If it had been anyone else, at any other time, Nikodemus Kowalczyk would’ve said no. Niko didn’t fight anymore. Some dreams were better off dead.

His mother said it often—a dream is a wonderful, terrible, powerful thing. A dream didn’t care about you, a dream only wanted to live, and the result was often long hours, not a small amount of blood, and above all, disappointment. And that disappointment wasn’t simply from the dream not coming true, no, that would’ve been tolerable. The real heartbreak was when it all fell into place and you got what you longed for, but it didn’t quite live up to the fantasy.

Niko’s mother knew that disappointment. So did his father. For them, the dream had become a trap that refused to let them go.

The hallway of the Mudflats Marriot had eye-biting carpet, a swirl of patterns that encouraged you to keep on walking to your next destination. In this case, it was either the bathrooms or convention Hall BB.

Niko had just come out of the men’s room. He thought, seriously, about retreating back into a stall and waiting Madison Dark out.

Maddy blocked his path. She wanted him in convention Hall BB for a very specific purpose. “Come on, Niko, I’m desperate. You don’t need to win. You just need to give the fans a semi-good fight.”

He wanted to say no. But for Maddy to ask him, it meant she had asked everyone else at MudCon, the local Battle Artist Convention she ran with a help of a about a zillion volunteers working for free. Niko’s mother had another saying. You get what you pay for.

Maddy had strawberry blonde hair, a round face, and a definite strut—the same walk she’d had on their first day of high school, nine years ago. She wore shorts, sandals, and a MudCon 2020 t-shirt. She stood, arms open, because if she crossed them, Niko would dash around her and head for the front door.

“Let me guess,” Niko said. “Someone backed out at the last minute.”

“Allen did. He’s sick, or so he says. I’d like to believe him, but you know, I have my suspicions.” Maddy tried to sweeten the sour situation. “It’s only against Howling, and Stan is a relatively good guy. He won’t bring the heat. He gets that it’s an exhibition match. Please.”

Niko frowned at her. He hadn’t fought since the summer after they graduated from high school. That was five years ago. He’d lost, but that hadn’t been a big deal. The Pranad made it clear: A thousand losses is a teacher. A single victory is a pause.

No, he’d given up fighting for a dozen other better reasons.

He tried to get mad at her for asking.

She knew that fighting again would bring up a world of terrible memories. Yet she also knew that while he might have given up on the Battle Artist dream, others, like Stan Howling, never would. She put on the battle con for that very reason—to give amateurs and wannabes a place to fight.

MudCon was the very bottom of the bottom of the Artist community, not a qualifier for anything greater, not a way into a college. Hell, the military didn’t even come to events like MudCon. That was why Maddy could only get Hall BB and not the main event center where there was an actual Battle Arena including stadium seating. MudCon was a celebration of the Battle Arts, pure and simple, and Maddy knew that a missed match would give the con a bad name. It was only the third year.

An early Friday afternoon match meant there wouldn’t be a big crowd. That would save Niko some embarrassment. Stan Howling would do some fire tricks, Niko would get singed a bit, and then go down, easily, when Stan thought it was time.

It wasn’t like he was a main event like Andrew J. Coffey that night. And Niko had come to help Maddy out by buying ticket and to hang out with Teddy. So Niko took a half-day off from the family business. He figured he’d put in his time at the Con, peruse the vendor room, see Andrew J. Coffey fight, and then go home.

Teddy came tromping down the steps that led to the main hotel. He had his big black backpack, of course, because Teodoro Martinez was part man, part backpack, but mostly belly. He rolled on up, grinning at them. “Maddy, you found him! Did he say yes? I mean, he has to say yes, right? You don’t have anyone else. And Niko knows the score. Give the people what they want, right? Tell me I’m wrong.”

Teddy wore black shorts that were ill-named since they fell to his thick calves. He too wore a MudCon t-shirt, but from its inaugural year, 2017. It was a dark navy-blue color with a single glowing fist on the front and blue flame on the back. He wore big white running shoes, which he kept unlaced.

