darren’s breathing rythmn as he ran along the riverbank, like a boxing manga cliché. He stopped at regulars intervals to jab at the air and dodge invisible punches, his legs dancing gracefully. He got back to his roadwork.

At first, the delinquent hated roadwork. He didn’t came to a boxing gym to run, he came to box. So when the tiny owner of the Fujikawa gym, which was named after himself, told him to run around the block until he was drenched in sweat before he even thought of stepping inside his gym, he almost went home.

Almost. Something about that old man’s tone irked him, so he did it, just to prove he could do it. When he stepped inside, the old man yelled at him that it wasn’t enough and made him run five more laps. Again, he almost went home. But now, he was committed, and he would see that old fool’s training to the end or his name wasn't Daimon Darren.

That was a month ago, when Darren starting coming to the small Musutafu gym on an irregular basis. Since then, he’d done more than just running. He was being forced to do sit-ups while the coach dropped a medicine ball on his stomach with every rep. There was lifting. There were endless sessions on the sandbag where he was forced to jab only.

He had joined boxing clubs in school before, but it never stuck with him. The instructors looked at him like he was some filthy delinquent. Which was partly true, but he still wasn’t too warm to the disdain in their eyes.

Coach Fujikawa was different. A sharp-browed, constantly frowning tiny old man with vestigial hair, it was hard to believe this was the same guy as the smiling 20-something on the fight adverts adorning the walls of his dingy old gym, but he apparently used to be the Japanese Lightweight Champion and even had a shot at the OPBF title match. Darren had been warned by his senpais not to bring it up, but being Darren, he did it anyway.

The coach only answer was yelling at him to chat less and punch more, and a sharp left hook caught Darren in the jaw. Despite being a good head smaller than him, and more than fifty years older, he could stick one on him, and that was enough to impress the delinquent. For once, he had a smidge of respect for someone else and decided to leave it at that. He’d hear that OPBF story later, when the old man would feel like telling it.

Today, he had a fun assignment. He was supposed to do his roadwork on the way to Aioria gym, that private academy who opened its doors once a month for a public spar. Darren grinned big when he heard the news. Coach Fujikawa sighed. “Yes, it’s exactly what you expect. I’ll meet you there once you finish your training menu. And don’t you skip on me, kid!” “Yes sir!” answered the blonde adolescent, practically giddy.

He pulled up to the gym just in time to witness some white-haired dude about his age knock out another with a sharp one-two. Seeing this, the delinquent's instincts flared up. He knew a strong opponent when he saw one. His adrenal glands began filling his brain with sweet, juicy adrenaline. There was some sort of argument between the boy and his coach on how he would only do one more. He used the time to look around. The place was a much more modern affair than the coach’s dingy old gym, with its glass window walls and state-of-the-art air conditioning.

“Here!” shouted Darren, holding up his right hand. “I just finished my roadwork so we’re even too,” he added with a smirk. He caught his coach glaring at him in the audience and waved at him with his idiotic grin. The coach sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose and made his way to Darren, who was already on the edge of the ring, handing him the gym bag with the boxing shoes, gloves and tape he was lending to his new student. As Darren was gearing up, the coach briefed him on his opponent.

“Listen, I’ve been observing this guy, and he’s good. Maybe a little too good for you.”
“No one’s too good for me, coach,” answered the adolescent with a smile that could only be cocky. He earned a slap over the temple for it. “Ow!”
“You shut up and listen now. Don’t think I’m a fool, I’ve known your type since the day you set foot in my gym. This is a boxing match, not a brawl. He’s an in-fighter, he’s gonna close in and push you into a corner. Remember your lateral movement, keep jabbing and keep your guard up.”
“Sure coach, whatever you say,” answered the delinquent, still grinning.

The coach sighed again as his student jumped over the ropes and into the ring, landing softly on the canvas. He was certainly agile, but was he really gonna be okay in here? He usually didn’t trust month old students with inter-gym sparring, but he had a hunch, and Coach Fujikawa was a man who had relied on hunches for all of his boxing career.

Maybe I ought to trust the young blood more, he remarked to himself as Darren was making his way to the center of the ring, banging his gloved fists together in anticipation. At least, there was no doubt the kid loved it. It was written all over his face.

“Listen, Darren, he’s in an infighter, he’s gonna stick close… Now it’s true that I told you to be aggressive, but you’re gonna get dragged in a short range match here, and he excels at that from what I’ve seen. Remember what I told you, you’re an outboxer. Use your legs and your sense of balance to punch without getting punched yourself. That’s the basics of boxing. Keep laying the pressure on him with jabs, closing in and out like you do and tire him, make him make a mistake, and then go for the big one. Got it, Darren?”

While the coach was drilling a strategy in his brain, or trying to, Darren was staring at his opponent. Now that he thought of it, he saw that guy at school. He wasn’t that surprised; most UA students went to Musutafu for their activities. He couldn’t quite place the white-haired boy or remember his name, though the latter was a common occurrence with Darren.

He got up without answering the coach, who shouted a few more instructions at him, in vain. His instincts were in alert right now. He could feel from the way he carried himself in the ring, assured and calm, that his opponent knew what he was doing and knew it well. “No need for headgear,” he declared in a confident voice. “Only slows my head.” He smirked, and extended his left fist forward for a bump; the boxer’s salute. Darren was surprisingly polite when it came to fighting, and the rudest asshole otherwise.

With a whistle, the start of the match was announced. Darren pulled back his fist, bounced on the ball of his knees for a second and threw a couple of quick jabs at the other boxer. His cold blue gaze was entirely focused on his opponent and his feet were shuffling on the mat, bringing him around to circle the white-haired kid on Darren’s left. He held a semi-orthodox guard with a loose left hand, his right fist to his chin, his torso at a forty-five-degree angle, his legs constantly dancing on the floor to keep hi moving, to avoid giving the inboxer a straight path to him.

Truth was, Darren had been listening with one ear, but he didn’t really need the instructions. He’d done enough brawling to know not to let a close ranged fighter get too close to him, peppering him with attacks until he was weak enough to be pounced on, like a wolf wearing down a prey.



Meanwhile, the coach kept both his eyes on his fighter, entirely indifferent to his surroundings. He wasn’t sure why. This boy was a heroics student. He was almost certainly never gonna be a pro boxer. He wouldn’t win his gym a world title. Yet, coach Fujikawa couldn’t help but want to watch this foul-mouthed blonde kid box and his instincts were flaring too. He knew he was about to see a good match. He glanced at the other coach, expecting to find the same look he must have had in his eyes.

It’s my boxing against your boxing, his gaze was telling him. My student versus your student. Let the best boxer win.