Fear of Dreaming

By Ashwin Sunder

Meet Casimir "Miro" Silva. A seventeen year old orphan, Miro spends his days training as a mixed martial artist, and his nights dreaming of becoming a world champion. Pushing himself to the limits in training while scraping by on a meager income, his life is consumed by his obsession. Just months away from the biggest fight of his career, he now must face the single toughest opponent anyone has ever met inside a cage - an opponent that has turned his ambitious dreams to recurring nightmares.
Looming large before him is the question of his origin. Miro knows next to nothing about the circumstances of his birth. Can he track down clues long lost in the fog of history? The defining fight of his career dominates every second of his day, yet he finds himself increasingly obsessed and distracted from his training by a quest for the truth about himself. A truth that he must unearth before it destroys him. Who is he?
Set in the year 2045, the tale is a blunt portrayal of a dystopian future where drug-addled brains must cope with increasingly muddles realities. In this world, the question isn't whether one's dreams are worth dreaming. The question is, how does one cope when the day's dreams become nightly terrors?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashwin Sunder
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370121526

Ashwin Sunder

Ashwin Sunder was born and raised in India. His father is a military medic and his mother is a maths teacher. He came to the US to study, and obtained a Masters from Washington University and an MBA from Carnegie Mellon. Along the way he toyed with becoming a wilderness paramedic or a forest ranger before eventually settling on a career in technology. He has worked for some of the most iconic firms in the world, including Apple and Google. In his spare time he trains jiu jitsu and muay thai, unicycles, juggles, travels, and is currently trying to learn his sixth language. Ashwin resides in Northern California with his family.

Book preview

MIRO

—

A CIRCLE OF LIGHT opened. White incomprehension from a prior dark. Jerky images in dazzling colors gelled into motion. Like an old videotape negative dunked in photographic emulsion, the reel playing out while it still developed. Sound faded in. The clamor of a crowd. A few urgent voices straining to be heard above the din. Finally, the gathered elements staggered towards meaning in his head.

Miro, get up!

He was laid out flat.

Get up! Up! Up! Don’t be laying there, sonofabitch. Watch the elbow!

A tenacious red spark of consciousness flickered inside an otherwise calm head. Then a hammer fist thudded into the side of his shaved skull and made it bounce. Urgent demands ensued within for action and answers. Action first, of course. His gloved fists clenched up over his face. Next, his knees came up to shield his midsection. Lastly, he tried to move. Problem was, his head was pinned down tight, ear against canvas.

Up, up, up, up, up! Miro, get your ass up NOW!

Answers then. What, Who, How. Oh yeah, The Fight. With that man. The one holding him down and moving in slow motion, or so it seemed. His face contorted in a grimace as he swung his shoulder down to put all into the tip of a slicing elbow. It didn’t hurt, at least for now, but this one felt different. Sharp. And warm. Shit. Now he was definitely cut, and soon he’d spout a gusher.

More answers came rushing in all at once. Friday night at the Red Rock Waterfront Convention Center, late in the second round, one more to go. The fight mostly even until this shit had happened. All that was clear.

Miro, fuckin’ MOVE Godammit!

How long had he lain there? If his corners still barked at him like mad dogs then the fight was on. Nobody had noticed the lights flicker and go out momentarily for a brief instant. Better act fast like he was fine, or at least fake it.

Relax babe, she whispered. Someone. A girl. Well, hello. Who was that now? The voice clear yet distant.

With blurry eyes he scanned for her. All he saw were the ref’s black shoes shuffling along in a frantic triple step, circling the action like a satellite to a binary star system. The threadwork detail on those handsewn Moccasins looked pretty stylish up close. On a different night, in a different light, he might have liked to admire them some more, but the next fist was heading towards his face and the dancing ref threatened to find a suitable instant at which to lunge forward and end the night with a protective embrace. An embrace whose memory would agonize just whom it had sought to protect. Far worse than and long after all the bruises had healed.

It’s okay Miro, she said again, her voice rich with a trippy reverb.

Did she know he’d been out cold? He wished he could see who it was. Suddenly, her voice felt more important that the fight, but that couldn’t be and he told himself so.

