Level Up- The Knockout

by Dan Sugralinov

  Hagen nodded gratefully to Chuck standing at the bar but pushed the bucket of wings aside. The bar owner looked somewhat offended but Hagen knew just how bad fried foods were for one’s body.

  He used the virtual assistant to examine the bar’s menu, trying to choose the least unhealthy options. But Chuck’s bar had a great chef who specialized in delicious—and unhealthy—items.

  The waiter brought Mike’s order, reminding him once again that everything was on the house. He then touched Hagen’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, you probably haven’t noticed this, but there’s a tear in your jacket.”

  The waiter was right. There was a tear on one of the sleeves of his uncle’s precious jacket. Hagen panicked and called up the stats in haste. However, his Charisma stat was still the same. However, the jacket’s Durability fell to a catastrophic level—namely, 5/100.

  “Assistant,” Hagen asked mentally. “What will happen if an item’s durability is reduced to zero? Will it disappear?”

  “If an item’s Durability reaches zero, the item in question will no longer give any bonuses. This is irreversible in such a scenario.”

  “What if an item is repaired while it still has some Durability left?”

  “Its Durability will go up, but it won’t reach the initial value.”

  “Damn! So every object has a limited operational life?”

  “That’s right.”

  So, another problem to take care of. Still, it wasn’t at the top of his list of problems. He’d have to fight Sylas, aka Ken, later on in the evening. And that was a fearsome adversary.

  Hagen had been certain that Ken would be dead serious about preparing for the upcoming battle. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes as Goliath or Steve “Jobs.” Moreover, Ken may have watched the video of his fight with Guerrero. Hagen had leveled up since then, of course, but it was still something to consider.

  Mike started on his salad, eating gingerly—his busted lip was hurting badly. He kept chewing his food phlegmatically, lost in thought.

  So what was the situation? Ken would probably know everything about Hagen’s knockout punch as well as the pros and cons of a diminutive stature. He would thus have to be very careful with his opponent, which would require tactical thinking.

  But what would a winning tactic be in this case? He’d have to watch at least one fight featuring Sylas to be able to figure out his style of fighting and to attempt to find vulnerabilities. All he knew about him by that point was that his punch wasn’t any weaker than Mike’s. As well as the fact that he’d had an amazing girlfriend who probably didn’t have much respect for her boyfriend.

  Hagen had to face the dreadful prospect of a knockout—himself being on the receiving end this time. He didn’t even notice how he’d mechanically picked a fried wing out of the bucket and started to munch on it as he pondered the entire situation.

  All those changes had happened so quickly. He’d get in a fight almost every day now. Could he ever have imagined that his life would gain this much momentum and become this dangerous?

  Mike recollected his “pre-interface” times when he could spend a day doing nothing but watching soaps, reading comic books, or playing Mortal Kombat online. No responsibilities whatsoever. He could eat whatever he wanted, consume tons of chicken wings and wash them down with gallons of soda. His puny constitution wouldn’t let him put on any weight.

  And now it was all about regular training, self-improvement, honing his skills, and numerous fights with strangers with the inevitable pain.

  Hagen put down the unfinished wing and rose.

  Would he like those times to return? Hell no. It could hardly be called a life—at best, it was a life of a cockroach observing the world from a crack in some wall.

  Hagen said goodbye to Chuck and headed for the parking lot in front of the bar. He took his phone out of his pocket on his way out to find the nearest clothing repair shop. The nearest one—the only one in town, in fact—was called Reknitting Express and was located at a considerable distance from the bar, in the North Hills neighborhood.

  * * *

  REKNITTING EXPRESS shared a building with a dry cleaner’s—the two operations must have had the same owner. A Middle Eastern woman in a headscarf met Hagen in a small lobby with calendars and posters in Arabic on the walls. Hagen took off the jacket and showed her the tear.

  “I need to patch up the sleeve here, then sew on a few buttons. There’s also this part at the collar—something needs to be done to keep it from tearing further, you see...” Hagen looked up at her. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  The woman kept nodding without making a sound.

