Leslie enjoyed fighting.

It wasn't the proudest thing he had ever learned about himself. In fact, it had been a source of sorrow for more than a few years of his life. But it was a part of him, and it was easier to appreciate in moments like this.

He had just spent three minutes trading blows with the young man now being attended to. Three minutes where his fists struck muscle and bone, where the palms of his hands caught or turned fists away, where his feet danced to the cacophonous rhythm of a fight. And those minutes were sublime.

It was the simplicity of a fight that appealed to him so much. The relief of having life narrowed down into the focused demands of combat.

And now he waited, both relieved and relaxed, for the next round to begin.

Somewhere in the crowd, he could hear someone cheering his name. He put a few seconds into looking around at the hundreds of people watching, but couldn't spot Anita.

He turned back to his opponent just as the referee stepped into the middle of the dirt square that served as their ring. The man looked at Leslie, then looked over at the young man in the other corner. "Fighters, forward."

Leslie stepped up, his feet so light on the dirt he was worried he hadn't actually walked. His young opponent looked like he had changed quite a bit since the beginning of their first round together. His cheerful arrogance had vanished like morning mist in the sun. Where he had hopped about before the first round, he now stood with his guard already up.

Leslie suspected the cut eyebrow, the red welt in the shape of a fist on the boy's cheek, and the face that the boy seemed to hurt on his left side, all contributed to his opponent's newfound wariness.

"All right lads," the referee said. More so than anyone in the audience, the heavy-set man overseeing their match seemed to be enjoying himself. Leslie wasn't sure if the man enjoyed the fight, or if he had money on the outcome. "Nice and clean, just like last round. Three minutes, or anything that ends the match before then. Fighters, are you ready?"

"Ready," Leslie responded immediately. His opponent nodded a moment later.

"Then fight!" The referee cried out, and swept his arm down between them.

The crowd roared, and Leslie moved with the swelling cheers. Two quick steps closed the distance, his left foot forward, his left fist in a jab aimed straight at his opponent's face.

The boy, startled, took a half-step back, and leaned to the side. Leslie saw the dip in the boy's stance, the pull of the shoulder, and kept his left arm partially extended, to draw his opponent into countering.

His opponent took the bait, extending into a right cross, twisting his torso into the punch. Leslie, hoping for it, had already shifted his weight to his right leg. He used his left arm to brush the punch aside, and threw a hard right hook.

Leslie's blow rocked the boy's to the side, sending him stumbling backwards. Arms crossed in front of his face, the boy shuffled back another couple of steps. Leslie might have followed, but the first punch felt less like hitting a person, and more like hitting an open door.

"You rolled with that punch nicely," Leslie said, and meant the compliment. If there was anything Wayfarers understood better than anyone else under the sky, it was momentum.

The boy stopped when he saw Leslie wasn't pursuing, and rose back up to his full height. Once they made eye contact, and he could see the boy was ready, he shuffled forward and opened with a few quick jabs. Nothing hard, just enough to make sure the boy kept his hands up.

There quick strikes, keeping his opponents hands up, in front of his face. In front of his eyes. Right left right, then a left hook to unsettle his footwork. The boy planted his feet to keep from being pushed around, and Leslie put a right cross into his right side, just under the shoulder.

Leslie grinned, feeling the resistance and knowing he had struck hard. The boy stumbled backward and let out a quiet gasp, his breath knocked out of his lungs. He stumbled back, his guard still up, and stumbled until he fell to one knee.

Leslie didn't pursue his opponent as he fell. Even if he were allowed to, which he wasn't at all sure of, he wouldn't want to. Boxing might be combat, but it was also a sport.

It was what made his captain such a terrible boxer. Vincent didn't have opponents, he had enemies.

A cheer for the hometown hero rose up again, and this time Leslie listened for the name. "Evantes! Evantes! Evantes!" the crowd roared, and their cries put new life back in the boy he was fighting. Evantes shifted his guard, wiped the sweat off his brow, and advanced.

Leslie shifted his weight to his back foot, and watched the boy's shoulders. Evantes was going on the offensive, and Leslie intended to punish him for it. He countered a quick jab with a hard cross into the boy's guarding hand, knocking it back into his own face. A desperate left hook gave Leslie the chance to put two quick jabs into his unprotected face.

And when the opening presented itself, Leslie connected with an uppercut.

Evantes' head snapped up and for a heartbeat he was unconscious. But his eyes refocused on the way down, and he managed to keep himself from falling flat on his back. He still fell to one knee, and stared up at Leslie with wide, frightened eyes.