His vision hadn’t yet improved to see much farther than the man’s swinging torso, or maybe the blood was messing up his focal planes. That warm salt taste seeping into his mouth. His tongue automatically sampled the serum and reassuringly tagged it as his own. Something else was familiar - the cold mesh pressing on his right shoulder. The steel fence of the cage. The memory of countless drills took over... stiff arm his head away. Plant the other elbow on the ground and prop yourself up. Press your back against the cage. Begin to walk up the wall to a standing position.

It was clear to anyone that he would eat unanswered a few more blows on the way up as he fought to break free from the immense weight holding him down. It had to be endured if he wanted to survive, to turn things around, and to make him pay.

Any fight between two men contained within a second one, obscured by the flying limbs and all the outward posturing. One that played out telepathically. A clash of opposing intents to see who could break the other’s will. With the mind beaten, the body automatically withered. You might be down in the fight but that was okay as long as you weren’t also losing the battle in your skull. And so Miro grimaced a bloody grin for his blurry opponent and got to work. Didn’t matter that he couldn’t see too well. This stuff, he would do with his eyes closed.

And Miro blinked and then he blinked again in surprise as he saw her. Across the cage and level with his head being held low by his opponent’s knee. The lush haired brunette framed in the crimson haze of his bloody gaze. A pleasant surprise from the usual row of entitled suits and self-important men hogging the front row seats. Smiling with her big eyes calm and indifferent to the chaos around her. Smiling? Why was this girl - was she his girl - smiling if he was taking such a beating? As if noticing the explanation demanded by his frantic eyes, she opened her delicious mouth to speak. Her lips moved slowly. The words came out silent, inaudible, and yet made it to the center of his awareness and stopped him in mid-track as he prepared a fist of his own for the opponent to eat.

Miro, calm down. It’s okay, babe. Relax, it’s okay.

The psychedelic flair had gone out from her voice. What remained though was still soft and soothing as a blanket of clouds. Nothing at all like the raucous screams of the veined necks bunched together in his corner. Trying to control the destiny of the fight from their stations outside it.

But wait, all of them had vanished too. Along with the guy raining blows, the ref, the bright lights and the dim faces of the crowd. All replaced by a blanket of inchoate grey and embryonic hums. Confusion abated and his struggling waned. Slowly, it came to him where he was. In the gym’s dim basement, confined to the Rest & Recovery pod. And the machine was talking to him.

Must’ve been some dream, huh babe!

His fists unclenched and he breathed out deep. The tension in his core dissipated and the sweat on his back felt instantly cold. He checked the faint reflection of his face on the plastic front panel. Nope, no blood anywhere.

You fell asleep here during the Rejuvenation routine. I let you snooze a bit. Figured you needed it. Tough morning on the mats?

In place of answering, he craned his neck up to look at himself through the clear shell that surrounded his frame like a snug silkworm cocoon. His arms and legs were being led in slow cycles of therapeutic motion by the limbs of the mechanized pod as it administered post-exercise physiotherapy. Giving him the appearance of a large insect with a glassy exoskeleton struggling to right itself. Beyond lay half a dozen more translucent pods just like his in the large windowless room, lined up neatly along the grey wall. Except for a couple, they were mostly empty, for the others at the gym had taken off after the AM class or were only now showing up.

Not to worry, babe. Let’s just do a few more cycles for recovery, she was saying.

The combined hum of dozens of motors, harmonic drives and limbic actuators all added up to a sound barely above silence. Gentle puffs of hospital-flavor air blew near his nose. He still had more sparring to do in the afternoon, which is why he was stuck in this dark and stinky contraption on a sunny Saturday.

Recovering.

He let his head drop back down and muttered inaudibly.

I’m sorry, did you say something Miro?

Nah.

Okay cool. Hey, I see that your arterial lactate is nearly back to baseline. Boy, you recover so fast… I like that. Like when we make love.

That last bit sounded like she’d paired it with a smile. Clearly, it aimed to elicit a response. He obliged with a polite grin.

