Andaeros Dawnflare

It was something I’d always been able to do, instinctively, but it’s something I also cultivated.

Imperceptible movements: lip twitches, eyebrow raises, the tightening of the jaw, the flicker of an eye. I could see them and I could understand them.

Artennis, under the best circumstances, had never been a good liar, despite the fact he had a penchant for cheating. He was always better at charming his way out of being caught.

The card slid out from his hand and he set it on table face down, “A lil’ secret b’tween you an’ me.”

His face was a roadmap of deceit, with all the landmarks pinned and a dotted red line leading the way to an X.

I couldn’t help but smirk, “Pass your turn?”

Artennis’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, appraising me with the slight snarl of a growing bad taste in his mouth, “… Aye, mate.”

The crowd roared from outside our room, barely muffled by the poor construction and the cavernous acoustics of the shoddy warehouse.

I drew a card from my deck. I wasn’t much of a hearthstone player, but I’d been learning in the idle hours, with spare cards gifted to me by my… “friends” in Blastcap’s cartel.

“I gain a mana crystal,” I took one of the copper coins we’d been using as mana crystals, in lieu of actually having a hearthstone board to play on, “And I attack you with my murloc for two damage. So, unless that’s an ice block…”

I trailed off and slowly slid the card along the table with a finger, pushing it towards his empty field. My eyes met with his, my eyebrow raising slowly in an unspoken question of his defeat.

Artennis met my gaze with his usual electric, almost feral intensity, still narrowed, but now in defiance. His resolve wavered as mine remained, and he snarled enough to show teeth as he slammed his cards down on the table, “Bah! Arse-load o’ bollocks, this game is. Th’game’s for gits, mate, why don’t we play poker?”

I snorted and swept up the silvers in the middle of the table, condensing them into a medium pile with the other small pile I’d had, “Because you’re worse at poker than you are at Hearthstone. Fate deals you bad hands, in games and in life, like how she gave you that face.”

He picked up one of the copper mana crystals and flicked it towards my face, and we both laughed as it bounced off my forehead, “Better this mug than your chicken legs, mate. You’re like an artist got bored o’ drawin’ torso an’ drew stick figure legs ta finish fings up.”

I chuckled, eyes glancing from him to the neat stacks of copper and silver I was making,  “At least I’ve got some bulk on me. When you were in the ring, you looked like you were one of the animated brooms got sent in to sweep the floors before the match was over. Which is apt, because you did a lot of sweeping dust off the mat with that aforementioned petroglyph of a face.”

“Oi!” His finger came down onto a coin and he slid it into one of my towers of silver, knocking it over. He lifted it to point at me, “Says you, mate! You’ve been takin’ dives like a virgin sailor to a siren!”

There was a moment of silence, where his lips turned down and my eyebrows went up.

It wasn’t hard to read his expression, he let out a small, apologetic chuckle, “You, uh… You want a drink, mate?”

The crowd erupted in laughter at something happening in the ring. Whatever it was, it was certainly funny or it was certainly violent. The people who came here seemed to really love the “laughter” in slaughter.

I nodded, and returned a smile, in acceptance. He never did say sorry, but that was pretty close to it, “Sure. Nothing wrong with a nip of whiskey for courage.”

He moved over to one of the tables, where a haphazard colony of half-full bottles of varying qualities of liquor were set. There were a handful of mugs and glasses there, and Artennis took one of each to pour something amber into them.

He was right, though. I had been taking dives. It wasn’t something I was proud of.

But, I had to. For him.

He had gotten in deep with Blazzil Blastcap, and this was his only way out. I had been fighting for him, taking dives, beating people to a pulp, giving my purses to him, to pay his way out, and if I had to get bloody and bruised to keep him alive, it’d be less than what he’d given up to save me when we were back in the Second War.

Tonight, though. Tonight was it. Tonight’s winning would be enough to get him out, with interest. I was going to win. I had to.

Blazzil was a mobster. A cartel man. But, underneath the gauche opulence, flamboyance, and the narcissism, there was something cold and eldritch, that operated under some perverse, arcane set of rules. I could see it in his eyes.

Which was why I knew if I didn’t meet his terms, there would be a reckoning. I could see it in his teeth.

“I, uh.” His voice sounded off, like it was shaped by that frown his lips had fallen into before he’d gone for the drinks, “You’re a good mate, Andy. Always ‘ad my back, even when I buggered up. It’s… what I am. I’m a screw-up.”

He took a breath, a full-shouldered breath that brought them up and down in a sigh, as if he were gathering up the courage to turn back around to face me.

I’d never really seen this Artennis. I’d never seen the Artennis with his hat in his hands and his eyes to the floor. It wasn’t a good look.

He sat down across from me and he hesitated, eyes on the drinks he held, before he slid the mug to me, “Always ‘ave been, always will be. You deserve a better mate, Andy.”

I took the mug and frowned at him, “Don’t say that, Art. C’mon.”