  “Will it take long?”

  She pointed to tomorrow’s date on the calendar.

  “That’s more than I can afford to wait. I’d like it fixed now. Would that be OK?”

  The woman nodded and showed him two fingers.

  “Two hours?”

  Another nod. Then the woman spread her fingers wide on both hands.

  Ten dollars, is it? Hagen thought to himself. Gee, it takes me two hours to fix a laptop.

  He had to pay another ten bucks for a rush job. Not that he’d call two hours a rush job. A whole Andrew Jackson for a jacket—a new one would be only slightly more expensive.

  However, even if he’d had a thousand, he’d pay that much for a bonus of three points to Charisma.

  His money was running out. The job at Chuck’s was a godsend. He’d have to ask him for an advance payment to cover all his bills.

  The woman took his jacket and went to the other room. The door opened and Hagen saw a few more women wearing headscarves, hunched over their sewing machines.

  Mike stood there for a while, feeling lost and studying the incomprehensible posters, and then went out into the blazing sun. He remembered what his mum always used to say, “Spring sure came early this year,” and saying global warming was to blame. Mike would agree, even though he didn’t notice any difference. Not that he ever denied that the global climate change was real, but if one followed mom’s logic, Christmas would come in summer some ten years on.

  The building housing the dry cleaner’s and Reknitting Express stood on its own by the side of the road. There was a barren field to the right and a fence around the cosmetic company’s facilities on the left. How did the customers find them? he wondered.

  Hagen touched his lip. The swelling seemed to have progressed. The pulsating pain had also gotten stronger and kept bothering him.

  Mike started to have second thoughts about his fight with Ken in the evening. He wondered if they could postpone it until the next day at least. The very thought that his injured and swollen lip might get smashed up again filled him with dread. He tried his best to overcome his fear of pain, of course, but it still would sometimes get out of control—like now, for example.

  He grabbed his phone and dialed Ken, trying to think of how to phrase his request to postpone the fight in such a way so that the muscled guy wouldn’t take it for cowardice. Or, perhaps, it was cowardice?

  A pleasant female voice said, “Hello.”

  Hagen instantly realized it was Barbie. He couldn’t even remember her actual name. But the ever-ready assistant mumbled it into his ear, “April ‘Barbie’ Connell.”

  It could have been the cold wind—or, perhaps, he’d felt less comfortable without his uncle’s jacket—but Hagen felt goose bumps all over his neck as soon as he heard her voice.

  “Uh, I... It’s me. Ken said... Oh, hello. I’m Mike,” Hagen finally came to grips with his mumbling. “Ken—I mean, Sylas—was planning to fight me this evening.”

  “Hi, Mike. I’m April. I remember you. Sylas can’t answer right now. What would you like me to tell him?”

  “Nothing, thanks. I’ll try again later.”

  “You won’t reach him later, Mikey. Before each fight Sylas breaks all contact with the outside world and spends a long time meditating. So, on those days I take his calls. He was really
pissed off that you hadn’t been at the gym yesterday. He said he’d wasted a day of meditating. I’m not too happy about being his secretary for the second day in a row, either.”

  “But I have a small problem. Could we postpone the fight until tomorrow?”

  He heard a hint of steel in her voice.

  “A small problem? I thought your stature was the only small thing about you.”

  “I’m not afraid, it’s just that I already had an... altercation today. So, perhaps...”

  “Oh, Mikey. And there I was thinking your attitude might be noteworthy. So edgy, yet you barely reach the top of the punch bag,” she laughed. “Sylas was so mad! And I like people who can make him mad.”

  Hagen felt the goose bumps move to his face, only to be replaced by the feverish burning of shame. Uncle Peter told him once that the army was the only place where you could never say “no.” To a civilian, on the other hand, “no” was the best answer to any proposition one found remotely unpleasant.

  Hagen didn’t pay any attention to his uncle’s words previously. Now he was coming to the realization that they made a lot of sense. Come to think of it, even his uncle’s jacket turned out to be valuable.

