Andrew J. Coffey shut off his phone. She wasn’t answering his call. He sighed.

This MudCon event was a mistake.

Andrew didn’t want to give up these local events, especially in Bay City, where he had a good fan base, but they were becoming too expensive. Not in terms of money, no, they paid all travel expenses, his suite, and he got a stipend. No, the problem was his time. It was a weekend away. It disrupted his training schedule. A con with only a few hundred people wouldn’t add that many fans.

On his phone, he checked his So-Me fan page. A few people had joined, so that was good, every single one counted. Lose someone, get a new one, it was the way it worked. Barton said he wasn’t worried. Yet Barton had just dropped another Artist from his table, a buddy of Andrew’s, from back in the day when both struggled up the ranks of the Bay City Battle Artists, a non-profit that offered help, training, and pointers. The BCBA had quarterly cons and a big yearly conference. Attendees were mostly fighters, but a few fans trickled in.

If Andrew couldn’t get his numbers up, he might lose his agent and access to SoulFire resources. He had his sights set on a match with LJ Crown at Fight Night. The pair had joked about it at a league match in Angel City. Only Andrew hadn’t been joking. And there was next year’s Grand Tournament, the biggest event of the League of Battle Artists. The SoulFire corporation could easily field a full Zodiac. They had Sanguines, four deep, waiting to compete. Some were young, with a good following. Few had Coffey’s reputation.

Andrew went to the window. The South Bay’s waters lapped at the reeds and muck, a gray and brown landscape, good for herons and birds, but not good for people. MudCon’s organizers must’ve gotten the Marriot cheap; a similar venue in Apricot or South Valley would’ve been far more expensive.

Growing up in East Oak, Andrew and his friends would sometimes drive to the Flats for the seafood shacks squatting next to wide parking lots full of birds and the homeless. He and his friends would eat greasy shrimp and then drink beer out of the trunks of their cars. And of course, someone would suggest a fight, and Andrew would jump at the chance. Any training was good training, even scrapping with friends, a little buzzed, in a parking lot, awash in the stink of bird crap and stagnant water. Fighting drunk had never worked for Andrew. Some claimed that you could increase your prana flow if you were in an inebriated state.

Andrew thought it was a lot of talk. The Drunken Master was fun in the movies, but in real life, you needed a sober mind to focus your technique.

He thought of those days…where was the punk kid he’d been at eighteen? Would he even recognize himself? He would. Andrew was a repped Battle Artist, on SoulFire’s extended team, and inches away from a Caelus Belt, still able to pull in people for a battle con. He was in a free suite at a Marriot—his eighteen-year-old self would think he had it all.

Then why hadn’t she picked up? She always had her phone on her. Always. He thought about calling the police. Instead, he texted his son. He couldn’t text his daughter. She’d asked him not too.

That hurt. Andrew put his phone on the dresser.

What would’ve that kid in the parking lot thought of his estranged daughter? That kid would’ve tilted his head, smirked, and said something about women being difficult. He would say it would all work out because it was something you said, and in your later teens, you could quote The Pranad and mean it. Sure everything would work out. The heroes won. The villains lost. It was easy tell which was which and who was who.

He didn’t travel with his leather-bound copy of The Pranad. If he felt the need, he could read it off his phone. He had thrown in his ratty old A Princess of the Changing Winds paperback into his suitcase, the Del Rey edition with the Michael Whelan cover. That was the book he traveled with.

The novel meant the world to him. His father had given it to him. Around the same time, Andrew’s father had taken him to his first Artist School, Gifts the Twelve, whose Master Teacher had been an old Chinese man. That made it better. Of course it did, for a poor kid from East Oak, who was quiet, shy, and very white when a lot of his classmates weren’t.

He trained at the school, but his first real fights weren’t there, on the dirty, scratched tiles nor in any kind of Arena.