Now that he was awake, she was apt to begin talking non-stop. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

CLIMBING THE BASEMENT STAIRS two steps at a time, Miro felt the buzzing grow more insistent in his shorts. His hands shoved into the pocket and pulled out his Heady. He laid the slender rims of his augmented reality headset over his eyes and wrapped its tendril over an ear. A notification light appeared on the periphery of his vision, and his genie spoke silently through the mastoid bone into his skull.

Miro, your next appointment is in one minute. It’s a video chat with...

I know Jeanne, I know, he muttered to quiet her.

Entering the locker room, he hoped by some chance it would be empty so he could take his call in there. No such luck. A long limbed, heavily tattooed man stood layering on his rashguard.

The man looked up and broke into a dependable huge grin at Miro’s approach. His eyes were bluish-grey, astonishingly light and clear, and set deep in an angular face. His hair was light blonde and cropped close to the skull, military style.

Hey-hey-hey, Miro. How you doing, kid?

Doing alright, Petar.

Petar sniffed the air with his nose.

Did you enjoy your time in the plastic coffin?

Always. They’re running a chocolate-apple flavor in there today.

To mask some stinky new active ingredient I bet. Glad I don’t have to do breathe that stuff no more. One good thing about my contract not getting renewed, I guess.

Really, you think that stuff is that bad for you?

Petar hesitated.

Well, you’ll probably be fine. You’re young. Can’t overclock the body for too many years though. That low grade stress catches up with you, you know.

I guess. Hey, been a few days since I saw you on the mats. Slacking off?

Yeah. Well, I got two little anklebiters to feed and bills to pay. Takes work. Not like your um... carefree teenage existence here.

Carefree teenage existence. Sure.

Yanking open his locker, Miro began pulling his stuff out. Gloves, wraps, tape, mouth guards, rash guards, groin guards.

You don’t agree? asked the man behind him. Come on, what do kids your age do all day. Vape some rad new blends and chill in simulated worlds, daytripping. Making sure nobody ever sees them doing anything useful, cuz that ain’t cool. Right?

Maybe. That’s not how my days go, you know that. Anyways, you got yourself a beautiful family, so you better work your ass off till it drops, old man.

He paused to sort through the pile on the floor for something decent and non-descript to wear besides training gear, and then continued.

Last time you brought in Anini, she ran circles outside the ring, telling everyone she’d be having ice cream afterwards.

Yeah, and meanwhile her papa was getting creamed in there, said Petar. Then his face brightened as he remembered something.

Hey, I got something to help this old man keep up with you young punks.

It ain’t gonna work, whatever it is.

Shut up and watch this.

He pulled the sleeve up on one arm to expose the black grappling gear underneath, and flexed his triceps a few times like a bodybuilder and waited. A faint blue pattern formed on the advanced fabric, danced around a bit, and then flamed out.

Miro buried his head down in looking for something full length among all the shorts. He came up briefly to eye Petar.

Looks cool, at least. Does it do anything too?

So they say. Training intensifier. Stimulates your muscles with mild currents to assist you with your exercise. Improves lactate threshold too, apparently.

Apparently. Probably won’t be legit for a sanctioned fight, right?

Don’t think so. The Combat Union’s fight commissioners are uptight bitches. Won’t let you fart in a cage fight unless it meets regulation. You heard about that guy who got disqualified for chugging an unregulated brand of bottled water between rounds, right? It was still just plain water. No dope or shit.

Miro nodded as he pulled the jeans over his shorts. His fingers fumbled to ready the tee, struggling with fine motor skills after a morning of heavy labor.

Hey, what the... You not gonna spar? asked Petar, gesturing at the street clothes.

In a bit. Gotta talk to someone quick. Hey, tell me how this intensifier thingy works?

Petar shrugged. Don’t ask me to explain the science bro. Here, I’m sure my genie knows, hold on…

He started to reach for his own Heady but Miro waved his hand dismissively.

Never mind. I can’t mess with this kind of stuff anyways until I’m done with my date with that goodlooking bastard. Anton Rodin.

Is that what you kids call a fight these days. A date?

Of course. Just me and him under the lights in a cage. Things could get serious, you know? Miro grinned.

