Level Up- The Knockout

by Dan Sugralinov

  * * *

  MIKE FELT HIMSELF all over the first thing in the morning. He was disappointed to have discovered no ostensible changes. Just over an inch was hardly the kind of height that would make him find his head pressed against the ceiling upon awakening. Still he wished for a miracle to happen.

  He dashed to the mirror and called up his stats. The new stats checked out: his height was now 5 foot 3.5 inches, and his weight, 145 pounds. He did feel something change, though—his underwear felt tighter around his waist.

  “Hey, what if...” Hagen pulled off the pants to take a look. Everything seemed to be the same as usual.

  Mike took a better look at himself. Was it his imagination, or did he look more confident and edgier? Had his hair become thicker?

  He smiled at himself in the mirror and didn’t cringe, for a change. Could he have become more handsome?

  Hagen felt fired up and decided he’d dump the remaining point into Charisma that evening.

  After a jog, he started training. Mike kept on trying to reproduce the attack on the icon where his virtual double used one of the legs to jump, and then punched the opponent’s lights out. He also watched a few instruction videos on YouTube.

  Progress was slow to say the least. None of those punches dealt any real damage—they were weaker than the regular kind. Hagen also felt almost defenseless. He didn’t need anybody else’s commentary to realize that he looked like a falling helicopter during such attacks, his arms flailing around in the air like a rotor.

  Progress obviously depended on his Kick skill as well. He started changing legs and attacks, as well as attack power and vector, trying absolutely everything he could. He’d need a real mentor to master all of it, of course. However, he’d be embarrassed to ask Wei Ming to train him again. His friend wouldn’t turn him down, but any kind of labor required compensation, and Mike was almost broke.

  So Hagen wrote Gonzalo telling him he’d like to fight that very weekend.

  Cool, bro, Gonzalo replied. I’ll see who you can spar with. Let’s discuss it at Ochoa’s gym in the evening.

  Mike also had to go to the AthleticSmart store to get some new gear. He still remembered how the Dodgers shirt had let him down when he’d fought Sylas. No rags for him anymore. He’d buy new athletic clothes. He could really do with a pair of gloves like the ones he’d used in his fight against Sylas, but that would have to wait. He couldn’t afford it quite yet.

  Hagen noticed April everywhere now—on the packages with tennis outfits, on yoga pants labels, and so on. He even spent a minute looking at a gigantic billboard mounted on the retail floor where April was posing on a tatami mat in a kimono.

  He’d already read up on Krav Maga. It turned out to be a martial art used by the Israeli military, and not a style of yoga as he’d foolishly believed. April was beautiful—and dangerous.

  They hadn’t seen each other since the incident with the zealots. They’d parted on friendly terms, of course. April had even made a joke before driving off,

  “Yo, Mikey, we’re a great team, aren’t we? Just like Batman and Robin.”

  She was laughing but Hagen could see her fiddle nervously with her hair. The fanatics had given them a scare all right.

  Hagen didn’t have her phone number. And even if he did, he wouldn’t have called her. Why would he? To invite her to see a different fight in a different bar? What could he offer to girls like April or Alexa in the first place?

  Having had his experience with Lexie, Hagen no longer made any optimistic plans. He had decided to refrain from asking anyone out on a date or express his interest in any girl. It was enough for him that the progress bar over Lexie read “Strong Interest (4/10).

  Hagen felt like someone playing with a cheat code. Even though April had a “Strong Interest” for whatever reason, Hagen didn’t know what to do about it. His only experience in sex was limited to those rare occasions when Jessica, the only girlfriend he’d ever had, would come home late at night completely drunk. Then she would wake Hagen up, mount him and ride him until she’d pass out. He was grateful that she’d never puked over him. She’d avoid him to the best of her ability when sober, though. She had an array of excuses: periods, headaches, and a bunch of other stuff. Her capacity for finding excuses was nothing short of extraordinary.

