Stumbling into Victory 2

Stumbling into Victory 2

Jonathan Yukawa
Brockton Bay, NH, USA

‘Your eggs are overcooked,’ Atem said idly as I flipped a pancake on a second burner.

I hastily grabbed the first pan and took it off the heat. Alas, I was too late. ‘No one likes a backseat chef, Atem. Besides, they’re not overcooked.’

‘You wanted runny yolk. They are not runny.’

‘Piss off, don’t you have better things to do than criticize my breakfast?’

‘As a matter of fact, no. For the record, my eggs are perfectly fluffy and jammy.’

‘How are you eating eggs? You’re literally in my soul.’

‘How do you have a fountain and an entire gallery in your soul?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘I can use my own ba to conjure some. “Creature comforts,” I believe they are called. Mmm, tasty. My palate has expanded a great deal thanks to Yugi and his friends.’

I plated my breakfast and left the communal kitchen. It wasn’t that I hated my dormmates, but with so many varying schedules, we’d naturally developed a pattern of eating alone. ‘Glad you’re enjoying yourself. Actually, can you possess me?’

‘As I’d done with Yugi at times?’

‘Yeah, if I need help, can you take over and summon a god card or something?’

‘No, I cannot. There is something missing here. Your connection to the Millennium Puzzle seems to have been… rerouted, for lack of a better word.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rather than permit me to take control of you, your soul is best suited to manifesting new monsters and forging those connections instead.’

‘Ah, I see. So being able to draw new packs comes at the cost of not having you available to bail my ass out.’

‘Crude, but correct. Rest assured, Jonathan, I will still be here to advise you.’

‘I’m sure I’ll appreciate your backseat card-gaming more than your backseat cooking,’ I replied dryly.

That was something I’d learned about Atem. The ancient pharaoh was a font of wisdom, both mundane and mystical. He was also someone who died relatively young, then lived most of his afterlife accompanying a teenager.

Still, I was surprised at how quickly I got used to having him around. I did find myself mouthing out the words when I spoke to him in my mind, kind of like lip-singing a song without really paying attention. It was a habit I’d have to break. I really didn’t want to be known as the crazy guy who whispered to himself.

I quickly finished my breakfast and got ready to head out. The puzzle faded out of the material plane as if it’d always been an illusion, its presence only confirmed by the tether I felt in my mind. How convenient; it’d keep me from being mugged for my shiny, gold necklace.

I had a single afternoon class today so my morning was free. Which, in this case, meant I’d chosen to get my shit rocked in the name of “overcoming obstacles” and "becoming a better me.” Hopefully, it also meant I’d be slightly less likely to get my shit rocked as a cape, when consequences were likely to be more dire.

X

The Laborn Boxing Gym was located in a ghetto that belonged to no one. It was that awkward slice of the city between ABB territory, the barely functional junkyard, and the tail end of the lower-middle class represented by the neighborhood surrounding Lord’s Market.

It was an area that belonged to no one, where petty landlords ruled like tyrants. The ABB didn’t bother because the place was piss-poor; there was no point in trying to squeeze water from a stone. The heroes didn’t come around either because they were short-staffed as it was. The Boardwalk, business districts, Arcadia, BBU, and the more active borders between ABB and Empire all took precedence.

That left these few blocks as one of the truly multicultural areas of the city. Blacks, Jews, Hispanics, whites, and the “not quite Asian enough” Asians gathered here, pushed out of both Empire and ABB areas. They were united not by culture, but by bitterness, spite, and borderline poverty.

I didn’t fit in. Not because Japanese people weren’t allowed here, but because I lacked what a friend called the “ghetto swag.” And he was right. I didn’t grow up looking up to street toughs as a form of security. I didn’t remind myself where my pocketknife was whenever a stranger approached me. Brockton Bay was a very different beast than I was used to.

Dad, Kosuke “Kevin” Yukawa, was a partner and HVAC engineer at a small architecture firm in Boston. We were reasonably well-off, enough that mom could be a homemaker and I could study whatever I wanted in college. Not enough that dad didn’t pressure me to go to law school. 

I arrived. The gym was a run-down building, the kind that claimed mold was “character.” There used to be a big sign out front, but some of the letters had fallen off. No one bothered to replace them, instead taping a posterboard that featured the gym’s name and a poorly drawn pair of boxing gloves on the window.

The first thing I saw when I arrived was a man, maybe four years my senior, pounding a heavy bag. Another two high school boys sparred as a middle-aged man shouted tips from ringside.

There was no heating here, the March chill left to fill the gym. It was the kind of place where “Cold? Work harder then, scrub,” was valid life advice. No mats, either, except a small corner and the ring itself. The rest of the gym was cold, hard cement.