His first fights were on streets, behind 7-Elevens, or on the banks of drainage ditches, littered, and murky. Even then, he vowed he’d fight with honor, and he never really hurt the bullies and bastards who picked on him. Word spread. He wasn’t anyone to mess with. He was cool, when it came down to it, and he was powerful. Not TV Battle Artist powerful, but enough that he could easily blacken an eye or pop a nose bloody. By middle school, no one would mess with him. By high school, he was fighting for the school, working on his technique, and learning to do it the right way. He helped take East Oak High School to state three out of his four years there.

The academic leagues were rigorous, based on points, and everything was judged right down to how much prana your Studies needed. Usage efficiency was critical. Stan Howling’s technique was embarrassing. Any junior varsity Artist from any Bay City High School had better technique. Then again, Howling was coming into the Arts later in life. That was tough. Age only helped you the Arena or in the Arts if you’d spent your early years building a foundation, working on your technique.

Like the kid. Niko Black.

When the knock came, Andrew turned from the window, checked that his favorite Beaujolais was on ice, because he was a celebrity, and that was expected. He’d graduated from beer to wine in his twenties when he’d done a six months stint on the European circuit, fighting in London, Paris, Munich, Venice. He’d gotten some European fans. Not enough. You never had enough fans. Every year, there was a natural attrition as new Battle Artists appeared, as the big corporations found new faces, or better yet, you got a movie deal, or got a comic book thing going. That was when you would really rise, where the real money was, and then it was only the choicest Artist events, and you’d show up on your private jet. Like LJ Crown, or Bulldog Johnson. LJ was a real Artist, while Bulldog had jumped to movies the first chance he got. Sell-out.

Andrew was close to the big money. He could feel it. After spending nearly twenty years, he wasn’t about to stop now.

He opened the door. The kid was there, face a little pink from the fire he took, and the bruises starting to form from Howling’s jabs. He wasn’t a Mars Belt. If he were Mars, he wouldn’t have taken so much physical damage from the fight.

He nodded. “Niko Black?”

The kid shook his head. “No, it’s just Niko. I’m not…I don’t really have a Battle Artist name.”

Andrew liked that. “Come in. Would you like some wine? I can’t drink it now, but I had some brought in for after my fight tonight. Are you going to stay and watch it?”

“Yeah, I am. I got the day off.”

Andrew turned and went to the low table in front of couch. The sun was setting, giving the Flats a little color. His bed was in the attached room. That was the nice thing about a suite: you could talk to people without them sitting on your bed. Andrew liked a clean bed.

“So, Niko, wine?” he asked.

The kid followed him in the room, jumpy, tense, and a little starstruck. Andrew knew what he was thinking. He saw Andrew as a way into Barton Hennessey’s good graces, which might mean a contract with SoulFire, which meant wealth and fame. Or that was the story.

Andrew had gotten some sizeable paychecks in his time. Probably should’ve saved more. Probably should’ve focused more on the money than the fame. It might’ve made his family life easier.

“Relax, Niko. It’s okay. I just wanted to meet you. And talk to you.” Andrew sized him up. He might’ve been in shape in his high school, but now, Niko was getting a gut. His neck was thickening. More than that, his prana wasn’t flowing.

“I don’t need wine,” the kid said. He went to the window, which of course, was the best place to stand. “I’m just happy to be here. I’m really honored. I’m a fan. My buddy Teddy is too. He nearly exploded when I told him you wanted to talk to me.”

Andrew remembered the fat guy who’d helped the kid stand after the knockout. “That was a nice move, at the end.”

“The Twin Damage?” Niko asked, a bright look on his face.

The punch was a good flourish in a doomed fight. The goading was also a nice touch because everyone liked a confident underdog, battling for their life.

Andrew didn’t have to say anything. The kid could come to his own conclusion.

He finally connected the dots. “Oh, standing up at zero sharira? It was just…in high school, my coach said not to show weakness. You never laid on the ground. If you couldn’t stand, you’d at least get on one knee.”

Andrew knew the kid had more to say. When people met him, they either clammed up tight, or they poured out every thought they’d ever had.

