Chapter Text
My name is Nathan.
I won't tell you my last name. Or where I live. Not for security reasons; if you've found this journal then that means you already know who I am.
I’m sure that whatever the media has said about us is a lie. It might a lie in our favour, depending on how things turned out, but I doubt very much that anything you've been told is the whole truth.
I won't tell you who I am because it is irrelevant.
If the war is over then I’m sure that whatever the media has said about us is a lie.
My story started as a young martial artist going a tournament.
I had really wished that it would have been one tournament...
It's hard to know where some stories really start. This is not one of those stories.
It all started on the road...
---
You were on the road for hours, the monotony broken only by the occasional rest stop, the occasional remark from your cousin Bradley, and the quiet hum of the team. You’ve done long trips before. You’re used to it. But this one feels different.
—The Voice of Doubt: Because it is different. This isn’t just another tournament. This is a new life you didn’t ask for.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: Oh, stop being dramatic. It’s just a move. People move all the time.
—The Voice of Cheated: They didn’t tell you. They waited until the last second, and now here you are, stuck in the backseat, staring at the highway, watching your old life disappear behind you.
—The Voice of Determination: And yet, here you are, going to a tournament, fighting, winning. That’s what matters, isn’t it? The fight?
The bus hums along. Bradley, your cousin, nudges you, making some offhand joke that barely registers. He’s only nine, a year younger than you, and always full of energy. The others are talking, some hyping each other up, some staring out the window, lost in their own thoughts.
—The Voice of Social Instinct: You should say something. Laugh. Make a joke back. Pretend this doesn’t bother you.
—The Voice of Cheated: Or don’t. Let them think you’re brooding. Let them think you’re focused. It’s better that way.
—The Voice of Determination: You should be focused. You have matches to win. Who cares where you live as long as you can still fight?
—The Voice of Doubt: You care. Don’t lie to yourself. You care a lot.
You shift in your seat. Your fingers tap against your leg. The weight of the tournament, the move, the suddenness of it all—it sits heavy in your chest.
—The Voice of Determination: You’ll step onto that mat, and none of it will matter. The fight will take over. The noise will fade. You’ll win. You always win.
—The Voice of Doubt: And what if you don’t? What if this time, everything feels wrong? What if you get distracted? What if—
—The Voice of Pragmatism: Then you get back up. You fight again. That’s what you do.
You close your eyes. The road stretches ahead, endless. California waits. The tournament waits. And beyond that—?
—The Voice of Pragmatism: You’ll deal with it when you get there.
—The Voice of Determination: You always do.
The city lights blur past as you finally arrive. The air feels different—warmer, heavier, unfamiliar. The tournament venue looms ahead, banners flapping in the breeze, competitors streaming inside.
—The Voice of Social Instinct: Act normal. Fit in. It’ll be fine.
—The Voice of Resentment: But it’s not fine. You didn’t want this.
—The Voice of Determination: Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Get ready. Fight.
Bradley slaps your back. “Let’s go, Nathan. We got this.” You nod, forcing a smirk. The fight is waiting. And for now, that’s all that matters.
Inside the hotel lobby, your team gathers, some checking their duffel bags, others calling home on payphones lined against the wall. The flickering glow of a vending machine reflects off the tile floor. A teammate, Justin, leans against the counter, fiddling with his Walkman. Like you, he’s ten, and always has music playing.
“Yo, Nathan, you got any extra AA batteries? My tape’s dying.”
You dig through your bag, finding a couple of spare batteries from your Game Boy. “Here,” you say, tossing them over.
“Lifesaver,” Justin grins, swapping them in. The muffled beat of a rock song leaks from his headphones as he presses play.
At the far end of the room, Denise a red head with piercing green eyes, and another ten-year-old on the team, is flipping through a well-worn martial arts magazine, occasionally looking up at the TV bolted to the wall, where an old kung fu movie plays on cable. She catches you looking and raises an eyebrow. “Nervous?”
You shrug. “A little.”