I took a seat in a small waiting area, really just a bench, and watched. Soon, I was approached by a man in his forties. He had on a wifebeater and sweatpants. He had a bit of a beer belly that came with age, but his arms were still as thick as my head.

He needed no introductions. This was James Laborn, owner of the gym and father of Brian and Aisha. If the way he walked like he owned the place wasn’t a big enough clue, the photo of him on the wall with a shelf of medals certainly sufficed.

“What’re you here for, kid?” he asked without preamble.

“Boxing lessons, boss. I’m Jonathan Yukawa. We talked on the phone yesterday,” I said, holding out a hand. I tried not to wince when he squeezed like he wanted to break bones.

“So we did. You’re that college kid.”

“That’s me.”

“You ever box before?”

“Nope.”

“Why here? There’s gotta be another gym closer.”

I wasn’t about to tell him that I read about his children in a past life. Nor did I want to mention Brian’s go as a career supervillain. And the less I showed interest in his thirteen year old daughter, the better.

Instead, I gestured to the building. “Not like this, boss,” I began. “The university has a gym for students, but this place feels more… real. Does that make sense?”

“No, it fucking doesn’t. It’s a gym. Weights, bags, gloves. They’re all you need. You can do this anywhere,” he said, spitting on the cement ground.

“Not without a teacher. I figure boxing’s the kind of hobby you don’t really pick up unless you’ve got someone to kick your ass.”

“Is that right? You’re not the type that usually shows up here.”

“I’m not,” I agreed. “At first, I started running laps, but that got boring. I wanted to try something new.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he grunted. He eyed me like I was one of those little puppies with more bark than sense. “You gonna be the kind who pussies out on me? If you are, walk out and save us both some time.”

“No, I’m not. I stick to something once I’ve begun.”

“We’ll see. Welcome aboard, kid. You get the first day free, see how we do things here. If you’re still conscious and want to do it again, you can pay for a month at the end of today.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Good, like that energy,” he said, slapping my back like he wanted me to stop choking on something. He turned to one of the other men about his age. “Samuel! Get the new kid started!”

That was how the most exhausting workout of my life began.

Samuel turned out to be a Samoan dude, utterly massive and about as movable as a brick wall. He led me through stretches and had me jumping rope. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but the high-intensity conditioning exercises that followed destroyed what shred of self-confidence I arrived with. I didn’t even get to touch gloves until I was a sweaty mess on the cement floor.

After he’d thoroughly broken me down, he taught me how and why boxers taped their hands. He demonstrated different punches and footwork. And when we finished, he scrawled an address on a slip of paper. I could rent gloves and a helmet from the gym, but I’d have to find my own mouthguard before I got to the sparring phase.

James didn’t exactly seem impressed with me, but he did agree that I’d kept up. That was good enough for him. I ended up signing up for a month. 

‘That was educational,’ Atem said in my mind as we left.

‘How so? You’ve never seen a boxing gym before?’

‘Yugi had other interests.’

I let out a quiet snort at that. Yugi was many things, but no one ever called him athletic. ‘Fair point. What’d you think?’

‘The gym reminds me of how my soldiers trained.’

‘Ancient Egyptian soldiers boxed?’

‘Not quite, but wrestling was considered an important part of training and strikes were encouraged.’

‘So something like pankration, then.’

‘Yes, that’s a fair assessment.’

 ‘More importantly, did my ba increase?’ That was the real question.

‘My friend, look over there,’ Atem gestured. I turned to find a flowerpot next to a windowsill. ‘Do you see that flower growing?’

‘I see it.’

“No, you can see it. But can you see it growing?’

‘Like, putting on inches? That’s too slow to–Oh, I get it.’

‘Quite. Be patient. It will grow in time.’

I grabbed three tacos from a food truck before heading back. It wasn’t much of a lunch, but I needed to make it to class on time.

My only class of the day was a lecture series, On the Use of Propaganda Throughout History. It was usually the sort of thing that kept me awake because the professor was interesting. Today, I found myself a corner of the class and conked right the fuck out.

I was startled awake by a bony elbow digging into my shoulder. With bleary eyes, I gazed up at one of my few friends, Anne. She was a cute redhead with fiery, orange hair and a prominent constellation of freckles that cut across the bridge of her nose. She grabbed me by my jacket and began tugging me insistently to my feet.

“Pretend you were awake the whole time before the professor notices you,” she urged.

I glanced towards the front of the class. Our professor was busy talking to two other students. I let out a lazy yawn. “I’m good, Anne. Thanks.”

“Long night? You’re usually awake in class.”

“Long night, stressful morning.”

“Oof, I feel that.”

“You?” I gave her a skeptical side-eye.

“Hey, I have hidden depths, I’ll have you know,” she squawked with mock offense.

