#HADDA LOTTA FUN WRITIN THIS ONE...

[powpowpunchout]

What Were You Thinking?

Hondo stormed through the halls of the stadium.

His hands were curled into tight fists.

His glare was strong enough to kill a man.

And the absolute fury on his face was the kind not even his opponents had to witness.

Whatever staff members came his way only needed one glance at him before they quickly stepped aside.

Hondo knew he looked like a wreck

He knew his hair was an absolute mess.

He knew his white headband was about to come undone.

He knew his red dress shirt was crooked, and that dirt clung onto the bottom of his pants, but he didn’t care.

The moment he got that text from Bear Hugger? Everything else was trivial to him.

‘Hello, I got hurt. I won’t be able to respond properly for a little while.’, Was what Bear’s text said, and despite how short and formal it was, it set off every alarm in Hondo’s head.

Bear never texted that formally, and the moment Hondo’s eyes saw the word ‘hurt’, he dropped everything and ran straight to the stadium.

Hondo kept glaring down the hall.

He blocked out every other sound, save for his black shoes hitting the tiled floor.

The subtle smell of copper stung his nose.

He turned a corner.

His eyes landed on the locker room door.

He swung it open. The door hit the wall with a loud bang.

“Tiger, is that you?” He heard Joe holler.

The smell of copper only grew worse.

Hondo’s face scrunched. He walked further into the locker room, and that’s when he saw Bear and Joe.

Bear was sitting against a row of lockers with his light-blue gym bag and his tote bag beside him. Joe sat next to him, a frantic look on his face as he held crumpled paper towels around Bear’s left hand.

Joe had rolled up the sleeves of his black turtleneck, and his wine-colored pants and black shoes were nearly hidden by sheets of paper towels.

Bear was mumbling something to Joe, but he stopped when he saw Hondo approaching.

“Heya, Hondo.” Bear said with a wavering smile, “Shoot, I hope ya didn’t come all th’way over here just cause of me.”

Hondo stared down at Bear. He stared at his pale face and his puffy eyes before he looked over to Bear’s hand.  

Hondo opened his mouth–but he stopped when he saw multiple mouse traps sitting beside Bear’s foot. His stomach turned when he saw blood splatters on a particularly large one.

“What happened?” Hondo asked through gritted teeth.

Bear’s mouth hung open for a moment–

“I was trying to find Sandman’s bottle–” Joe started, “--but then I passed by the locker room and heard Bear scream! I rushed inside and saw him gripping one hand and–and there was blood, and–it was everywhere!”

Hondo felt a twinge of fear shoot through him.

“Wasn’t that bloody.” Bear shrugged in an attempt to act casual.

“One of your nails nearly fell off!” Joe jumped, “And your other fingers looked so purple, and swollen, and–”Joe shuddered. He brought his focus back to the paper towels, holding them firmly around Bear’s fingers as he kept talking, “Tiger teleported into the room not too long ago and went to get a medical kit, and Bear wanted me to text you just in case…” His voice dwindled into mumbles.

Hondo looked back to Bear.

Bear looked away.

His cheeks grew pink.

“Yeah, I… It was kinda my fault, really. Should’a thought twice before stickin’ my hand through–” Bear fumbled with his words, “I just saw somethin’ coverin’ my locker ‘n got curious. Th’dang thing was taped to th’walls so I thought maybe someone placed it there to protect whatever critter was inside, even though that sounded weird, ‘n I just stuck my hand through! Was basically beggin’ for it to happen.” Bear stared at his injured hand. The tips of his fingers burned with each throb of pain.

“Don’t say that.” Hondo was about to add on, but he froze when he saw the inside of Bear’s locker. Nearly every inch of it had been taken up by mousetraps, save for the several missing spaces along the walls.

Hondo’s fists started to tremble. The fact someone spent this much time to hurt his friend made him sick.

He kneeled down to Bear’s level, “You had no way of knowing someone had set those traps for you. They hid it from you. Do not blame yourself.”

Bear nodded.

Hondo watched as Bear’s cheeks grew pinker.

Bear lowered his head.

And then Hondo heard him sniffle.

His heart started to ache.

“Th’pain ain’t that bad–I ain’t cryin’ cause of th’pain, even though it hurts like heck.” Bear raised his good hand up, “I’m just kinda–I’m… Could you imagine if one’a my li’l buddies had been stuck in there? They would’ve been killed, ‘n–” Bear wiped his eyes.

“Hondo.” Joe muttered, his focus still on Bear’s hand, “Could you… Throw away those traps, please?”

