Fighting Doug was one of the more frustrating experiences of John's life, and he was no stranger to frustration.

The old man was way too fast and agile for his height and bulk, and it was nothing to do with his magical abilities. From the scant knowledge Striker and Grappler had bestowed upon him, he knew that it was all footwork and superior positioning. Doug just always knew the optimal place to be to give himself the most options, whether it be to block, dodge, back away, advance, counter, or go on the offence.

His punches hit like cannonballs, with speed to match. Whether it was a jab, a hook, an uppercut, they always seemed to sneak past John's attempts at blocking, and he only threw in the first place when John was in no position to dodge. He was happy on both the offensive and the defensive, leaning on true, hard-earned skill that came from experience rather than something supernatural.

The only consolation was that he wasn't getting absolutely, totally dominated. He'd landed a couple of okayish hits, though they were both to the body and Doug's grin hadn't slipped a millimetre in reaction.

That fucking grin, he thought, snarling. He was going to wipe that look off Doug's face if it was the last thing he did.

Meanwhile, Doug landed hits on John at will. None of them had managed to take him off guard enough to lift him off his feet like the first, and his Stats allowed him to give little enough reaction that he received no further Aura penalty so far, but he still worried. He imagined that every hit he took chipped away at the pedestal he'd placed himself on when he flexed on them by seemingly matching a monster the rest had stood absolutely no chance again as a group. The last thing he wanted was to have to go back to worrying about a coolness competition with one of his allies when he'd only just gotten some relief from it.

And so, he kept attacking, never giving up.

He darted close, relying on nothing more than his Strength and Agility stats, feinted a left hook, then snapped out a right jab aimed directly at Doug's nose.

Naturally, the old man simply pivoted his body to the side with impossible speed and swung his counter-punch in the same motion, aiming a low jab that would have struck John in his exposed ribs.

But John was wise to his tricks at this point, a good minute into their exchange, and he too was ready to pivot his upper body out of the way in time—though, he noted, it was much less graceful than what Doug had displayed. Doug's eyes seemed to light up even brighter upon seeing the somewhat-clumsily copied move.

Then those eyes widened as John shrugged off his red leather jacket and threw it at the old man's face from point-blank range. It had only been getting in the way, limiting his mobility, but just chucking it aside or dumping it into his inventory had seemed like a waste. Besides, Doug had been the one to advocate for the 'anything goes' philosophy. "If there's no referee, there are no rules," he'd said.

Doug backed up to get some space, but John followed right after his jacket, and this time he had no interest in playing on Doug's terms. Instead of a punch, he aimed a savage kick at Doug's knee, drawing on both Striker and Ninja at the same time. The old man wasn't expecting it, and the blow crashed into his leg—somewhat off target, but that was fine—with a sound like two trees colliding.

Doug let out a grunt that transitioned into a roaring laugh as he tore the jacket away from his face and chucked it across the sports field far enough that it landed almost on the running track. For a brief moment, barely a second, Doug's guard was down, with one arm having been forced to vacate its ready position in order to deal with the jacket obstructing his view, undoubtedly hastened by the pain of the kick John had landed.

Rushing close, John took advantage, throwing a right hook at Doug's face, aiming to rattle his jaw. Even somewhat off guard, Doug still managed to turn his head away to take some of the force off of the blow, rolling with the momentum of the punch and redirecting where it would hit in one motion.

But the crack that rung out from his knuckled colliding with Doug's cheek bone was unbelievably satisfying. Doug staggered a single step, and John rushed to take advantage, moving in with another jab.

He should've known better. He barely even saw what happened next; just felt it. There was a blur of motion, then his vision flashed white for an instant. A second later pain erupted in his nose, and he felt something warm trickle down over his lips.

John went still. He reached up to wipe his top lips. His fingers came away red.

Doug stood across from him. Somehow, his grin had got wider, and his eyes were even wilder. He looked about ready to holler with joy.

The blood and the pain forced John into a state of clarity. His emotions packed themselves into a ball and descended deep into his gut, where he could acknowledge they were there but didn't have to confront them so directly.

For the moment, he needed to play this so he'd receive no penalty. Right now, he could almost imagine the Aura system watching the exchange with bated breath, waiting to see how he'd react. One wrong move, and he'd lose Aura, he had no doubt.

"You made me bleed," John said. "Not bad, old timer. I can count on one hand how many people have managed that."

He left out that he'd have no fingers left over on that hand, and that those other people had all done so multiple times throughout their years of tormenting him. A sick feeling settled in his gut where his emotions were. He tried his best not to see Doug standing beside those other bastards, but it was hard.

"I did," Doug agreed with affected nonchalance in his voice that was betrayed by the excitement twinkling in his eyes. Both of his fists were still up and ready. There was a scrape on his upper cheekbone, barely the size of a pound coin, and it was already fading away. "You gonna do something about that, youngster?"

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John pondered that question. The point of this spar was to, essentially, try and prepare him for the concept of fighting other people. Doug's rationale was that one's first experience of getting in a scrap with another person shouldn't come in a life or death scenario, where panic could easily override logic and force the body into primal instinct. In that instance, it was best to have something to fall back on, in his reckoning. It was his hope that this little sparring session would give their subconscious a little nudge into fighting, when the time came, rather than freezing up—or flying, as the saying went.

