\nDay of the fight. Wake up that morning with a temperature of 100.6. Sweating. Flushed cheeks. Anxious. Always am on these days. Feel the regulating coolant kick in as I get out of bed, blooming at the base of my skull and spreading through my body.\n<\/p>\n
\nManuela already in the kitchen doing dishes. Ignore her and do what I always do the day of a fight. Do what I always do no matter what\u2014prepare. Strap on the goggles, run the simulations again. Run them so many times the images of that wiry Hispanic sneering at me with a black mouthpiece burns into my vision. Win them all again\u2014just like I will the real thing.\n<\/p>\n
\nManuela heats a frozen TV dinner and turns on the television. Grab the remote and turn it back off. Close my eyes as I eat in silence, imagining the fight. Abraja ducking for the takedown, me raising my knee and slamming it into his cocky face. Him collapsing to the mat with a busted nose, me lunging on top of him raining down blows before the ref pulls me off.\n<\/p>\n
\nDay moves slow. Fight day always does. Run the simulations more. Take a shit while sketching out Abraja\u2019s punch combos. Skip rope in the living room for an hour staring at the wall of my living room imagining me bobbing and weaving his strikes, countering with a knockout blow.\n<\/p>\n
\nReason I\u2019m going to win: no one else on this planet has my drive.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n<\/p>\n
\nWait by the door for Dade\u2019s text, chest warm like I\u2019ve had a shot of whiskey. Already out into the apartment corridor by the time my phone chimes.\n<\/p>\n
\nNight is 27.4 degrees when I step out of the dingy apartment building. Adrenaline thrumming through me the way it always does before a fight. Dade\u2019s black sedan at the curb. Slide into the backseat. He\u2019s already on a phone call.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes sir,\u201d Dade says. \u201cI understand that, sir.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHands me water and protein bar without looking back at me. See him in the rearview, Asian man with pouty features. Down the water bottle in seven deep gulps. The heated air from the car vents is 86.3 degrees. Dade pulls back on the street, phone still to his ear. Car\u2019s speed fluctuates between 14 and 23 miles per hour, windshield framing wet city roads, orange streetlamps dawning night in sepia tone.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI understand, Mr. Vanderbilt, but we knew there was going to be a learning curve,\u201d Dade says. \u201cWe knew the risks going into it. If we were going to truly create an AI that would be comparable to humans\u2014Yes, I understand that. I understand that. Of course. And it took a little longer to click into place than we thought, but now he\u2019s firing on all cylinders. I mean, the success should speak for itself. He\u2019s fought his way to a title bout.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nCar stops at a red light. Dade\u2019s hands grip the wheel. They\u2019re small, wrists thin. Not the hands of a fighter.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes, I know it\u2019s not about the wins. It\u2019s about the money. And you don\u2019t know how much I appreciate that loan\u2014again, I understand.\u201d Dade pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes as we idle at a stop light. \u201cI know you need it very soon. No, there\u2019s no need to bring the lawyers into this. When he wins tonight, the purse will go a long way. From there, I\u2019ll figure it out. I\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nSilence. Dade throws the phone at the passenger side door and curses.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHung up on you?\u201d Knew all about Vanderbilt. Met him once. Business suit, gelled hair. Typical rich white guy. Smiles how I imagine a shark would smile.\n<\/p>\n
\nLight turns green. Dade accelerates. \u201cDon\u2019t worry about it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThrow me another water.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDade picks up a bottled water from the cup holder and slams it into my hand.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhen you moving me out of that apartment?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThat\u2019s the least of my worries right now, Aris.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nNext street over, see flashing lights, police tape. See a man in an overcoat squatting over a body in blood. Blood\u2019s colored red 113, green 5, blue 5.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t belong in this shithole neighborhood.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDade turns, stadium coming into view in the distance, traffic picking up now.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou win tonight, you can have any apartment you want in this city.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThought this was the American Dream. Make money and spend it. Not let your chauffeur take it all.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDade slams on the brakes, cars honk behind him. Turns to face me. See how tired he looks.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m not your chauffeur, Aris. I\u2019m your programmer. I\u2019m the reason you\u2019re here tonight, fighting for the light heavyweight world championship. You have no idea <\/em>how much I\u2019ve put on the line for you. The toll it\u2019s taken on me. The only reason you\u2019re able to work for this, is because I worked my ass off for it in the first place. And if you think I\u2019m getting to pocket any of the money, you\u2019re wrong. You win tonight, you\u2019ll get a new apartment.