Hondo brought his eyes down to the traps that were on the floor. Their wooden bases were chipped, and their metal bars were horribly dented–some had been completely torn from their hinges.

“Of course.” He whispered.

The thought that one of Bear’s animals could’ve gotten their neck snapped, or that one of the mousetraps’ bars could’ve come loose and pierce right through Bear’s fingers, or that even more of Bear’s fingernails could’ve come off made Hondo grateful the injuries didn’t get that severe, but Bear should’ve have gotten hurt in the first place.  

Right as Hondo reached for the first trap, he suddenly heard Joe curse to himself.

His eyes flickered over to see Joe shaking his hand before desperately trying to clean the blood off his fingertips with a paper towel.  

“Sorry, did I bleed through th’paper again?”

“It’s fine.” Joe grabbed another fistful of paper towels and wrapped them around Bear’s hand, “I’ve had bloody noses worse than this, but–but other people’s blood always makes me–”

“Hey, s’all good. I get it.” Bear gave him a weak smile, “I think I might have a towel in my bag. Could be better than these cheap things.”

The moment Bear reached for his gym bag, Hondo got in front of him.

Confusion flashed across Bear and Joe’s faces. Hondo just glared at the bag.

He gave it a kick.

Several snapping sounds could be heard.

Hondo turned back to the men.

“Who did this?” He snarled.

He already knew the answer to that. And by the looks Bear and Joe were giving him? So did they.

“I believe it’s quite obvious…” Tiger’s voice boomed through the locker room.

A swirl of smoke appeared in front of them. It grew in size before it was swished away by Tiger.

“Aran.” Tiger hissed.

Tiger held onto a first aid kit. His gem flashed. The kit hovered into the air and its lid popped open.

“Who else would be run by enough malice to do something like this?” Tiger said as he gestured towards the kit. A roll of bandages flew out and started to unravel itself. A small tube of ointment came out as well.

Bear tugged at the end of his beard, “Yup. Probably got a good idea as to why he went ‘n did it as well.”

Tiger raised a brow, urging Bear to go on.

“Shoot, ya remember when Macho got covered in that ink?”

Hondo’s eyes widened. Bear didn’t have to say another word.

“He’s doing this all because you were looking out for someone?” Hondo’s knuckles were starting to turn white.

“What?” Joe pulled away from Bear, “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Bear noticed Aran acting odd just a few days before the ink incident. He gave a warning to the higher ups–he didn’t even accuse Aran of doing anything–but–” Hondo threw his arms down, trying to suppress the urge to strike one of the nearby lockers.

“As if Aran cares about the specifics of that.” Tiger frowned as he used his magic to spread the ointment on one side of the bandage, “Could I see his hand?” He asked Joe.

Joe slowly took the paper towels away from Bear’s hand, revealing his purple and blue fingers, along with a particularly bloody pointer finger.

As horrible as it sounded, Hondo was thankful for the dark blood that covered the finger. Just the mere thought of how Bear’s nail must’ve looked made him shiver.

Tiger sharply inhaled.

“It ain’t too bad. Dealt with animal scratches worse than this.” Bear swatted at the air with his good hand.

“That’s not the point.” Hondo said.

Tiger used his magic to carefully wrap the bandage around the finger.

“This wasn’t the act of an animal, Aran wanted to hurt you.” Hondo watched as Bear tried to bend his swollen fingers, “And something tells me he didn’t do this alone.”

The other men shot their heads over to Hondo.

“Who else?” Tiger asked.

“Don’t act oblivious.” Hondo spat.

Tiger put his hand to his chest, as offended as he was taken aback, but then his expression slowly shifted to anger.

“Overload?” He whispered.

“Sounds about right.” Joe got back to his feet and put his hands on his hips, “Those two are always together. It wouldn’t surprise me if he lent Aran a hand.”

“No, that doesn’t sound right at all!” Tiger exclaimed, “What reason would Overload have to do this to Bear!?”

The second he finished wrapping Bear’s hand, he snapped his fingers and the medical kit teleported away.

“Does he need a reason? We’ve seen how he yells at everyone over finger tapping and humming. For all we know, Bear could’ve tapped his foot and that’s all Overload needed to go along with this little setup.” Joe raised his head.

Tiger sputtered, “Yes, I–I agree that he can lose his temper occasionally, but there’s a fine difference between shouting at someone and doing this!” He pointed to the inside of Bear’s locker.

“You saw the way he grabbed Don’s hand during the dinner.” Hondo spoke firmly, “If he can–”

“Oh, the dinner night. The dinner night!” Tiger raised his voice. He suddenly flew into Hondo’s face–making Hondo step back.

