Archive of Our Own

For the children.

Everything Luka does is for the children.

He'd fight a million battles – endure excruciating pain – if it meant he'd be able to see their bright, hopeful smiles at the end of it all.

It's this very thought that keeps his heart pumping, his blood flowing. 

It's this idea that keeps air flowing steadily in and out of his lungs.

It's this notion that has him readying swift punches and throwing them, one, one, two, at the punching bag. 

His body thrums with energy, with hope. With determination, to win this final match and obtain the grand prize:

150,000 shield.

He's usually not one to be this worked up about money. In fact, he's never cared for the wealth or the fame that comes with being the boxing champion of the Underworld.

So he doesn't plan on hoarding this money for himself, no. 

This, alongside everything else he works to accomplish, is all for the children. All for their benefit.

All to make them smile.

Under the warm light of the Fight Club, Luka’s mechanical arm emits a faint orange glow. It flashes with the hope that had been bestowed upon him – the hope that he intends on transferring to those in despair.

He grins, fierce and determined, as he delivers a flurry of punches to the punching bag. A crowd has gathered around him, observing and chatting amongst themselves in anticipation for the fight to come. The Fight Club has grown busier by the minute, and it's exhilarating. But Luka’s focus doesn't break.

It's time. He's in top shape tonight, and he's not backing down from this. Not in a million years.

After a final, particularly powerful blow to the punching bag, he decides to give it a break. (He doesn’t stop because he’s exhausted. Of course not – why would he be? He’s just… conserving his firepower.)

His chest heaves. His muscles are sore. But if anything, they’re an indication of just how hard he’s worked in the days leading up to this fight. They prove that he’s ready.

Flashing a determined smile, he turns to the crowd, taking a moment to greet them. The smiles on their faces speak of hope, and Luka couldn't be more glad about the effect he seems to have on the people of this Underworld. He's always strived to be a symbol of hope, of justice. Now that he's achieved this, there's nothing he can't do.

From beside him, an assistant offers a bottle of water, his spindly fingers curling around the plastic. He accepts it with a grateful smile, taking a long sip and savouring the cool, refreshing taste of it.

It's only then when a strong hand slaps him on the back, and Luka very nearly chokes on his drink. As he coughs and splutters, he whirls around, ready to confront the perpetrator.

Once he realises who it is, it's all he can do to sigh. “Come on. You've gotta stop doing that, sir.”

Oleg lets out a hearty laugh, his wise eyes crinkling at the corners. “My bad, kid. Just wanted to check on you before the big match.”

Luka appreciates the sentiment, he really does. If only the guy could learn to do it in a less aggressive way.

Still wiping water from his chin, Luka grumbles. “I can't exactly participate if you kill me beforehand.” 

“Right, right,” Oleg says through a sheepish smile. But his expression softens, and he places a hand on Luka’s shoulder, the touch gentle. “Y’know, kid, I'm proud of you. For choosing to donate the prize money. Not everyone has the strength to do that. It's… a lot of money, after all. I mean, most people would keep it all to themselves.”

“Oh, come on!” Luka scoffs, as if Oleg's sentimental words were complete and utter nonsense. Because, really, they are. “Who do you take me for? This is the only right thing to do.” 

He thinks of all the children that have been living in poverty, in fear. The ones that are vulnerable, exploited. 

The ones that can't afford to live their dreams.

This world is one filled with injustice, and Luka can't just stand idly by and let it take and take and take.

“With that much money, we could do so much for the kids in the Underworld that need support.” Luka flashes a resolute grin. “Once we do that, I'll be a step closer to achieving my goals!”

Everything, for the children.

Oleg pats Luka's shoulder. “You've grown into a fine young man, Luka.” His tone has grown quiet, almost emotional. “Don't let anyone snuff out that flame of yours.”

Luka blinks and stares. He can’t help but feel uneasy. “I, uh, won't. What's with all the seriousness all of a sudden?” Luka recognises that look in Oleg’s eyes. He must’ve been mulling over something before coming to speak with him.

“Ahh, well,” Oleg chuckles, retracting his hand. “I suppose it comes with growing old, huh? I'm starting to see myself in you, and I can't help but be a little sentimental, that's all.”

“Really? How so?” A burst of warmth flares through Luka's chest. Compliments are commonplace for him, but to receive them from Oleg? He makes sure to treasure each and every one. His heart pounds in anticipation of whatever Oleg's about to say…

“Well, of course! For one, you've grown very handsome.”

Oh.

“Wha–?” Luka playfully smacks his shoulder. “Don't use this as an opportunity to flatter yourself!” Though he tries to hide it, his smile morphs into a grimace. “I thought you were going to say I was strong, or brave, or something.”

Oleg takes a moment to observe Luka, his smile softening as it loses its playfulness. “You are, Luka. You are.”

Luka can't help the warmth that rushes to his cheeks, and a bright smile creeps onto his face. “You mean it? Thank you, sir. Really.” 

Oleg returns the smile, a certain fondness in his eyes as he regards Luka. He’s reminiscent of a proud dad, and the thought only fuels his joy. If only Father could see him right now.

“The match starts in less than half an hour.” Oleg gestures to the ring in the centre of the room. Luka follows his movement, eyeing the huge, metal cage. It’s one he has come to grow familiar with; he’s fought within it countless of times, battling against all kinds of people. He's remembered all their faces, and he can’t help but reminisce on everything leading up to this point: the wins, the losses, the proud smiles and regretful tears.

He draws his attention back to Oleg when he bumps his fist against Luka’s mechanical shoulder, an encouraging grin stretching across his face. “Make us proud, kid.”

Luka's heart swells. Oleg depends on him. The children, too – everyone. He'd be a fool to shy away from this now.

