Fighting Chance 1

He was falling.

That fact should’ve hit faster, but his brain was stuck two steps behind, still catching up. One second, he was rolling out of bed, tangled in sheets. The next—nothing. No floor, no walls, just open air, cold wind tearing past his face, his stomach bottoming out like the world had yanked the ground from under him.

A city sprawled below.

Big, bright, way too familiar.

Not from real life. From screens. Games where he swung, ran, jumped, fell.

Like he was doing now.

Only this wasn’t a game. No button to mash, no web line to save him. Just gravity, hard and unrelenting, dragging him down so fast his eyes watered from the wind, as he struggled to even keep them open.

He spun over and around, body flailing, before his brain could even finish processing a single moment at a time. Legs kicking, arms wheeling, like some part of him thought he could just… fly his way out of this.

Yeah, no. Not happening.

His jaw hung open on instinct, trying to scream, but the wind shoved too much air into his open mouth, more air than he could ever breath at a time and ripped whatever sound he had straight out of his throat. He choked, panicked breath fighting against the rush of it, every nerve in his body firing off pure, unfiltered terror.

The last thing he remembered was being in bed. Soft sheets. A ton of pillows. 

None of this.

This? This was wrong. This wasn’t possible.

But it was happening.

And he couldn’t wake up, no matter how hard he tried.

The skyline blurred and spun beneath him, or maybe he was the one spinning, until he could barely make out anything at all. Neon lights stretched into blinding streaks, city blocks warping together like a smudged painting. His brain screamed grab something—anything.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but empty fucking air.

Just the sickening rush, the weight of it, the drop.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he didn’t see it, it wouldn’t be real. Maybe he’d wake u-

CRASH.

All thoughts left his head as his body hit something.

BAM.

He hit something else.

His back arched, air punched out of his lungs, his whole chest seizing up as he slammed hard onto something else. He gasped—choked—breathed.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

His heart pounded so loud in his ears, drowning out the creak of whatever was under him. His fingers twitched. Moved. His toes—moved. His whole body hurt, aching, but not broken. Not splattered across the pavement like a bad joke.

What—how—

His breath rasped out, uneven, dragging against his dry throat as he forced his eyes open.

Darkness.

Dust.

A ceiling above him—no, a hole in a ceiling, jagged with old splintered dried-out wood and broken shingles still falling down around him. The air felt stale, thick with old sweat and damp rot, and his body was sprawled across something—something firm, slightly springy, worn leather rubbing against his skin.

A ring.

Huh?

A boxing ring.

He blinked slow, still taking it in. The whole place was huge—empty bleachers stretching out into the dark, abandoned gym smell pressing in from all sides.

He was inside.

Not dead.

Not even injured, really.

That didn’t make any sense.

His chest still heaved, fingers curling into the mat beneath him. The pain was dull, an all-over ache instead of sharp, splintered agony. No shattered bones, no blood pooling under him. Just existing. Just… alive.

That wasn’t right.

He should be dead. Or at least paralyzed.

His limbs moved easy, every part of him still attached and functioning, and the sheer wrongness of that fact made his skin prickle. He fell from the sky. People died from that.

But he didn’t.

Zain Powers sucked in a slow, raspy breath, staring up with wide eyes at the ragged new skylihgt, the night sky peeking through the mess of shattered wood and old shingles. The moonlight cut through the dust, painting a long streak of pale silver across his chest.

No.

I’m dreaming.

This—this wasn’t real.

Couldn’t be.

His fingers clenched, his whole body tensed like something in him wanted to fight the thought, wanted to make sense of it. Even when nothing about any of this made any bit of sense. I’ve never even been to New York. The air still felt too sharp, the ache in his muscles still too real, the rush of adrenaline still too raw under his skin.

His eyes fluttered shut and he let them. If I just go to sleep… I’ll wake up…

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He woke up to the feel of something thick and heavy pressing against his neck, a harsh grip against his artery making him take in a quick breath.

“Boy is alive.” A voice, thick Russian accent, deep as an eight foot pool and just as muffled as the sound would be underwater.

Zain’s brown eyes snapped open.

Big guy. Big hands. Big problem.

His body jerked before his brain could catch up, arm swinging up, fist colliding hard with the man’s throat.

The Russian staggered, choking on nothing, his grip peeling back as the big man’s eyes went even wider than. His face twisted—confusion, pain, the universal what the fuck? of getting clocked in the throat by a kid a third his size, as he wheezed like he was trapped in the desert with no water for miles or days, every single one of those sausage-like fingers wrapped around his neck.