“You didn’t even try to talk to Overload during the dinner.” He hissed as he inched closer to Hondo, forcing Hondo to keep moving backwards, “Do you think I didn’t notice the way Bear had to urge you to talk to him? Or how you kept glaring at him since the moment he stepped foot into the bar?”

Hondo felt his back hit a row of lockers. His and Tiger’s faces were an inch apart.

“And why would I want to talk to him?” Hondo growled, “After everything he has done–after the way he has treated us–why would I ever want to speak to him?”

“Hondo’s right.” Joe said as he helped Bear to his feet, “Overload isn’t exactly the most pleasant person to be around, and after what happened at the restaurant–”

“You weren’t even there.” Tiger said as he flew in front of Joe, his hands curled to fists and his eyes glowing as brightly as his gem.

“No,” Joe stood tall, unfazed by Tiger, “but Bear told me about it, and it certainly didn’t sound like fun.”

Tiger whipped his head over to Bear, “What in blazes did you tell him?!”

Bear jumped and threw his hands up, “I was just bein’ honest! He wanted to know how things went, ‘n I told ‘em that it got a bit rocky cause Octave ‘n Don started arguing.”

“Overload grabbed Don.” Hondo threw in.

“For one moment!” Tiger added, “For one, singular moment. Then he let go!”

“That doesn’t matter.” Hondo shot back, “What matters is he acted out, he insulted us, and he put absolutely no effort into treating us better that night. I know he’s somewhat nicer to you, but nothing has changed for us.” He narrowed his eyes, “I don’t see any reason as to why he wouldn’t set up these traps inside Bear’s locker.”

“Fine, fine! You’re so certain he helped with this?” Tiger asked as he started to pace around in the air, his gem blinking wildly, “What else could you possibly use to justify your inane theory besides the fact that he and Aran are friends?”

“We’ll just ask Aran ourselves.” Hondo put his hands behind his back and walked past Tiger “Joe, you have most of the boxers’ numbers, do you–”

“Hold on, Aran?” Tiger shook his head. He teleported in between Hondo and Joe, “You want to ask for confirmation from Aran of all people? Are you listening to yourself? Is anyone else hearing this?!” His head darted around the locker room, “Why do you think Aran would ever be honest with you? With any of us!? He can’t even box truthfully!”

“We don’t even need to ask Aran.” Joe said as he brushed the hair out of his face, “It’s just common sense–”

“To who?!” Tiger shouted.

Before the argument could escalate even further, the locker room door swung open and hit the wall. The men turned their heads and watched as Super Macho Man came into their view.

He stomped over with his head held high and the ends of his dark blue robe dragging behind him. Despite the sunglasses that hid his eyes, it was quite obvious that he was staring down at them judgmentally.

“Do ya chumps mind keepin’ it down?” He said, holding his flip phone in one hand while covering its speaker with the other, “I’m in th’middle of a brand deal, and all your shoutin’ is makin’ me look bad.”

The men stared at him for a moment.

Hondo broke the silence, “We don’t have time for this.” He marched over to Joe, “We need to call Aran now.”

“I don’t have Aran’s number.” Joe said, a hand on his chest, “I’d rather die than give it to that man.”

Hondo’s brow twitched.

“Hang on a sec.” Bear looked back to Macho Man, “Macho, ya gotta lotta folks numbers, do ya–”

“Nu-uh. No way. Not happenin’.” Macho shook his head, “I mean like, I do have his number, but ain’t no way I’m gonna let ya get your grimy hands all over my phone.”

“We don’t have to touch your phone, we just need Aran’s number.” Hondo said.

Macho took his sunglasses off and looked down at Hondo, “Why?”

Hondo covered his face with his hands.

“They think Overload placed mousetraps inside of Bear’s locker.” Tiger grumbled, “And they believe that–”

Macho gasped and shut his phone, “Overload would never do that!”

Tiger pointed to Macho Man, “Thank you! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but for once in my life, I agree with Macho!”

Hondo groaned before he dragged his hands down his face, “Do you realize how ridiculous you sound agreeing with Macho Man of all people?”

“Dunno what that’s supposed to mean.” Macho shoved his phone into the inner pocket of his robe, “But I saw Overload earlier today. We were at th’third floor chattin’ it up, he had some big clunky box in his hand, ‘n unless he’s got super speed or somethin’, I doubt th’dude–”

“Wait, box?” Hondo lifted his head, “What box?”