“You bet I will,” he declares.

This is it. Everything's riding on this.

“Now,” Oleg starts, patting Luka’s back and ushering him away from the crowd, “let’s go and make final preparations–”

“Help!”

The doors to the Fight Club swing open, slamming against the walls with a deafening rattle, and a man stumbles inside, wheezing for air. “We need fighters. There’re rogue automatons in the town area!”

“What?” Luka’s heart hammers in his chest, every fibre of his being screaming to jump into action. The people are in danger. He needs to go – to defend them. What fighter would he be if he couldn't do that?

The crowds within the club rush outside, eager to witness the source of all the commotion. “Master Oleg, I have to go help!”

Although Luka prepares to bolt out of the building, Oleg’s hand darts forward, catching his wrist. Puzzled, Luka turns back. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, just,” Oleg sighs, sending Luka an honest glance. “I wouldn’t want you to miss the fight. It’s a Fight Club rule, remember? Match times are fixed.”

Sensing Oleg’s apprehension, Luka scoffs, managing a reassuring grin. “Are you underestimating me, sir? I’ll handle this in ten minutes flat. No – five!”

Oleg regards him for a quiet moment, a thoughtful look passing over him. But it’s gone in an instant, and he sighs, releasing him. “Of course you will,” he agrees eventually. “Alright. I'll be waiting. Off you go.”

Before he can even finish his utterance, Luka has turned on his heel and bolted outside, his every step filled with power, energy, and determination.

Upon arriving at the scene, Luka grimaces. There are so many automatons – tall ones, small ones, and everything in between – rampaging Boulder Town, with their robust metallic frames frustratingly efficient at wracking havoc. Lasers zap at walls, shooting perfect holes through buildings. Bullets are strewn about, narrowly missing the heads of civilians as members of Wildfire guide them to safe places. 

Luka grits his teeth, eyes darting around the hectic scene, overwhelmed by the decision of who to help first, when his eyes land on a young girl. Her face is red and wet with tears as she cowers on the ground, seemingly having tripped. Her small body trembles uncontrollably, even more so as a larger automaton approaches her, readying its cannon.

Luka wastes no time in darting forward, a blazing ball of determination, as he readies his fist and charges up a punch. He will never hesitate to punish those that intend to harm innocents – especially not defenceless children.

That’s why, as he gets closer, he’s struck with bewilderment as his movements begin to slow. His legs don’t cooperate with him, and it feels as though he’s straining every muscle just to travel a few feet. 

He tries to shake himself out of this daze, focusing his attention on the task at hand. The girl is in danger. All he needs to do is put this robot out of commission.

He uses his momentum, thrusting his fist forward and slamming it against the metal frame of the robot, smoothly delivering a punch that should send it flying. Except.

Except.

The robot doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Gingerly, Luka retracts his hand, and blanches at the realisation that he hasn’t made so much as a dent in its armour. It’s a tiny, pathetic scrape that seems to taunt him.

As if infuriated by Luka’s interference, it whirrs even louder than before, startling both him and the girl behind him.

With wild eyes, he whirls to face her. “Get out of here!” he yells. She nods and scrambles to her feet, though her legs continue to shake. 

Once she’s out of sight, he turns to watch the robot again. He’s oblivious as to why – and it frustrates him to no end – but he’s grown impossibly weak. Still, he’ll do whatever he can. He’ll squeeze out every drop of his strength if it means he can protect even a single citizen from harm.

The robot adjusts its cannon, snapping it to face Luka’s direction. He flinches at the abrupt movement, though he stands his ground, raising his fists.

He’ll take whatever it gives him. He’ll beat it to a pulp – until it’s nothing but severed wires and a crushed lump of metal on the ground. A useless thing.

At least, that's what he wishes he could do. With every fleeting second, the strength seems to zap from his muscles, leaving him fatigued, unfocused. In fact it's a miracle he can even hold up his own weight with how unusually fragile he feels.

It's all he can do to muster a weak glare at the robot and its massive cannon as his eyelids droop and his legs give way, succumbing to his instincts…

A sudden blur of purple fills his vision, and he perks up. In the blink of an eye, the robot has been slashed in half, its whirring dying down as it crumples to the ground with a tremendous thud. Thick black smoke rises from its wound, alongside flickering amber sparks.

His saviour plants her foot over the robot corpse, wielding her scythe close to her. She regards him with a look that’s a mixture of confusion and… surprisingly, concern. “Looks like your punches have lost their firepower. Do you really expect to win the final match like this, Luka?”

He scoffs, feigning confidence. “That was a one-off. I just… got unlucky. I’m perfectly fine, Seele.” He fights to hide the trembling in his limbs, and the weariness in his eyes. He honestly feels like he’s on the brink of collapse. But he can’t just admit that, can he? 

It wouldn’t have mattered. Seele doesn’t look convinced either way. 

The clamour around them doesn’t cease, missiles firing this way and that, lasers shot in every direction. Thankfully, most of the civilians have evacuated by now. Members of Wildfire have been deployed to deal with the automatons, with much success. One by one, the robots fall. They aren’t as strong as anticipated. (Luka’s just so damn weak, it’s pitiful.)

“Well,” Seele sighs, stepping off of the robot. “If you say so. If I’m not wrong, the match should be starting in about… ten or so minutes? You should head back to the Fight Club. We’ll finish the job, so don’t worry.” She glances somewhere behind him, and cocks her head towards there. “Look, an employee’s here to collect you.”

Luka turns to meet this employee. He recognises him as the bony man that had offered him the bottle of water from before. In an attempt to be polite, he manages a friendly smile – at least, as friendly as a smile can get when he’s fighting every muscle in his face to form it. 

He sends a final nod Seele’s way. “I’m counting on you.”

