The Bonadan Years

Ace went down hard.

Someone's elbow clipped his jaw and the street rushed up to meet him, teeth rattling on impact. The taste of copper filled his mouth before he even realized his lip had split. Laughter broke out around him, sharp and mean, and a boot caught him in the ribs as a follow-up.

That one knocked the air out of his lungs. He curled without thinking, arms tight, chin tucked. Another kick glanced off his shoulder. Pain flared, hot and bright, and something ugly sparked behind his eyes. Not rage. Something steadier. Colder.

He rolled, clumsy, catching a fist across the cheek that snapped his head sideways. Stars burst. Ace clawed his way upright, one knee down, one foot planted. His hands shook, not with fear, but with refusal, his body screaming at him to stay down, to give it up.

But if he did, everyone was free to think Ace was food. That was unacceptable in 9G.

The next punch hit him square in the nose. His head snapped back, eyes watering, blood spilling freely now. The crowd roared. This was the part they liked. The part where someone finally folded. Ace lurched forward instead.

His shoulder slammed into the other boy's chest, sloppy and off balance, but heavy. He wrapped an arm around whatever he could grab, shirt, collar, skin, and drove his forehead forward.

Once. Then again. Then one more time. The third time hurt him more than it hurt the other kid, but it did the job. They staggered apart, both breathing hard. Ace swayed, vision tunneling, legs threatening to give. His hands were numb.

The other boy hesitated. That meant everything. Ace surged once more, wild now, throwing punches that weren't clean but still effective. Knuckles slammed into cheek, then jaw. One missed completely. The next landed wrong and sent a jolt of pain up his arm that made him hiss. But he didn't stop.

He took another hit, something solid into his side that made him nearly drop, but he stayed upright through sheer stubbornness. He grabbed again, shoved again, drove the other boy back a step at a time until there was nowhere left to go.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and curses. Ace hit last, rolling free on instinct and scrambling backward on hands and heels until space opened up between them. The other boy didn't get back up.

The crowd's noise shifted, excitement draining out of it. Ace stayed crouched, chest heaving, blood dripping off his chin onto the ground. Everything hurt. Everything. But he didn't care. Slowly, he stood. His knees threatened to buckle, but he locked them anyway. His hands curled into fists he wasn't sure he could open again.

No cheers this time. Just looks and a few muttered curses. Ace wiped his face with his sleeve and immediately regretted it. When the crowd finally peeled away, bored, he backed toward the orphanage gate, eyes never leaving the spot where the fight had been. Only when the corridor swallowed him did he sag, pressing his forehead briefly against the cool metal wall.

His body shook and the pain caught up with him all at once, he stayed on his feet though. Always.

Later, people would remember the fight differently. They'd say he was feral. Or fearless. Or born for it.

Ace would remember something simpler. That getting hit didn't mean you were finished. That staying up mattered more than anything. And that some part of him... older than Bonadan, older than the orphanage, refused to quit, no matter how badly the galaxy tried to teach him otherwise.​