Wha-who-why did I do th- Before he could even finish that single thought, let alone the first two, someone else grabbed him by the hoodie, another set heavy hands yanking him up off the ground with sheer brute force.

Feet dangled.

His breath hitched.

For the first time, he got a real look at his surroundings.

He felt his feet leave the ground and for the first time, he got a real look at the men around him in the boxing ring.

Thick coats, mean faces, a lot of tattoos, a duffel bag full of cash, a second bag with zip ties and three girls huddled against each other in one corner of the ring; shaking, terrified, crying.

Zain didn’t know much, but he watched the news.

He was on the internet.

He paid attention to stranger danger.

His chest squeezed, but the hand on his hoodie was dragging him back to the moment, yanking him closer to a face full of rage and bad breath. The man holding him up was already yelling, spit flying, voice ripping through the air in something fast and foreign. Zain couldn’t understand it, but the heat behind it—the threat—that came through just fine. 

His fingers clenched into fists.

Then, the slur. Loud. Sharp. Spat out like it was meant to cut.

Zain had been called worse.

Still.

The guy raised his fist.

The thirteen-year-old barely had time to flinch before pain cracked across his cheek, snapping his head sideways.

His brain rattled. A sharp, hot ache seared through his jaw, his skull, like his whole head had just been set to vibrate.

…I’m not dreaming.

If anything else made that clear, the pain did.

This was real.

Which meant…

His eyes darted to the zip ties. The cash. The girls.

Traffickers.

The Russian roared, winding up for another swing—no hesitation this time, no playing with his food, just raw force coming straight for his face—

His whole body snapped forward, his thumb jabbing—hard, deep, precise—right into the man’s eye.

“SU-KA, BLYAD—”

The guy screamed. Loud. Pissed. Threw Zain away from him like he was a bag of burning trash.

The kid didn’t even have time to process before he was airborne—again. His body twisted mid-air, the ring ropes snapping into view just before—

Impact.

The ropes caught him, tension coiling, springing back.

Zain grit his teeth. Let it happen.

Used it.

The momentum slingshotted him forward, speed and weight throwing his whole body at the guy before he could even think about dodging.

His forehead slammed into the Russian’s nose.

The sound it made—wet, breaking, violent.

Blood sprayed. Another scream tore out. The guy stumbled back, hands clutching at his face, a new, desperate panic mixing into the pain as he let out noises that he probably hadn’t since he was a baby.

Zain hit the mat, landed low, knees bent, hands up, body ready before he even finished registering what just happened. What the fu—

No time.

Someone else was already moving.

Another guy rushed in with a wild swing as Zain bobbed left, running off instinct and raw panic as he swung back with a jab.

Hook.

And an elbow to the gut — deep, hard, straight into the ribs. The guy folded, a choking sound escaping with a mouthful of spit that flew past Zain’s face.

Zain pulled back, then froze as a flash of metal passed him by.

Close.

His eyes widened even further as that same knife slid across his face, cold and thin just underneath his eye. His breath hitched.

Pain spiked through his face, sharp, immediate, blood already warm against his skin.

The Russian with the knife grinned.

Fuck! Zain’s foot swung out. Off!

His heel slammed into the side of the guy’s knee.

The Russian’s face twisted—shock first, then pain—before he crumpled, howling as the leg gave out beneath him.

The knife clattered to the mat.

Zain didn’t wait.

He grabbed it.

And spun.

The steel flashed in the dim flickering lights of the abandoned gym even as it slashed through a fourth man’s jacket on the first stab, and gashed the same man’s arm open on the second.

Blood misted into the air, spraying Zedd’s face again.

As those same droplets hit the mat, the next few seconds passed by in a blur as he slammed a head into a turnbuckle, his fist met an unprotected groin and his teeth found their way around the soft meat of an ear. His head snapped back and another Russian’s screams filled the night air.

Gunfire exploded from the other side of the gym.

Without thinking, Zedd dove through the ropes, knife still in hand.

His heart hammered in his chest as he rolled on the ground, scrambling to his feet as he ignored the pain all over, the cuts and bruises he had taken already threatening to distract.

He sprinted through the gym, the barely-lit space lit barely enough for him to see more than a few steps in front of him. Still, he could see an exit sign well enough.

He burst through a door and leaned into a turn, ripping through the hallway as gunshots rang behind him.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t stop.

Not even when he rushed through a back door, nearly slipping on the wet pavement outside.

Cold air slammed into his lungs and gunshots continued to explode from inside the building.

He doesn’t stop running.