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nLook back out the window. Clench my fists. Only sound the hiss of tires as they cut through puddles.\n<\/p>\n \n \nIn the stadium. Cramped bare-walled room where we wait before the fight. Running another simulation while Dade texts. Body temperature goes up again, coolant lowers it. Temp in the room is 71.4.\n<\/p>\n \nDade brings out his tablet. Last-minute tweaks to my programming before they call for me. Block of code appears on the screen. The Sisyphus Code. What makes me, me. What gives me my drive and the ability to learn from mistakes, get better.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJust remember the game plan, okay?\u201d Dade says as he types. \u201cA standing fight wins. He\u2019s too dangerous once he gets on the ground, even for you. Remember all our preparation, all the tape we watched. Watch for the takedown. When you see it, throw a knee.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nNod. Can\u2019t stand still. Look at myself in the mirror. Shaved head, black skin. Body sculpted with muscle. Not an ounce of fat on it.\n<\/p>\n \nKnock on the door.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe two mantras,\u201d Dade says, hand on my shoulder, all the earlier tension between us gone.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cLearn by doing.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAnd the second?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWin.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe pats me on the back. \u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nWalk out of the room into the hallway with concrete floor and cinder-block walls. Cameraman backtracking with the camera aimed at me, documenting my walk from room to ring. Pound my fists together, sneer, glare straight at the camera.\n<\/p>\n \nIntro music starts playing. \u201cMore Human than Human\u201d by White Zombie. Round a corner, entrance up ahead. Buzz of the crowd, bursting into cheering and booing when I finally step into the arena.\n<\/p>\n \nWalk down the aisle, ignoring the audience. Show my gloves to the referee, walk up the stairs to the cage, jog around the ring. Stop in my corner and wait.\n<\/p>\n \nFew seconds pass. Arena goes dark, cheers rising. Abraja\u2019s song over the loudspeakers: \u201cHuman\u201d by Rag\u2019N\u2019Bone Man. Not his normal intro music. Making a point.\n<\/p>\n \nI wait, shifting weight from foot to foot. Know Abraja appears when cheers spring through the arena.\n<\/p>\n \nComes into sight. Clay-colored skin, body slimmed of fat, only toned muscle remaining. Goes through the same process as I did, staring at me the whole time. Stare back. Steps into the ring, jogs past me, both of us still staring.\n<\/p>\n \nGo through the motions: ring announcer belting out introductions, the ref calling us to the middle of the ring, explaining the rules, both of us staring at each other and ignoring him. Spend the whole time wondering what Abraja\u2019s smug face will look like once my knee caves it in.\n<\/p>\n \nReturn to opposite sides of the octagon, wait a few seconds.\n<\/p>\n \nRef drops his hand in the middle of the ring and shouts, \u201cLet\u2019s go!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nAdvance on each other, shuffling to the center of the ring as quickly as possible, crowd\u2019s cheer swelling.\n<\/p>\n \nFirst few seconds, that dizzying sensation, mind adjusting from simulation to the real thing. He throws a jab faster than I expect. Dodge it and the hook that follows.\n<\/p>\n \nHe continues forward, hands dancing up and down, up and down. He\u2019s a ground-and-pound fighter, decent striker but not as good as me. But he doesn\u2019t seem to care. Advances on me, pounding fists together.\n<\/p>\n \nTry to slow him down with a couple jabs and hooks with little power behind them. Doesn\u2019t slow Abraja, though. Keeps advancing, backing me against the cage.\n<\/p>\n \nStand my ground. Dare him to come at me. Throw a testing jab, then a hook that would cave an eye socket. Cuts through air where Abraja\u2019s ducking head was a second earlier. His shoulder and arm slam into my midsection, breath knocked from me as he drives me to the ground.\n<\/p>\n \nCrowd\u2019s roar deafening. Dade\u2019s shouting. Can\u2019t understand what he\u2019s saying. Abraja\u2019s pinning me in half-guard, his breath hot on my face. Keeps me pinned, our bodies writhing, until he lifts his elbow and slams it down on my head.\n<\/p>\n \nFeel hot blood, 99.1 degrees, spatter on my face. Burning pain above my eyebrow. Try to get up, but he rains blows down on me. Clicking that marks the final ten seconds of the round. Hits me in the head, dazes me. More strikes. Block myself, hoping the ref won\u2019t call it. Then the ding. Dade\u2019s already getting out the stool by the time I get to my feet.\n<\/p>\n \n \n\u201cYou got cocky,\u201d Dade says. \u201cThought you didn\u2019t have to watch the takedown. He baited you the whole way.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah.\u201d Breathing a little heavy. Cut on my brow stinging, more blood dripping hot down into my eye. Cut man wipes it away, presses on the swelling with a cold compress.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGood news is, this is the best thing that could\u2019ve happened in the first round. Shows you that you\u2019re mortal,\u201d Dade continues. \u201cHe won that round. You have to come back and take the next one. Remember. When he goes for takedowns, throw the knee.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nCut man fingers a generous dollop of Vaseline from a container and smears it on my cut.