“His lunchbox, Eyebrows.” Tiger growled.

Hondo shot him a dirty look.

“Awh, c’mon, take it easy on him.” Bear said, “How was he supposed to know that–”

“I absolutely will not!” Tiger cut him off, “He’s just–just looking for reasons to despise Overload, and I will not stand for it!”

“Why do you even care so much about this, Tiger? If Overload gets suspended by his own actions, it’s his own fault.” Joe folded his arms.

“It’s called sympathy!” Tiger exclaimed.

“Why don’t you find Overload and teach him about that word? I’m sure it’ll save us a load of problems.” Hondo snapped back.

“Oh, be careful Hondo…” Tiger slowly leaned into Hondo’s face and spoke in a harsh hush, “I think your temper is starting to show.”

Hondo’s eyes widened. A look of repulsion flickered within them.

He opened his mouth–

But Tiger spoke up again.

“I’ve had enough of this.” He teleported away from Hondo and to the center of the locker room, “I’ve been with Overload most of the afternoon, I actually give him my time of day, so I can say for certain that he wouldn’t do an act like this.”

His gem flashed, and Bull’s gym bag appeared next to him, “Bull’s fight is coming up, and I’d like to focus my energy on supporting him, not putting up with this–this nonsense.” He gestured towards the rest of the men, “If you truly want to stand around all day finding a way to pin the blame on Overload, so be it. I have better things to do with my time.”

He snapped his fingers.

The mousetraps disappeared.

Then his gem flashed, and he teleported away.

The four boxers stood still, silent for a moment.

“I’m going to the higher ups.” Joe said as he started to march away, “They need to hear about this.”

Macho slammed his hand into the side of a locker and stood in Joe’s way.

“They just need’a hear bout Aran. He’s th’guy causin’ all th’problems here.”

Joe rolled his eyes and ducked underneath Macho’s arm, “What does it matter to you?”

Macho yanked him back by the collar of his shirt, “Aran got ink on my clothes. I don’t care what happens to him. Overload though? Guy did nothin’ wrong.”

Joe scowled and fixed his collar, “You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

Joe pushed Macho away and kept walking, “I’d rather play it safe than risk another person getting hurt again–”

“Hold on, Joe.” Bear said.

Joe looked over.

Bear hesitated before he hugged onto himself, “If ya gotta report someone, just do Aran. I ain’t so sure Octave helped with this either.”

Joe and Hondo both jumped.

Macho Man nodded approvingly.

Joe sputtered, “But Bear, he’s–”

“I know he can be a li’l sour, but I saw him just before my fingers got snapped. I was givin’ him his gift ‘n nothin’ seemed off bout him.” Bear stared at his injured hand, “I don’t think he helped Aran. Sure, he’s acted rotten before, but I just can’t see Octave doin’ this.”

Joe sighed, “Bear, I understand you…”

Hondo watched as the men talked amongst each other, their voices slowly faded into the other sounds of the locker room–the fans, the buzzing lights, the footsteps that passed outside the door–until Hondo could hardly make out anything they were saying anymore.

He just stared at the scuffed, gray floor.

‘If I had been there…’ Don’s voice echoed in his head.

‘...I would’ve never let such behavior slide.’

Hondo wasn’t there in time to catch Aran and Overload in the act.

He wasn’t there in time to run into Overload and question him.

He wasn’t there in time to help Bear.

And all those times he was there?

When he watched Overload threaten to crush Bear’s origami?

When he pinned Disco against the wall?

When he insulted each and every one of them at the night of their dinner?

What did he do?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

And the longer he thought about it, the worse his chest burned.

‘What will it take…’ He wondered to himself, ‘...For you to finally do something?’

He clenched his fists.

As much as he’d love to step in, to take action, another part of him knew the results could be disastrous. That his attempt at intervening could make things worse. That someone could get hurt.

He brought his eyes back to Bear.

He was still talking to Joe, nodding along as he clutched onto his injured hand, blood slowly seeping through the bandages.

Tiger’s words about his temper rang through his mind.

Hondo shook his head.

“Bear.” He finally said. Everyone looked over to him.

He took a step closer to his friend, “You said you saw Overload right before you got hurt?”

Bear’s mouth hung open, “Yeah, bout several minutes ago I think. He was just bout to leave–”

“Where did you see him?”

“Th’--At th’back door.”

Hondo grabbed onto the ends of his white headband and tightened it.

“I will be right back.”

Without saying another word, he turned around and stormed out of the locker room.

If Overload had left only a little while ago, there’s a chance he’s still close to the stadium.