Petar shuddered. Whooo, man. Gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. Kid, you got yourself the matchup of a lifetime, for sure. Is it all confirmed?

Miro smiled as his head emerged through the hole. Yeah, for January, they told me.

Oh yeah baby. So, you got what… about three months to train for this? Make them count, man. Three months to be the best you, you know? The best Miro.

That’s the plan.

Hell yeah. You’re gonna make that imposter suffer, man. I’m telling you. Beat him to a pulp. Make him wish he never crawled out of wherever he came from.

It’ll be a fight though.

No doubt. Figures cuz he’s a nasty mofo just like you. But hey, it don’t matter if everybody thinks it’s dead even. Our training is the difference. You’re better than him. You are The One. I believe it.

Miro smiled, but his eyes held no humor. Just staring wide and without focus. Bearing neither fear nor anxiety, just a grim acceptance of reality.

Thanks Petar. Gotta go. I’ll see you in a bit.

Better not be late to the warm ups or Rusty-bear will eat you alive right on the mats, Petar called after him.

THE BLINKING OF THE LIGHT had become more persistent. Sprinting up the stairs, Miro opened the metal door and stepped out onto the roof. Entering the bright afternoon sun, he pulled the latch shut behind him and squinted up.

You’re late for our appointment, she said.

Uh... hello! I know, I’m sorry. He fiddled with the viewer while scanning the horizon. Where are you?

Five and a half minutes late. I don’t have time for people who don’t respect other’s time. I almost cancelled.

I’m sorry. Can you please go visible now? Can I see you?

You can certainly try, she suggested.

The blonde materialized in his viewer. Her visage hovered conjoined with the blazing sun so he was forced to stare at it too. In an instant he was pulling his eyes away, temporarily blinded. She giggled with childlike enjoyment.

I did apologize, he complained, blinking to reverse the afterimage.

You did. And you’re kinda cute. I’ll let it fly this one time.

Her ethereal form descended till she settled on the parapet of the roof. Like an apsara come visit from the heavens for a day trip among the dirt dwellers. She shifted her weight from one delicate sandaled foot to the other. Making a show of striking poses as they got a good look at each other. She was flaxen pigtails, lofty cheekbones, and hungry lips formed into an expansive smile. The dress entirely a blinding white except for a bright red corsage running down the center. A Swiss maid and a Red Cross nurse and a billionaire’s bride all at the same time. Her background was set to hidden, so she might have stood in her bedroom or on an Alpine meadow with Braunvieh cows grazing all around. There was no way of telling and she was doing all the asking.

How old are you?

Seventeen.

Her big green eyes widened in shock. Really! I’d have put you at five more at least.

She paused to examine him again. Taking her sweet time doing it, and not the least bit shy. Her eyes started their journey on his robust and squat head, with brown hair cropped real short. Thick lips and a boxer’s squashed nose. Strong facial bones set close to the plane of the broad forehead. She met his eyes. They were colorful and intelligent, impassive yet sullen. His mix of features placed him indeterminably on wide swaths of the planet. Her gaze dropped down. His body was unambiguously built for battle. An unyielding block of solid muscle from head to toe, evidencing long hours of hard physical labor from an early age.

You look like you could take on a bear and win. Lemme guess, some sorta athlete?

Sort of.

Interesting eyes, she commented. Beautiful! Don’t think I’ve ever seen a set like that. One brown, one blue. Are those your natural colors?

Yeah.

What’s your name darling?

Cas5525.

Cas5525, hmm. I see.

She tapped her foot.

And don’t you care to know mine?

Sure. What is it?

You don’t speak much, do you, username Cas5525?

Guess not.

Just with me or always?

He shrugged, like he didn’t think it would be a good idea to enter into all sorts of irrelevant conversation with a stranger over the air in the time he had. He was late for training and here she stood tarrying with chit-chat. Granted she was devastatingly attractive and effective as a flirt but he already had a girlfriend, and he wanted nothing more than what he’d come to the rooftop for.

I just need your help quick and I’ll stop wasting your time, he tried.

She smiled generously. Her voice took on a deep and husky note.