  Suddenly Hagen found himself unable to say “no” to Barbie. He felt acute embarrassment, even though he’d only ever seen her once. Even though he remembered her yoga pants better than her face, to be honest.

  “So, Mikey baby? What do I tell Sylas?”

  “I’ll be there at seven.”

  Barbie smiled enticingly. Some girls could smile in such a way you could feel it over the phone.

  “No, Mikey, that’s no good. How about I tell him that you’d promised to tear him a new one in the ring?”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ll also add that you called him a stupid bastard and a piece of dog shit.”

  “Uh...”

  “Oh, and another thing. I’ll say you’d expressed the opinion that he was the ugliest person in the world.”

  “But he isn’t.”

  “Of course he isn’t. I’m not blind, am I? But he’ll get so pissed off!” she started laughing again.

  Hagen grinned. “In that case, you can tell him another thing: he looks like a blow-up doll.”

  “Ha! For sure! Right. Bye for now, Mikey.”

  April hung up. Hagen kept on standing there for about a minute, clutching his phone and trying to form an opinion of her.

  Before, Hagen might have believed himself to be weird and different from everybody else. But as of late, he kept becoming more and more convinced that there was no such thing as “everybody else.” Everybody had “bats in the belfry,” as Uncle Peter would put it. What really frightened Hagen was to be considered an average run-of-the-mill nobody as compared to all his new acquaintances—someone who’d wasted the better part of his life on being too afraid to be alive all the way.

  The fight was inevitable. And he was fine with that.

  Pain? Even better. Only the dead felt no pain. A knockout? Not a problem, either. One could always come to, congratulate the opponent, analyze one’s mistakes and become a better fighter as a result. Moreover, it felt as though Hagen had spent all of his life knocked out, and only was beginning to come to his senses.

  He found the conversation with Barbie strangely encouraging. Even the lip seemed to hurt less.

  * * *

  THE SILENT Middle Eastern woman brought his jacket back. Hagen scrutinized every detail. Everything was just perfect. Reknitting Express may not have been as fast as their name suggested, but they surely knew their business.

  No sign was left of the tear in the sleeve. All the buttons were sewn on, and the collar looked brand new. Even the holes in the pockets were fixed, although Hagen didn’t ask them to do it. The jacket’s Durability was 32/100 now—slightly less than the initial value. But it was only to be expected that everything would wear out eventually.

  He went back to his car and looked at himself in the rear view mirror. His lip turned out to be less swollen than he’d imagined. He’d have to visit a drugstore to buy some bandages, cotton pads and Band-Aid. He’d need way more of those supplies now than ever before. But his finances kept dwindling, so he’d have to be really frugal.

  His phone rang.

  “Hey, bro, wazzup?”

  “Doing fine, Gonzalo, thanks.”

  “Hey, bro, don’t be so stiff. Just call me Killa.”

  “OK, Killa... bro.”

  “Hey, much better now. I heard you were planning to fight this evening. Me and the boys decided to place a few bets on the outcome. I’m betting on you but everyone who doesn’t know you will bet on the new guy. Are you in?”

  “Did Mr. Ochoa permit it?”

  “Hey, the old man doesn’t need to know. And it’s not like we’re betting millions. We’re just doing it on a lark. Ten to fifty bucks each, not more than that. I’ve placed my bet on you.”

  Hagen pondered this for a while. He felt like telling Gonzalo that the “new guy” was a surer bet—Mike wasn’t sure of his victory at all. He actually suspected he’d lose. But he couldn’t acknowledge it aloud. If he’d lose, he should make it seem like he had intended to win all along.

  He took out his wallet and counted his cash. “I haven’t got much at the moment. I could bet twenty bucks.”

  “Cool! I’ll place the bet on your behalf, then.”

  Having said his goodbyes to Gonzalo, Hagen addressed the assistant. “Did the system nickname me ‘Crybaby’ because I cry every time I get hurt?”