There’s a chance that Hondo could find him.

He headed towards the stadium’s backdoors, ignoring whatever threats Macho hollered at him from across the hall. He didn’t care what Macho had to say. If he wanted to sue him or beat him to a pulp over this, so be it.

If Macho doesn’t want Overload to suffer whatever punishment the higher ups have in store for him, then maybe he should help Overload better himself. Then they could prevent situations like these from ever happening.

Hondo swung open the doors. His head immediately shot over to the left where the streets of the city laid.

He started walking, never tearing his eyes from the buildings ahead; a mish-mash of sleek structures, worn down stores, and apartment complexes that have seen better days.

Tucked between all those buildings–nearly hidden by the hundreds of passing people, lamp posts, and street signs–were alleyways.

Alleyways that branched out and intertwined with each other. Alleys that hardly received any light, making them a task to maneuver through. Alleys that ran so deep into the city that after a certain point, all the world’s ruckus turned muffled.  

Traveling through the alleys always took longer compared to following the sidewalks, but they were the perfect place to escape the noise of the city, all those flashing lights, and the crowds of people who couldn’t help but bump into shoulders and step on passing feet. Hondo had gone through these alleys before as a means to unwind, and they seemed like the perfect place for someone like Overload to walk through.

Of course, he wasn’t certain.

Hondo’s only seen Overload leave the stadium and head off in this direction a handful of times.

For all he knew, Overload could’ve called a cab and was already at his house.

But at the very least, he could try.

He had to try.

Hondo crossed the road, weaving through the hundreds of people, their shouts and hollers filling his ears and mixing with the sound of car horns and engine sputters.

Each building he passed carried its own stench.

Cheap beer, the sting of spray paint, burnt food that had been scraped off the stove, all mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke and thick storm clouds.

Hondo glanced at the sky.

It was covered in dark clouds.

The wind was picking up.

He turned a corner and entered the first alley he saw

It was placed between a bank and a convenience store you could find at nearly every block of this city.

The sides of their walls had been covered in crude graffiti and strange stains.

Rusted pipes ran just below their roofs; water dripped through their tiny cracks and hit the small puddles that were scattered along the ruined asphalt.

These alleys were the worst place to be after it rained.

Water filled whatever cracks and potholes the paths had. There weren’t any drains either–the city never bothered–so the water often reached past people’s shoes and soiled the ends of their pants.

And the way the rain filled the dumpsters? How it mixed with whatever disgusting ooze was inside of them? How bits of trash floated atop the water? It was putrid. And don’t even get him started on the smell.

He turned another corner.

The sounds of the city grew quieter.

The paths grew narrower.

Hondo was turning whatever corner caught his eye, going deeper and deeper into the city.

He scanned whatever alleys he passed.

Had it not been for the little differences each building had–their windows, neon signs, boarded up doors–he would’ve believed he was going in circles.

Every object he passed by, every silhouette he saw made him do a double take in the hopes that it was Overload.

He didn’t know where he was heading; where he could find Overload.

As the clouds grew darker, a part of him started to worry he’d have to head back, that he’d have to wait another day to see Overload again.

The low roar of thunder echoed through the alleys.

The smell of the storm grew worse.

Rain threatened to spill at any second.

Hondo turned another corner.

Then he stopped.

He stood still for a moment.

He didn’t know if the stress was finally getting to him, but he swore he heard another set of steps.

They were faint. So, so faint, but he heard them.

He rushed to the other end of the alley and took a sharp right.

He kept looking ahead, turning corner after corner.

He’d stopped at every intersection to listen for those steps.

He kept moving.

The sound of blasting music and hundreds of conversations slowly started to seep into his ears.

One of the buildings nearby must’ve had their windows open. He might lose track of those steps.

It might not even be Overload who’s walking nearby.

It could be anybody.

Anybody.

He turned a left corner.

The first thing he saw was a bright-pink neon sign. No words on it, just the flickering shape of a wine glass.

It hung above a beaten up door that was an ugly shade of green. Through the door, Hondo could hear that obnoxious music and the laughs of drunken people.

Nearly every part of this alley–the walls, the puddles, the pipes, the dumpsters–had been doused in the sign’s saturated pink.

And at the very end of the alley was–

“Overload!” Hondo shouted, his voice bounced off the walls.

Overload stopped walking and jerked his head around.

“Pisty?” He heard Overload mutter, “Th’heck do ya want?” A scowl spread across his face.

Hondo’s heart pounded against his chest.

He took a deep breath and stepped closer.

“Do you think you could just leave after the stunt you pulled?”