“You’re wrong.” Niko didn’t see a way out. Teddy wasn’t in good enough shape to make it the pseudo-spectacle that Stan wanted. “I don’t have robes. I’m not sure I can even do Twin Damage. This is a horrible idea.”

“He’ll do it,” Teddy grabbed his arm and shook him. “Vanessa’s boyfriend has a cousin who’s here. He fought in the first match, but the robes will work for our boy. Nikodemus Kowalczyk, back in the arena, this going to be epic. Remember how good he was, Maddy? He could’ve been a contender!”

“Not true.” Niko had to focus on not standing there with his jaws so tight he could press coal into diamonds. “I was a cusp. The agencies were never going to pick me up.”

Maddy’s eyes went from Niko to Teddy and back to Niko. “Sorry, Teddy, I need to hear it from Niko. Will you do it?”

He nodded. How come it felt like he was betraying himself?

Teddy’s smile almost knocked his head off. He looked like he might explode into dancing a musical number, he was so happy. “We’ll get his robes. Is there a green room where he can change? Don’t make our stallion change in the men’s room. He’ll also need to do a little cycling.”

Maddy eyes wouldn’t leave Niko’s face.

She wanted to hear that he was glad to help, that it wasn’t a big deal, but he couldn’t give that to her. He was going to fight. That was enough.

When he stayed silent, she still smiled at him. “Uh, we have a green room, but it’s not very green. There are meditation mats by the masseuse booth in the vender room.”

“We’ll take it!” Teddy escorted Niko away from Maddy and toward the exhibitors in Hall CC.

People milled about, buying stuff, selling stuff. On the other side of a collapsible wall, the yells of a crowd and the snap and crackle of a Battle Arena cut through the murmuring. Authors were at table selling novels, graphic artists hawked their comic books, and then you had any number of stalls with Battle Artist gear, robes, mats, weapons, even a full collection of tiles that might set you back a couple thousand dollars. Several apothecary’s sold tinctures and vapes to help with the various aspects of cultivation and cycling. Along one wall, attendees could pay to get their pictures with B-list celebrities from TV shows like Spirits Unleashed and The Dark of Knight. A whole booth was dedicated to Twelve Legends, the ultimate Battle Artist video game.

And of course, people were in Zodiac Overmen cosplay, both from the original comic of the 1930s to the current reboot.

One vendor made Niko smile. Quincy Fire was a Battle Artist who had been working the con circuit for years. He stood in front of a rack of his books and CD’s because not only was he a Battle Artist, he also wrote novels and had a band. Quincy was unmistakable – a big blonde mohawk, tank top, ripped jeans, and combat boots.

Quincy was next to a little daemon shop, selling drodes for cell phones. Whitney devices, small black boxes with red lights flashing, filled the shelves. The logos of the big corporations were all over the booth: SoulFire, Rocks & Rams, Anvil Incorporated, and Vannix House. Niko knew that none of those companies were directly involved with the vendor, but the images drew people over. The corporations not only provided the electricity that powered the world, they also wrote software, provided hardware, and fielded Battle Artists in the biggest events the League of Battle Artists put on. The companies were everywhere.

Niko didn’t even pause. He dealt enough with daemons at his day job that he wanted nothing to do with them during his off hours.

A lot of the faces of the vendors were familiar, but no one said hi to Niko. They saved their hellos for Teddy, who knew everyone, and who liked everyone. They liked him right back.

Niko felt out of place. It was a life he’d known well for a long time, since elementary school, but life had a way of unraveling on you. The ground could shift right when you needed it to be the most stable. Bay City was on a fault-line. Earthquakes were common, and they never came at a good time. Everyone joked that Fort Tahoe would one day be ocean-front property. He never found the jokes very funny.