She smirks. “Don’t be. We’ve been training for this all year.”
—The Voice of Doubt: Training doesn’t mean you’ll win.
—The Voice of Determination: But it helps.
Bradley pulls a disposable camera from his pocket, snapping a quick picture of the team. “For memories,” he says. “You know, before we all become famous martial arts champions.”
You chuckle, shaking your head. “Idiot.” The camera flashes, freezing the moment in time.
The tournament is tomorrow. For now, there’s nothing left to do but wait.
------
The day before the tournament is spent training at a nearby gym, perfecting moves, and shaking off travel fatigue. Your team, the Vancouver Scaled Fist, runs through drills, stretching, sparring, adjusting to the new environment.
—The Voice of Determination: One more kick. One more strike. Make every movement count.
After hours of training, the team takes a break. Justin wipes sweat from his forehead. “We should grab some snacks for tomorrow.”
Denise nods. “Yeah, there’s a store down the street.”
The group heads out, passing through the warm California evening. The store is packed with kids from different teams, all preparing for the tournament.Aisles are clogged with kids in gis and team jackets—Texan Tigers, Miami Storm, Phoenix Strikes. Justin shoulders past a pyramid of Gatorade bottles, muttering, “Americans really do everything bigger, huh?”
—The Voice of Cheated: Bigger egos too. Look at these neon gi patches. Who fights in teal?
As you grab a bottle of water and some protein bars, a lanky teenager with a cocky grin steps into your path. He looks older, maybe fifteen, with a California sunburn across his nose. A logo pin glints on his collar: *THE SHARING – EST. 1996.
“Hey, you guys here for the tournament?”
- The Voice of Social Instinct: Say something. Be polite.
—The Voice of Resentment: Or let Justin handle it. This guy reeks of pep rallies and participation trophies.
Justin steps forward, already grinning. “Vancouver Scaled Fist. I’m Justin. That’s Nathan, Denise, and the gremlin—”
“I’m Bradley,” your cousin cuts in, puffing his chest. “I’m in the nine-and-under finals.”
“Tom,” the kid says, sizing him up and then Tom chuckles. “Ever heard of The Sharing?”
Denise squints at his pin. “Is that a cult?”
—The Voice of Pragmatism: She’s not wrong. Check his posture—too relaxed. Practiced.
“Denise!” Justin elbows her, but Tom just laughs louder.
“Nah, it’s like… a leadership club. Camping, volunteer work, teamwork stuff. We’ve got chapters all over the States.” He gestures to a group near the slurpee machine—three kids in identical polo shirts, all grinning a little too wide. “Great way to make friends if you’re new here.”
—The Voice of Doubt: Friends? Or a way to make you stay?
Bradley cranes his neck. “Do you get badges? My cousin Mason’s a Scout in Toronto. He has a whittling badge.”
—The Voice of Cheated: Of course Bradley’s into badges. He’d join a cereal box club if it had shiny stickers.
“Better than badges,” Tom says. “We do survival weekends. Last month, we camped in Big Sur, no tents. Just stars and grit.”
Justin snorts. “Sounds like my rez summers. Except swap ‘stars’ for my cousins setting off fireworks in the parking lot.”
—The Voice of Pragmatism: Justin’s deflecting. Smart. This guy’s fishing for something.
Tom blinks, thrown by the reference to Justin’s Musqueam roots, but plows ahead. “You should come to a meeting. Tuesday nights. We’ve got one here in town.”
Denise flips open her Combat Monthly. “Page 12. ‘Pre-Tournament Socializing Risks Distraction.’ Pass.”
—The Voice of Determination: She’s right. Focus. Fight.
Nathan finally speaks up, arms crossed. “We’re only here for the tournament.”
—The Voice of Cheated: And then we’re gone. No clubs. No “friends.”
Tom holds up his hands. “No pressure. Just thought I’d ask.” He drops his voice, leaning in. “Between us? The Sharing’s got connections. We helped a kid from Idaho get a sponsorship last year. Nike, dude.”