Octave gripped onto the handle of his beaten up lunchbox and raised his head, “What on earth are ya talkin’ bout?”

Hondo narrowed his eyes, “Do you think we’re stupid?”

“Do ya wanna honest answer?”

“I know you and Aran were the ones who placed those mousetraps inside Bear’s locker.” He pointed to Overload.

“Mousetraps, eh?” Octave wrapped his thumbs around his white belt, “And what made ya think I’m th’guy who put ‘em there?”

“Given your behavior? It was quite obvious.”

“Dang, ya hate me that much?” Octave put on a sappy, sad expression, “See one bad thing happen to a guy ‘n immediately think I caused it? I mean, c’mon,” He started walking closer, getting illuminated by the neon sign above, “sure th’big guy’s annoyin’, but ya think I’d really go outta my way to do a thing like that?”

“Yes.” Hondo answered through gritted teeth, “You belittle people. You scold them. You’ve grabbed at Don–”

Octave opened his mouth, but Hondo kept going.

“--And I know you held Disco against the wall and threatened him. I watched every second of it.”

Octave growled, “And what’s all that gotta do with me ‘n Bear?”

“You’ve hurt people over miniscule things before. This case is no different.”

“Hurt.” Octave repeated with an eyeroll, “It's not like Disco’s dead. Not like I broke Donny’s wrist or somethin’. They’re still in one piece, ain’t they? ‘N I doubt those traps barely did a thing to Bear–”

“All his fingers were nearly purple. One was covered in blood.” Hondo said.

For a second, just a split second, Hondo saw Overload’s grin flicker down.

“So?” Octave scoffed, “They didn’t fly off, right? He’s been through worse.”

A sting of anger shot through Hondo, “Do you get some sort of amusement out of this? Is there a thrill that comes from being so cruel?” His hands slowly turned into fists, “It doesn’t matter if they’ve been through worse, you still hurt them.”

“Oh, I’m cruel?” Octave set his lunchbox aside, “I hope you’re plannin’ on givin’ this speech to th’rest of the chumps at th’stadium, cause boy, do I have news for ya: We’re boxers. People are gonna be rough, and ya gonna have to get over it.”

“There is–”

“Shaddup.” Octave spat, “Ya think people like Soda ‘n Bull would’ve gotten where they are if they didn’t toughen themselves up? Ya think they’d be in th’World Circuit if they didn’t spit back? They don’t let a couple’a jokes ‘n roughhousin’ bring ‘em down cause they ain’t sensitive, cause thats how boxers work.”

Hondo kept his eyes locked on Octave’s, “There is a fine difference between banter and vileness. It seems you’ve yet to figure it out.”

Octave sneered, “If ya can’t handle anything that ain’t praise or a slap to th’wrist, it’s a miracle how ya even made it past Kaiser.”

Hondo watched as Octave grew closer to his face, “If you truly think this way, it isn’t a wonder why you’re stuck with Aran.”

“You’re a joke.” Octave muttered.

“You’re despicable.”

“I don’t gotta take this from some guy stuck at th’bottom of th’Major Circuit.” Octave stepped back, “Ya went through all that trouble huntin’ me down ‘n for what? For somethin’ I didn’t do? For somethin’ that don’t even matter? What’s th’plan here, Pisty?” He started to circle around Hondo, “Gonna keep lecturin’ me till I die of boredom? Gonna tattle?” His eyes flickered down to Hondo’s fists, “Gonna punch me?”  

He watched Hondo’s body tensen.

“Throw a hit then.” Octave kept circling around Hondo, “Make th’first move!” He stopped when he was in front of him again, “But let’s not forget who beat who. Let’s not forget th’guy who’s next in line for th’Majoir Circuit belt.” He pointed to himself.

“I will not stoop to your level.” Hondo said, his knuckles turning white.

Octave’s smirk only grew, “Betcha that’s th’whole reason ya even lecturin’ me in th’first place. Cause ya know I can beat ya again.”

Hondo didn’t budge.

He watched as one of Octave’s hands curled into a tight fist.

Octave lunged forward and threw his arm back–

Hondo shielded his face.

He waited for the hit.

And waited.

And when nothing came, he peered through his arms and saw Octave still standing before him, a crooked grin on his face.

“Yeah.” Octave lowered his fist, “That’s what I thought.”

Hondo’s heart pounded.

He was stuck in place, forced to watch Octave pick up his lunchbox and storm away.

His breaths grew heavier.

He clutched at his chest, the pounding of his heart now clashing with the only word that rang through his head.