  Hagen grinned crookedly, thinking that his ex could have won the world excuse-finding championship.

  April was much easier to talk to than Lexie, but she would still remain a billboard girl. She’d made Hagen fight to near-death on a whim while irritating her boyfriend enough to make him fight as hard as he could, too. What did Gonzalo say back then? Something about there being no enemies in the ring, only partners. A girl like April would make all the difference if both vied for her attention.

  He’d have to work on his attitude to himself before he’d be able to engage in a relationship with a member of the opposite sex.

  Those thoughts eventually led him back to Demetrious and his advice to find a girlfriend.

  Easier said than done. He could have found someone at the side of the road, of course. But Hagen felt even more squeamish about sex workers. Disregarding Jessie, that is—Uncle Peter had never approved of her, always calling her a slut.

  Mike drove to the comic book shop. Sheila, the chubby tattooed girl that had told him off once in a rather unpleasant manner, was still behind the counter.

  Hagen raised the collar of his uncle’s jacket and entered the shop confidently, stopping right next to Sheila to take a look at discounted comics.

  The girl turned toward him a couple of times, then said,

  “Hey, I think I know you!”

  “I’m not sure; I can’t remember.”

  “Oh, but I do! You suggested that we go out for a few pints once, didn’t you? Your name is Hank, right? I’m free this evening.”

  Hagen gave her another look—she was three times his size—and hurried to leave.

  How desperate was he really? He’d be the last person to indulge in fat-shaming—after all, he’d been ridiculed for his physique all his life. But why would he have to get involved with Sheila if he knew girls whom he liked a lot more? Why would he participate in a small-town championship when he’d had his eyes on the top league? Would he ever achieve anything if he could be satisfied by little achievements? Not that the word “little” applied to Sheila, anyway.

  He decided that if he’d ever get a girlfriend, she wouldn’t be a manifestation of his despair. He’d had despair enough for two, anyway.

  Hagen jumped into his car and hit the accelerator. He found himself on North Hill Road, right next to the Mount Winewood turn where Lexie lived. He pressed the pedal to the floor trying not to think about the reason he’d been doing it.

  Hagen approached the familiar townhouse. The last time he’d visited was a couple of years ago but he still remembered every small detail.

  He could see Lexie’s windows. He parked his car at the same spot as previously, watching out for every movement, ready to hide at the first sight of her presence.

  He gave a start when someone knocked on the window of his car.

  Some white guy dressed in baggy pants and a loose jacket approached his car. He wasn’t all that young, and Hagen couldn’t tell if his hair was bleached or naturally white. The guy reminded him of an old rapper whose popularity had peaked briefly in the early 2000s.

  “Yo, my man, are you looking for a townhouse to rent?”

  “N-no... I mean, I am,” Hagen checked himself, trying to think of something to justify his sitting in a car and looking at other people’s doors.

  The rapper pointed at Lexie’s townhouse. It was only then that Hagen noticed the “For Rent” sign next to her door.

  “A real cool girl just moved out. She’d lived here for a long time. The place is clean, and they changed the wiring recently. Move in. I’ll be your neighbor.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Easy Sammy aka Sammy C, have you heard of me?”


  “Perhaps. I’m Mike,” Hagen replied.

  “Yo, Mikey, bro...” Sammy started to rummage through the pockets of his oversize jacket.

  Hagen pressed himself into the seat, panicking and trying to find the button that closed the window by touch. He was under the impression that Easy Sammy would produce a gun and try to hold him up.

  Something flashed in the man’s hand. He offered Mike a CD through the open window.

  “I’m actually a musician, you know. Wanna buy my new album? Everyone who’s heard it told me it was a new page in hip-hop, dig? Just ten bucks, my man.”

  “But I don’t have...”

  “Come on, bro. You want me to believe a white boy doesn’t have ten bucks on him?”

  Hagen didn’t want to go into details—namely, that Sammy was white himself, and that he’d had no CD player. So he just got a Hamilton out of his pocket, receiving the CD and a barrage of tips and instructions from Sammy.