Teddy got pulled in to hear a pitch from a friend who had a new novel out, something about a team of Battle Artists fighting evil, not unlike superheroes, though to be honest, Niko liked superheroes more. Alien powers from cosmic rays, or magical powers from mystical beings, hell, even vampires were preferable because it fed the fantasy of unlimited power.

For Battle Artists, the power was always limited, either by their physical bodies, called sharira, or their cores of energy, prana, the words taken from India.

Niko was left alone. He didn’t need to worry about Teddy. The guy would find him without a doubt. The pair were basically inseparable.

There was a massage booth with an empty table, candles, and some incense. It was shoved between a bookstore and an apothecary. He’d not focused on his prana in what? Five years?

It was late March, so it was a little less than five years. Niko went over. A thin woman with dreadlocks smiled at him. “I don’t need a massage. Can I just sit for a second? I need to cycle.”

Saying that word, “cycle,” brought back a world of emotions. Niko had to clear this throat.

The woman took it in stride. “Sure, guy. Take as long as you need.” She motioned to a colorful carpet three feet long and two feet wide.

He sat down cross-legged on the mat and got into position. He’d lost all his flexibility, so he couldn’t get his legs on top of his feet. He put his hands in his lap, his fingers on his left hand resting on the palm of his right. His thumbs were close to touching but he made sure they didn’t. That was part of the cycling process. He focused on his breathing, tried to clear his mind, but that wasn’t going to happen. His emotions bucked like a horse.

He thought of a high school teacher, who had made his class read a section of The Pranad, based upon an ancient Hindu text called the Katha Upanishad. The sacred Battle Artist book said the body was like the chariot while the horses were the senses and the reins were the mind. The driver was the intellect. The master of the entire chariot was the piece of the divine inside him. Some called it the Self, but others called it prana.

He tried to keep his mind in the moment. He tried to do one round of the Duodecim, starting with the Sanguine Battle Sign, he counted his breaths to twelve. He wasn’t even at six and his mind started to wander.

He wasn’t going to be able to cycle his prana like he had when he was fighting every weekend in the junior academic leagues. No, his core of energy was sluggish, partially frozen, and woefully out of shape. It was like when he’d first started, but even then, in first grade, at his local Arena, he’d had the excitement of youth, and dreams, such dreams. Life was a magical adventure where the Arts did seem like magic, and Artists were the greatest superheroes. They did important things in the anime he’d watched. It was all so exciting, and the promise was there, the promise as big as life itself.

The promise had ended with Taylor Sebastian, and his senior year in high school.

Niko knew he wasn’t going to be able to get around the memories, the regrets, the worst decisions of his life and the worst nights. His concentration crumbled away as the emotions swept through him.

He stood up abruptly.

The woman with dreadlocks was with a customer, laid on her table, gave him a soft look. Her hands glowed a soft silver color and that silver leaked into the man lying there, through his clothes. She gave him a slight nod.

He nodded back.

Niko walked out of the stall. He wasn’t much to look at, a little under six feet tall, a strong if slightly soft fame, a normal twenty-three old guy with dark hair and muddy green eyes. A light stubble shadowed his jawline, which wasn’t as strong as it used to be. Living and working near a noodle house gave him too easy access to too many carbs.

Yet, he knew, that little bit of focus had woken up his core.

He drifted to a wall, leaned against it, and closed his eyes. Before the memories of Taylor had wiped away his concentration, he’d managed to get a little energy up into his fists and it was flowing through him, but it wasn’t the feeling of power, speed, and strength he’d known before. It was there, though. It was enough. He was limited to his First Study technique, his offensive ability. He’d take a couple on the chin, throw a nice series of punches, and then Stan Howling would knock him down to the tiles.

Niko didn’t mind physical pain. It was better than emotional torture. He’d take a beating and then get on with his life. However, Maddy owed him big.

Teddy came over to Niko’s place on the wall and grabbed his shoulder. “Okay, Niko, I’ve been talking to people. Stan Howling isn’t that tough. I think you might be able to take him.”

Leave it to Teddy Martinez to complicate everything with his dumb, misplaced optimism.