Level Up- The Knockout

by Dan Sugralinov

  Some guy with a shaved head was sitting in front of him. His entire neck up to his chin had been covered in tattoos. He and another shaved-head individual occupying a chair in the back kept shouting at each other. Hagen didn’t speak any Spanish, but realized both were having a lot of fun for some reason.

  How can they be enjoying themselves like this? he thought. This isn’t a school trip, after all. We’re going to the goddamn prison!

  The high-spirited guys kept on insulting each other in jest and laughing at one another.

  “¡Cabrón!”

  “¡Besa mi culo, puto!”

  If it weren’t for the prison outfits and tattoos—some of his fellow travelers had them right on their faces—Hagen could have thought he was riding in a school bus. Not his fondest memories—on the way to school someone would be sure to throw an apple core at him or dump the contents of his backpack onto the floor. In such cases, Hagen would have to crawl in search of his possessions, falling each time the bus would accelerate or slow down. His classmates used to have a lot of fun watching him.

  Just think that he’d only have had to smash a few noses to end the humiliation. The bullies would have then chosen easier prey.

  Despite his grim mood, Hagen smiled. The penitentiary vehicle seemed so much safer than the school bus. The fact that most of the passengers had been shackled to the legs of their seats may have had something to do with it, as well as the fact that he was apt at smashing noses very effectively without wasting much time now.

  Hagen fell into a reverie, his forehead pressed against the wire mesh covering the window. Scenes from the past kept passing before his eyes, imposing themselves over the window view. Someone kept screaming inside his head—it was as if Demetrious had suddenly gone insane.

  But it wasn’t Demetrious. The virtual assistant stayed silent for the most part—there weren’t any situations when his opinion would be relevant. Sometimes he would give reminders,

  “You have missed another day of training. Note that without keeping your physical shape up, your stats will begin to go down. Your Stamina is at a dangerously low level. It is likely to get lowered by a point in 24 hours.”

  Yet the other voice in his head kept on screaming, drowning out the assistant every time.

  It was Hagen’s own.

  That’s it. The end. My life is over. Prison is just like death, after all. Dear mom... if you only knew that one of those horrible things that kept you awake at night actually happened to me. You protected me against other kids’ bullying and taught me to avoid contact with anyone you’d thought to be a ‘thug’ or a ‘pervert,’ as well as salespeople and the ‘suspicious’ elderly gay couple next door. I still remember their names and the fear I’d felt. Even though I now realize that they were perfectly harmless and genial people.

  So, mom, you’ve taught me to fear everything you’d ever feared yourself. You would never have imagined that your little Mikey would get sentenced for assault and battery. Not to mention property damage and another count of assault and battery.

  I’ll have to do two years, mom. They’ve also slapped me with a fine so enormous your weary imagination would never have come to terms with it. That’s how it goes, mom. Our courts are capable of murderous close distance combos, too.

  But his mother couldn’t answer him.

  Chapter 20. The White, the Black, and More of the Same

  And you also need a whole lot of luck, so that somebody else doesn’t make your life hell.

  Mafia

  THE HANDCUFFS and the shackles were removed from the new batch of inmates as they left the bus. Hagen was amazed at how quickly the weights fell from his limbs. It had just taken a second to feel free again, even though he was in prison.

  The officer who’d been detailed to receive them made them line up. He explained to them how to behave and what to do, and then added,

  “The main requirement is that you don’t talk to us, got it? No questions to anyone who works at the penitentiary about how things are. You’ll learn all you need to once we tell you. We aren’t your buddies. Try to realize you’re no longer free men. That will keep you from extra trouble.”

  The haze in Hagen’s head that had accompanied him during the journey somehow mitigated the absurdity of what was going on. It was as though Hagen’s mind enveloped itself in a warm blanket shutting off the rest of the world, while his body was at the disposal of corrections officers.

  His body followed orders without delay, undressing, washing, and staying patient through the shaving and the medical examination. His lips moved as requested, saying “yes, sir” or “no, sir”. It had already been explained to Hagen that phrases like “I don’t know” or “I’ll think about it” would not be tolerated here. The haze also helped Hagen feel less embarrassed about being naked next to about a hundred other naked men.

  Then another corrections officer sorted through Hagen’s personal possessions. He’d only brought four photographs with him. Himself and mom, himself and Uncle Peter, and another one with mom on her own. The fourth one wasn’t even a photograph—it was the same old booklet with April wearing a kimono.

  The officer fiddled with the PSP for a while, checking every folder searching for banned materials. Then he checked the ROM drive. He ended up putting the console into the box with banned items.

  “I haven’t seen any of these in a while. I used to have one as a kid. And yours actually works. They sure knew how to make them back in the day. But I’m real sorry—I can’t let you keep it.”

  All Hagen could hope for was that he’d stay within the 1700-feet range for the console to retain its effect.

  The cell where the prison guard had taken Hagen was the size of the DigiMart cubicle where he’d spend days repairing laptops. It was actually a little spacier, since the cell had been virtually empty, apart from two bunks on either side and a toilet bowl near one of the walls. There was a small cabinet on the wall over the toilet bowl. There were no windows—just a ventilation opening in a wall. There was a light bulb covered with a metal grill over the door, as if light itself had been a felon, too.