Artennis smirked mirthlessly, and looked up at me, “Ya didn’ say it wasn’t true. An’ y’shouldn’t, mate. I jus’… wanted ta send ya off ta batt’ll wif’ an apology.”

He lifted his glass, his eyes watering slightly, his voice shaking more than his hand, “I’m sorry, mate. Fer this, fer everyfing.”

Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

I felt a pang for him, and I lifted my mug to his glass, to meet his toast with reassurance, “I can’t accept an apology you don’t need to give me, Art. You’ve saved my life, only fair I save yours, right?”

We both downed our drinks, and sat in a moment of silence.

He shook his head, eyes averted as the door opened, “Doc Stitch” gliding in as he always did, an ethereal slip of a corpse in slightly bloodied white finery. He was humming something grand and upbeat, something that would have been heard in a concert hall. Something that lost some of its class in a place like this.

He dipped his hands in a small basin, near a tray of surgeon’s tools, letting the blood on his clawed-fingers drift off them in wisps in the water, speaking to himself in that distinctly melodious received pronunciation that hinted at some gentrified upbringing, “Sadly nothing to be done, I’m a doctor, not an undertaker.”

He seemed delighted, as usual, and he leveled smile at me that seemed entirely disconnected from anything well-meaning, “I do believe you should head out to wait in the wings, Mister Dawnflare! The eleventh hour! Your final fight! The triumph of the hero over the villain!”

He glided from the basin to his desk, humming with laughter, to idly open a textbook to pour over. The desk was a thing of aged mahogany that looked more at home in a lord’s study than the backroom of a warehouse in the desert. He spoke, again, more to himself than to me, “It’s all so exciting. Very exciting, yes.”

I stood, and took a moment to stand beside Artennis, who still hadn’t looked up from his empty glass. I clapped my hand on his shoulder, “It’ll be alright, Art. This’ll be a hell of a story later, eh?’”

He huffed out a single chuckle, “Aye. Good luck, Andy.”

I tapped my fist against the side of his head, “Don’t need luck, Art. Never have.”

Outside the small room, the sound that had once been muffled came into thunderous clarity, and people were piling back into their seats after some last-minute betting. I was the underdog in the fight, but I wasn’t hopeless to win, either. Apparently. The tinny, squealing whine of the goblin microphone echoed above even the raucous crowd.

There was a thud and another whine as the microphone had been unceremoniously dropped atop the referee’s head, “Fockin’ watch it, ya boz—” The man snatched the thing and brought it up to his reflective, gold-and-silver chessboard grill, “OH MY GODS, WHAT A FOCKIN’ FINISH! WHO KNEW TROLL EYES COULD REGENERATE DAT FAST, EH, GENTLE-GALS AN’ GUYS?!”

There was another round of laughter as the referee sneered slightly and shook a glossy shoe out and stepped out of a smear of blood that couldn’t be cleaned, “BUT, WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE HERE FOR! YOU’RE HERE FOR SOME REAL… NO HOLDS BARRED… FULL-CONTACT… FULL-FAT… MOM-AN’-POP’S CLASSIC HOME-STYLE BRAWLIN’!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, and above me, they stomped their feet in the bleaches. The walls shook. The lights were brighter. The air was electric.

“WE HAVE FAH YOUSE THE TWO TOUGHEST, TENACIOUS, TITTILATIN’, TWO-FISTED TUSSLE-TERRORS THAT HAVE PUNCHED AND KICKED AND CLAWED THEIR WAY TA THE TIPPY-TOP O’ THESE BRACKETS!”

The goblin gestured, to the corner opposite me, “IN THIS CORNAH, WEIGHIN’ IN AT FIVE-HUNDRED-AN’-FIFTY-EIGHT POUNDS OF KILLER KUNG FU AND IRON MUSCLE, STANDIN’ AT SEVEN FEET, SEVEN INCHES TALL, ALL DA WAY FROM KUN-LAI SUMMIT, PANDARIA! sh—ji—JIANG-SUUUUUNG SHATTAHSTRIKE, MASTER OF THE CRATER-FIST TECHNIQUE!”

The Pandaren that stepped into the stage didn’t have the same look as the other fighters that I’d fought. I had seen him fight here, before, on some of the off-nights. He was a younger man in a simple uniform with a Pandaren symbol I didn’t know. What I did know was, he wasn’t here for money, or for recognition. It was evident in the way he carried himself, the way he moved with decisive purpose, and the way he never bristled with the crowd or the referee, or even with his previous victories.

It was a stone-cold resolve to test himself and his skill and it was that same stone-cold resolve that stared me down from his corner.

The crowd’s cheers were thunderous, and it was hard to tune them out as I had so many times before.

“AND IN DIS CORNAH, WE GOTS A CROWD FAVORITE! WEIGHIN’ IN AT TWO-BUCKS-TEN, STANDIN’ AT SIX FEET, THREE INCHES TALL! THE BOYS WANNA DRINK WIT’ ‘IM, THE LADIES WANNA DRINK ‘IM IN! THE SPELLBREAKAH, THE NOSE-BREKAH, THE CONTENDAH! ANNNNNNDAEROS… DAAAAAWN-FAH-LAAAAARE!”