She purses her lips, returning the nod, and in an instant she’s swinging her scythe and zooming across the ground, promptly taking down another automaton in a flash of purple.

Luka turns to the employee with a curt nod. The man lingers close to him as they walk, as if somehow anticipating that Luka would lose his balance.

He does. 

After a few mere steps, he staggers, instinctively reaching out to support himself against the employee. “I’m– sorry,” Luka mumbles, doing everything in his power to right himself, except… he has no power. He feels as weak and helpless as a leaf in a snowstorm. He hates it. He hates feeling so useless. The weight of failing to save that child still tugs at him.

Thankfully, the employee is understanding. He wraps Luka’s arm around his shoulder, and curls his slender arm around Luka’s waist, guiding him through the barren streets. Luka’s lucky the civilians aren’t around, because he can’t bear the thought of them witnessing him so… so pathetic.

Forget that. How can he even fight in this state? He can’t even walk, let alone throw a punch – let alone win.

He doesn’t even have the time to mull over the match. The employee suddenly makes a left turn into a narrow street. Then a right turn into an alleyway. 

It’s dark and smells horrific. There are piles of garbage bags lining the walls.

Luka hesitates, peering up at the employee. He ignores the fact that it takes all his strength to lift his neck. “The Fight Club… isn’t this way, is it?”

The employee doesn’t spare him a glance, eyes locked ahead of them. His cheeks are sunken, and his nose bridge is high and sharp, securely supporting a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. “No, it is. This is a shortcut.”

Luka hums impassively, too exhausted to argue with him, even though he knows very well that there is no shortcut. 

It’s when he looks ahead of them when he blanches. 

It’s a dead end.

The alley leads to a high brick wall.

Why are they here? Wait–

Luka glances up at the man again, alarm settling into him.

Who is this guy? He’s fought in the Fight Club for years now, and he’s never seen this man working there. 

“Hey–” Luka starts. He never gets the chance to finish his sentence. 

The man shoves him into the wall.

A pained cry erupts from Luka’s throat, the impact shooting pain up his spine. He’s helpless to stop himself from crumpling to the ground, trembling from the aftershocks of the attack.

Luka doesn’t have the strength to look up at the man anymore, his head hanging low. 

A rough hand tugs his hair backwards, forcing Luka's head to snap back, his wavering blue eyes helpless to do anything but watch as the man spits on his face. It’s warm and gross, and Luka grimaces as it slides down his cheek. “What are you–?”

“I am so sick of you,” the man seethes, a devilish scowl wide across his narrow face. 

Luka’s eyes widen, his heart stuttering. He knows there are those that dislike him. It’s inevitable – he has been the consecutive champion for months now. But, god, if it doesn’t hurt to hear it face to face. He’s grown so accustomed to people seeing him as a symbol of hope.

Before Luka can even reply, the man’s grip on his hair tightens. Any words that are about to leave his mouth devolve into a quiet whimper. 

“Let me get this straight. You were about to earn 150,000 shield upon winning that tournament. You could’ve chosen to spend it on absolutely anything.” The man’s frown only deepens, as if he can barely contain his rage. “And yet, you decide to donate it to charity. Are you fucking insane? Are you so desperate to look good that you’d throw away that much money?”

Luka furrows his brows, dull rage bubbling inside him. “It’s… It’s not ‘throwing away’ money. It’ll go to a good cause. And I’m not trying to look good – I’ve always tried to provide help for the children–”

“Ugh!” The man’s tugging grows rougher, and Luka cries out. “What is with you? Children this, children that. You infuriate me with that goody-goody bullshit.” At long last, his grip relents, and Luka’s head drops. Overcome with discomfort and unease, his breathing grows ragged. 

Unfortunately, the man isn’t keen on providing reprieve. After mere moments, the man lands a forceful kick to Luka’s side. A raw yell rips itself from his throat, like sandpaper with how unpleasant it feels. “I’ve long since had enough with your crap, so I just had to get involved myself,” the man sneers. 

“Listen here, pal. You’ve probably noticed weird things happening to your body. Ain’t that right?”

Tears well up in Luka’s eyes. 

Yes, he has. Yes, he hates it. He hates, hates, hates being weak, and pitiful, and useless, and–

“Remember drinking something?”

Luka freezes. His brows furrow. 

And then, all at once, everything starts to click. The truth comes crashing down on him, so violently and abruptly that he struggles to breathe through the bitter realisation lodged in his throat.

In a fit of rage, he raises his head. His hot tears spill down his cheeks. “The water,” he spits. “You gave me that water. You drugged it, didn’t you?”

The man looks way too smug as he chuckles to himself, clapping slowly. Each one rings out throughout the alley, sharp and loud in the stifling silence. “Detective Luka Strongarm over here. Not bad.”

“Why?” he yells. “Right before the match… It’s not– It’s not fair!”

“Oh, but it is!” the man retorts, his voice cold and sharp and lashing, and Luka flinches. Weak.

“I did everything in my power to make sure you wouldn’t win that damned match. That’s what I promised your opponent.”

Luka lowers his head, unwilling to wallow in defeat but simultaneously unable to do anything else. His entire body throbs with pain – physical and emotional. Knowing that this entire thing has been rigged against him since the beginning… It's crushing.

And if this continues on the way it does, he'll miss the match.

He can't miss the match.

He has to do something – call someone. Let them know he's in trouble. He would've hesitated before; he hates being a burden, having people worry about him so unnecessarily.

But he feels horrible about this. The dread he feels now is unlike any he's felt before.

Then he remembers that his phone is back at the Fight Club, alongside his other belongings.

He's trapped. He's alone.

He just prays, with all his might, that someone realises he's missing.