\n<\/p>\n \nNod.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cLearn by doing,\u201d Dade says.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAnd win,\u201d I say, and the bell rings.\n<\/p>\n \n \nAbraja settles back, plays conservative after stealing the first and taking the lead in the fight, looking to weasel out a 10-9 round. My turn to advance, to throw him off balance. Keep the distance close between us, waiting for Abraja to try to execute a takedown. His fists piston up and down. Time his movements and plant my front foot, throwing a blurring jab that lands on his nose. Snaps his head back. Not enough power to wound him, but enough to stun him. He takes a step back. I advance, hands held in front of me, elbows sticking out, fists ready to fly.\n<\/p>\n \nRight uppercut slams into Abraja\u2019s stomach. He lowers a hand just as I plant a hook on his nose. Feel the crunch under my fist, his blood spraying 99.4 degrees onto me. Dodge his counter. Watch him stagger into the side of the cage, huddling, trying to protect midsection and head simultaneously.\n<\/p>\n \nRage screaming in my head. Throw fist after fist, aiming wherever I see an opening, one slipping through Abraja\u2019s gloved hands to snap his head back. This one powerful, slamming his head against the cage. His feet unsteady now. More blood, his right eye swollen shut.\n<\/p>\n \nCrowd erupts into even louder cheering than before, louder than I thought possible. Dade screaming, his voice cutting through the chaos.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThrow the knee!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHasn\u2019t tried to take me down yet. But I do it anyway. Throw a knee into his stomach.\n<\/p>\n \nDoesn\u2019t have a chance to connect though. Something flashes in my vision. Like a photographer\u2019s bulb going off inside my head. And what\u2019s left is nothing. Nothing that matters at least. Can remember who I am, what this is, everything that\u2019s happened leading up to now. But can\u2019t remember what matters. The right way to throw a hook. How to cut a cheek open with an elbow. How to takedown an opponent.\n<\/p>\n \nStep backward. Look over to Dade, but he isn\u2019t looking at me. Arms resting on the elevated ring, head on top of them.\n<\/p>\n \nRing of the bell. Abraja struggling to stand on unsteady feet. Not knocked out.\n<\/p>\n \nWalk back to my corner in a daze, collapse on the stool.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat happened?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nStill won\u2019t look at me.\n<\/p>\n \nThe last-minute tweaks to my code. The phone call with Vanderbilt about paying off the debt. The texts Dade sent while I ran simulations.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou did this,\u201d I say. \u201cYou rigged the fight. It\u2019s all gone.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJust your fighting knowledge,\u201d Dade says, pinching the bridge of his nose.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHow much you bet on me to lose?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cEnough, and then some. Enough to quit all this.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nNo punch to the head ever dazed me like this.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI trusted you.\u201d Tears springing in my eyes.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI would\u2019ve done something less extreme, but I had no time. After Vanderbilt\u2019s call, after his threats, I had to improvise. This was the quickest fix I could think of on short notice.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cRestore it. Restore it all.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nDade shakes his head.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cRestore it after the fight, then.\u201d Voice pleading now. \u201cPlease.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nDade\u2019s look of pity. \u201cI deleted it. Permanently. This is our last fight. I\u2019m not doing this anymore. If I was you, if I had your programming, maybe I could find a way to deal with Vanderbilt and all the stress. But it\u2019s\u2014it\u2019s just too much. Some things aren\u2019t worth the money. Or the effort.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThink of everything I just lost, all the years of work. Trying not to cry.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou think this has been easy for me?\u201d Dade says, seeing the expression on my face. He\u2019s tearing up too. \u201cHaving to admit to myself that I failed? That all this time and effort has been a waste?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe bell rings.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGet out of my way,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m gonna win.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n \nAbraja steps back into the middle of the octagon. Doesn\u2019t take long to see how helpless I am. Confidence replaces his wounds. Spends the first minute priming me, getting me pressed against the cage like he did the first round. Try to defend myself but can\u2019t. Dodges my counterpunches easily. Plunges in and takes me down, maneuvering on the mat. Smell of sweat and the feel of hot breath and the crowd\u2019s roar becoming my world. Puts me in a kneebar.\n<\/p>\n \nGrit my teeth and flail my arms, trying to hit him. Pressure mounts. Feels like my knee is about to break. More pain than I\u2019ve ever experienced. If Dade had programmed me without pain sensors. Maybe then I could do it.\n<\/p>\n \nTap.