Denise raises an eyebrow. “We’re kinda busy with the tournament happening, and we're Canadian.”
Tom just grins. “No pressure. Well thanks for listening.”
Justin fake-gasps. “So if I join, I can karate-kick in Air Jordans? Tempting.”
Bradley tugs your sleeve. “Can we get Pop-Tarts now?”
—The Voice of Social Instinct: Thank god for Bradley. Get out of here.
Tom steps back, smile stiffening. “Suit yourselves. Good luck tomorrow.”
He turns back into the crowd, leaving Justin scratching his head.
As he melts into the crowd, Denise mutters, “Page 22. ‘Recruitment Tactics of Low-Key MLMs.’”
—The Voice of Doubt: That was weird.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: Who cares? Focus on the tournament.
Justin tosses a bag of gummy bears into your basket. “Dude’s trying way too hard. Bet his ‘survival weekends’ are just him crying over Wi-Fi dead zones.”
You don’t answer. For a second, you’re tempted—connections, sponsors, friends—but then:
—The Voice of Resentment: He’s not offering you a club. He’s offering you a life raft.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: Focus. Tomorrow’s all that matters.
Bradley grabs a box of Pop-Tarts, oblivious. “Do they have s’mores flavor here? Do Americans even know what snow is?”
—The Voice of Determination: Win tomorrow. Then none of this will matter.
You and the team leave the store and return to the hotel, the upcoming battles at the forefront of your mind.
Tournament Day. The semi Finals.
Justin’s match comes first. His opponent is a hulking Texan named Colton Hayes, a fourteen-year-old with biceps thicker than Justin’s thighs. Colton cracks his knuckles as Justin bounces on the balls of his feet, brown hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. You recognize Justin’s rhythm—the subtle head nod, the way he shifts weight from hip to hip. He’s got Metallica’s *“Enter Sandman”* looping in his skull, you can tell by the cadence of his feints.
The bell rings. Justin opens with a question mark kick, all floating grace until it whips toward Colton’s temple. The Texan swats it away like a fly and lunges. They trade blows—Justin’s spinning backfist meets Colton’s palm strike, the smack of flesh echoing through the arena. For a heartbeat, it looks even. Then Colton bull-rushes, tackling Justin to the mat. The Texan’s forearm presses into Justin’s windpipe as the ref counts the pin. Three seconds. Done.
Justin rolls to his feet, chest heaving. He shoots Colton a nod—no hard feelings—but his hands tremble as he unwraps the navy-blue cloth from his wrist, the one his musqueam grandfather gave him before the trip.
—The Voice of Cheated: They’re letting giants fight in our division now?
—The Voice of Pragmatism: Weight classes exist for a reason. That kid’s just built different.
Denise’s bout is uglier. Her opponent, a sinewy girl from Miami named Luz Rivera, fights like a hurricane—all spinning elbows and flying knees. Denise tries to control distance, using textbook sidekicks to keep Luz at bay. It works until Luz feints a tornado kick and drops low, sweeping Denise’s legs out. Denise rolls with the fall, springing up just in time to eat a palm strike to the solar plexus. She staggers, and Luz pounces. The ref calls it when Denise’s shoulders hit the mat.
From the sidelines, you see Denise mouth “bullshit” as she gets up, brushing sawdust from her red braid. Luz offers a handshake; Denise ignores it, stomping back to the team.
“She cheated,” Denise mutters, flipping open her dog-eared martial arts magazine like it’s a holy text. “Page 42 of Combat Monthly—that sweep’s illegal in point sparring.”
—The Voice of Social Instinct: Tell her it was a clean loss. Keep the peace.
—The Voice of Cheated: Let her rage. She’s earned it.
Now, it’s you and Bradley left. You watch him in another ring, facing his own opponent, but your focus shifts to your own match.
Your opponent is taller, older, more experienced. The referee signals the start.
