Worth Fighting For

by Anonthony

Chapter 3

Worth Fighting For

-CHAPTER THREE-

-

"....Fight!"

The word rang in his ears, as muffled as it was from the blood pounding in his ears, the echo only in his mind. For a moment Pacer stood stiff and tense across from his eager rival, but there was no time for reflection now; he jarred himself from hesitation, eyes narrowing on the task at hand.

They started off towards each other, a bee-line that veered as they neared one another, starting the unconscious and instinctual circling of a foe, stares fixed as they ambled laterally across from one another.

Bright's jeering smile started to fade as the anticipation grew. She'd waited for this chance from the moment he walked through Half-Halt's doors.

"Looks like I finally get the chance to show you why you don't belong here, ya punk," she sneeringly taunted.

He had nothing to say in reponse. Her spite was no great secret, and whatever speculation he had about her reasons for resenting his presence seemed to fade to unimportance at the moment. The unspoken code, the unconcious creed he had grown to accept and embrace demanded his retaliation to these slights she flung at him - or at least that was the overwhelming feeling that drove them towards this seemingly inevitable confrontation.

No more waiting, he told himself. Perhaps he could catch her unready or thinking of something to say to provoke him. He timed his opening action to her motion, just as she crossed her step he lashed out with a swift off-hoof jab, catching her quite square on the snout, followed up with a straight right that grazed it as she reacted to pull away from the first.

She steadied herself as she moved back and away shaking off the impact. He watched intently, not following immediately, feeling out his opponent's response. She raised her head back up and looked back towards him, beaming almost antagonistically as she spat out a small volume of light-pink saliva mixed with blood to the side. For a moment his heart fell. He knew it already, of course, that endurance and toughness that were hallmarks of the earth pony fighters, their indefatigable tolerance for punishment. But how unfazed the one-two had her was still just as disheartening. The gathered onlookers ooh-ing in response did nothing to help this feeling...

She had nothing more to say either, the shots were almost a welcome feeling. Now she was fully into the flow of impassioned, adrenaline-fueled energy, the lingering tingle of pain a kind of strange pleasure the uninitiated to the Sweet Science would never understand. Her head bowed slightly, ears pinned back as she rushed towards him. The earnest crowd of fellow fighters and trainers were in full thrall now; blows had been struck, the fight was truly on. Pinto shook his head from the side of the ring, only able now to hope and wait and watch.

Pacer planted his legs firmly, teeth on edge as he waited her attack. He'd have to head-to-head with her eventually, he thought, he might as well test it right from the start. She reached him quickly, far faster than he thought for a bigger opponent; with a wide arcing left hook she swung, wild and hard. He ducked low and to his left, letting it fly over him, brushing the tip of his mane as it went. He rose up as she withdrew it, about to pull back for a follow-up right, and interjected a rising left uppercut.

Her veteran instincts, if not her conscious anticipation, sensed his reaction and she aborted the second strike - instead holding off, letting his counter rise harmlessly several inches from contact. Even as he pulled the leg back to reload, she was prepping the second wave. She turned, twisting quickly to the side and planting her front legs squarely on the mat. Shifting her herself and pivoting, she bucked out with a hind leg, a spinning kick that advanced with the weight of her whole body.

With barely the time to have withdrawn his own strike and start to put forth a second, he had to cut it short and put up a defense instead, knowing on every level there was no way to evade it instead. Without milliseconds to spare he got his forelegs up in front of his chest and face to take the impact. Even if he'd been allowed, he might not have been able to quickly enough raise a magical defense or otherwise buffer against the blow with mystic kinetic energy. It landed fully and hard against his forelegs and rocked him. He stumbled back, catching himself after a step and trying to reset his stance as fast as possible; she was on a mission now. She rushed again, giving him no time to plot a next move.

She reached him just as he got set, but before he could resolve on a course of action. A sharp left upper she swung nearly connected as he barely swayed back enough to avoid it. It was a feint, though from its vicious arc one could hardly tell she'd held anything back. Following up in rapid succession was a right body blow he could not avoid: it impacted bluntly on his left side, a pounding pain in his ribs that stunned him.

Dang is she fast...

With an ill sense of things to come he lashed out with a strong straight right just as she raised up to recoil from the body blow. He caught her full on the snout once more. He'd hoped, at least, without a terrible lot of conscious thought, to work one spot in hopes of breaking through her well-known tolerance for pain. But without the ability to reinforce these strikes with kinetic energy, she once again shook off the blow quickly. She didn't give him time or opening to follow up, able to fire out a left jab in response just as he did the same. The both landed squarely, in synch. Without being able to raise a defense or brush it away magically, he felt it far more potently than she.

How the hay am I supposed to damage her...