“Of course, how could I have been so blind,” I drawled, eyes doing somersaults. 

“Good, you can make it up to me with a drink at Cory’s,” she chirped. Cory’s was a cafe near campus, popular with hipsters who liked exposed brick and flannels.

“You hate coffee.”

She said it was too bitter. I knew that because we’d gone out on a handful of dates back in freshman year, when I pretended I had a much higher tolerance for socialization. She was a fan of sugary drinks and pretended to like wine but couldn’t hold her liquor to save her life.

Shortly after orientation, when I was still pretending I was gearing up for pre-law, we’d been sorted into the same broad friend circle. Unlike me, she was serious about law school, something about following in her daddy’s footsteps.

“They have hot chocolate.”

“So they do.”

“Come on, Jon,” she whined. “We haven’t chatted in a while. I want to know what you’ve been up to.”

“As you please, Anne,” I said, as I allowed the hyper-extrovert to drag me along. Her energy brought a small smile to my face.

This was why we hadn’t worked out. Well, this and the wine thing. I’d held her hair up while she puked into a toilet before and I wasn’t a fan of people who pretended to like something for social reasons, especially alcohol.

We went on a few dates, and enjoyed ourselves for the most part, but Anne was the kind of girl who had to be the life of the party. She was great to hang out with in short bursts, but she had a much bigger social battery than I did and I found her constant companionship to be mentally draining.

That said, she wasn’t a bad person. A gossip, certainly. She was the kind of girl who knew exactly who was dating who and which athlete got busted for steroids. It was never truly malicious, rather born out of a near-obsessive curiosity for people that I simply lacked.

We settled into the cafe. Despite her ribbing, she bought her own hot chocolate. Jokes aside, she wasn’t the kind of person who was eager to spend other people’s money.

Catching up with her was… nice… Spending it with the department’s resident gossip and plugging myself back into the rumor mill was objectively a waste of time, but I found that I didn’t mind so much. It wasn’t as if I had other plans in the afternoon.

Bidding her goodbye, I headed home for an early dinner. Three tacos and a cup of hot chocolate wasn’t enough for me so I heated up some leftover rice in the communal kitchen. Two fried eggs and a spoonful of sesame oil and soy sauce each would have to do. I then promptly went to sleep at five in the evening so I could wake up in the middle of the night.

X

That night, I found myself back in the abandoned shipping garage. The Millennium Puzzle was shining around my neck. I’d already begun to think of it as the core of my cape costume, not that I had a costume at all.

‘Which monster will you summon tonight?’ Atem asked. He’d been thankfully quiet for most of the day, content to remain a silent observer.

‘How about The Furious Sea King? I have enough ba for that, right?’

‘More than enough. You were exhausted because opening a pack is quite costly.’

‘Nice, good to know.’

I focused and pulled on the tether. The card appeared in my hand. I read the text. ‘Say, Atem? The Furious Sea King can’t literally summon tidal waves, right?

‘Not without a great deal of help,’ the pharaoh said dryly.

‘Then why does it say that?’

‘If your president launches nuclear weapons, is he as mighty as a nuclear weapon?’

‘No, but that’s–You know what? That’s a fair point, even if Scion destroyed all the nukes on Earth-Bet.’

‘Truly?’

‘Yup. The Cold War played out much differently on Earth-Bet than it did on either of our worlds. How serious is the “king” title here? Isn’t there an “Ocean Dragon Lord – Neo Daedalus” somewhere?’

‘Duel monsters are drawn from many realms. Moreover, the monarch of one species or group of species may not claim dominance over all creatures beneath the waves. A creature as mighty as Neo Daedalus would be a worthy foe even for my Dark Magician.’

‘Ah, true enough. Well, here I go.’

I concentrated on the card that represented our contract. My ba rushed into the connection, reinforcing it until I felt the monster answer. I imagined placing the card in “attack mode,” though without the cringey shonen callout this time.

The Furious Sea King answered. He appeared from a whirlpool, the swirling currents forming a portal to somewhere. He was a tall, gangly creature that stood roughly six feet. His body was covered in tiny, aquamarine  scales that shimmered against the flashlight. Lidless yellow eyes gazed out from a reptilian face, awaiting my orders.

“Helllo, Sea King,” I greeted politely. King, however ambitious the title may be compared to some monsters I knew were out there, implied a certain degree of autonomy and intelligence. “Welcome to the mortal plane.”

He inclined his head. Opening his mouth, he let out a sound that was halfway between a rumble and a chirp. Maybe because he wasn’t powerful enough, or simply because he lacked the specific brand of magic required, but I could not understand him.

That was okay; I hadn’t summoned him for conversation. Instead, I was far more interested in the trident in his hand. If I took the trident, and dismissed him back into my soul, could I use it independently? After all, some monsters had equipment that had been printed as separate spells or trap cards. 