Hon. For you, I got all the time in the world.

Miro took silent note to next time just deal with the chatbots on the website instead of asking for a live session with a rep.

So what can I do for you? she continued.

I’m looking to run a genomic query. I already mailed in my chewing gum sample and filled out the forms and signed the waivers and paid the service fee.

She tossed her head as if all that was certainly true but no concern of hers. Her face grew bored. Then in a flash of whimsy her bridal dress was gone, replaced instantaneously by a purple and white dirndl. Gazing down at her chest, she extracted a straw from the hills of her bosom and held it between her teeth thoughtfully.

Don’t you want to know anything about me?

He shook his head in all honesty.

So let’s say I give you what you seek. The query results. Your personal ancestral truth, let’s call it. Might you not owe me something personal too? Even just a pretense of familiarity, perhaps?

Look, lady. I thought all I owed you guys is the service fee.

See what I mean. Lady. That’s what you end up calling me? One of the ‘You Guys’? How’d you think that makes a girl like me feel?

That depends on whether you’re real or generated.

Ouch. Now that hurts my feelings. You don’t think I’m even real.

She pulled one of her braids to the front and twirled it with her fingers. A slight pout on her lips now, but an equal measure of mirth. Miro sighed.

You might be. Or not. I honestly don’t know.

Okay then. I’m not real.

She started to fade away. He spoke in a hurry.

Hey no, come back! Listen girl, um... okay, what’s your name?

She came back and smiled.

Livi.

Okay. Livi. Look, I apologize for being abrupt but I’m in a hurry and I just want my query run. The website suggested a live chat to verify that I wasn’t a robot or a nutjob. I’m neither. I’m just not comfortable sharing too much personal info...

He speaks after all, she grinned and lifted an eyebrow. Continue please. And did I mention everything we talk about today will be kept confidential, Cas5525?

Miro, he said quickly. Now can you please...

Ah. Pretty name. Can I please what?

I don’t know, just go do your thing so we can be done here?

Do my thing. You think it’s that easy to run a gene match on the whole planet.

That’s not what I said. I’m sure it’s hard. Look Livi, I’m really sorry, I gotta...

You gotta run. I understand.

They stared at each other across the air in silence until she smiled grandly and waved with a bend in her hand.

Alright Miro. I’ll run some initial queries and send you the results.

Thank you, Livi.

Chances are you’ll have to come back for more in depth results.

Okay.

Miro was already backing out the door with one foot on the first step downstairs.

And when you do, I’ll have you bare your soul to me.

Um… okay.

Bye now. Thank you for choosing Ultimate Genealogy.

LET THE FUCKING HANDS GO, Petar! yelled Rustam as he paced back and forth along the outside of the ring like a freshly caged ursine. Giant arms buried into sweatshirt pockets on the sides of his broad frame, the substantial beer-meat-and-potatoes belly heaving as he barked the words out, the mouth foaming unabashedly as words were forced out together with spit faster than he could wipe with his golden haired grizzly forelimbs.

Open gym on a Saturday afternoon. An all-you-can-eat buffet for gluttons for punishment and gluttons alone. One mustered enough willpower to drag one’s carcass to the gym and then things just sorta ratcheted up to an intensity that surprised mind and body alike. A few regulars had showed up to endure the punishment. Then there was the usual bunch of onlookers hanging around just to enjoy the accompanying drama. And commandeering it all was Rustam. Looming large, belly and all, and firmly in charge. Head coach at Beast Fight School.

On paper, Rustam didn’t have much to support a claim of being one of the most capable MMA coaches in the world. Such a paper’s claims would however be as worthless as the tallest stack of last year’s hit cryptocurrency.

The gym was a converted old warehouse. Just one largish room, no windows, functional light from big panels on the ceiling. A single cage occupied the center, built to regulation. On either side of it, grappling mats stretched all the way to the walls. Scattered at the edges were weights, bags and cardio machines. One corner held a rubberized training bot, tethered to an electrical outlet and lying slumped in temporary langor on the mat. Stretched along the far wall, a large cloth banner proclaimed the gym’s name. Underneath on a bench lay a veritable United Nations of trophies and medals. An unceremonious pile of artifacts of varied color and discoloration from past victories. Years ago, somebody had thought of making a nice wall display out of all that accumulated metal but had gotten no further than dumping stuff on the bench.