“I happen to know someone that can control the automatons’ behaviour,” the man continues on. “All it took was the flip of a switch for them to go rogue. It was the perfect plan to lure you out.”

Oh.

Oh, how Luka wishes he could kill this guy.

“You’re deranged,” he says, repulsed. “People got hurt. Homes were destroyed. You–” Luka cuts himself off with a horrified sob. “Fuck you. Fuck. You. I hate you! You won’t get away with this!”

The alleyway falls silent, save for Luka’s ragged breathing.

The man shatters the silence, his quiet voice overflowing with spite. “You’re strong, Luka, I’ll give you that. But you wanna know where your weakness truly lies?” He leans down, and Luka can see his face in his peripheral. He can see his wide, blissful smirk. It sends a shiver down his spine.

The man speaks slowly, his voice trembling with contained exhilaration. 

“You’re too good.”

Then with a practised movement, the man steps backward, before stomping the heel of his boot onto Luka’s kneecap.

Crack.

Luka screams. It’s an ugly sound, broken and primal and filled with pure agony. Despite the weakening effects of the drug, he writhes around wildly, cradling his leg as his fingers violently tremble. 

His leg bends unnaturally. 

His leg, which he’s relied on countless times. His leg, which was once so strong and powerful, capable of delivering the most precise and forceful kicks.

His leg, which is now mangled and hurting and broken.

“Why?” he cries. “Why did you– fuck!”

“Honestly,” the man tuts, “do I have to spell everything out for you? I must say, you aren’t the brightest man.” He rests his foot on Luka’s knee, digging his heel into it. He whimpers loudly, shaking his head feverishly – a wordless plea for him to get it off, please get it off, it hurts it hurts it hurts

As if spurred on by Luka’s panic, the man rocks his foot back and forth, sending waves of sharp pain shooting up his leg, eliciting sobs with every movement. “Like I said, I was willing to do everything to get you to lose, and that happened to involve taking away your most prized asset. I mean, come on. What’s a fighter without a leg?”

Luka couldn’t care less about the man’s blabbering. The pain in his knee is searing hot, and it’s all he can zero in on. His mind races at a million miles an hour as he struggles to come to terms with just what he’s lost, with a single stomp of a foot.

Could he fight again?

The children still need him.

He has to fight again.

He doubts he can even stand.

He needs to fight again.

He can’t stop crying.

Tears flood from his eyes, his gaze locked onto his shattered knee as it crumbles impossibly beneath the man’s heel. His body shudders uncontrollably with frantic sobs, and he scrabbles weakly at the man’s leg, a futile attempt to get him to stop.

“Just look at you,” the man chuckles. “This is the Underworld’s renowned boxing champion? I mean really. So much for being a figure of hope.” Finally, the man steps off of Luka’s knee, but the pain still lingers. It’s a constant. It hurts and hurts and hurts, and will not stop hurting.

Before him, the man crouches down, his cold, bony fingers brushing stray strands of red hair from Luka's eyes. He hums appreciatively as his filthy gaze rakes across his face. Almost as if he were appraising him. “But I must say, I do prefer this look on you. Despair suits you perfectly, Luka. You should turn to it more often.”

Despair…?

No. Luka will never turn to despair.

The flame within him, though severely weakened, still flickers and burns.

This isn’t over.

With all the strength he can conjure up, Luka raises his head, fixes a scathing glare, and spits. 

It lands on the man’s nose – right between the eyes – and despite himself, Luka can’t help but feel smug at the sight of the man’s bewilderment. 

But the feeling vanishes just as quickly when bewilderment turns into hilarity.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, swiping the spit from his face with a smooth flourish. “To think you still have some fight left in you. I’m impressed.”

Luka swallows thickly as the man leans in closer, until his crooked, bony face fills his entire field of vision. His eyes are dark and sunken and swirling with barely stifled fury.

“You just can’t get enough of suffering, can you?”

Thin fingers curl around Luka’s mechanical wrist. Another set wraps around his metal bicep.

Luka’s gaze flickers down to his prosthetic arm, brows furrowed. Just what is this guy planning?

It’s when the man begins to tug at his wrist when the cogs begin to turn. 

Luka’s heart drops.

There’s no way.

“Wait–” Luka stares up at the man again. His heart pounds against his ribcage with the strength and ferocity of a hammer against an anvil. Sweat pours from his every pore. “Please. No. Don’t, please.”

The man ignores him, his narrowed eyes focused on the task at hand. The strength of his tugging amplifies. Panic overrides every emotion in Luka’s body.

“Please!” he yells, shaking his head, his eyes glued to his arm, hoping and praying that the steel is strong enough to withstand the man’s insistent efforts. 

He’s always had faith in this arm. If he’s the symbol of hope for the Underworld, then his arm is the symbol of hope for himself. It was gifted to him – an offering of a second chance at life. A chance to save the people he wants to save, to help the people he wants to help.

“Don’t!” Luka cries out, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “Don’t… don’t take this away from me…”

It’s all I have.

Please.

His begging falls on deaf ears.

A snap resonates through the cool night air.

“Final call for Luka Strongarm?”

Those are the words Seele hears as she hurries into the Fight Club. As soon as she registers them, a pang of concern hits her in full force.

She knew it. Something was wrong.

The crowd whispers amongst themselves, confusion scrawled across their faces. They know just how much Luka's been anticipating this. They know how much it means to him. Everyone does.

If there's one thing Seele's one hundred percent sure about, it's that Luka wouldn't miss this match for the world. 

But the cage holds just one fighter: a half-naked, burly man whose arms are folded over his chest, glancing around the room with a smug grin on his face. “I guess he won't be turning up,” he announces. “Don't suppose this means I win by default?”

Seele grits her teeth, making her way through the back of the crowd, if only to get a better angle.