  One of the bunks exhibited signs of being taken—there were blue slipper toes visible underneath, and a porn mag centerfold above it.

  Hagen started to arrange his stuff on the second bed.

  The corrections officer stood in the doorway, leaning against the bars and telling him how to make his bed according to prison regulations. The legend on the badge gave his name as Jim Baumgartner.

  Mike followed his instructions indifferently. He vaguely registered Jim’s instructions on how to use the toilet, how to behave once they would hear “Lights out,” and how to go through a roll call. He’d been told about everything he could and couldn’t do. Most of the things were in the latter category. The list of rules was long; some were completely off the wall.

  “Try not to jerk off while your cellmate is awake.”

  “W-what?”

  “Don’t masturbate. Don’t spank the monkey. Don’t play with the one-eyed snake. I see you’re not a seasoned inmate. I can instantly tell. It’s gonna be hard on you. Also, God doesn’t approve of people pleasuring themselves. Do you believe in God?”

  “I do,” Hagen replied.

  “Good for you. Faith will help you weather every ordeal. Do you go to church?”

  “I don’t,” Hagen confessed. “Haven’t been to once since my mother died.”

  “That’s a pity,” Jim looked about himself, then reached under his shirt and produced two crumpled brochures. “Read some words of truth. You’ll begin to understand a lot of things in this life.”

  Hagen took the brochures. A bearded man in a lilac gown stared at him from the front page. St. Ian was staring at Hagen, as if mocking him and saying, “Didn’t I say you’ll come to no good?”

  Before leaving, Jim stopped at the other bunk and tore the porn mag centerfold off the wall.

  “Godless bastards,” he said, crumpling the paper and stuffing it into his
pocket. “I have no idea where they get them.”

  Once Jim had left the cell, Hagen plopped down on the bunk dejectedly. He wanted to cry and even tried to squeeze out a teardrop or two, hoping it would help, but to no avail.

  Mike “Crybaby” Hagen was a crybaby no longer.

  “Hey, man,” Demetrious addressed him cautiously. “Your psychological state has suffered considerably.”

  “Damn it, Dem. I’m in prison, surrounded by rapists and murderers. Do you expect me to laugh?”

  “Healthy laughter raises your stats by 0.01%. Your depressed state could be alleviated by a sunnier disposition.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  Mike saw a system message, as if Demetrious had taken his insult to heart.

  Attention! The Psychological Attack ability has been temporarily disabled.

  You need to regain your mental balance to restore it.

  Hagen dismissed the message without caring much.

  The door of the cell had been open but Mike was afraid of so much as peeking out, let alone leaving it. He’d spent so much time overcoming his fear of pain and his fear of fighting in the ring, and now that he’d managed that, there was a new fear to face. Utter horror, in fact. The vagaries of prison life terrified him absolutely.

  He kept recollecting fragments of prison stories. There were random scenes from series, news, and YouTube videos. It seemed as though he’d just have to step out of the cell to be caught in a maelstrom of the unknown. He had thought every other inmate should be a gangster or a violent psychopath, and he—Mike Hagen—was the only innocent person behind bars.

  “What are you waiting for?” a voice called from the corridor. Jim peeked into the cell again. “Breakfast time. You have twenty minutes.”

  Hagen had meant to tell the guard he wasn’t hungry, but the Hunger debuff made him leave his bunk and head down the corridor. He’d have to get used to his new home, after all.

  * * *

  EVERYTHING FOLLOWED a set pattern at the canteen. The procedure was quick and efficient. Prisoners would queue up, get their meals, sit down and gobble it up as quickly as possible. Hagen had never seen people eat that quickly before—one might have thought it was a contest.

  He sat there entranced, watching the man across the table polish off his food. The other one—an enormous black guy—looked Mike in the eye.

  “Hey, kid, you’re lucky I’m good-natured. If you keep staring at people like that, you won’t leave this place alive. You feel me?”

  Hagen lowered his eyes and started staring at his tray. He’d have to revive his old habit of looking anywhere but someone’s eye. The prison code appeared to be completely different.

  Once the inmates finished their food, they would rise, place their trays in an enormous container and head for the exit. The guard at the door tossed a paper bag to every inmate as they left.

  “What is it?” Hagen asked, catching his.

  “Your lunch,” the guard replied.

  “Hurry up, bro,” someone elbowed Hagen in the back. It was clearly done deliberately.

  Damage received: 322

  Trying not to look back or double up in pain, Mike went out into the prison block’s main hall. The canteen had looked fairly innocent, but this place struck him as the epitome of sinister. There were people walking everywhere; all of them looked menacing. Even if they didn’t, Hagen’s perception projected an aura of danger over everyone. Each of the inmates could be a gangster or a killer.

  He kept waiting for someone to assault him physically or verbally, reliving the particularly gruesome scenes from the TV series his mother used to watch. He prepared to defend himself, wishing he hadn’t stopped training.

  A group of cholos, naked to the waist, went past Hagen. Their bodies were muscled and covered in tattoos. They walked in an aggressive way, their gestures demonstrating utter confidence. Those must have been killers for sure.

