Chapter Text
Oliver was struggling to put on his boxing gloves. His trembling paws were already covered in sweat, even though the competition had yet to begin. The bright neon lights of the dingy locker room were hurting his eyes. He was trying very hard not to show how nervous he was.
“You’ll be fine, Ollie.”
On a small wooden bench, a sleazy cat was smoking a blunt. His name was Jamie; he and Oliver had been friends for a few years. They were both of medium height, but this was where the resemblance ended.
Oliver was a stout gray wolf, with powerful muscular arms and sharp claws. His visage seemed perpetually locked into an angry scowl. He was a brick of a man, solidly anchored to the ground. Jamie on the other hand, was an extremely skinny ginger cat. A mildly potent gust of wind seemed enough to send him flying. His ears were pierced with so many ornaments and earrings that he couldn’t walk through a metal detector without setting off alarms. He smelled of weed from dawn to dusk, and never locked eyes with people when he talked to them.
“I know I’ll be fine,” Oliver huffed proudly. “I’m going to do great, like I always do.”
Jamie rewarded him with a lazy grin.
“Sure you will. And if you don’t, it’s not like anybody will care. I doubt the venue will be packed. It’s only, what, the semi-finals?”
“Quarter-finals,” Oliver corrected tensely. “Look, I know you don’t care about boxing much, but this is important to me, okay? At least pretend like it matters to you, sheesh.”
Oliver’s belly growled audibly.
“You had anything to eat this morning?” Jamie asked.
“No.”
“Did you uh… remember to stretch?”
Oliver growled in frustration.
“No, I didn’t, just let me be, okay? Look, I can finish prepping on my own, just go take a seat and I’ll be out soon.”
“Okie. You’re the boss!”
The lights flickered in the locker room. Oliver was alone. He placed a guilty paw on his belly.
He had lied to Jamie, having in fact, eaten quite a lot before coming to the venue. That was his way of coping with all the stress: eating a lot of (usually very sugary) food. But in recent months, the situation had gotten a little out of hand, and it was becoming harder and harder for Oliver to control his monstrous appetite. He wasn’t proud of the way his waistline kept expanding. It wasn’t too noticeable yet, but he knew his family had noticed.
They always did.
Feeling uncomfortably full, Oliver stepped out of the locker room. The venue was quite dark. Most of the projectors had broken down over the years, and no one had bothered to replace them. His feet were already coated in dust, but he didn’t mind too much.
He climbed onto the ring, trying to not pay too much attention to all the empty seats in the audience. Jamie gave him a thumb up from the his chair, which Oliver acknowledged with a simple, virile nod. He was trying to look tough and intimidating. Deep down, however, he was touched by Jamie’s support.
Oliver’s opponent climbed onto the ring in turn. He was a stocky bear, only slightly taller than the wolf, wearing dirty torn clothes.
“You ready?” The bear asked in a husky voice.
“Of course,” Oliver replied, trying to project his voice so that everybody could hear him well.
The referee was a near-sighted walrus who had worked at the same venue for more than forty years. She had forgotten most of the rules of boxing, and didn’t particularly care to learn them again. The nurses and doctors at the local hospital hated her, because the competitions she hosted usually caused a flurry of easily preventable injuries that they had to take care of.
Oliver had been to that hospital a few times. The nurses also disliked him, because he was quite rude, especially when they told him things like “stay still” or “take it easy for a few days”.
After a very short announcement from the referee, the first round began. Oliver didn’t hesitate; he lunged at his opponent without fear. His fighting style was quite aggressive; always on the offensive, he delivered a flurry of blows, whose brutality only served to conceal his lack of precision. The bear was quickly overwhelmed; he barely lasted thirty seconds.
The second round was only slightly more challenging. The bear put up more of a fight, and managed to land a few solid hits, including a strong blow to the side of Oliver’s large muzzle. But in the end, it was quite easy to put him back in his place. The bear landed on his back, unable to get back up. The referee forgot to count to ten, so Oliver had to do it for her; and then it was over.
There was a moment of silence, only perturbed by Oliver’s heavy breathing. Perhaps the audience members were stunned because everything had gone so quickly. But then, someone began to clap, deliberately slowly; and then the rest of the audience followed, like they were waking up from a dream.
Oliver turned to see who it was. His brother, elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit, approached the ring slowly.
“Well done, that was quite the show. You must be very proud.”