The referee glances between the cage, and the crowd, and the Fight Club’s open doors, thoroughly scanning the surroundings for that familiar head of red hair. Seele knows it'd be futile. If Luka really were here, he would've made his presence known in the most explosive, exaggerated way possible.

It's strange. Without Luka here – without his bright energy, his radiating confidence – the club is awfully quiet. 

She misses him. Without him, the Club is somehow even less bearable. The stench of alcohol and sweat is abhorrent.

After a final few moments of silence, the referee relents with a sigh, raising his hand. “As Luka is not present, the winner of the Boulder Town Fight Club’s Special Tournament is Dominick… by default.”

The man – Dominick – is quick to celebrate, throwing his arms up with a gleeful holler. His eyes are wild and maniacal as he exclaims his excitement.

The crowd is silent. The only sounds within the room are the man's unabashed cheers and the creaking of the rusty metal door of the cage, as an employee enters to offer him the trophy.

When the crowd filters out of the building later that evening, muttering under their breath, Seele knows what they're thinking. Only because she's thinking the exact same thing. 

Luka deserved this win.

Seele leans against the wall of the empty Fight Club, arms crossed. She can't tear her eyes from the cage, almost able to picture Luka's ever energetic figure there, glistening under the spotlight like the born fighter he is. She can imagine his excited, child-like joy as he celebrates his victory. She can hear his voice as he dedicates his win to the children.

Dammit, Luka, she thinks, where the hell are you?

“Seele,” a familiar voice calls, pulling her from her train of thought. Oleg appears at her side, the anxiety on his face mirroring her own. “You've seen him, haven't you?”

Her frown deepens, her gaze dropping to the floor. “He was helping defeat the rogue automatons. I mean, well,” she laughs soullessly, “more like he tried to. He… struggled, to put it lightly.”

Oleg taps his feet on the floor, clearly growing restless. Seele can't blame him. Nothing adds up. “Struggled? Against automatons?”

She shrugs, meeting his eyes. They share her unease. “That's exactly what I was thinking. It's not like him at all.” After all, he'd had the guts to challenge Svarog, of all people, and he's basically the king of automatons. Being able to stand his ground against him wasn't an ordinary feat.

Oleg rubs a hand over his face, gaze darting around the Fight Club. He must feel it too – Luka's absence.

“I'm worried for the kid,” he utters. “He said he would return. I don't understand where he could've gone off to.”

That's when Seele perks up, Oleg's words sparking the memory of something important. 

“Wait. There was… an employee with him. They were supposed to head to the Fight Club together.” She stares at Oleg as the clues line up in her mind. “Do you think…”

It can't be.

The employee wouldn't have tried to stall for time, would he?

Probably not; Luka wouldn't let it happen so easily.

Still, she can't help but assume the worst.

It isn't long before she makes up her mind. She sends Oleg a brief nod and a look of reassurance. “I'm going to go find him.”

Oleg purses his lips, returning the gesture. “Good luck.” There's equal parts hope and uncertainty in his eyes, and Seele only hopes she can quell the old man's worry. He can't afford to be stressing over things like this.

With that, she hurries out into the town, retracing her steps. 

As she dashes through the streets, weaving through alleys, she makes sure to keep an eye and an ear out for any trace of Luka. Although she had feigned confidence in Oleg's presence, she couldn't be more uncertain of Luka's whereabouts. 

He'd been weak the last time she saw him. She can't rule out the idea of him being taken advantage of by that employee, as much as it hurts.

But this means he could be anywhere. And Boulder Town isn't exactly small.

It's a good thing she's efficient at searching. She thanks Hook for roping her into her hide-and-seek shenanigans. She'd be forced to search for the Moles, oftentimes with Luka hiding amongst them.

When she'd find Luka, he'd jump out at her, a bright, mischievous smile on his face. “Did I scare you, Seele? I did, didn't I?” There'd be a twinkle in his eyes as he stares at her. It'd be one of playfulness, but also one of fondness. It would remind her just how dearly he cares about her, despite their bickering.

She grits her teeth. 

Thinking about Luka is way too much for her to handle right now.

She just wants to know if he's okay.

After what feels like hours, there's still no sign of him. Seele's certain she's travelled through every nook and cranny of the town. Her legs ache, and she thinks she could fall asleep standing at this point.

Could he have been transported elsewhere?

If that were the case, it could take days to find him.

The thought weighs down on Seele, and she can no longer find the resolve within her to continue her rapid pace. Her movements grow slow and sluggish, her feet dragging against the cobbled floor. 

She wasn't fast enough.

She failed.

Shallow breaths escape her, and she leans against the wall beside her, desperately catching her breath. She's never felt so helpless. 

Luka infuriates her, definitely. There are times when he gets on her last nerve, pissing her off to no end.

But he's still her teammate. He's still her friend.

She cares about him – she can't help that.

And it's so frustrating, being unable to do anything to find him, when he could be in danger.

Hot tears well up in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. But she can't afford to cry right now. She has to be strong for Luka. For both of them.

With this thought in mind, she tips her head back, blinking back her tears – suppressing any and all weakness within her – before pushing herself off the wall, and continuing her aimless trek through the streets.

That's when she hears something.

A choked noise.

She stops dead in her tracks, holding her breath. She strains to hear more.

Another one, faint and feeble, reaches her ears. It sounds like a sob.

She springs into action immediately, whirling around in search for the source of the noise. Her eyes land on the narrow opening of an alleyway, down a discreet, barren street.

How had she missed that before? 

She curses at herself for being so careless.

Without a moment's hesitation, she darts to the entrance. With just a glance inside, it's impossible to discern anything. The darkness within is so impossibly thick, and no matter how much she may squint through it, it's completely black. An abyss that calls for her.

