It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t because she had spent all that money on these Razens. They helped. They were useful. It wasn’t her fault Beady had died. This feeling that was growing inside her, Val thought it was because she wanted to fight, to feel that adrenaline pumping action all over again—that heart-stopping satisfaction of dodging shot after shot, losing her mind to the moment. 

It was her calling. She was sure of it. This was the way to prove her worth. This was how she’d forget about everything that had once caused her pain. And to that, nothing else mattered. She’d focus only on herself. Nobody else. She would find that excitement again that sparked her interest in life. She would search to the ends of the earth to fill that void. 

Fighting was the answer. 

Through a bit of using her former connections as a thief, she managed to find an infamous underground boxing organization that took on whoever was available.

Rules were simple—the usual when it came to boxing like no kicking or hitting behind the head. But there were a few additional rules stating that stoppage of the fight usually relied on an inconsistent human referee and that no projectiles of any kind were allowed. And that was mostly it. Anyone could enter at a chance of winning some money, but nobody was liable for any injuries or repercussions. Weight differences were completely neglected, especially when cybernetics were involved. 

She’d entered on the spot. And after dodging a few shots, she’d gotten knocked out within the first five seconds. But after waking up on a rickety bed, staring into a grimy, cement ceiling, she’d come to realize something else, something deeper than her initial interests in the sport—

Pain. She liked the pain. And that gritty, visceral feeling that came with it—she liked that too. It was a reminder of all that she’d done to her brother. 

Beady was dead, and in a weird way, the pain had made her acknowledge that fact. It was relieving. She was finally getting what she’d deserved. She was finally getting her punishment, her consequences for letting her little brother die so pitifully without having seen any part of the world she’d so dearly wished to share with him. 

She wouldn’t forget this feeling. 

With that acknowledgement, she also understood how it helped her forget. Every shot to her gut made her feel like she’d deserved it, and every punch to her head helped her forget about her regrets. So with a new raving starvation for injuries, she signed up for more. And she kept going, week after week, only to last a few seconds longer than her last. She kept fighting, incurring injury after injury, managing to impress even the greatest underground boxers with the longest loss streak anyone from that ring had ever seen. And eventually, she was rewarded for her persistence. 

It was only because of her Razens that she’d recovered mostly unscathed from her bouts. With each and every punch thrown her way, she’d instinctively managed to dodge the worst of them. And as her utilization of her eyes improved, her speed soon followed. 

Slowly, she started taking less hits. Her awareness heightened, and the use of her x-ray vision enhanced with every match. Instead of getting blindsided by a flurry of punches, she was jumping around almost with an aura of grace and elegance. Her dodging became so advanced that eventually—

She started to win. 

Her punches were weak, but when she was dodging nearly every and any attack, it was inevitable that people would notice. She gained recognition amongst the crowd, and soon, a title was given to her by the masses. A new nickname from her success—

Dancing Valerina.

But as soon as her fights became easier, she started to drink again. There were less distractions, less pain. Not enough of anything to fill that gaping hole inside. And after dodging so many punches, she couldn’t even manage to drown her incessant thoughts out. 

One night, before a major match, her next opponent walked up to her, hands raised above his chest in a fighting stance. There was nobody around in the dark alleyway where she always drank herself to death. Only a streetlight dim enough to show her where she’d left her bottles of beer. So when the first shot from her future opponent came, Val got struck right smack in the center of her face.

“Wha—what the fuck, dude!” she slurred her words. “The fight’s tomorrow. Wait your”—she hiccuped—“turn.”

The man readied another punch. “I ain’t losing to a fucking drunk ass bitch.” He struck, but it barely missed her head. “Get up. I know you ain’t shit.”

“Oh.” She pulled herself up. “So you wanna go?” She raised her hands, still swaying left and right. “You-you fucking… coward.” Then she gestured for him to attack. “Come on. You’re no match for me. You can’t hit—”

He punched her square in the abdomen. She gurgled up an entire wave of vomit and fell to her knees.

“You, ugh…” She lurched back, resting her spinning head on the fence behind her. “You’re weak! You dirty f—” She vomited a second time. This time, it splashed all over her shirt and torn jeans.

“Fuck, man. Disgusting piece of shit.” He spat on her face. The slimy goo dripped down her cheeks. “If you never came, I’d still be at the top!” His hands slowly fell to his side. Then he grabbed her by her hair and leaned in closer. “Don’t even think about showing up tomorrow.” He threw her head to the side and started walking away, spitting quiet insults along the way. 

She managed to pull herself up just enough to shout, “Come back, coward! If I weren’t so”—she hiccuped again, almost choking on her own spit—“so drunk, you…” Her eyes started to blur. Maybe she’d had too much again. “You…” As her eyes tiredly fluttered to stay open, she saw a shadowy figure approach her. “You coming back? You—”

“Lass?”

The voice didn’t sound familiar.

“You fine, lass? Hey!”

She heard him say something else, but it sounded muffled, far away. “Who…” she managed to rasp out, but she couldn’t finish her sentence. And before she could hear another word, her eyes rolled back.

For a brief second, she thought she heard a familiar cry…