Amiran wins the first round in what feels like mere moments; moments before time runs out, he places Leon in a headlock and throws a knee into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Leon shoves Amiran off of him when the buzzer echoes through the arena.
“Can’t win ‘em all, handsome,” Amiran says. His tone stands between cocky and playful, and the line is too blurred for Leon to tell his intent. Regardless, he gathers himself and prepares for the second round. A panel of the arena wall retracts, revealing a plethora of melee weapons.
“You have ten seconds to pick a weapon and return to the center. Choose wisely, gentlemen,” the announcer says. Amiran hesitates a few times before settling on a pair of batons. Leon glances up at his father in the stands. He narrows his eyes when their gazes meet. Leon clenches his teeth, knowing there’s a right and a wrong answer when it comes to picking a weapon; as he reaches for the silver staff on the wall, he doesn’t mind being wrong just this once.
It’s funny how one pair of eyes can feel so much more piercing than a thousand.
Leon smiles and spins the staff around, eager to put on a show for the onlookers. The buzzer sounds sooner than he expects and it gives Amiran a chance to strike, but Leon gets his head back in the game as fast as it fell out.
As luck would have it, Leon uses his staff to knock one of Amiran’s batons across the arena. The rest of the round is over in a matter of seconds; a single baton is no match for a five foot staff. Leon pins Amiran to the arena floor and flashes him a sly smile. The audience roars in excitement.
“I suppose that marks the beginning of our final round!” the announcer shouts. Once the two combatants are steady on their feet, the platform they’re standing on begins to rise until it’s 8 feet above the ground. “Welcome to Platform Knockout. Pretty self explanatory as far as things go-- the combatant left standing on the platform will be your match champion!”
Leon and Amiran drop their melee weapons and watch them clatter to the arena floor. Leon’s father curls his fingers around the railing. The buzzer sounds.
The combatants create a sort of electricity in the ring. Two competitors, equal in every way in the arena, but so vastly different from one another at their core. Leon swoops under Amiran’s arm and catches him in a headlock. He wraps his leg around Amiran’s to keep him from moving, knowing it risks the both of them getting knocked down. Amiran tries to shove Leon backwards off the platform, but both parties are persistent in their efforts to stay alive. Amiran’s expression grows into a slight grin.
“How come you do tourney fights? Kind of a shame, if you ask me.”
Leon groans. “Do you always flirt with your opponents?”
“Depends on what you call flirting.” Amiran swings his legs into the air and flips over Leon’s shoulder, bringing him to the ground. “Your daddy’s got you under lock and key, I can tell,” Amiran says. “You keep your cool with him. That’s admirable. But I wonder what it’ll take--”
Leon struggles for the upper hand, but can’t manage.
“--until you finally snap.”
Amiran manages to push his opponent over the edge. Too weak to try and fight back, Leon accepts the defeat. Worry consumes him, but not because of the audience’s reaction; he gazes across the stands and watches his father walk away from the arena. He’s failed. Leon puts on a face of good sportsmanship and shakes Amiran’s hand. He breathes in the crowd one last time before he has to face his father.
“You should’ve chosen gauntlets as your melee weapon,” he says, weaving through the hallways beneath the arena.
“Well, I didn’t, and I still won the round!” Leon puts his jacket on and jogs forward to catch up. “Dad, it was a solid fight. It just wasn’t mine.”
“You didn’t win the round, you got lucky. Maybe you should be quicker on your feet, and stop acting so pretty out in the arena. Then you wouldn’t need luck.”
“I’m getting the audience excited! Just because I don’t win doesn’t mean I didn’t put on a good fight!”
“Good? Is that all you’re striving for? Good doesn’t get you anywhere, Leon.” His father lowers his voice. “I swear, maybe I’d rather you be like your brother. Move across the country, not tell anyone, become some bootleg cop who never visits his family…”
Leon pauses at the bulletin board outside the competitors’ entrance and notices a flyer advertising a training program. “Combat training with certified ACA agents, available at select agencies across the US,” it says. He snaps a photo of the website before his father notices he’s falling behind. Leon wonders how he’s going to convince his father to fly him across the US for training, much less with an ACA agent, but then he considers a bold proposition:
Maybe he doesn’t have to know.
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