  Little Mikey would really like to get back to his cell, but he was completely lost. He had no idea of where he’d have to go. All three floors of the prison block had looked completely the same. Mike remembered his cell was in the middle of a corridor, but he had no idea where to find it. He pressed the paper bag against his chest and stepped back slowly, stopping at a wall. It was a little less terrifying when he could be sure no one would attack him from behind.

  Once he felt the wall at his back, he closed his eyes and tried to stop panicking.

  This fear was completely different from any that he’d ever felt in the ring. At least back then he realized that the fear wouldn’t last long. The fear he felt in a fight ended with the fight itself, and it didn’t matter whether he would win or lose. But the prison block fear would stay with him until the end of his jail time.

  Hagen drew a deep breath. How was he supposed to manage two years in such a nightmarish environment? On the other hand, hadn’t he spent most of his life in constant fear of being hit or insulted by someone, incapable of fighting back?

  In some way, prison was similar to the kind of life Hagen had led prior to getting access to the interface. Now he could at least calm down at the thought that he was capable of giving as good as he got in a fight.

  It was time to stop being afraid.

  Hagen opened his eyes, feeling decisive, and instantly bumped the back of his head against the wall. Some skinny guy with a shiny shaved head offset by a thick ginger beard stood right next to him, staring directly at Mike.

  Hagen dropped the bag and prepared for a brawl, calling up his opponent’s stats in a rush.

  Roman “Intel” Kamenev

  Age: 24

  Level: 6

  HP: 15,000

  Battles/victories: 76/61

  Weight: 183 lbs

  Height: 5’ 7”

  Current status: Programmer

  “Hey, chill, man. Sorry, comrade, didn’t mean to scare you,” Roman bent down, picked up the paper bag and gave it back to Hagen. “You looked like you were about to slide to the floor, and I thought you might be sick or something.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Russian guy spoke perfect English but kept turning on the accent whenever he’d say “comrade” intentionally, as if he was parodying Niko Bellic from GTA IV.

  “Are you OK? No health issues? Are there any diseases or fits I should be aware of?” Roman continued.

  “Why would you be interested in my health?”

  “Well, I’m your cellmate, after all, so you never know.” Roman grinned. “Lost, aren’t you? The first time they threw me in the slammer I didn’t know how to find my cell, either. It’s OK. The main thing is to control your fear.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Apart from the really hardcore gangsters, everyone is afraid here. Even the real thugs, as a matter of fact.”

  “Who are they afraid of?”

  “Other tough guys. And the lot of them are afraid of the guards while the guards are afraid of the gangsters. Prison is a place where everybody’s afraid of everybody else.”

  “It doesn’t look like everyone’s terrified here.”

  “They’ve gotten used to it. You’ll get used to it, too. Just try not to withdraw into yourself and shut off the outside world. I know you’d like to get back to your cell and crawl up in the corner as soon as you can. But there’s no chance of that, comrade. You can’t spend two years like that.”

  “How do you know how much time I’m doing?”

  “I know a lot. I’m, like, one of those notorious Russian hackers. Let’s take a walk in the yard. Both of us have a day off today. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, ha-ha. Sorry if it sounds sarcastic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ll assign you a job tomorrow, so you’ll have no time left to feel sorry for yourself. The name’s Roman. You can also call me Intel—that’s my old LoL nickname.

  “I’m Mike. Or you could call me Hagen. That’s my last name,” Hagen had enough sense not to mention his Crybaby alias
.

  Roman turned out to be one of those folks who could talk nineteen to the dozen about absolutely everything without revealing anything about themselves.

  “Anyway, you have access to the same commodities as outside in here, it’s just that they’re harder to come by,” he told Mike as they were walking toward the yard. “If you need extra food, booze, weed, or porn mags, you’ll be able to find all that stuff here. Are you a smoker?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll start smoking before too long, comrade. There’s nothing to do here, so everyone smokes. Tobacco is the most important social lubricant in prison or in the army.”

  As if I wanted to socialize with criminals, Hagen thought to himself.

  “I’m an athlete, actually,” he said, inspecting the yard.

  “Everyone’s an athlete here, comrade.”

  Hagen had already noticed that most of the young people in the yard looked athletic—the whole place resembled an enormous gym. There were weightlifting machines in the center of the yard, but all of them had been in use. Many of the inmates were naked to the waist, busy doing push-ups and squats. Two or three pairs sparred.

  Hagen automatically tried to step closer and examine their fighting techniques.

  Roman stopped him.

  “Hey. There’s another thing that’s the same inside and outside. You’ll get punished for every little mistake you make. Wasn’t that how you ended up here in the first place? People with power using you to cover their asses?”

  Hagen felt irritated. “How the hell do you know everything?”

  “Not everything, but I have access to information. I’m just warning you against joining groups you know nothing about.”

  “Didn’t you say it would be good for me to socialize and not withdraw?”

  “Sure, but keep your head on. Would you approach a crowd like that if you were free?”

  Hagen took a good look at the enormous tattooed bulks of men—everyone’s faces looked grim, demonstrating a constant readiness to fight for their place in the sun.