Leslie planted his feet and waited. The crowd cheered louder than ever, and Evantes pushed himself back to his feet.

Leslie glanced over at the referee, who was looking at Leslie as if he had sprouted a second nose. The sight left him wondering if there was something important about the rules out here at the Roost that he didn't know.

Evantes raised his hands again, and Leslie darted forward. A pair of quick jabs drove the boy to a corner of the dirt ring. He crossed his arms, holding himself low and guarding his head, just as he lunged to his right and towards the centre of the ring.

Leslie followed, and threw a wide right hook for the moment Evantes' foot landed. But instead of landing, Evantes stayed light on his feet, and Leslie's shot only knocked him another couple of tiny steps back. But just after, the boy planted his feet, bent his knees, and leapt straight at Leslie.

And he leapt with his arms still in a cross, guarding his head.

The boy pushed through Leslie's quick left cross, crashed into Leslie's chest, and pushed him with what had to be a desperate surge of strength. Leslie was shoved back, just a step, and dropped his left foot hard into the sand to stop himself.

Leslie was about to push the boy away, when he noticed Evantes was staring down at that left foot. His eyes were wide, and his open mouth could be either relief or shock. Or both. Leslie looked down to find his left foot had cut the line in the sand.

Leslie knew he had lost about half a second before everyone else in the stadium.

The crowd surged to their feet and let out a thunderous roar. Hats, scarves, and bits of food were showered in the stadium, waving arms made a blur or them sea of faces. The cacophony congealed in moments into a pounding chant, as the stadium found and took up the victor's name. "Evantes, Evantes, Evantes!"

Evantes, deflated in his relief, stumbled back two steps and fell in the sand with a sigh. He looked much like man being picked up by a passing ship after being cast adrift for weeks.

Leslie looked over to the referee. "Is that a ring-out?" he asked, pointing to his left foot.

"Afraid so." The referee was hard to hear over the crowd. Afraid he hadn't been heard the firs time, he stepped stepped up and clapped Leslie on the shoulder. "Not that anyone's doubting who the better fighter was," he added.

"It was a smart play." Leslie admitted. He began to clap, and let himself smile. "He could see I wasn't familiar with the rules. Luring me to the edge and catching me off guard was the quickest, cleanest way he had to end the match."

"You're a good sport, Mister Madrigan," the referee said, and he marched over and helped the champion back up to his feet.

Leslie stepped away without turning his back, clapping as he went. His smile was slightly less than genuine, though, when his thoughts turned back to the state of his finances.

"Leslie!" someone shouted, only barely rising above the cheering. He turned around, and walked to the edge of the stadium, where a pair of women were waiting.

Anita, he expected to see. He had heard her cheering since the beginning of the match. White shirt and trousers dyed in a dozen shades of engine grease, bulging tool pouch at her leg, and thick leather gloves in her belt, one pair of googles holding her hair back, and welding goggles hanging around her neck. Her attire was as consistent as the colour of the sky.

As consistent as how good it felt to see her.

Mercy was there too, with that strange hat of hers. Raven feathers on one side extending like a stretched-out wing all the way pas the back of the brim and into her hair. She was grinning, favouring the side of her mouth that didn't have that long scar cutting it.

Leslie wondered if her presence meant their ship was finally ready.

"Madrigan!" Anita called out from the stands. She was leaning on the rails, gesturing with one hand to the middle of the ring, where Evantes was still struggling to his feet. "You had him! Like a Calmoori frigate in a fight with a grain barge, that was a sure thing!"

"Should have known the rules before I stepped in the ring," Leslie said. "Kid was clever to take advantage of it."

"Do you have anything left to do here, Leslie?" Mercy asked. She vaulted over the rails and landed in the sand next to him.

"Collect my purse. Second place in this little tourney of theirs is worth two hundred drachmas. Which, unless I've missed my mark, is all the money we have right now," Leslie replied drily. He paused for a moment, then asked, "do we have a job lined up?"

"Go get paid, and have Anita look at your hands. I'll expect you both on board in half an hour," Mercy said. She left before Leslie could ask anything else, and disappeared into the crowd.

After Mercy disappeared, Anita climbed over and down the rails to join him. "What do you mean, that's all the money we have? We in debt or something?"

"No debt," Leslie said. "But commissioning the ship emptied our finances. We barely paid for six days of fuel, and even less food. Whatever our captain managed to find for work, I hope it pays well."