Post by Mister Steel on Aug 11, 2022 0:24:09 GMT -5
Hot, heavy clouds of steam hovered around Donût as he leaned back into the large, wooden tub that contained his bath. While most modern fighting and sporting arenas around the galaxy used showers, either with water or sonics or lasers, the Konatsians preferred tradition. Rather than a shower, they had a series of massive tubs filled with water of various temperatures. Tubs that were constantly filled by a steady flow of water, from a waterfall faucet, and emptied by a small grate set into the bottom of the tub’s wall. This water then flowed down a channel to a central grate, where apparently a more technologically advanced filtration system was hidden to allow the water to be recycled and cleaned of sweat, grime… and the strange green goo that filled most healing pods.
Donût had chosen a tub with warm water, and some nice floral soap that had been offered by an attendant. Perfect for scrubbing off the flaky, drying goo that had been putting his body back together. It was also perfect for easing the lingering aches and pains that remained despite his body healing. Scars that were still tender, muscle fiber and skin that hadn’t quiiiiiite stretched back to normal when it was regrowing, and some pains that were probably psychosomatic… or older injuries that the pod hadn’t targeted.
It was good to be clean again, to enjoy the benefits of civilization… even if the benefits came after a humiliating loss. Donût had taken an entire year off from everything, going no-contact so he could focus purely on his training. He’d come out of it a good third stronger, able to summon more power from within, and with new techniques… and still, it wasn’t enough. He was still getting the tar kicked out of him by guys who were at least twice as strong as him! And what did he have to show for it? Acquaintances and friends that he’d lost contact with, probably never to see or talk to them again… a junky old spaceship that he barely knew how to pilot or fix… oh, and a whole lot of broken bones for someone that went by “The Unbreakable Mister Steel”.
Was it worth it? Was any of this worth his time? Should he have just stayed in the woods, training for longer? Was training alone even getting him anything?
…Was he even meant to be a fighter?
That last thought had been creeping into his head every so often since Donût had regained consciousness. And no matter how quickly or bravely he banished it… it always returned. Lingering at the edge of his mind. He wasn’t a Saiyan. He wasn’t a special-built murderbot. He was just an Earthling. And an Earthling that didn’t even have the benefit of proper training. He was just some schmuck that lifted fridges and pushed himself into a whole new weight-class, only to find himself adrift without any sort of guide. Maybe his life path had always been to just… not be a fighter.
The pitter-patter of little feet jolted Donût from his pity-party right quick. He opened his eyes and looked around the bath area. Wasn’t this bathing room specifically for fighters and employees? Did one of them lose their kids somewhere? Or were these kids of someone from the crowd that had wandered into a place they weren’t supposed to go?
The pair of little green creatures looking at him were most definitely not kids. Or, at least, not human or Konatsian kids. They looked almost like green eggs with eyes and antennae. Their mouths were seemingly non-existent, and yet they spoke…
“Mind if we-?”
“-Join you?”
Donût was a little creeped out by how the pair finished each other’s sentences so easily and fluidly. But rather than comment, he just shook his head.
“Uh… not at all. You uh… you fellas fighters?”
Both of the little egg-things tilted their eyes and shook a bit. Laughter? Anger? Maybe laughter, they sounded amused when they spoke.
“Oh no.”
“Not us.”
“We’re…”
“Talent agents.”
Donût raised a brow at that. Talent agents? Sitting with him? That seemed a little far-fetched. Unless…
“Ah, I getcha. Y’want me ta see if ol’ Cowboy Cerrone is lookin’ ta star in sum pictures?”
Again, that same eye-tilting and shaking.
“No-no. He’s good but-”
“Past his prime. We’re looking for-”
“Fresher talent.”
“A new face.”
“Someone with guts.”
“Someone with panache.”
“Someone with a certain-”
“-Special-”
“Way of working the crowd.”
