Underdog

Against the odds, Dion manages to fight his way out of bed and his apartment. Only because he needs some groceries regardless of the state he might look facially. It’s why he’s trundling up and down the aisles picking out what he thinks he’s running low on, getting frequent looks from the other customers as he goes about his day.

He barely notices the glances, sideways and fleeting, anymore he’s so used to them. Yet, it seems the customers around him never grow so accustomed for he would swear some of the faces making poorly attempts at surreptitious looks have done so previously, many a time.

He shrugs caring little and continues to pick up items which he drops into the trolley until he is finally done. By the end of his spree, if it can be called that, there isn’t much more than a dozen items that have been picked.

He joins the queue. For better or for worse, mostly it’ll be the latter; there are only two counters open. The fighter doesn’t mind but by the nervous movements of those ahead of him it looks like other customers are not so patient. One even blurts with sarcastic anger at the cashier who apologises profusely only to be met with words of muttered ire Dion doesn’t catch.

When comes his turn to load the conveyor and then pack his items into paper bags, pleased that it isn’t raining today, he gets the same looks from the cashier as he has from the other customers. A few continuing to mutter in the queue that’s behind him.

He ignores them all, finishes packing away what he’s bought into a couple bags, pays, collects the bags and heads for the door.

Dion is unusual as he continues to pay for most things using cash. It’s not because he prefers ‘paper’ money but rather because that is what he’s paid in for his ‘fights.’ A term he feels is growing more and more inaccurate with each one he partakes in, and loses.

Exiting the grocery store, the fighter steps out onto the street, ducking his head in hopes his freshly raised hood will provide enough shadow to hide the state of his appearance. However, no sooner has he stepped out into the street than he collides with a passerby who he didn’t see.

The collision results in an immediate change in the world around Dion as it freezes. Not metaphorically but literally. Cars, people, birds stop mid action and hold. Yet, the fighter does not notice. Rather he erupts into apologies for his actions feeling idiotic for not having properly looked and checked his surroundings.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. I should’ve been looking. There’s no excuse.” The large man blurts while chastising himself internally.

In the collision his bags were toppled from his grasp and left to spill their contents across the sidewalk. Just as well none of it was loose or liquid as it almost definitely would have been damaged or spilled as a result.

“Let me help you.” Is the quick offer from the fighter who reaches out with his hand and arm to provide aid to the poor soul he has knocked to the ground entirely by accident.

To the fighters surprise there are no words expelled from the mouth of the equally hooded figure. Rather, they take Dion’s hand revealing three digits rather than five and then raise their head. Dion sees a face. It’s not a human one, though before he can react there is a flash. It fills his vision to bursting. He tries to pull away but finds he can’t. He blinks not long after feeling his eyes burn due to a blinding white which has filled them.

Following more blinks, he doesn’t know how many, the forty year old rubs his eyes and finds the ‘person’ is gone.

The world around him is back in motion with Parnice residents stare as they pass him, and his strewn about shopping dumped on the sidewalk, by. A few murmur things Dion doesn’t hear in the moments prior to him checking, for reasons he cannot give, the time on his watch. His eyes go wide as he realises he’s running late.

The ‘person’ he saw forgotten; the battered man quickly gathers his shopping only to break into a sprint heading back toward his apartment.

It takes only minutes for him to reach home, bound up the stairs and dump the items unceremoniously on the counter. He’ll sort them out later. He needs to get to the arena for practice.

He grabs his gear bundled into a bag much larger than is necessary for what lies inside and rushes out of his apartment cursing that he lost track of time.