The thing was, John wasn't convinced he'd have much of a problem with fighting other people. It wasn't that he wanted to, particularly. If he could avoid other humans entirely and spend his time slaying monsters, he would. He was just realistic about it. He knew it was only inevitable. There were going to be dickheads out there. That was just life.

And when that time came… Well, he reckoned there was something that built up inside every guy who ever got bullied, especially physically. It was a feeling he didn't think someone like Doug could necessarily understand, though he'd never say it aloud because he didn't want to go making assumptions about people and fracturing relationships.

It came when one was being beaten down, feeling helpless. Seeing other people do nothing about it. Seeing them laugh, even. It built up when you knew you'd done nothing wrong to invite violence upon yourself, and it calcified when your attempts to fight back just made it worse, turning into a dark, painful thing that lodged deep within you.

And it transmuted, when you got called into the principle's office, only to be told you were going to be suspended for fighting, even though you'd just been trying to defend yourself, and you hadn't actually even landed a hit at all, and your nose was crooked and bloody, and you couldn't see out of one eye, and your ear was ringing, and one of your teeth was loose, and the only marks those other bastards had on them were their bruised knuckles.

It became something black and hateful and spiteful when you got home and your parents scolded you for acting up. It grew and grew and grew as you settled alone with your thoughts in your bedroom, or out in the garden, or in your secret spot up in the empty space where your childhood treehouse used to be, and your mind swirled around and around like your conscience was circling the drain.

That feeling often took the form of the faces of the people who'd hurt you for no fucking reason other than thinking it was funny. Guys like Luke Farnell, Tyrone Humphries, and Lewis Chapman, rendered in a tar-like substance. It made you wish voodoo was real, because if it was, you'd be able to reach for those effigies and squeeze them with all your might, choking the life out of the pieces of shit who tormented you.

But it didn't, so he couldn't. Eventually, the brunt of the feelings would fade away, leaving a hollow emptiness in his gut and his heart and in his throat and behind his eyes. The tar would lose its sheen, greying out.

It never went away, though. It was always there, a bitter and caustic thing that could always be drawn upon with just the littlest hint of memory.

When John looked back on some of the more unpleasant days of his life, the ones he usually avoided thinking about at all costs, his throat would tighten, his stomach would drop, his heart would speed up like it anticipated a run, and that feeling would start to regain some of its colour.

He didn't think he'd be able to summon it at will against just anyone and anything. He didn't think it would even work against monsters, necessarily, not that it was needed in that instance.

But if someone pinged one of those memories? Yeah. He reckoned he could hurt another person.

For right now, he had to actively force himself out of that frame of mind, because, no matter what Doug said, there was no way he was letting himself descend into that kind of mindset against an ostensible ally.

Luckily, Doug's grin dropped, and he dropped out of his boxing stance. He stared into John's eyes for a moment, then nodded. "That's what I'm looking for, right there," he said solemnly. He took a few steps closer, never breaking eye contact, and spoke softer, "Whatever that is, I'm sorry to have dredged it up in you. But remember it. Remember where it comes from. Sad to say, you'll probably need it at some point."

John nodded slowly, focusing on taking long, deep breaths through his nose, and exhaling them through his mouth. His hands were faintly trembling, and he shoved them in his pockets. Without a word, he turned and walked away, heading to retrieve his jacket.

Behind him, Doug bellowed out as if nothing had happened: "Now then, the rest of you! Let's see what you can do, eh?"

Doug's spars with the others didn't seem anywhere near so aggressive as he'd been with John, and yet he was sure they took much longer. It had felt like his exchange with the old man had been barely a minute, yet Chester easily took five, and Doug only stopped it because the teen was exhausted, giving him a break rather than declaring him ready.

It was quite alarming to watch the old man shamelessly punch two relatively petite women in the face after that. He knew, rationally, that it was necessary. In a fight to the death, gender didn't really matter; a desperate person was going to do what they needed to, regardless.

Still, two decades of cultural conditioning had him wincing every time Doug landed a hit. He wasn't completely holding back, either. He held no illusions Doug was hitting them as hard as he'd hit John, but they were gaining bruises and split lips and bloody noses aplenty.

They were done much faster than Chester, with Lily even pulling out her bow with a growl, though she stopped herself before going so far as to actually shoot at Doug. Jade just lost her temper after only a few punches, flying into a sort of berserker state and chasing after Doug for a good few minutes until he finally let her land another solid hit on him just to calm her down. Chester had to go through a couple more sessions until Doug declared him ready.

Throughout it all, John just sat on the grass and watched, forcing the dark feeling within him back under control. It shouldn't have been the most difficult task. He'd had years of practice, after all—he'd never wanted to give his bullies the satisfaction of letting that dark anger overtake him. By his experiences with fighting back, it just would've ended worse for him, anyway.

But it wouldn't go away. He couldn't completely compartmentalise it like he used to.

He supposed there was a rather large difference between suppressing your indignation at the indignities you suffered at the hands of some sadistic pieces of shit versus the righteous rage that came with an end of the world scenario that seemed more and more like it was all playing out for the entertainment of some cruel god.

And so John was still halfway furious and really ready to lay down some punishment on someone when Doug clapped his hands and declared, "Right then, time to head into Hell, boys and girls!"

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