—The Voice of Determination: Stay light. Watch his stance.
You open with a fast roundhouse kick. He blocks, countering with a spinning back kick that nearly knocks you off balance.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: He’s stronger. You need speed.
You dart in with quick jabs, managing a hit, but he responds with a powerful axe kick that slams just inches from your face. You dodge, retaliate with a side kick to his ribs, but he absorbs it.
Justin and Denise shout encouragement from the sidelines. You feint left, attempt a sweep, but he sees it coming. A swift ridge hand strike to your shoulder sends you stumbling.
—The Voice of Doubt: You’re losing.
—The Voice of Determination: Not yet.
You charge, unleashing a spinning hook kick, your best shot yet. It connects—but he barely flinches. He counters with a brutal reverse punch to your gut.
The referee signals the match over. You lost.
The last five years of training, the countless hours in dojos from Montreal to Vancouver, all seemed to crumble in that one match.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: You fought well.
—The Voice of Cheated: But not well enough.
The fluorescent lights of the gym buzz like wasps in Nathan’s ears. He keeps his eyes locked on the scuffed linoleum as Bradley claps him on the back, all toothy optimism. “You’ll crush it next time, dude!” His cousin’s voice is too loud, too bright, scraping against the raw edges of Nathan’s nerves.
—The Voice of Resentment: Easy for him to say. He’s the only one who won.
—The Voice of Doubt: You had one job. One fight. And you folded like a lawn chair.
Nathan mumbles something noncommittal, shrugging off Bradley’s hand. His gi feels like a lead apron, the black belt around his waist suddenly laughable. Black belt. Big deal. The stripes on it—three years of grueling gradings, of ice baths and split knuckles—mean nothing now. He kicks a stray pebble, watching it skitter into a drain.
Justin sidles up, his Walkman still dangling from his belt like a talisman. He nudges Nathan’s shoulder, the frayed edge of his navy-blue wristband—the one his musqueam grandfather gave him—brushing Nathan’s arm. “Don’t sweat it, man. That guy fought like he snorted a whole bag of Skittles before the match. Total chaos mode.”
Denise leans against the wall nearby, her red braid fraying at the ends. She doesn’t look up from her Combat Monthly, but her voice cuts through the noise. “Page 68. ‘Losses Are Just Data.’ Statistically, fighters who bomb their first major tournament have a 22% higher chance of podium finishes within two years.” She snaps the magazine shut. “So… congrats, I guess?”
—The Voice of Social Instinct: They’re trying. Say something.
—The Voice of Doubt: They’re just pitying you. Bradley’s the golden child now.
You forces a grunt. Bradley, still buzzing from his own victory, throws an arm around him. “C’mon, we’re still the Vancouver Scaled Fist! They’ll put that on our tombstones someday.”
—The Voice of Cheated: Scaled Fist. More like Scaled Joke after today.
Sensei Patel catches your eye across the parking lot. Her smile is warm, but her gaze lingers a beat too long. You know that look. The ''You’ll grow from this” look. The “I expected better” look.
—The Voice of Social Instinct: Say something. Thank her. Pretend you’re fine.
—The Voice of Cheated (Resentment): Why? She’s the one who paired you against that monster. Probably wanted to “humble” you.
You duck your head, jaw tight. The voices collide, a cacophony under your skull.
You’re the reason the Scaled Fist bombed.
Justin and Denise lost too, idiot. It’s a team sport.
Team sport? You’re the anchor. Anchors don’t sink.
Bradley chatters about the hotel pool, about the vending machine Snickers you’ll split later. You tune him out. Your gut churns, replaying the fight in jagged fragments—the sting of the reverse punch, the referee’s curt hand signal, the way your opponent hadn’t even smiled after winning. Like beating you was routine.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: He was fourteen. In two years, you’ll— —The Voice of Doubt: You think Mom and Dad care about “two years”? They didn’t even care about telling you you were moving until the U-Haul was packed.