Wincing through watering eyes, he caught the briefest glimpse of her wild-eyed expression. He could almost see her pushing through the sting of the punch as she recovered quickly, zealous and single-minded, while he reeled again, another step back and into the ropes now. She pressed the advantage; he reared on hind legs and covered his face in defense.

She seemed to take it as an affront; she rose likewise on hind legs and struck out with a one-two combination hard into his defense. He kept it up, given an afterthough of hope to withstand the deluge for long enough to catch up, to counteract, to formulate a new plan...

She had other plans. Bright's face went wilder still, holding nothing back and irritated at his pitious tactic. Sidling parallel she kicked out hard, racking him firmly in a hind knee as he was distracted with covering face and body. Pacer groaned audibly, the leg collapsing beneath him and he fell to three legs now. Defenses dropped, she seized the moment. She whipped around as before, with far wickeder intent.

Mind a haze with a burning mix of pain, adrenaline and the maddening grip of fight-or-flight response, he only barely recognized the spinning whirl of dark gold hair as her mane spun round with her. He didn't recognize it quick enough. The crowd's droning buzz slowed in his mind, the lights a blurred mess in his eyes; for a confused and desperate moment he lost himself. In the aching, broken pieces of a second it took to recollect some semblance of focus, the startling realization that he was already too far behind fell over him.

Nearly turned completely to him now, Bright Strike bucked out with both legs, long trained and well learned muscles snapping out both hooves with veteran precision. It was already over, though knowing this didn't make the sickening feeling in his gut any easier to accept. In unconscious response he started to raise his legs to cover his face and turn away, but even in the slowed and drawn out moment, it was an empty gesture. He could only watch as if detached as the unavoidable raced towards him.

His eyes closed instinctively, just as they two bucking hooves reached his face, but unable to squeeze out the lights and sound - or the inevitable. The time came, though the feeling didn't seem to register. All his thoughts scattered as if broken by the impact, shattered into shards of random recollection, time warping back to normal speed as the world around him went far blacker than his closed eyes could achieve.

The lights... the sound... the thoughts... feeling and sensation... severed in long and frozen instant. Distantly, vaguely, there was a fleeting sense of falling, as if in fevered dream, as he crashed limp onto the mat.

-

Tick... Tick... Tick...

The metronomic rhythm of the clock sounded out the march of seconds, solitary on otherwise bare white walls. Pacer heard each beat clearly, so quiet it seemed around him. He couldn't quite recall waking up; or even whether he was really awake. He kept his eyes shut tight against the harsh fluorescent light. He knew there was pain, a throbbing pressure in his head, but he was'nt quite lucid enough to really feel it. -Maybe-, he told himself, if he kept them shut he wouldn't -have- to feel it.

And if wishes were bits, the saying came to mind. Laboriously slow, awareness dawned fuller on him. The steady breathing of someone near, a lingering antiseptic smell hanging in the air, the feel of worn but fresh linen beneath him, subtle clues pulled together in his restless thoughts. He shifted uncomfortably, not so much from the rising tremor in his head, but from the realizations coming together at last. A creaking of springs beneath him twanged in his ears. They rang, his hearing harsh and more vivid than he would have liked.

From the side of him the old stallion stepped hesitantly forwards, clearing his throat softly and rousing him as gently as possible.

"Hey... you, you awake kid...?"

Pacer sighed heavily. There was no more denying reality. He opened his eyes and looked up at Pinto. He said nothing in response; didn't nod or acknowledge him, but sat up slowly, with strain, groaning slightly.

"...There ya go. Yeah... you'll be alright, kid," Pinto stated with as much assurance as he could muster.

After a long moment of letting the throbbing from the sound dissipate, he finally spoke, his tone low and even.

"How long was I out?"

Pinto absently thought for a moment, glancing back at the clock and once more to Pacer.

"Eh, few hours maybe...? Don't worry about it, seen much worse ya'know."

For the briefest second a question came to mind, and it nearly overtook him long enough to form the words. He pushed it back down, knowing the answer full well already by the emptiness around him. Pinto knew it too; he moved quickly to change the unspoken subject.

"If, ah, the doc says it ain't too bad, I'll just have 'em push back yer next scheduled fight from the next event. I got some pull with the commish, ya won't hav' to forfeit. Might set back yer chance at bein' number one contender, but you'll get right back, ah'm sure."

It was meant to serve as consolation, but it was small comfort in the end; it was hardly the foremost on his mind, and only brought up one more thing to worry about. He couldn't decide what he wanted to be more upset with himself over. He had his pick of varying failures. He settled on selfish embarrasment over crushing defeat. A long moment went by, with Pinto waiting for response, before Pacer acknowledged his statement.

"...Thanks..."

Pinto nodded quietly. The absent, stoic look on his fighter's face disconcerted him, but he couldn't find the words. It was more than just a loss, more than just one fight among many before and many to come. Long experience had shown him numerous fighters come and go, rise and fall, potential fulfilled or fallen short of through critical moments in their paths. Even the strongest or most hopeful could, and had, been shellshocked by a singular failing, and never recovered. There was never an easy answer to snap them out of it. The uneasy silence compelled him to say something, anything.