I took to the ring with little showmanship, only limbering myself up with a bit of shadow-boxing while my opponent stood in a stern ready-stance.

I was faster than him, I had a few hundred years on him in combat experience, and I think I had the edge on him in motivation, because I wasn’t going to lose.

As much as I didn’t enjoy the “good” “doctor” and our interactions, he was right. I had the better story to tell.

That had to count for something, didn’t it?

The referee beckoned both of us to the center of the ring, idly smoothing down his velvet, violet suit with his free hand, “NOW, GENTLEMEN. YOU BOT’ KNOW DA RULES. YA BOT’ GO UNTIL YA AIN’T GOT NO “GO” LEFT!”

He nodded to me, “YOUSE READY?!”

I nodded.

He nodded to Jiang-Sung, “YOUSE READY?!”

He nodded.

“LET’S GETS IT ON, BOYS!”

The bell rang, and the mic flew up, yanked by operators in the rafters of the warehouse while the ref made a not-so-graceful dive below the lowest rope.

My hands went up, as did the heels of my feet, as I shuffled in place.

His hands went up as well, balled into mallet-sized fists, and his foot slid back into a pivot, somewhat narrowing his prolific Pandaren profile.

I shuffled in. I threw a jab.

Just a quick “hello” to start off our conversation.

He seemed to parry it, almost by instinct, and suddenly, my nose was on fire. His hand had pushed mine to one side and fired back a swift back-handed punch to my nose too fast for me to keep track of.

I hadn’t remembered him being that fast.

He had reacted, and he fell back into his readied stance, his eyes still ferociously disciplined, barely a bristle of fur on his neck, a nostril flared, his breath steady, his pupils constricting in the light. He felt like he was in control.

I needed to rob him of that feeling. I needed to make him feel uncomfortable in this fight. I needed to do something to knock him off-balance, and if not physically, then psychologically.

It was the essence of counterpunching, luring people into mistakes, taking advantage of the off-beats of a fight. It was what he was doing.

He wasn’t in it for glory, or for recognition. He wanted to fight. He wanted to test himself against a proper fighter, someone fighting for something other than money, other than glory.

And if I knew him, he probably knew me.

So I decided maybe I should be Artennis.

I threw a jab, another jab, a straight. I shuffled in, and in, and in. Which made him step back, and back, falling back into that ready-stance, again.

And when he did, I threw my hands down and let my shoulders slump, turning to the crowd. I jerked my thumb behind me and shook my knees, I pretended to be frightened.

It got some laughs.

Jiang-Sung was not amused, and rather than strike me from behind, he reached his hand to my shoulder to grip it, ready to turn me around.

He wasn’t ready, however, for my forehead.

The hardest part of my skull hit the softest part of his face, slammed into the cartilage of his nose, and he staggered back, clutching it and wriggling it.

I reeled my head back with dizzy laughter, shaking my head clear of the fog that even a good headbutt gives you, and I gestured from my nose to his, visibly, as if it were tit-for-tat. And the crowd seemed to enjoy that to.

He growled with frustration and fell into his ready stance, and I shuffled forward with my guard down, offering my jaw with a pointed finger, “That wash unfair, c’mon. Free shot.”

Jiang-Sung swiped an open-handed strike at me, meant more as a swat or a jab than a serious strike, and I leant back with a laugh, holding my fingers up close together for the crowd to see. For the crowd to laugh at, again.

I leant forward again.

He swiped upwards at my chin, again, irritation evident on his face, and I pulled bac— He hadn’t been this fast, before, I could’ve sworn.

I stumbled back, as that swipe knocked me off balance and I had to shake my head clear of a daze.

I could’ve sworn I could take a hit better than that, too.

I leveled my gaze at him, and his eyebrow raised in curiosity. He clearly thought I could, as well. The pressure on his back foot softened, his front hand lowered slightly. It wasn’t what I was going for, but I’ll take a lapse in form where I can get them.

I threw myself forward, leapt at him with my guard up and threw a fast hook where that arm had been guarding, and it connected with his jaw. I pressed forward with another hook, trying to hammer in that same spot, compounding that momentum and that damage, and I hit again.

He brought up his hand to guard against a third hit, and when my hand me the bulk of his arm, his back hand came up in an uppercut towards my chin.

It was where I figured he’d go.

I pulled my head back, leaning backwards with my upp—

His fist hit my jaw in a glancing blow, and I staggered back, and back more, until I toppled over, falling to the mat.

I scrambled to my feet, only to find my knees wobbling., and then to find myself on my back, again, my eyes suddenly heavy, the edges of my vision white and sparkling.

The deafening roar of the crowd became muffled, it lulled into a distant fuzz. I think they cheered.

I’d been knocked out before…

But this… was… different…

That whiteness slowly faded into darkness, and the voice of my thoughts gave way to a different voice.

“I’m sorry, mate. Fer this, fer everyfing.”

“…Fer this, fer everthing.”

“…Fer this…”

Art…?