  “You can find all my social network contacts on the cover, and there’s a link to my YouTube channel, too. I’d welcome any comments, blood! Keep it real!”

  “Thanks a lot, Sammy, but I need to get going.”

  Hagen closed the window and started the car, wondering what could have made him come here in the first place and spend money on useless crap. He tossed the CD onto the back seat and kept castigating himself for this silly impulsive action all the way to Ochoa’s gym. Even if he’d have managed to see Lexie, what could he have told her? Or did he imagine she’d change her mind and agree to go out for a drink like Sheila?

  Damn Demetrious and damn his advice about finding a girlfriend! As if he hadn’t been aware of his needs. He didn’t need any damn advice!

  The Sexual Frustration debuff kept popping up at the periphery of his vision. He’d also get spontaneous erections more often than usual; all it would normally take would be to see a part of naked female body. And that’s something one sees in advertising all the time these days.

  At least his training sessions provided some relief for his unsatisfied flesh and an outlet for his testosterone surges.

  Damn Demetrious! An “assistant,” eh? Why couldn’t he have come up with a proper explanation of where one might find a girlfriend?

  * * *

  OCHOA’S GYM welcomed him with the same old ambiance—the smell of sweat, shouts, the sounds of punch bags being punched, fighters breathing heavily, and the inimitable aura of a space where many people had tried to overcome themselves for years.

  Yup, this is where I belong, Hagen thought to himself once again.

  He’d never had such feelings at the bar. Even though he could look at naked girls there.

  He shook his head. This was no time to think of naked girls.

  Mike greeted his acquaintances, telling them that Chuck’s joints were hiring bouncers. He gave discount meal coupons to those who’d shown an interest. Having fulfilled his obligation to Morrison, he headed for the locker room.

  The new athletic pants and T-shirt fit perfectly. He didn’t have to bother about another level-up of Strength or Charisma making him too large for his clothes. The gear stretched well, so he could keep on growing.

  Once Hagen was through with his warm-up and started to work on his kick technique, Ochoa approached him and handed him a cardboard box.

  “Sorry to be interrupting you, but the courier delivered this for you last night.”

  Hagen stared at it in surprise. “Who could have sent it?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the old man snapped.

  Hagen took the box back to his bench. Ochoa gave him a knife to open it. The old man stood behind Mike as he cut through the cellotape, breathing loudly. He must have been interested in the content of the package, too.

  Inside was a pair of professional lace-up boxing gloves—the very kind Mike had used to defeat Sylas.

  “I don’t get it,” Hagen said as he took the gloves out of the box.

  Ochoa stopped making loud sounds with his nose and grabbed a booklet from the bottom of the box. “Hah hah. Get it now?”

  There was the same picture of April wearing a kimono on the front page. The legend said “Krav Maga lessons for women. Instructor: April Connell.” The reverse side provided information about the location of the gym and its working hours.

  Hagen was holding the gloves in his hands as he read the system message.

  Gloves of Valor

  +25% to punch-related ability learning speed

  Durability: 94/100

  “That’s pro grade,” Ochoa said approvingly. “By the way, I’d like you to spar against another fighter. Or, rather, he wants to train with you. Are you ready?”

  Hagen was baffled by this odd message from April, and he didn’t quite get what Ochoa had told him the first time. “A sparring? What for? And who with? I mean... sure, I’m in. I’m ready.”

  Ochoa helped him with the lacing on the Gloves of Valor. “He’s a good fighter, but he doesn’t have a regular routine, which slows down his progress. He works at some office. They tend to be the angriest kind of amateur fighters. I have no idea why, really. So you should prepare yourself to fight someone with an aggressive style, constantly attacking.”