The gym. A place where, over the course of many thousands of hours, sweat and blood could be exchanged for something that mattered. A never ending pursuit of improving upon one’s yesterday. For some who could afford it, this lifestyle was just a diversion, a way to get tough or simply look tough. The blue-collar types came in for their second shift for the day. Hoping to eat and throw a few blows to get them through the mindlessness of that shitty first shift job that paid their bills. For a minority few, those who clung to a private dream, those who lived and trained here with eyes on the ultimate prize, the gym was all there was.

Petar, you fucking asleep in there or what? Let’s go!

Rustam’s booming voice echoed off the walls and returned doubled up in its ability to command motion from bodies. Petar charged ahead to unleash a 1-6-3-2 combination, but it came out stiff and all too predictable. Miro stepped left to dodge the uppercut and tagged Petar on the chin. Then while Petar was pivoting for the left and right hook doublet, his legs buckled from a well-placed kick behind the thigh. Petar backed off and grimaced in pain as he bit down on his mouthguard, breathing heavily.

Rustam reacted right away. Psssht! Idiot. Incredible.

He turned to Cody, a big young heavyweight, and barked. How did this joker ever become a Croatian kickboxing champ? Tell me.

Cody shrugged, knocking one gloved fist back and forth with the other and awaiting his turn. To enter the cage and get similarly ridiculed.

Probably sucked the judges off, Rustam answered his own question. He turned towards the cage. Hey Petar, how many dicks did you take to win the nationals?

Petar kept his eyes on his rapidly circling opponent, but his lips sneered with what could be a grin or a snarl. It was hard to tell with the mouthguard, but then he managed to make the universal symbol of brotherly love with his two middle fingers while keeping his elbows tucked in against Miro’s hooks to his body.

Two, he says. Just two?! guffawed Rustam. Fucking ridiculous. Look at those pretty boys go at each other. Don’t want to mess up those faces, do ya faggots.

The buzzer rang. Another six minutes would go up on the clock in thirty seconds.

Petar, out! Cody, in, barked Rustam. He stroked the dirty red beard on his giant pyramid of a misshapen head. No visible neck to speak of.

Petar avoided the grey wolf stare in the gaze of his coach as he climbed down from the cage, yanking his headgear off before tossing it to the floor. He trained cardio like a fiend, running the miles and sprinting up hills and swimming laps, and yet, the three rounds with Miro had drained him.

What, you done? Rustam’s voice chased after him. Then it took on a softness like one conversing with a toddler.

Ooh, right, right, I get it, you’re tired. I understand. You’re too old to be around these kids, Petar. Getting slow and soft. Check the mirror at home tonight, old man.

He turned towards a couple of young fighters warming up a few feet away, fully geared up but not making any contact yet, shadow-boxing each other.

What do you punks think? Miguel? Vir? Time for Petar to retire yet?

The two shrugged their shoulders quickly or otherwise pretended not to hear.

Miguel was a compact and muscular Costa Rican featherweight, always found wearing a smile on his round face. The eighteen year old’s 2-3 record belied the intensity with which he battled in the cage. His fights often featured plenty of blood drawn from either party. Vir, the other athlete, was a tall and dark skinned Indian. A lightweight contender, he hadn’t fought a sanctioned fight yet but displayed plenty of spunk in sparring.

Sounds like these two fresh-off-the-boats don’t understand a word of English, spat Rustam. Probably why they’ve been doing everything wrong. Anyways, Petar. I’ll say it. Time to hang up those gloves maybe, grampa?

Petar’s lips curled up in a half-smile but his eyes stayed down on the tape he unraveled from his hands. An angry crimson streak ran down his forehead to his cheek. He ripped the small biosensor unit from his waist and tossed it into a corner.

A tall, thin birdlike man with an impressive handlebar moustache emerged from the office where he’d been hanging out. Outfitted in a crisp white shirt and khakis, he ambled across towards them, clutching a tablet in one hand. He sported not one but two sets of frames over his eyes. Bending down, he picked up Petar’s discarded device and put it into his pocket.