A hot knot swells in your throat. The move. Right. Because that’s what this is really about. The dojo back home—the one with the cracked mirror and the smell of lemon floor polish—is gone. The Scaled Fist, your squad, your teammates since you were six, are scattered across terminals at the airport in a few weeks. And here you are, in this stupid California parking lot, failure sweat still cooling on your neck.
—The Voice of Determination: You’ll train harder. New city, new dojo. Start over.
—The Voice of Cheated (Resentment): Start over? I don't want that! You’re not a puppy. You don’t just wag your tail and forget!
Justin pops a AA battery out of his Walkman and flicks it at your chest. “Hey. Next tournament, I’m blasting your walkout song. None of this zen monk crap you’re into. We’re going full Metallica.”
—The Voice of Pragmatism: He’s deflecting. Let him.
—The Voice of Determination: They’re still here. They’re still your team.
Denise trudges past, her magazine rolled into a tight cylinder. She doesn’t look at you. Of course she doesn’t. Your cheeks burn. You were supposed to carry the team. The prodigy. The kid who helped your team get medaled at nationals last year. Now? You’re just the guy who got ragdolled in round one.
—The Voice of Social Instinct: Apologize to her. To everyone.
—The Voice of Doubt: They don’t want your apology. They want a time machine.
Denise finally looks up, her green eyes sharp. “You know what your problem is? You fight like you’re trying to impress someone.” She jabs a finger at Bradley, who’s now attempting a one-handed handstand against the wall. “He fights like he’s trying to annoy the universe. Maybe try that.”
Bradley crashes to the ground, laughing. “Denise’s right! Next time, fight like you’re mad about… I dunno, taxes. Or raisins in cookies.”
—The Voice of Cheated: They don’t get it. They didn’t have a mom crying while she packed their childhood into boxes. —The Voice of Determination: But they’re here. Even after losing.
Sensei Patel approaches, her sandals scuffing the asphalt. “Scaled Fist—gather up.” Her voice softens as she meets your eyes. “Today wasn’t our day. But a fist stays clenched. It doesn’t unravel.”
Justin mutters, “Unless it’s flipping someone off,” earning a snort from Denise.
You stare at your hands. The knuckles are split from morning drills, the calluses uneven. Clenched. But for what?
—The Voice of Doubt: For a team that’s scattering tomorrow. For a life you didn’t choose. —The Voice of Pragmatism: Then clench harder.
Bradley slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, the Vancouver Scaled Fist patch glaring in the sunset. “Hotel pool. Now. Bet I can cannonball without losing my medal.” He waggles the gold disk hanging around his neck.
Justin fake-gags. “Medal or not, you’re still buying snacks.”
Denise falls into step beside you as you trail behind. “For the record,” she says quietly, “that axe kick you threw in round two? Flawless. Even Combat Monthly doesn’t have a category for that.”
You don’t answer. But you don’t kick the pebble this time.
---
Sensei Patel approaches, her sandals scuffing the asphalt. “Nathan. Walk with me.”
You follow, shoulders hunched. She says all the right things—“grit,” “resilience,” “character.” But her tone is soft, almost pitying. You stare at her shadow stretching ahead of you, long and thin in the sunset.
—The Voice of Cheated: She thinks you’re fragile now. Breakable.
—The Voice of Pragmatism: She’s trying to help. Let her.
When you loop back to the group, Justin tosses you a bottle of water. “Don’t sweat it, man. That guy fought like he’s juicing.” A weak joke, but you smirk.
—The Voice of Determination: They still believe in you. Act like you deserve it.
You unscrew the cap, the plastic crunching in your grip. The water tastes like chlorine. Like the pool Bradley won’t shut up about. Like every swallow is a reminder: You’re here. You lost. This is your life now.
But beneath the shame, faint as a match strike, something flickers.
—The Voice of Determination: Tomorrow. You’ll run five miles at dawn. Drill combinations until your legs give out. No more mistakes.
You crush the empty bottle in your fist.
Tomorrow.