Donût squinted as he puzzled over just who the pair could be talking about. If they didn’t want Cerrone, who did they want? Beowulf? Donût hadn’t seen that guy in almost… two years? He’d completely dropped off the grid. Cassidy’s little blob daughter? She wasn’t much of a fighter, just… hungry-looking. Did they want…
“So... y’wanna talk to Darkron? I mean, I don't really know 'im at all. And I don't think he likes me... or anyone.”
One of the egg aliens pinched the space between his beady little eyes while the other put his fingers to his temples and rubbed.
“Alright.”
“Let us start over.”
“I am HumDee.”
“And I am DumDee.”
“And we have a talent company.”
“Called the HD Talent Agency.”
“We want you, and you specifically-”
“-to be our client.”
“You’re a good fighter.”
“And you have charisma.”
“You’re likable.”
“But tough.”
“Yet somehow in touch with your feminine side.”
Donût felt his cheeks burning as he put his palms to them, grinning coyly. Then he waved a hand lightly in the pair's direction.
“Aw, yer makin’ me blush.”
HumDee coughed into his fist, while DumDee scratched the back of his… top-area. What most folks would call a head.
“Right. Anyway.”
“We think you have what it takes-”
“-to make it big!”
“If you let us guide you.”
“We’ve got contacts.”
“And all it’ll take-”
“-is 15% off the top.”
“Plus some other fees here and there.”
“We’ll write up a contract for you to look over.”
“If you’re interested.”
In just a few moments, Donût had gone from pitying himself and questioning his place in the universe… to feeling like the luckiest man in all of creation! He could reach the big time! He could maybe get some head-liner fights. Star in a show! Get the Zeni he needed to give his family a nicer house, with a not-broken washing machine!
“Uh… y-yeah. Yeah! I’m interested!”
“Excellent!”
“While we figure out-”
“-the details of the contract-”
Humdee reached over the edge of the tub with his hand. It didn’t get anywhere close to the floor, but it apparently didn’t need to. Since the bundle of clothes he’d left floated up on their own, with a black card sliding free from them.
“-take our card.”
He passed the card over to Donût, who held it carefully, trying not to get it wet.
“Yer business card?”
Odd, the little thing in his hand didn’t feel like card stock. And it definitely didn’t have a phone-number at the bottom. Was this some sort of special digital-doohickey?
“No, silly!”
“Our company credit card.”
“Buy yourself something nice!”
“A meal!”
“A local outfit!”
“A local girl!”
“A night on the town.”
“Go nuts!”
“You just made the big-time!”
Donût had chosen a tub with warm water, and some nice floral soap that had been offered by an attendant. Perfect for scrubbing off the flaky, drying goo that had been putting his body back together. It was also perfect for easing the lingering aches and pains that remained despite his body healing. Scars that were still tender, muscle fiber and skin that hadn’t quiiiiiite stretched back to normal when it was regrowing, and some pains that were probably psychosomatic… or older injuries that the pod hadn’t targeted.
It was good to be clean again, to enjoy the benefits of civilization… even if the benefits came after a humiliating loss. Donût had taken an entire year off from everything, going no-contact so he could focus purely on his training. He’d come out of it a good third stronger, able to summon more power from within, and with new techniques… and still, it wasn’t enough. He was still getting the tar kicked out of him by guys who were at least twice as strong as him! And what did he have to show for it? Acquaintances and friends that he’d lost contact with, probably never to see or talk to them again… a junky old spaceship that he barely knew how to pilot or fix… oh, and a whole lot of broken bones for someone that went by “The Unbreakable Mister Steel”.
Was it worth it? Was any of this worth his time? Should he have just stayed in the woods, training for longer? Was training alone even getting him anything?
…Was he even meant to be a fighter?
That last thought had been creeping into his head every so often since Donût had regained consciousness. And no matter how quickly or bravely he banished it… it always returned. Lingering at the edge of his mind. He wasn’t a Saiyan. He wasn’t a special-built murderbot. He was just an Earthling. And an Earthling that didn’t even have the benefit of proper training. He was just some schmuck that lifted fridges and pushed himself into a whole new weight-class, only to find himself adrift without any sort of guide. Maybe his life path had always been to just… not be a fighter.