She rests a hand against the wall, stepping inside, when she trips on a trash bag.

Its contents are hard and heavy, falling to the ground with a harsh thunk. The sound echoes, and she vaguely registers that it sounds metallic.

She peers down at it. The bag hasn't been tied shut, so whatever was inside it has rolled out onto the floor. She cocks her head curiously to get a better angle when it seems to reflect the streetlights behind her.

She recognizes it instantly.

Her heart drops.

She slaps a hand over her mouth.

And she screams.

It's a metal forearm.

Luka's arm.

Luka's arm, broken.

Broken, and carelessly tossed into a garbage bag.

Seele hurries deeper into the alley, heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears. 

Alarm bells sound in her mind.

Dread sinks like a boulder in her stomach.

This is worse than whatever she'd imagined.

“Luka!” she calls, breaths leaving her frantically. “Luka, I'm–”

“Seele…?”

Her heart skips a beat as she finally receives a reply. Her head snaps in the direction of that small, hoarse voice.

Through the darkness, she catches sight of him.

And she swallows the rising bile in her throat.

Falling to her knees.

Luka's just… sitting there, slumped against the wall. His face is littered with cuts and bruises, bleeding purple and black. The brilliant blue of his eyes has faded. They are empty and dull as they stare at her.

All that remains of his metal arm is his bicep. The other half is… well, she knows where it is. She doesn't know if he'd prefer to see it. 

And oh, god, his leg. It's bent in a way it shouldn't be able to bend, his knee disfigured and his foot facing inward. 

Whoever got their hands on Luka has thoroughly broken him, in every sense of the word.

Seele sobs into her hands. “Oh, Luka,” is all she can manage, distraught by the thought of how much he must've had to endure, all by himself.

How long has he been here, suffering with no one to call out to? 

He must've been terrified…

Worrying at her lip, she scoots closer, reaching out to brush the hair from his eyes, when he flinches back. 

His eyes widen. 

His breaths come sharper, shallower. 

She immediately retracts her hand, her heart clenching.

“Luka,” she repeats, “it's just me. It's Seele. I'm not going to hurt you.”

He blinks, the clarity in his eyes suddenly returning. His trembling breaths even out, and he peers at her through wide eyes. As if he were seeing her for the first time, all over again. “Seele. S-Seele,” he whispers, her name on his lips like a prayer.

She nods, straining to form a reassuring smile. It mustn't be convincing, considering the tears that now spill down her cheeks. “Mhm.”

She outstretches her hand again, hesitant with the fear of startling him again. This time, he doesn't back away. This time, his gaze darts between her fingers and her eyes, almost pleadingly.

At last, she touches him. She combs his hair, before resting her palm on his cheek. He's cold. Cold, when all he's ever been is warm. Fire personified. 

But all of that is gone now.

She will kill whoever got their hands on him.

The thought fizzles away when Luka nestles against her palm, his eyes fluttering shut, like a stray puppy that has never felt the loving touch of another.

It's as if he's forgotten what it's like to feel touch that doesn't hurt.

She leans in closer, resting her forehead on his, feeling his breath ghost against her skin.

Luka's alive.

Broken, but alive.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispers. She brings her other arm up to cradle him close to her. “I'm sorry, Luka.”

He buries his face in Seele's neck, breathing her in. Wet droplets fall against her skin.

Her heart stutters; she’s never seen him cry before.

“Seele,” he mumbles, his body fully trembling against her with the effort to accommodate the helpless sobs. “Seele…”

She hums inquisitively, running a hand through his hair. “Luka, what is it?”

He sniffles, a tiny whimper escaping him.

“How… How can the world be so cruel?”

When Seele pulls away, Luka feels numb. His vocal cords go slack, as do his muscles. He's nothing but a ragdoll, broken and discarded.

Everything passes by in a haze. 

Footsteps approach.

Then there are hands on him, lifting him, jostling him. He imagines it's his attacker. He can't even scream.

Voices murmur, faces blur past.

He can't find the strength to identify them.

The next thing he knows he's being laid on a bed. He involuntarily melts into the mattress, tension finally seeping from his muscles. 

At the mere prospect of being able to relax, after everything he's endured, Luka can't help but let his guard down. His eyes promptly roll back and he slips into unconsciousness.

The dark, scary world outside him fades away. 

For a moment, he forgets his worries: his regrets of being unable to participate in the final match; his fear of having caused a ruckus; and his disappointment of not being strong enough, despite all the training he's undergone.

It all vanishes as he's submerged in the abyss.

His pain, too. It all fades, washed away by the current of his thoughts. The throbbing pain in his head, on his face, the searing pain in his leg…

but oddly enough, the pain in his heart remains.

The mere thought of having to give up fighting is more agonising than any cut or bruise he's sustained in his career. 

Fighting for the children is all he knows – it's all he's lived for, all this time. Without it, is there really any reason to go on?

What can he do if not fight?

Who is he if not a protector of justice? A symbol of hope?

He sinks deeper and deeper into the darkness, no longer willing nor able to flail in the suffocating depths of his mind.

Without fighting, he is nothing.

Perhaps it would be best for him to merge with this nothingness. It’s quiet and peaceful here.

…

He tries. 

He tries to become one with the darkness – he really does.

But there’s something stopping him. Something nagging at him to fight it.

It’s strange. Even now, when he has nothing, his first instinct is to fight. Luka didn’t know he had it in him to continue fighting.

Part of him can’t help but find the idea amusing.

Within him, a feeling of warmth grows. 

It’s been a while since he’s felt such a thing. Such warm feelings. He’s almost forgotten what it was like.

It’s nice. He can’t deny that, he supposes.

