Crack.
The cheers coming from the crowd were like a drug. Mixed with the blood and sweat and thrill of an adrenaline high, they affected Hayato like anesthesia. He barely felt the force behind the punch that slammed into his jaw but his ears were keen enough to pick up the cracking of bone. He wasn?t sure whose it was. His hair was a mop of black matted to his forehead and obscuring his vision. He back peddled and pushed it away just in time to duck under the high kick his opponent threw at him, twisting mid-fall to sweep the equally bruised and battered Japanese boy?s legs out from under him. Behind him he could still hear the crowd, feel their hands as they pushed him back into the center of the ring of bodies. He stepped around the fallen opponent and took in a few precious lungfuls of uninhibited air.
Each cry was punctuated with a snap, a hiss of pain and a few drops of blood. The roar of spectators was deafening. He couldn?t hear himself think, but he didn?t need to.
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The back room of the club where all the fighting took place was reserved for a select few. With this in mind, Hayato decided it would be best if he remained standing until he was joined. The ceiling was low and made all the more treacherous by the lights that hung from the fans overhead, swaying with every rotation of the blades. A series of couches and chairs dominated one side of the room around a collection of small round tables for drinks and snacks. Across from them was a wall made up primarily of a large television set that showed the ?fighting pit? in the room just outside the door. The air was cool and cleaner in here than it was out there, the only scent being the lingering odor of cigar smoke. He?d been given the opportunity to shower before being called back there and had seen to the more severe cuts that he?d received during his most recent bout, so there was that small relief to enjoy.
He waited in silence for what felt like an eternity but was in truth less than half an hour before the door opened and a middle aged Japanese man with black hair shot with streaks of gray walked into the room. Hayato recognized the man immediately as Matsumara Tatsuomo and dipped into a gracious bow for the kyodai. He was accompanied by a younger man who could only have been Osamu-san and both wore freshly pressed suits that made them appear far too clean and crisp for such an establishment.
The cheers coming from the crowd were like a drug. Mixed with the blood and sweat and thrill of an adrenaline high, they affected Hayato like anesthesia. He barely felt the force behind the punch that slammed into his jaw but his ears were keen enough to pick up the cracking of bone. He wasn?t sure whose it was. His hair was a mop of black matted to his forehead and obscuring his vision. He back peddled and pushed it away just in time to duck under the high kick his opponent threw at him, twisting mid-fall to sweep the equally bruised and battered Japanese boy?s legs out from under him. Behind him he could still hear the crowd, feel their hands as they pushed him back into the center of the ring of bodies. He stepped around the fallen opponent and took in a few precious lungfuls of uninhibited air.
Each cry was punctuated with a snap, a hiss of pain and a few drops of blood. The roar of spectators was deafening. He couldn?t hear himself think, but he didn?t need to.
----------
The back room of the club where all the fighting took place was reserved for a select few. With this in mind, Hayato decided it would be best if he remained standing until he was joined. The ceiling was low and made all the more treacherous by the lights that hung from the fans overhead, swaying with every rotation of the blades. A series of couches and chairs dominated one side of the room around a collection of small round tables for drinks and snacks. Across from them was a wall made up primarily of a large television set that showed the ?fighting pit? in the room just outside the door. The air was cool and cleaner in here than it was out there, the only scent being the lingering odor of cigar smoke. He?d been given the opportunity to shower before being called back there and had seen to the more severe cuts that he?d received during his most recent bout, so there was that small relief to enjoy.
He waited in silence for what felt like an eternity but was in truth less than half an hour before the door opened and a middle aged Japanese man with black hair shot with streaks of gray walked into the room. Hayato recognized the man immediately as Matsumara Tatsuomo and dipped into a gracious bow for the kyodai. He was accompanied by a younger man who could only have been Osamu-san and both wore freshly pressed suits that made them appear far too clean and crisp for such an establishment.