The pitter-patter of little feet jolted Donût from his pity-party right quick. He opened his eyes and looked around the bath area. Wasn’t this bathing room specifically for fighters and employees? Did one of them lose their kids somewhere? Or were these kids of someone from the crowd that had wandered into a place they weren’t supposed to go?
The pair of little green creatures looking at him were most definitely not kids. Or, at least, not human or Konatsian kids. They looked almost like green eggs with eyes and antennae. Their mouths were seemingly non-existent, and yet they spoke…
“Mind if we-?”
“-Join you?”
Donût was a little creeped out by how the pair finished each other’s sentences so easily and fluidly. But rather than comment, he just shook his head.
“Uh… not at all. You uh… you fellas fighters?”
Both of the little egg-things tilted their eyes and shook a bit. Laughter? Anger? Maybe laughter, they sounded amused when they spoke.
“Oh no.”
“Not us.”
“We’re…”
“Talent agents.”
Donût raised a brow at that. Talent agents? Sitting with him? That seemed a little far-fetched. Unless…
“Ah, I getcha. Y’want me ta see if ol’ Cowboy Cerrone is lookin’ ta star in sum pictures?”
Again, that same eye-tilting and shaking.
“No-no. He’s good but-”
“Past his prime. We’re looking for-”
“Fresher talent.”
“A new face.”
“Someone with guts.”
“Someone with panache.”
“Someone with a certain-”
“-Special-”
“Way of working the crowd.”
Donût squinted as he puzzled over just who the pair could be talking about. If they didn’t want Cerrone, who did they want? Beowulf? Donût hadn’t seen that guy in almost… two years? He’d completely dropped off the grid. Cassidy’s little blob daughter? She wasn’t much of a fighter, just… hungry-looking. Did they want…
“So... y’wanna talk to Darkron? I mean, I don't really know 'im at all. And I don't think he likes me... or anyone.”
One of the egg aliens pinched the space between his beady little eyes while the other put his fingers to his temples and rubbed.
“Alright.”
“Let us start over.”
“I am HumDee.”
“And I am DumDee.”
“And we have a talent company.”
“Called the HD Talent Agency.”
“We want you, and you specifically-”
“-to be our client.”
“You’re a good fighter.”
“And you have charisma.”
“You’re likable.”
“But tough.”
“Yet somehow in touch with your feminine side.”
Donût felt his cheeks burning as he put his palms to them, grinning coyly. Then he waved a hand lightly in the pair's direction.
“Aw, yer makin’ me blush.”
HumDee coughed into his fist, while DumDee scratched the back of his… top-area. What most folks would call a head.
“Right. Anyway.”
“We think you have what it takes-”
“-to make it big!”
“If you let us guide you.”
“We’ve got contacts.”
“And all it’ll take-”
“-is 15% off the top.”
“Plus some other fees here and there.”
“We’ll write up a contract for you to look over.”
“If you’re interested.”
In just a few moments, Donût had gone from pitying himself and questioning his place in the universe… to feeling like the luckiest man in all of creation! He could reach the big time! He could maybe get some head-liner fights. Star in a show! Get the Zeni he needed to give his family a nicer house, with a not-broken washing machine!
“Uh… y-yeah. Yeah! I’m interested!”
“Excellent!”
“While we figure out-”
“-the details of the contract-”
Humdee reached over the edge of the tub with his hand. It didn’t get anywhere close to the floor, but it apparently didn’t need to. Since the bundle of clothes he’d left floated up on their own, with a black card sliding free from them.
“-take our card.”
He passed the card over to Donût, who held it carefully, trying not to get it wet.
“Yer business card?”
Odd, the little thing in his hand didn’t feel like card stock. And it definitely didn’t have a phone-number at the bottom. Was this some sort of special digital-doohickey?
“No, silly!”
“Our company credit card.”
“Buy yourself something nice!”
“A meal!”
“A local outfit!”
“A local girl!”
“A night on the town.”
“Go nuts!”
“You just made the big-time!”