  Hagen nodded automatically, pondering “aggressive” and “attacking.” However, he wasn’t thinking of the upcoming sparring. Why did women make all the decisions in his life? Even his mother, no matter how ambiguous that might have sounded. His earlier excuses were that he’d been ugly, short and not particularly interesting. But could it be the time to ditch his excuses at last?

  Ochoa broke his reverie. “Get in the ring, lad. Although I wasn’t sure whether the two of you should spar in the first place.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “There are height issues.” Ochoa saw Hagen’s face darken, and said, “Don’t worry. Both of you have them.”

  Hagen tried to concentrate on the fight, so he slapped himself on the head as if trying to shake out irrelevant thoughts. He got into the ring. His opponent followed suit shortly.

  Hagen instantly realized what issues Ochoa was referring to.

  Hilton “Clerk” Desmars

  Age: 27

  Level: 9

  HP: 22,500

  Battles/victories: 217/181

  Weight: 218 lbs

  Height: 6’ 7”

  Current status: Community center deputy director

  Reputation: Good (2/10)

  Resistance to your Charisma: medium (5/10)

  The guy was six foot seven, no less. He looked like one of those tube men one sees near malls. Just as skinny, and waving his arms and legs as if they were powered by ventilators.

  Desmars smiled in an embarrassed way, well aware of the absurdity of the situation, his big white teeth shining against the background of his black face.

  Ochoa got into the ring. “Gentlemen, let us avoid unnecessary cruelty. This MMA fight will be judged according to points. There will be three three-minute rounds. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, coach,” both replied.

  Ochoa called Gonzalo and Guerrero to help him as assistant referees. The old man appeared to have developed a penchant for organizing sparring bouts with the frills normally associated with professional competitions. He might as well have taken his gong out of his office to announce the beginning of each round.

  “Why do you want to fight me in particular?” Hagen asked Desmars as they bumped their gloved fists.

  “Sorry, pal. I go to the gym to blow off steam. And you look a lot like my bastard of a boss. Same height.”

  “Uh-h...”

  “I have no beef with you. It’s just that I’d like to beat the shit out of my boss. Even if you have to be his substitute.”

  “Are you sure you’ll manage it?”

  “I am,” Desmars said somewhat arrogantly.

  “Well, you’ll have to get to that bridge before you cross it,” Hagen said, inhaling noisily through his nose.

  The fighters went
back to their corners to get their mouthguards. Oddly, Desmars still had a kind smile on his face.

  “Fighters, meet in the center of the ring,” Ochoa announced.

  The first step Hagen took was accompanied by a blinking message:

  First Strike

  Throw your first effective punch in the bout to unlock new achievements.

  Hagen couldn’t help smiling. It would probably be the first fight without malice; without his opponent despising or underestimating him. Desmars “the Clerk” kept looking at him somewhat guiltily, as if trying to apologize for having challenged Hagen to a fight.

  Ochoa told them to start.

  Desmars revealed his fighting style during the first ten seconds. His attacks didn’t seem well-thought out at all—he just wanted to plow his way through without giving Mike a chance to counterattack. The clerk’s long legs seemed to reach Hagen in every part of the ring. The height difference made every kick a high-kick aimed at Hagen’s face.

  Desmars spent most of the round attacking. Hagen kept defending himself and slipping away at the first convenience. One of the punches nearly got him in the head, but Mike managed to block it.

  The system reacted instantly.

  Congratulations! You’ve received a new skill level!

  Skill name: Arm Blocking

  You have to use the skill more often to level it up.

  Hagen tried as hard as he could—only to realize that the old adage about the best defense being offense was absolutely true. He had to defend himself all the time and couldn’t throw a single effective punch.

  On the other hand, Desmars didn’t achieve anything tangible, either. Hagen also discovered that he couldn’t for the life of him decipher the signs given by the judge panel. He had known those referred to the results of the fight, but he just couldn’t work them out. He’d have to read up on that stuff if he planned to enter a championship.

  Demetrious came to the rescue instantly, interpreting the signs for Hagen. “Desmars is leading by two points.”