‘Coward.’

That’s all he was.

As the sound of thunder boomed through the alleys and the first, frigid drop of rain hit his face, that horrid word played on repeat over and over, until it was all he could focus on.

‘Coward.’

‘Coward.’

‘Coward.’

~ ~ ~ ~

Hondo watched the rain pour down through the windows of the stadium’s third floor.

He leaned against the cold glass, watching as the heavy drops splashed against the roof.

He had managed to reach the stadium while it was only drizzling, and though his top was still a little wet, he wasn’t going to complain.

He took a deep breath.

Bear had left the stadium shortly after he returned.

Hondo had kept checking Bear’s hand after every little action he did. From picking up belongings to opening a door, Hondo knew he was probably much more worried over Bear’s hand than Bear himself, but he couldn’t help it.

Bear didn’t deserve that.

No one does.

The office door behind Hondo opened.

Joe came out, brushing the hair out of his face with one hand while holding a gray water bottle covered in an array of stickers with another.

Behind Joe, Hondo could just barely see Macho Man talking to one of the higher ups at their desk.

“Macho Man came with you?” Was the first question Hondo asked.

Joe rolled his eyes, “Unfortunately. He didn’t want me to mention Overload at all. Kept threatening to ‘punch me into next week’, or ‘sue me to oblivion’. You know, the classic Macho Man threats.” Despite the exhaustion in his tone, he still had a small smile on his face.

“Did you bring Overload up regardless?” Hondo asked as Joe joined his side.

Joe’s smile faltered, “No.”

Hondo was about to ask why, but Joe went on.

“I didn’t do it because of Macho Man. If he wants to break me in half, so be it. I did it for Bear.” He gripped onto the bottle’s handle, “He didn’t want anything serious happening to Overload in case he was innocent. I’ll admit, I was tempted to report him anyways, but Bear looked like he was about to cry. I didn’t want to make his day any worse.”

Hondo could only give a gentle nod before he turned back to the window.

“How about you?” Joe asked, “Where did you run off to?”

Hondo inhaled, “I tried to find Overload. I succeeded but… Not much came from it.” He folded his arms, “I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. An admission, an apology, but he was too stubborn, and when things started to escalate–” He dug his nails into his arms, “I backed away. I was… Cowardly.” His throat tightened when that last word left his lips.

“Don’t go saying that about yourself.” Joe put a hand on his shoulder, “Leaving in the middle of all that chaos and managing to find Overload in the city for your friend? You’re not giving yourself enough credit for the amount of bravery that takes.”

Hondo lowered his brows, “Thank you. I just wish I’d…” He hesitated, “I wish I had taken more action, I suppose.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m just glad the two of you didn’t break out into a fight, the last thing we need is more people getting injured.” Joe took his hand off of Hondo and watched the rain fall with him.

It didn’t take long for their peaceful moment to get interrupted though.

The office door swung open again.

Macho Man came storming out.

Joe and Hondo looked over to him, ready for him to start going off on them, or brag about how he was so much better than them, but instead, he stayed quiet.

He kept glaring at them, the frustration on his face was something Hondo’s never quite seen before.

Hondo’s seen Macho mad plenty of times, but they were always loud. He usually had the sort of anger that was paired with heavy stomps and grunts, an anger where insults and dismissiveness followed along, the loud anger that suited Macho well.

Here though?

He towered over them. Stiff, silent, and serious.

“I don’t wantcha two goin’ around tellin’ people bout Overload and those mousetraps, got it?” Macho said sternly, “We don’t need those sorta rumors bein’ spread round here.”

“We’ll do as we please.” Joe huffed, “We’re all adults–Overload included–if we feel we have to warn others, that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

“Why do you care so much for Overload?” Hondo asked, “He despises you.”

“It’s tough love.” Macho narrowed his eyes, “And he needs somebody lookin’ out for him. Guy’s probably stressed after losin’ a fight against that Flaming guy, not to mention that cruddy soundin’ dinner.” He pulled at the sleeves to his robe, “He needs a good role model.”

Joe nearly choked on his own spit when he heard that.

As Joe held a finger up, waiting for his cough to die down, Hondo spoke.

“And you believe… You’re a good role model?”

Joe threw his head up, “Seriously, you? How? Why?”

Macho’s glare grew colder.

“Never mind. I really don’t want to hear it.” Joe waved his hand, “Go ahead, be his hero or whatever it is you’re set out to do.” Joe then tilted his head, motioning for Hondo to follow along. The two made their way to the stairs, leaving Macho all alone.

