Koa
You keep telling me to live right
There was a time not too long ago when this was a part of Koa's routine. In the murky haze of anger and anguish after his mother died, the boy'd found some modicum relief, unhealthy as it may have been. And he'd been good at it, too; relished each fight, basked in the bruises, found merciful peace in the pre-bout stillness, the way it forced him to shut off his mind, to focus his thoughts into this one moment.
He looks for that stillness inside him, now, desperate for respite from his raw pain. But just as he struggled when his boxing days started, Koa is not doing a great job today. Maybe it's the alcohol blurring his senses, or the distracting crush of the crowd.
Or maybe the reason he can't find his center is because it has been hollowed out by a girl with feather daggers and a venomous smile, and now there's nothing there but a void he's terrified to look at too close.
Point is, he's distracted, drunk, and off his game. So let's blame that instead of Mateo for the way the first round goes. Cavebear Chad comes in swinging, taking advantage of Koa's lack of spatial awareness with a ruthless lack of integrity that one can only get away with in the underground. A mean right hook catches the Dragoon's handsome cheekbone, connecting with a force that already bruises across his skin. It's only through instinct that he manages to turn enough to avoid the full brunt of it, but as his head snaps and his body tenses he knows, immediately, that this is maybe the dumbest thing he has ever done.
Second dumbest, he mentally corrects. The dumbest was falling in love with a Queen.
The pain of that thought bursts bright and vibrant through the haze of booze and blood; Koa clings to it like a life boat, turning his focus wholly toward pushing that pain without. Bert's next swing is blocked, much to the man's surprise. Now the match is on in full, the pair dancing and bouncing and exchanging feints, the crowd electric with delight. Small hits get through, but nothing significant, until another well-aimed blow is blocked and swiftly followed by one of Koa's own. It catches the gargantuan on his chin, leaving Koa breathless with adrenaline and the surge of success. Maybe he can actually do this. Maybe this thing he won't fail--
And the next thing he knows Koa's on the floor, bleeding profusely from his nose as a literal half-bear growls above him, seemingly ready to grind his bones into dust unsuitable, even, for bread. That's right, fam: Berty's Attuned, something Koa either didn't know or, more likely, entirely forgot.
He looks for that stillness inside him, now, desperate for respite from his raw pain. But just as he struggled when his boxing days started, Koa is not doing a great job today. Maybe it's the alcohol blurring his senses, or the distracting crush of the crowd.
Or maybe the reason he can't find his center is because it has been hollowed out by a girl with feather daggers and a venomous smile, and now there's nothing there but a void he's terrified to look at too close.
Point is, he's distracted, drunk, and off his game. So let's blame that instead of Mateo for the way the first round goes. Cavebear Chad comes in swinging, taking advantage of Koa's lack of spatial awareness with a ruthless lack of integrity that one can only get away with in the underground. A mean right hook catches the Dragoon's handsome cheekbone, connecting with a force that already bruises across his skin. It's only through instinct that he manages to turn enough to avoid the full brunt of it, but as his head snaps and his body tenses he knows, immediately, that this is maybe the dumbest thing he has ever done.
Second dumbest, he mentally corrects. The dumbest was falling in love with a Queen.
The pain of that thought bursts bright and vibrant through the haze of booze and blood; Koa clings to it like a life boat, turning his focus wholly toward pushing that pain without. Bert's next swing is blocked, much to the man's surprise. Now the match is on in full, the pair dancing and bouncing and exchanging feints, the crowd electric with delight. Small hits get through, but nothing significant, until another well-aimed blow is blocked and swiftly followed by one of Koa's own. It catches the gargantuan on his chin, leaving Koa breathless with adrenaline and the surge of success. Maybe he can actually do this. Maybe this thing he won't fail--
And the next thing he knows Koa's on the floor, bleeding profusely from his nose as a literal half-bear growls above him, seemingly ready to grind his bones into dust unsuitable, even, for bread. That's right, fam: Berty's Attuned, something Koa either didn't know or, more likely, entirely forgot.
You don't gotta pretend, baby, now and then