And he doesn’t know when, or how, but the darkness around him has receded, replaced by a faint, warm glow. It’s pleasant. It calms him.

He finds that he much prefers this light over the suffocating darkness from before. It’s only when he’s surrounded by this warmth when he realises that he could never fit in with the shadows.

That he was born to thrive under the light. 

Whether that solely be the Fight Club’s spotlight, he isn’t so sure anymore.

He just knows he wants to keep living.

He wants to be.

As if the thought sparked a chain reaction, Luka is suddenly hit with a flurry of sensations. Tingling, tossing, falling, flying, as if he were caught in a hurricane of emotions.

But what he feels most prominently is a tugging – a warm hand, curling around his body and drawing him closer and closer to the source of the light above him. It gets brighter and brighter, illuminating his entire field of vision, and Luka has to squint to avoid being blinded.

In an instant, he’s being dragged downwards. The air is knocked out of his lungs, and he jerks at the abrupt sensation.

Then there’s a weight on him. It’s comforting and grounding, reminding him what it feels like to feel. It takes a moment for him to register that he’s back on that same bed.

He’s back in his body.

He cracks his eyes open, grateful for the dim light of the room. He’s staring up at a bare ceiling, blinking slowly as fatigue lingers in his every muscle.

The weight on him shifts. Luka peers down, shocked to find a head of long, yellow hair pressed against his chest. Small arms embrace his body, one of her hands curled around his severed metal arm, even in slumber.

His heart flutters.

Testing his mobility, he clenches his fingers, bunching up the sheets beneath him. At last, he can move, unrestrained by the effects of any drug. It’s freeing.

He lifts his trembling hand and brings it up to Hook’s back, patting it gently.

She stirs awake almost instantly, raising her head to peer up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. She takes a moment to register what she’s seeing. 

All at once, she perks up, an infectious smile growing on her round cheeks. “Luka! Thank goodness, you’re awake! I-I mean,” she clears her throat, replacing her excited grin with a smug one, “I knew you were going to be okay. Hook wasn’t worried for a second.”

Drawn to the commotion, Natasha appears from behind the curtain, her gaze softening as soon as she lays her eyes on Luka’s face. She approaches his side as calm as ever, gently reaching out and placing a hand on his head. There’s caution in her every move, as if anticipating his uneasiness towards unexpected touch. “Hey, Luka. How are you feeling?”

He attempts a smile, though it comes out smaller, more timid than he wants it to. “I could be worse. It’s good to see you, Nat.”

She takes a moment to smooth out his hair – and Luka can’t help but lean into the touch – before retracting her hand, ruffling Hook’s hair with it. “Hook came by everyday, waiting and waiting for you to open your eyes.” She gazes down at the young girl with a fondness Luka can’t help but share. “She’d tell you stories about her day, about what’s going on outside. But, more often than not, that would lead to tears–”

“Hey!” Hook hops off the bed, folding her arms. “Hook didn’t cry! I was brave, Natasha! Don’t lie to Luka!”

Natasha chuckles, resting a hand on her hip. On her face is a look of amusement as she regards the child. “Of course, Hook.” Her gaze flickers to Luka, her expression turning contemplative. Luka knows that look. There’s something she needs to say.

“Hook,” he says, shooting her a smile as wide as he can muster, though his facial muscles don’t seem to want to cooperate. “Thank you for waiting for me. I feel better now, so there’s no need to worry about me, alright? Go and have fun out there.”

Hook glances down at Luka’s leg, which rests in a thick white cast. Her lip trembles as it curls into a frown. “Are you sure?”

Natasha crouches beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I need to have a quick word with Luka. As soon as we’re done, I’ll let you know. Is that okay?”

She tries to rely on her usual puppy-eyed look, clearly desperate to spend more time with Luka. But Natasha has never been one to fall for her tricks, and this occasion is no exception. With a relenting sigh, Hook turns towards Luka again. “Hook will be back. The Moles will have a meeting, now that our honorary member is awake.”

Luka nods, unable to help but find her dedication endearing. Hook is the same as always. “Of course.”

She bids her final farewells and dashes out of the clinic, leaving the two of them in silence.

Natasha pulls up a chair and seats herself by the foot of Luka’s bed. “I’m sure you must have quite a few questions, but I’d like to give you a run-down of your body’s condition first.”

Luka nods, hanging on to her every word.

“You’ve been out for five days. You have two fractured ribs, a minor head injury, and a severe knee fracture. I’ve provided you with a rib brace. If it’s too constricting or uncomfortable, please let me know.” 

She gestures to the bedside table, on which a small plate of tablets and a glass of water rest. “You may experience headaches or dizziness during the next two weeks. I’ve prescribed you with simple painkillers to deal with this in the meantime.

“And…” She trails off, glancing down at Luka’s cast. Luka can see Natasha attempt to string together the right words in her mind. “You’ll need to wear this cast for at least four weeks. Only after then may you perform weight-bearing activity, but only with the assistance of a crutch.”

Luka’s heart pounds. “And how long until I can fight again?”

Natasha tries to suppress a grimace, but her efforts prove futile. Luka’s been watching her too intently to miss something even as subtle as that. “Considering the current state of your knee, I would estimate… after at least six months.”

Oh.

“Wait.” Luka blinks. “That’s… shorter than I’d expected.”

Natasha sighs, and Luka thinks he can spot relief on her features. “I suppose so, all things considered. Though it seems I’ve greatly underestimated your patience. My apologies, Luka.”

He chuckles, resting his head back against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling. “What, you thought I was gonna freak out over not being able to fight for six months? I’m not a child anymore, Nat.” 

Perhaps if he were younger – more naive – he’d be distraught by the news. Fighting has been all he’s ever known, after all.