Cody! Hurry up and get in there, you thick-headed farm boy! snarled Rustam as he gestured towards the cage. Inside, Miro paced about with his gloved fists on his midsection, recovering his breath.

Cody did not hurry up. A six-foot-six redhead of giant proportions like the prizewinning pumpkin at a state fair, he had never hurried up in his life outside of a cage. Even when he introduced himself, it was with his full name and place of birth rendered in a painfully slow drawl - Cody Michael Ingmarsson from MacIntosh Creek, South Dakota. Rustam eyed the overgrown boy with distaste as his lumbering frame leisurely stepped up to spar.

The reedy man came to a stop near next to Rustam. He scratched the ridgeline of a nose that protruded like a beak, calling attention to himself by deliberately ignoring the action and instead staring at his screen. Finally he looked up.

Okay Petar, you first. Listen up, he spoke with mustered authority. It was the first sentence he’d said to anyone all evening. Petar listened. The man tapped the dual rims of his Heady for emphasis and began.

Been looking at everything you throw in fully-quantified motion analysis mode. You’re doing three things wrong. One, your timing is off. When you do react your latency is almost 10% off your baseline. Too slow. Two, you’re throwing too many...

Duncan, said Rustam.

Sure, what is it? Duncan twisted his long neck. His lips pulled up in a smile of deferentiality that ended up as a pained expression. As chief data scientist in charge of optimizing athletic performance at International Combat Union sponsored fight schools, his role was roughly similar to that of an accountant in a starched white lab coat who paid visits to blood-splattered cattle slaughterhouses.

Rustam just lifted his shoulders slightly and his palms turned out a tad. His ears may have moved too. Duncan felt compelled to speak.

Well, Rustam, this is feedback on his performance in training that will help him improve his game. I was gonna tell him that he...

That he’s done. I know. Shit, even he knows. Any idiot who saw his performance in there knows. That’s why he won’t be fighting pro no more. He’s done.

Petar had turned his gaze down to the floor again and proceeded to rub life back into his wrists.

Duncan nodded. Fair enough. I was just being thorough here. Okay, moving on. Miro. Your stats are...

Duncan?

What? Is there a problem again? Just want to give Miro his analysis, Rustam.

No doubt. Your analysis tells you that he rang up too many kicks and too few jabs, and he could throw more feints. All that good stuff. Things like that, right?

Duncan looked around at the dilapidated surroundings before replying.

Right. Look, Rustam. I’ve got dozens of ICU-affiliated gyms like yours to visit in the area. Most of them are much larger than this place and with a lot more fighters. They all need analyst expertise to up their game. If you don’t need my help here...

Duncan. We get it, we need the ICU’s help to play in their leagues. Go ahead, sit Miro down and give him a full fucking report of how much he sucks. But pretty please, later, okay? Right now, we’re training.

He whipped his head towards the ring and barked so loud that Duncan jumped. WHAT THE FUCK are you waiting for? Cody! Miro!! Let’s GO! Time’s ticking!

Cody smacked his fists together twice and swaggered forward. They touched gloves and began to circle each other. This being his sixth round straight, Miro had lost some spring in his step.

Why is he getting the noob treatment? inquired one of the onlookers with the realization that Miro was staying in there while his opponents rotated in and out.

Cuz he came late for training. Missed a bunch of warm up, supplied Cody from within the ring, his voice garbled from the clenched mouthguard.

Who the fuck asked you to speak? barked Rustam so loudly that his chest hefted. Shut up and spar, you ugly bastard!

He addressed Petar without even a glance. You. Ancient Croatian cocksucker. Fifty pushups, fifty sprawls. Can you squeeze that out or will you blow an artery?

Sometime between all the yelling, Duncan had turned and departed without anybody noticing.

The Russian’s voice boomed into the cage again. Miro, keep your fucking hands up and circle. Hey, you aren’t getting tired in there, are you? inquired Rustam, voice all full with concern now. You just let me know anytime, honeybun.

Miro