Alleys blur past as his breath fogs in the freezing air, the black boy darting through the back ways of this familiar-looking city as footsteps thundered behind him.

His chest burned, his legs screamed.

But he didn’t stop.

They catch me, I’m fucking domed. He knew that much, the same way he knew the taste of blood and flesh in his mouth was mostly not his. I just… I just need to…

His eyes widened as he spotted a dumpster just ahead. Yes.

No time to think.

Zain jumped.

As high as he could.

Sneakers hit metal as he bounds off the top and kicks off the wall, a grunt escaping his grit teeth as his hands latch around the fire escape.

“THE BLACK BOY!” One gangster skidded to a stop below him, eye still swollen shut and nose still spilling blood. “IS HERE!” His gun raised—

BANG!

The boy threw himself up faster and harder even as the bullet went wide, hands darting up as he forced himself up the fire escape with every bit of strength he had in his body. Bullets kept flying from the half-blind man, but he kept climbing, heart still beating like a drum.

No point in waiting till his friends caught up.

In seconds, he was on the roof.

He kept moving.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The tunnels swallowed sound.

Hell, he had been running so long, he barely registered when his feet finally gave up beneath him as he slumped to the ground. The world outside was still screaming—sirens, gunfire, a city that didn’t give a damn about what just happened. But he was safe.

Down here, at least.

He was safe.

His body was still buzzing and it was only now settling down. Not with adrenaline, that had drained out of him a while ago. It was something else now, a raw, bone-deep energy that wouldn’t settle, like his muscles weren’t convinced the fight was over yet.

It should be. It was.

But the second he closed his eyes, it all came back.

The Russians. The ring. The blood. The moment his fists knew what to do before he even thought about it.

The young teenager gritted his teeth and pressed his back against the cold concrete wall, sinking down until he hit the floor. His hoodie was sticking to him—sweat, blood, both, whatever. His knuckles throbbed. His chest was still heaving like he’d run a marathon. He wiped at his face, half-expecting his hand to come back red.

Just dirt. Just grime.

Just… him.

His hands were still shaking.

The fight was a blur now. He could barely even remember making decisions. His body had just moved—too fast, too smooth, like he’d done this before. But he hadn’t.

Had he?

Zain forced a slow breath through his nose. His heart was still hammering. Breathe.

One second.

Then another.

The tunnel stretched out ahead, yawning dark. No sound. No movement. A dead end carved into the city’s bones. The subway hadn’t run here in years.

No footsteps. No cops. No Russians.

For the first time since he’d hit the mat, Zain realized—

He was alone.

Completely, fully alone.

His breath shuddered out, fogging in the cold, loss of adrenaline in his system letting him think finally. What the hell is happening to me?

He pressed his back harder against the wall, fingers twitching in his lap. His knuckles were raw, the skin split where they’d slammed into someone’s teeth. Blood crusted under his nails, smeared across the front of his hoodie. His jeans were torn at the knees, scraped and bloodied from when he’d hit the pavement, when he’d bolted through the alley, when he’d scaled the fire escape like an animal trying to escape a trap.

Zain exhaled through his nose, then looked down at himself. 

At his hands. 

The blood.

His jaw locked, and he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt shaky, but he ignored it. Not gonna sit here feeling sorry for myself. He’d made it this far. He wasn’t about to break now.

“…wait, why the fuck am I in New York?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The protagonist is underage and undersized and without resources so I rolled 3 times for his disadvantages. These first 3 rolls are free.

He rolls every 5k Words.

He gains achievements and can roll when he gains them when I roll a D20 for notable feats.

ROLL: Take the Fall (FREE) [Tekken] {Providence}: “Have you ever considered how common falling from high places can be? Canyons, mountains, cliffs, helicopters… it would have pretty gruesome results if you were to fall over one or be thrown off it by a relative. With this perk, you won’t have to worry about any consequences of such events anymore. No matter how high you are, you will not be injured and always able to survive the fall, be it by luck, skill, or both. Fall damage is essentially a nonissue for you.”

ROLL: Battle Experience (FREE) [Reincarnator] {Martial Art}: “This perk will give you a basic combat experience and muscle memory of fighting. It won’t make you a master of any sort, but it gives you the basic moves, stance, and footwork needed to keep up with others in battle and match an average human in a brawl. You will now act instead of being frozen in fear when in a combat situation.”

ROLL: Native (FREE) [Fist of the North Star] {Refinement}: “You live in this damned world and do so surprisingly well. You can survive off a fraction of the food and water a normal human being would need and can get a full night’s sleep even if you are sleeping on rocks out in the cold.”

Dojo Points: 0