  “That’s absolutely right, Mike.”

  “Is earning a new nickname a quest of some sort?”

  “No; a nickname is just an identifier that changes according to the user’s behavior.”

  Change one’s behavior? Easier said than done. Mike would always cry whenever he’d feel pain. It was beyond his control. He’d had this pattern hardwired into him since childhood. First he felt pain, then he’d cry, and then his loving mother would blow on the injury and tell the other kid off for bullying her precious son.

  Hagen looked at the lonely building of Reknitting Express. Mangy-looking birds were sitting on the roof. His gaze traveled to the wasteland, the wind ruffling the wilted grass, and then toward the cars passing by. All of it felt so colorless and lonely. The waterworks would come any moment now. Why would he feel so completely alone, even having made new friends and met new people? He felt like a pathetic crybaby wallowing in self-pity.

  So Hagen did something he wouldn’t normally do—he opened his messenger app and looked at his conversations with Uncle Peter. He had long turned off notifications for this chat so as not to see any of the numerous motivational army-themed memes his uncle would send to his every contact.

  Hi, Uncle Peter. How are you doing? My life has changed a lot. I practice martial arts and go to the gym regularly. Haven’t seen you in a while.

  He finished his message and then instantly closed the chat without hitting Send.

  His own sentimentality annoyed him. He’d never get rid of the Crybaby moniker this way.

  Like any former soldier, Uncle Peter found it easy to get up and going in no time at all. A single message would probably suffice for him to decide to pay his nephew a visit. After the bankruptcy of his home security system company he’d use any excuse to travel all across the country, visiting his relatives and old brothers-in-arms.

  Hagen started the engine and joined the line of cars passing by the solitary building. North Hill Road was the very bypass that had been finished recently, becoming a favorite with the truckers. Hagen turned right at the overhead crossing to reach his part of town. The highway to the right led to Mount Winewood—Lexie’s neighborhood.

  He felt ashamed to admit it now, but he’d followed her there once—three years ago, when his unrequited passion nearly drove him insane. He didn’t even know why he’d decided to follow the old pink Chevrolet she’d driven back then. He’d parked opposite her townhouse and watched. The girl got o
ut of her car, greeted her neighbors, and went toward her door.

  When Lexie had turned around, he’d nearly slid down to the floor on his seat. He’d felt guilty ever since, getting even more timid while talking to her.

  Well, that part of his life was over, St. Ian be praised.

  * * *

  THERE WERE more people than usual in Ochoa’s gym. The old man himself was standing next to the ring, looking bewildered and fiddling with the towel hanging around his neck.

  When he saw Hagen, he vented his bewilderment aloud,

  “What’s this ruckus all about, I wonder? It’s a regular newbie fight, but will you look at how many people have turned up? Just take a look of them. Pretty faces all around. Is this going to be a fight or a beauty pageant?

  Indeed, you could instantly pick out the friends of Sylas (aka Ken) and April (aka Barbie) from the crowd. More good-looking specimens with something plastic-like about their features. One could imagine them coming off the same production line. The clothes were the only thing to distinguish them from each other.

  “Sorry, sir. I’ve had no idea he’d bring so many friends along.”

  “That’s OK,” Ochoa waved his towel in the air. “Seven of them bought yearly passes to my gym without even bargaining. I don’t normally get any of those—they opt for the more glamorous downtown gyms. Actually, I have the impression they think my place is somehow ‘exotic.’ They’ll shoot hundreds of selfies pretending to be really down-to-earth, and then return to those glitzy places. I don’t care, though. They’ve already paid me.”

  Ochoa accompanied Hagen to the locker room. It was then that he noticed the injuries on Mike’s face.

  “Hey, what’s all of this, eh?”

  “I’ve been in a fight.”

  “You surprise me, kid. When you first came to my gym, a flick of a finger would be enough to knock you out. And now you fight every day! What was the problem? Anything important?”

  “A disagreement on matters of faith.”

  “Who won?”