Macho stood there, staring at the door and listening to the rain for what felt like an eternity.

He needed a drink.

Not even the good, high quality liquor he prefers, any would do right now.

The stadium’s bar was probably open. It shouldn’t be too busy at this time of day.

Macho adjusted the center of his robe and made his way downstairs.

Joe and Hondo’s questions rang through his mind.

His mouth curled down.

He is a good role model for Overload.

The fact that the boxers below him constantly run to him for his help, yet have the audacity to turn around and claim he’s doing a poor job? It made him furious.

He’ll swallow a portion of his pride and admit he’s not always perfect, but he always gives his absolute all for Overload.

Macho opened the doors to the main floor and stormed on.

Even though Overload hated every single lecture he got, even though he constantly insulted and pushed Macho away, there was nothing in this universe that was gonna make Macho stop trying.

It didn’t matter what the other boxers thought. What did they know?

They’re not the ones who try to give Overload guidance, they’re not the ones looking out for the little guy, they’re not the ones who consistently try to help him–none of the other boxers even realize Overload needs his dang help.

As Macho approached the stairs to the bar, he lifted up the bottom of his robe so it wouldn’t pick up whatever dirt was hiding between the cracks of the black steps.

The thin, vertical orange lights along the walls bounced off his skin and gave him a slight glow.

He looked at the bottom of the stairs.

The bright blue light that usually filled the bar wasn’t there. It was probably too early to turn it on.

Good.

Macho hated how obnoxious the bar’s lights could get. He always preferred it darker; less casuals were drawn to it.

The moment his foot touched the last step, he peered past the corner and eyed the bartender that stood in the middle of the round, black bar counter that was in the very center of the room.

“What’s th’strongest stuff ya got?” Macho asked as he weaved his way through the tens of empty tables. He cringed when he felt something sticky latch onto the bottom of his boots. He looked down at the black, scratched up and stained floor below to see what in the world he stepped on, but it was impossible to tell with how dim it was in here.

The only lights on were the lamps hanging above the bartender’s counter, their orange glow just barely more vibrant than the lights along the stairways. He preferred it over the stupid blue light, sure, but that left the rest of the bar engulfed in darkness.

“I’ll check what we have, sir.” The bartender said as they bent down and started opening whatever cabinets they had.

As the clinking of glasses echoed through the room, Macho sat down at one of the leather-brown bar stools by the counter. This place reeked of wet newspaper and cheap booze. Even with most of the lights off, he could still vividly recall which walls of the bar were covered with hundreds upon hundreds of boxing posters. Honestly, he was sort of glad he didn’t have to see those worn down, hideous posters.

He then eyed the shelves that dangled from the ceiling and surrounded the counter. They carried an array of bottles and wine; nothing fancy, of course.

Macho rested an arm on the counter. At least this dang thing was cleaner than the floors.  

As the bartender set two small shot glasses in front of him, Macho stared at his blurry reflection on the countertop. Joe’s voice echoed through his head.

‘Why?’  

Did he need a reason to believe he was the best role model for Overload?

Did it matter?

Did Joe actually want to hear a reason? Because Macho could give a million of them.

How about the fact that he already inspires thousands of people to be like him?

How about the fact that he started at the very bottom of the WVBA and worked his way to the top by himself?

How about the fact that despite everything the world’s thrown at him–despite everything he’s done–he still manage to end up at the #1 spot in the World Circuit?

As the bartender started to pour whatever drink was in their hand, more and more of that frustration sunk its teeth into Macho’s mind.

Was it such a bad thing to keep an eye on Overload?

Was he not allowed to look out for the little guy?

It’s not his fault he has the urge to help somebody who’s several ranks below him.

It’s not his fault he’s able to figure out Overloaded just needs some guidance.

It’s not his fault he’s got a heart big enough to care for him.

He’s a good guy.

He’s a great guy.

After the bartender finished pouring, they quickly capped the drink and walked to the far back wall of the room.

With a few quick clicks, the rest of the lights turned on, revealing the rest of this gaudy, good for nothing bar and the ridiculous posters plastered all around it.

Macho downed one of the shots and held the empty glass in his fist.

Despite how far he was from most of the walls, he was still able to spot some of his very first boxing posters that were decades old at this point.

As he kept staring at a particular poster of his–one where most of the colors were faded, and the only things that popped out were his black boxing attire and his black hair he kept slicked back–his stomach grew sour.

He downed the second shot.

Though he’ll never confess to it out loud, a part of him couldn’t help but feel some sort of shame over the fact that Overload reminded him a little too much of his younger self.