\n<\/p>\n \nHe explodes to his feet and sprints around the ring, celebrating with his camp. Lay on the ground, staring at the lights above me. The bright lights of the big time, my one-and-only chance.\n<\/p>\n \nCheck the clock. One minute and twenty-three seconds to lose. To expose the difference between who I was before and whatever I am now.\n<\/p>\n \nStruggle to my feet and leave the ring. Shouts rain down on me as I step down the aisle toward the back. A chant rising up from the crowd.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWe won. We won. We won.\u201d<\/em>\n<\/p>\n \n \nStep back into the rainy cold night, puddles reflecting the city lights above.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNeed a ride?\u201d A cabbie asks, rolling down the driver\u2019s window.\n<\/p>\n \nTell him I\u2019ll walk.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cTough fight tonight.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nTurn and head down the sidewalk, not sure which direction I\u2019m headed, knee throbbing from the submission, cut above my left eye swelling it to a squint.\n<\/p>\n \nTake out my phone. Call Dade.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe purse you got tonight? That\u2019s my emancipation fee. You never talk to me again. You never think<\/em> about me again.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAris, you\u2019ll need regular updates. You\u2019ll need\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI\u2019ll figure it out. I know what I don\u2019t <\/em>need, and that\u2019s you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThink about this. You don\u2019t have what it takes to survive on your own. You\u2019re not programmed\u2014\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cProgrammed to learn from mistakes. And I learned from a big one tonight.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHang up and bring up the AI on my phone. Asked it for walking directions home. On the way, turn off my internal thermometer and all my sensors.\n<\/p>\n \n \nManuela\u2019s there when I return. Tell her to get out and not come back. Sit down on the couch. Try watching TV but the talking heads are recapping the fight, offering their theories on why I came out so flat in the last round.\n<\/p>\n \nGrab the goggles off the coffee table. Don\u2019t want to, but have to. Strap them on and enter the simulation, world around me going bright blue.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cGood evening,\u201d the female voice says. \u201cWhat would you like to learn tonight?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cBasics of Brazilian ju-jitsu.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cMy records indicate you have previously mastered these courses. Would you still like to continue?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nFigure appears in front of me, talking about the basics of mixed martial arts. Spend four hours training. Do my dishes, fold clothes after. Next day, go to the local warehouse, ask for an application.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou sure?\u201d The foreman asks. Recognizes me, gives me a smile. \u201cMan of your talents?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI nod.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAll right,\u201d he says, handing me the tablet to fill out the application. Still sounding like I\u2019m making the wrong decision. \u201cWe\u2019ve had half our jobs cut in the last few years. Automation\u2019s killing the manufacturing industry. But I\u2019ll see what I can do. Boss\u2019d like to have a celebrity like you around.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou should know, though, if we do have a spot for ya,\u201d he says after I finish my application. \u201cThis ain\u2019t an easy job. Twelve hour days, back-breaking work. But hey, a little elbow grease is what keeps America running, am I right?\u201d\n<\/p>\n John Post is currently a communications director at the University of Arkansas and, having recently decided to pursue his passion to become a published author, has begun writing in earnest. He currently resides in Fayetteville with his wife and sons. He is also the former Arkansas State Checkers Champion, a hobby he pursues in his spare time along with coffee roasting, reading and playing video games. He muses periodically on his blog at https:\/\/johntpost.wordpress.com. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Day of the fight. Wake up that morning with a temperature of 100.6. Sweating. Flushed cheeks. Anxious. Always am on these days. Feel the regulating coolant kick in as I get out of bed, blooming at the base of my skull and spreading through my body. Manuela already in the kitchen doing dishes. Ignore her …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107094,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20006],"tags":[20007],"class_list":["post-137900","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-35-spring-2020","tag-the-colored-lens-35-spring-2020","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137900","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107094"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=137900"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137900\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":137901,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137900\/revisions\/137901"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=137900"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=137900"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=137900"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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