Niko made a fist with his left hand and held in his right. “I don’t have much going for me. I mean, I had a chance in high school, but it didn’t work. I’m a cusp, June 20, 11:58. It’s a bad birthday. No way could I even begin to master Luna, so I focused on Quintessence. I got to Mars Belt. But lost it.”

Andrew knew that. When Maddy had said Niko was a Mars Belt, Andrew hadn’t believed it. Then, when he didn’t use any prana in his attacks, Andrew’s suspicions were confirmed. This kid was strange, in a lot of ways. “How did you lose a belt?”

That was an unfair question. It could be illegal tinctures, a bad vape, an accident during a fight, or some back-alley deal gone bad. Andrew had also heard that certain daemons could damage your prana if you cycled them. Maybe the kid had found a bad cambion, or a rotten drode, and it had messed him up.

Niko wasn’t about to commit anything. “I just got unlucky. I’d like to leave it at that. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

They lapsed into silence for a second. It was clear, though, that the kid had a question his mind.

Andrew thought he might know what it was. “Barton Hennessey remembered you. That’s saying something. He sees a thousand Battle Artist every year. So that was five thousand artists in the last five years. He’d scouted you hard back then. You should be honored.”

Watching the smile cover the kid’s face was fun. “I am honored. I thought for sure he’d forgotten me. I mean, I came close, but things changed in my life. A lot of things. I don’t suppose…I wouldn’t presume…I’m going to stop talking.”

Andrew sat on the couch. The kid wanted to hear that Barton wanted to sign him up. That was the dream, get an agent, get a big corporation contract, make a million dollars, and your name on TV. Get your face on a lunchbox. There were Andrew J. Coffey lunchboxes and action figures. Not many though. Not yet.

“Hell, Niko, one glass of wine won’t hurt us. Have one with me.” Andrew opened the bottle with a corkscrew. He liked the pop. He wasn’t much for letting wine breath. When he opened the bottle, he wanted to drink it. He poured himself a glass.

Niko clearly didn’t want one. Andrew poured him one anyway. He’d drink it because he was polite, intimidated, and eager, so eager.

Andrew sat back. “Listen, Niko, what you did with the crowd is critical. You have charisma, and I wish that wasn’t important, but it is. Barton and I talked about you, and yes, you were impressive, courageous, and you certainly can take a punch. Those are all good things. Yet they will only take you so far.”

Niko sat in the easy chair across from him. He picked up the wine. Of course he did. He sipped it. The kid was quiet, which was good. It meant he was teachable.

Andrew leaned in. “If your technique is flawless, you will win battles. If you win battles, you’ll get fans. And with fans, you’ll get representation. With representation, you’ll get a contract with a big corporation. But you have to focus on your craft. Technique is everything.”

Niko sipped more on the wine. It was clear he didn’t like it very much. He then raised his eyes to Andrew’s. “I understand. I know my technique wasn’t very good, but listen, I never thought I would wind up fighting today. I thought I was done with the Arts forever. My family, my parents, we have this business, and I work there, a lot. It’s struggling. My brothers, well, one basically left us, and my little brother, Pete, has issues.”

The kid realized he was babbling.

Andrew preferred that to the stony starstruck silence of a clammed-up superfan. He got a little insight into the guy’s life. Family businesses could be tough. Families were tough. Period. Andrew’s own experience proved that. His daughter had asked him not to contact her. It shouldn’t be that way.

Niko set the wine glass down. “Okay, Mr. Coffey, I get it. My technique was crap. I was never going to win that fight. Fine. But why call me up here? Barton Hennessey isn’t going to be bringing me into the fold. So, why the wine?”

Andrew sipped and then swirled the wine around. “I like the wine. I wanted a glass, and it’s bad for celebrities to drink alone. We have a list of the dead there. Why bring you up? Because I could see it, in your face, in your stance, hell, even your stunted prana called to me. You loved it today. You loved that you put Stan Howling on his ass. If you had even the slightest Second Study, you would’ve beaten him.”

Niko opened his mouth, he blushed a bit, but that wasn’t who this kid was. He was tougher than that, stronger, smarter, smart enough not to listen to praise for every long.

