The clang of rusty weights echoed through the musty gym like war drums in a dead land. The heat was unbearable—Adelaide's dry air offered no mercy. Wang sat on a creaky bench, his cybernetic arm twitching slightly as he wrapped a towel around the soaked back of his neck.
Rocky loomed nearby, arms crossed over his barrel chest. His tank top was stained with sweat and the faded words "FUCK YEAH" stretched tight across his pecs like some kind of sarcastic war banner.
"Alright, chrome-boy," Rocky grunted, tossing a set of battered dumbbells onto the mat. "Ten kilo curls. No swingin'. No cheatin'. I see your back arch, I break it."
Wang picked up the weights, one arm trembling slightly, the other—his newly installed robotic one—smooth as silk. He cranked out ten, then fifteen, then thirty.
Rocky watched with dead eyes.
"Switch. Shoulders now. Then squats. Then fuckin' burpees till you see stars."
For the next half hour, Wang was bounced between drills like a prisoner's sock in a laundry dryer. Weighted squats, rope slams, planks that made his stomach knot. His lungs burned, legs wobbled, and the floor below him looked more appealing with each passing minute.
Still, he gritted his teeth and kept going.
Finally, as he dropped the weights, soaked in sweat and panting like a dog, Wang laughed and leaned back against the wall.
"Thought you were gonna kill me. Turns out, I'm tougher than I look."
Rocky didn't laugh. His eyes slid toward the far ring.
"You wanna spar?" he asked, already moving.
Wang blinked. "Wait, what? Now?"
"Don't worry." Rocky stepped into the ring, cracked his neck, and—casually—tied one arm behind his back. "I'll make it fair."
"You serious?"
Rocky's lip twitched. "You got a fuckin' robot arm. I figure one arm each is even."
A few gym rats turned their heads, snorting and whispering.
"New guy's gonna get fucked up."
"Rocky with one arm is still Rocky."
Wang climbed into the ring. The mat stank of old blood and cheap disinfectant. He bounced on the balls of his feet, cyber-arm twitching with anticipation.
"Alright," he said, raising his fists. "Don't cry when I dent that ugly mug of yours."
Rocky didn't respond. He just walked forward—one arm slack behind him, the other clenched and low.
Wang lunged. His cyber fist lashed out in a clean jab.
Whiff.
Rocky tilted his head. Wang's knuckles cut air.
Wang snarled, twisted his hips, and threw a heavier cross. His robot arm hissed through the air.
CLANG.
It slammed into Rocky's forearm. The impact sounded solid—but Rocky didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
"The fuck—?" Wang muttered, stepping back.
Rocky came forward, footwork clean and terrifyingly fast for a man built like a diesel engine. Wang didn't even have time to raise his guard before Rocky ducked low, pivoted, and—
CRACK.
A left hook. Fast as lightning. It connected clean with Wang's jaw.
His head snapped sideways. He heard a loud ringing. The mat buckled beneath him. The room tilted, warped, then spun out of control.
He dropped.
The last thing he saw was the flickering ceiling light melting into darkness.
***
He didn't know how long he was out. Could've been a minute. Could've been ten. The moment Wang's eyes cracked open, all he saw was Rocky's sweaty scowl staring down at him like a disappointed father.
"Out cold," Rocky muttered. "Fucking predictable."
Wang groaned, blinking stars from his vision. "Did you… Did you punch me with the arm you tied back?"
"Nope."
Wang squinted. "What the fuck was that, then?"
"Footwork," Rocky said, helping him sit up. "You telegraphed every move like you were fuckin' waving a flag."
Wang rubbed his jaw. It throbbed like a bastard.
"Thought the arm gave me the edge…"
Rocky laughed—a low, gravelly chuckle that sounded more like a threat than a joke.
"Kid, that arm's just metal. It ain't magic. Muscle memory, reflexes, timing—that's what wins fights. Your tech's dead weight until your brain knows how to use it."
Wang spat onto the mat. A small smear of red. "Fuck…"
Rocky stood, walking back toward the weights.
"You wanna survive in that arena? You gotta learn to move like a killer. Think like one. No more pretty-boy swings. You're not dancing. You're breaking people."
Wang sat there, wiped his bloody mouth, and stared up at the lights.
"…Again," he said.
Rocky paused, one eyebrow raised.
"What?"
"Let's go again," Wang said, pushing himself up on wobbly legs. "No knockouts this time. Just teach me."
A beat passed. Rocky's mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile.
"Alright, chrome-boy," he muttered. "Let's start with footwork. And don't bitch when you're eating mat again."
Q: Do you workout?