"I, uh... Bright'll probably get a suspension, too. Double back kick's were outlawed fer a reason. That hot head ah' hers was gonna get'er in trouble eventually. I’ll ‘ave a talk with the comissh about it tomorrah."

Pacer nodded quickly this time. He didn't want to hear it. It didn't help. It couldn't. Great, he thought. Didn't just humiliate myself, I dragged her down with me.

The litany of things he'd wrought with this one loss started to list themselves in his head. The sound defeat. The risk to his career. The respect of his trainer, his fellow fighters... his friend. His stomach turned at the thought. Before he had time to dwell on it, the creaking sound of the door opening in the otherwise hushed room turned both their heads towards a white-coated earth pony.

"I see you're awake," he said, his worn and pale gray face looking down at the chart at he carried, his voice void of inflection. He strode over straightaway to the side of the bed, finally looking away from the chart and down at his patient. "I'm Dr. Pulse, and you've suffered a rather severe concussion. How do you feel?"

Pinto interjected immediately to the doctor's toneless inquiry. "Oh, he's jus' fine, I seen way worse before."

The doctor did not look over to him, his attention, such as it was, on Pacer. "...How do you feel?" he reiterated, his voice softening ever slightly.

Pacer blinked, looking over at his trainer for a moment for what he ought to say. Pinto simply nodded, accepting that a seasoned doctor would see through any evasiveness. "I, uh... Feel a bit foggy. And nauseous I guess."

The doctor nodded acknowledgment and made a note on the chart. "That's very normal; not to worry." He took a step back to look at them both, speaking more firmly now. "You're also very lucky, son. It could have been much worse. And repeated cases like this, there's no telling what kind of damage is done."

The old trainer stepped forward, between the doctor and patient. "Now, he's a strong kid, this is nothin', I took my licks for years and I'm just fine," he insisted.

Unimpressed, the doctor continued. "Yes, I'm sure," he added dismissively, "But how many others aren't? How many old fighters aren't `just fine`? Fact is we don't know what kind of long-term effects one might end up with. Sure, he's fine now. Ten years from now after a hundred more fights? Twenty, retired and broken?"

Pinto took a deep and indignant breath, about to refute the doctor's opinionated stance. Pacer interrupted knowingly, the last thing he wanted to listen to was an argument. "...When will I be released," he said to neither in particular.

They both turned and looked over, concern on their faces with his absent stare. Doctor Pulse responded after a moment of consulting his chart.

"You're fine for now as far as I can tell. You could leave today, but I'd really prefer to keep you overnight for observa-"

Pacer interrupted again quickly, hearing the answer he wanted to. His eyes focused a bit more now, and he looked up at the tired doctor insistently. "Thank you, Dr. Pulse. I'll be going then."

Pinto nodded approvingly, not hesitating to gather his coat from the chair on the other side of the bed. The doctor, cut off mid-sentence, tried to rebut.

"I'd feel better if you stayed," he said strongly.

"...No, thank you. I'd really rather get some rest at home..." Pacer evenly responded.

Pinto followed up quickly with another question. "When can he get back to work, doc?"

Seeing he was not going to sway them he sighed with mild exasperation. "He should be fine to return to physical activity in a few days, I suppose," he said, looking at the weathered trainer. Bringing his attention back to Pacer, he continued. "And fine; I'll go get you something for the headache you'll be having in the morning."

He turned sharply and headed towards the door. As he reached it, he paused mid stride. Turning back momentarily, he looked at Pacer and tacked on a request to his statement. "Think about what I said, alright? Is this really worth it, son?"

Pinto looked expectantly over at his fighter, waiting for him to reject the notion out of hand. After a long moment, Pacer answered.

"Yeah. Sure."

The doctor seemed relieved to at least have that, and went back on his way out the door. Pinto appeared clearly distressed by it; either the doctor feeling it necessary to ask or Pacer acquiescing. But he chalked it up for the moment to the kid just being conciliatory. Pacer started to rouse from the bed, gingerly stepping down. The elder stallion wrapped a jacket around him.

"You, uh... You're gonna rest up and be back in a few days, right?" he asked fervently.

"Yeah... yeah, of course," Pacer said; but the old trainer's inquisitive stare told him he hadn't been very convincing.

"I'll come by tomorra' and check on ya, alright? Gotta make sure ya get back on yer feet as good as possible. Rest is good, but ya don' wanna get too far behind," Pinto said assuredly.

It took another long pause for him to reply; too many disconnected thoughts and projections vying for attention in his head. He just wanted to get home, alone, and sort things out...

"Yeah. Sure."

-

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- END CHAPTER THREE