But he’s been through enough to know that there’s more to life. There are so many ways to help others outside of fighting. Likewise, there are other ways to fight. Not being able to compete in the Fight Club isn’t the be all and end all, and he knows that now.

“I’ll take this as an opportunity to help people in every other possible way in the meantime,” he says. “When I look at it that way, I think I'd be willing to wait for as long as I have to before fully recovering.”

Natasha’s silent for a moment. Luka peers over at her, and he’s startled by her pensive expression.

“You sound… awfully wise, Luka,” she remarks. Luka breathes out a laugh.

“Well, what can I say? I guess Master Oleg’s finally rubbing off on me. He told me that himself, actually. Do you really think it’s true?”

The door to the clinic slams open, and Seele comes rushing in, making a beeline for Luka’s bed. Oleg comes jogging after her.

Seele halts right beside him, unable to tear her gaze away from his face, her expression unreadable. 

Luka blinks up at her, managing a soft smile. “Hi, Seele.”

Her eyebrows pinch together. “You’re okay?”

He hums. “I’d like to think so.”

“You’re not depressed?”

“Uh, sorry, what?”

“Ugh!” Seele flicks his forehead, though there isn’t any real force in it. Luka can tell. He’s gotten his fair share of forehead-flicks from her and they hurt. “I spent all this time worrying for nothing! You’re such a headache, Luka.”

Oleg approaches from behind, resting a hand on Seele’s shoulder. “Seele was very brave. After she found you, she immediately alerted Natasha and I. And believe me, I almost went into shock when I saw the condition you were in. I don’t know how Seele did it.”

Seele huffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Someone had to do it. And well, I was more than a little worried. I mean, it’s just, uh. I’ve never really seen you cry before, so...”

Luka sighs. He knew he shouldn’t have let his guard down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“What?” Seele shakes her head, her expression morphing into one of irritation. “No, I wasn’t saying you had to apologise, you idiot. What makes you think I wanted you to–” She cuts herself off, groaning. “Why are you like this?”

Natasha steps forward, frowning. “Luka, there’s nothing wrong with expressing your true emotions. It doesn’t make you any less brave – in fact, you’re so strong for having endured this. On another note, I think you'd be pleased to know that the problem has been dealt with. I’m glad to say justice has been served.”

He perks up, gaze flickering between them all. “What? Wait, what happened?”

Oleg clears his throat. “Well, to put it simply, the perpetrator has been found. He’s been taken into custody by the Silvermane Guards, as has Dominick, your opponent, for conspiring against you.”

Seele sighs. “A real shame. I was so tempted to give those guys the beating they deserved.”

Luka huffs, meeting her eyes with a light smile. “Do you think they’d let you if I granted permission? I’m the victim, after all.”

Oleg raises a hand, a little unsettled. “Okay, let’s not encourage violence, you two.”

“Mm, so,” Luka peers up at them, “what about the prize money? What happened to it?”

Natasha pats his shoulder, offering him a sad smile. “The Fight Club reclaimed it. There was no true winner, after all.”

Luka tuts dejectedly, staring up at the ceiling. Even after all this, he still hasn’t been able to do anything for the children. He may have come to terms with his prolonged recovery period, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to forgive himself for this.

“I’m not done speaking. Don’t go sulking now, Luka,” Natasha tells him. When he meets her eyes, he’s surprised by the sudden cheerfulness in them. 

He nods at her, signalling for her to continue. She does, after sharing a look with Seele and Oleg, and Luka’s stomach twists in anticipation. He hates being left in the dark. “After the committee heard about what had happened to you, they were willing to put some of the money into replacing your arm.”

His eyes widen. 

He glances at all of them, unable to comprehend what he’s just heard. “Seriously?” 

They look at him with amusement they do little to stifle.

He hasn’t even had the time to mull over how much it would cost to repair his trusty arm. It’s a real treat to know it’s been taken care of before he’s even spared it a thought. 

“I… I mean, wow,” he sighs, unable to suppress the grin that rises to his face. “That’s so thoughtful.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Oleg smiles. “They told us they wanted to do you a favour, for everything you’ve done for them and the community.”

Warmth blossoms in his chest. It’s the same kind of warmth he’d feel after taking a sip from a bowl of warm soup after a cold day, or when he sees hope in the children’s eyes.

It’s the warmth of joy. 

He gets so much joy from the little things in life. He only realises this now, after it had all been stripped away from him.

So this is what it means to live.

“You guys,” Luka says. The three around him pause, and he only realises they’d been deep in conversation when the room falls quiet. “I’m going to recover from this. I’ll bounce back stronger than ever. And when I do…”

He grins. “I won’t stop. I’ll keep moving forward. I’ll endure everything I have to.

“As long as there’s a chance at helping people, I won’t ever give up hope.”

The looks he receives are fond, encouraging. 

Seele looks as exasperated as ever. “There you go again. Why was I even worried in the first place?”

Oleg laughs heartily, ruffling Luka’s hair. “Of course. Have at it, kid.”

Luka doubts he’s ever grinned so wide. He really is surrounded by people that care.

In the comfort of this family, he no longer feels the need to keep up any sort of facade. It’s what encourages him to let his eyes slip shut. His fatigue must’ve caught up with him.

Natasha hums. “I suppose we should let him rest. He’s had a lot to process.”

Seele scoffs. “This’ll be the first time Luka willingly gets some rest. We’d better not take this moment for granted.”

Oleg chuckles. “I wholeheartedly agree, Seele. Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.”

They slip from the clinic, though the warmth conjured up by their presence makes it feel as if they’ve never left.

Luka drifts off into a peaceful slumber, content in the knowledge his pursuit for peace is not over.

He can continue to fight. 

He will continue to fight.

Everything, for the children.