Now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure Dark Magician had his staff that became a monster independent of the mage. And I vaguely recalled an archetype based on the Arthurian mythos, with knights who could be equipped with different legendary swords. So theoretically, taking my monster’s weapon to better protect myself should have been possible.

As it turned out, “should be possible,” was very different from actually doing it. The Furious Sea King did not attack me when I proposed the idea, but it was a near thing. He bared his fangs and let out an ominous rumble that reminded me of storms on the horizon. 

From what little I could understand through our bond, the trident meant a great deal to him. In essence, I figured that I’d asked him to relinquish his sign of office, kind of like asking the Queen of England for the Crown Jewels. Whether possible or not wasn’t the right question; it just wasn’t done.

I instead spent the next hour watching him demonstrate his spearmanship. Water swirled around him, either crashing with force at about waist-height to displace nearby foes or lashing up in thin, whiplike ribbons to lacerate targets at mid-range. Coupled with his spinning trident, he made for an impressive combatant, though I wouldn’t bet on him over any of the real powerhouses in the city.

My next task was to separate myself from my monster. Atem said that monsters manifested into the material plane through the ba of sorcerers. This connection was a metaphysical one, but once the monsters became part of this physical reality, the connection also took on a physical component as well.

Which was to say, distance mattered. I wouldn’t be able to send hit squads of monsters to hunt the Slaughterhouse while I grabbed a beer at a pub near campus or something. At least, not until I was far, far stronger.

Right now, my maximum distance from The Furious Sea King was less than a city block. Any further than that and I could feel the tether begin to strain and fray. If I really had to, I probably could force a few extra steps to round a corner, but that was all.

‘Atem, what happens if the tether snaps?’ I asked as I walked back towards the shipping garage.

‘The monster is forcibly dispelled. It is your ba that keeps him here. No ba, no monster,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I do not recommend it. It is not a pleasant feeling, and the ba you lose is not returned to you.’

‘So a waste of energy, got it. And if a monster dies?’

‘You lose the ba required to keep them here, same as if the connection were to snap. You know what being out of spiritual energy feels like already.’

‘Yeah, not fun. I’d be completely helpless in a fight.’

‘Indeed. There is a reason sorcerers were often assisted by soldiers.’

‘Noted. Hey, do you think Kagemusha of the Blue Flame would be willing to lend me his sword?’

‘You can ask, but I doubt this will be the case. He is a retainer of Shien, the great shogun of the Six Samurai.’

‘Wait, really?’ I asked. The text did say that he was a double for the “Ruler of the Blue Flame,” but I hadn’t known who it was referring to. ‘So he’s a really skilled swordsman, and isn’t likely to part with his sword.’

‘Quite. You will have to equip yourself some other way, my friend. Besides, do you know how to use a sword?’

‘Ah… Does kendo count? I took classes until fifth grade.’

‘I suspect not,’ he said dryly. ‘I saw what passed for martial arts in the modern age. There was much performance involved, but little meant for truly martial pursuits.’

Atem was, as usual, correct. Kagemusha, or “shadow warrior,” was not eager to relinquish his sword to me. He did offer to give me pointers if I ever found a weapon of my own, though.

Still, I considered tonight’s practice a productive session. I had three monsters in my soul and Umi and Trap Hole prepared. I’d yet to use either spell or trap, but I’d get around to it eventually. For now, I was far too tired to test such things.

Author’s Note

Brian is seventeen as of 2011. Aisha is thirteen. I know people give Brian shit for having the WIS stat of a rock, but he really is just a kid. I find it funny that he gets so much flak when Aisha is constantly treated with kid gloves by fanon.

Brian’s dad has no name so I named him James. He’s described as a hard man, the kind who doesn’t know how to raise a daughter. Given his way of “raising a son” began and ended with teaching Brian boxing, I’m not sure he knew how to do that, either. Tough love is the only love language he speaks; hope I did that justice here.

Animal Fact: Turkeys are dickheads. I mean that very literally. Okay, you know that red stuff around a turkey’s face? They’ve got names.

The red, bulbous bumps are called carbuncles and can be located all over the head and neck. The floppy scrotum-looking part beneath its beak is called the wattle. Then there’s the fleshy flap just above the beak. That has a special name, the snood.

Toms and hens both have snoods, and snoods are a grayish blue when relaxed. Toms have much larger snoods than hens. This is for courtship purposes.

During mating season, or when a tom is excited, the snood lengthens and grows, sometimes as long as five or six inches. They can get so long that they hang far past the tom’s beak. They also fill with blood, turning bright red. And yes, they can get erect.

You may leave knowing that, like you, turkeys are growers, not showers.