His tone reflected very discreet amusement. His compliments were never sincere, but it was quite difficult to tell for people who didn’t know him well. Oliver’s mood immediately soured.
“Oscar. What are you doing here?”
“Am I not allowed to witness my little brother’s triumph? Come down and shake my hand. I would offer you a hug, but I’m afraid you would stain my new suit.”
Oliver would have loved to reply something like “fuck off, this is my moment,” but he was keenly aware that everyone was staring at him, so he refrained. Sighing, he stepped out of the ring and began to walk toward the locker room, while the referee made note of his victory on a little clipboard. There was nobody to help the poor bear walk away, so he had to get up on his own. The audience gave him an apologetic second round of applause as he left the venue; and then it was time for the next batch of boxers to step on the ring.
But Oliver wouldn’t get to witness their confrontation. As soon as he managed to close the door to the locker room, he turned to face his brother and asked:
“What are you doing here? You never come to these events. Dad sent you?”
“You didn’t shake my hand earlier,” Oscar noted. “Are you perhaps embarrassed to be seen with your brother in public?”
You bloody well know it’s the other way around, you ass, Oliver thought.
Oscar was only two years older than Oliver, but people often wrongly thought they were born a decade apart. Oscar carried himself with the poise and confidence of a middle-aged man, while retaining the charm of a young adult. He was wealthy and successful, having recently earned a degree in economics and started a promising career at the bank.
Meanwhile, despite having recently turned 25, Oliver was still unemployed, and relied on his father for odd jobs. He wore loose-fitting sporty outfits and tacky jewelry, and was famously irresponsible with what little money he owned. Oscar fondly referred to Oliver as “the family hobo”. They didn’t get along.
“Enough with the bullshit,” Oliver barked impatiently. “What is it?”
“Dad has a job for you. Hmm, should we be discussing it here, though? It’s a rather delicate matter.”
Oliver sighed.
Great, another one of those.
Oliver’s father was the head of the local mafia. A powerful criminal overlord, actively sought by the authorities. Any job he may have for his children was guaranteed to be illegal. Still, Oscar usually ended up with the important, sensitive missions, while Oliver dealt with the annoying chores that nobody else wanted to do.
“Follow me.”
Oliver took his brother to a small door that led to a dirty corner, hidden at the back of the building, wedged between a metal gate and a few bins. Here, Oscar looked comically out of place, with his perfectly ironed, pristine outfit. Oliver, on the other hand, looked right at home.
“You always come up with the most charming of meeting spots,” Oscar noted with a strained smile.
“Nobody will hear us here. What is it?”
“It’s a rather simple job, don’t worry. Something you have little chance of messing up.”
The younger wolf scowled. Oscar was indirectly referring to his last assignment, where Oliver had been tasked with driving a large van, full of stolen weapons, from one end of the city to the other. The route had been laid out for him beforehand, but Oliver wasn’t used to driving at night, and had gotten lost, and was caught. All the weapons had been confiscated, and he had been imprisoned for a week. It was a particularly humiliating memory.
“What will I have to do?” He asked wearily.
“You’ve ever been to Fairweather? It’s a tiny suburban town, north of the Galeran river.”
“Sure, if I recall, bus 87 takes you there directly. Why?”
“We have one of our main cannabis suppliers working there. Her name is Dolly.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. Oscar refused to call it “weed”, wanting to sound professional at all times.
“What about it?”
“She’s been complaining about local thugs stealing her supplies. Dad wants you to take care of them as soon as possible.”
“Local thugs? No chance they’re working for us?”
“You’d think so, but apparently not. You could always recruit them if you feel like it, though!”
Oliver paused. He was beginning to wonder what his father had meant by “taking care” of these people. He knew that some of the mob’s activities resulted in casualties, although quite rarely; but he had never killed anyone before. Was that expected of him? Surely not.
“That’s it? Go on a trip to Fairweather, take care of a few junkies, then go home? That sounds way too simple. What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I told you it was going to be an easy job. And I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Condescending prick, Oliver thought. You think I’m going to fumble again, don’t you?
“Well, that’s all I had to say,” Oscar continued. “Oh, one last piece of advice before I go. Don’t take the bus.”
Oliver blinked in confusion.
“What?”
“Use my bicycle if you want, I left it in the garage.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude. What’s wrong with the bus?”
Oscar’s eyes lingered on his brother’s belly for just a second.
“You could use the exercise.”