Andrew continued. “Talent is cheap in the LBA, Niko. We’re all born with prana. Most grow up dreaming about the Battle Arts and making it big. Very few do. Do you know why?”

Niko looked down. A little grin tried to get on his face but didn’t quite make it. “Because it’s hard?”

That made Andrew laugh. “Yes, it’s hard. But that’s not why. To make it, to really make it, you have to love it. You have to love the victories, and you have to love the defeats. Loving it when it’s easy? That’s simple. It’s like eating ice cream. No, you have to love it when it’s hard. You have to love the Arts when you’re in pain, and there’s no way to win, and you’ve been knocked down and are bleeding. That was you today. You weren’t going to win that fight. But you loved it. Can you really give it up?”

“I did give it up.” Niko was done with the wine. He set his full glass on the dresser. “I’m not a Battle Artist anymore. Today I fought Howling for Maddy, as a favor. We’ve known each other a long time. My debt is paid.”

“Really?” Andrew pinned the kid down with his eyes. Niko might not be as smart as he seemed, or he simply didn’t have much self-awareness. “That’s not what I saw. It’s not what I’m seeing. You love it. When you love the Arts, you can’t give them up. When you are chosen, you can’t unchoose.”

Niko gave up on his little grin. Instead, he smirked. “I did unchoose. Which I don’t think is a word. It’s not in the cards for me. That’s fine.”

“And you don’t like the wine.” Andrew chuckled. “That is also fine. Are you more of a beer guy?”

“Coffee, mostly.” Niko then met his gaze. “So let’s say I’ve been chosen by the Arts because I love them. You obviously invited me up here to suggest something. You have to get ready for your fight, and I have to go tell my friend that I had wine with Andrew J. Coffey. So, let’s hear your suggestion.”

Andrew stood and retrieved his phone from where he set it on the dresser under the TV. “What’s your phone number? I’ll text you.”

Ironic, Andrew could text this kid, but not his own daughter.

Niko gave him the digits and Andrew sent him an address. “There’s a critique group that meets in Bay City on Tuesday nights. Maybe you’ve heard of them. They’re called the Premieres. Officially, they are a normal BCBA group. Unofficially? They are a farm team for the Barton Hennessey Battle Agency. I would suggest you go, work on your technique, and keep fighting. If you love it. If you don’t. Quit.” Andrew glanced at the door.

Niko stood. The kid could take a hint. That was useful. “A critique group? I figured you’d say I should take classes at Bay City State University. Or yeah, that you’d tutor me yourself.”

That made Andrew laugh. “So you have an imagination. Good, you’ll need that.”

Niko went to the door. He turned. “Were you chosen, Mr. Coffey? Do you love it?”

Andrew gripped his phone. Linda hadn’t called him. She hadn’t picked up when he called. His wife was ghosting him, and that hurt as much as his daughter disconnecting herself from his life.

The sunset was bloody outside the window. Below, in the parking lots, teenagers from East Oak might already be in front of the grease shacks, getting shrimp in little paper cups, and of course, the beer would be flowing.

Andrew felt the truth of the moment. “The only thing I have ever wanted to be in my life was a Battle Artist. And yes, I love it. However, true love requires sacrifice. What are you willing to give up, Niko?”

Niko opened the door. “I don’t know. But thanks for the critique group information. I’ll check it out.”

“I’m glad.”

The kid left.

Andrew went and closed the curtains. The second glass was there, hardly touched. He wasn’t going to waste that wine. He tossed it back easily.

Andrew J. Coffey had an imagination himself. He pictured Niko re-gaining his Mars Belt and racking up a series of wins. And in time, he’d hit it big. Who would Niko Black call? Andrew J. Coffey, the man who rekindled his love for the arts.

It was a nice fantasy. Most likely, the kid wouldn’t show up to the critique group, and die, a life untested, working for his family’s business.

“Not me.” The words came out grim. “I’m never quitting this shitty business. I’ll never surrender. Ever.”

And maybe that was why his wife wasn’t answering his calls.