With his face buried in the screen, Michael spent the rest of the afternoon gazing at his world through his viewfinder. From where he sat, he could only capture the tips of the hills in the distance, which capped the city skyline and loomed over him like a giant barricade. It reminded him of the existence of a world he'd never see, banished, and doomed to remain at the foot of the mountain where the water came in, at the precipice of a much better world.

Dark and lonely was the urban forest; a great, dark forest, just a dense brush of white and black and gray, an where the dark things were most uninhibited in the absence of light. However, the forest made thriving sounds, a brilliantly bursting synesthesia, broadly coloring the pervasive and infinite gray in his mind. For a long time he sat, the screen hoisted in front of him, he pushed through darkness to see more than what there appeared to be. Finally, he saw the beauty inside of it. It was fleeting, as if a mosaic of ions were dancing and beckoning his impending invasion, as if perhaps a beacon of the afterlife had torn its way through dirt and rock, with its hold on him more urgent than ever. But the lights grew brighter and brighter, it encompassed his entire body. And then he shattered it, with a flailing splash, he came out in the open, where there were rows of grass made of clean graphite, and trees colored chrome mixed with the ocean-colored sky. The air was crystal clear; not suffocated by industrial miasma. From here, he could see golden lands, and a face illuminated by the effervescent specks of sunset. Within his heart, the sensation of captivity began to dissipate.

"There you are!" a voice called from behind him, causing him to jump and nearly fumble his camera. Luckily, he religiously wore the strap around his neck to prevent accidents. As he regained his composure, he chuckled, feeling slightly silly for panicking.

"I just wanted to practice some of the new techniques I learned this week. I wasn't blowing you off."

"Jesus, are you alright?"

"What? Oh yeah," he acknowledged, once again becoming aware of his bruises. "Just part of being a police cadet."

"Hm, I guess. You don't look like the police, you look like the police beat you."

He snorted. "Thanks."

"I'm just kidding, jeez." Jasmine pressed her finger against her soft lips as she leaned in towards Michael and his camera. Her black curls tumbled over her shoulders, and he could catch a glimpse of her perky brown tits resting delicately in the cute white bra she was wearing under her shirt. "Well, lemme see."

"You can't!" he cried.

"Oh?" she said with a sly grin emerging. "What kinda pics do you have on there? Girls?"

"N-nothing like that," he stammered, realizing he had sounded more defensive than he had meant to. "I don't think any girls would want me taking their picture."

"Hm. What girls have you asked?"

"Uh! Nobody," he sighed dejectedly.

"Then how do you know girls wouldn't want you taking their picture? Especially if you're good at it."

He watched the floor.

"That's what I'm talking about, Michael! You should be more confident in yourself! You're really talented but you're way too far inside your own head. Here, if you need practice on a girl, start with me."

"Really?" he quickly blurted.

"What? Am I not 'model material' or something?"

"No, it's not that, it's just—"

"Well good, it's settled. Shoot me." she declared.

She leaned back against the railing of the steps, studiously observing Michael as he surveyed the background. He guided her to the spot that he wanted, and as Michael peered through the lens, he was captivated by the way she effortlessly posed. At one moment, she would coyly look away from him, compelling him to chase her. In another she would beg for him with her pearly, dark glistening eyes from which he wouldn't dare look away. He let his eyes take in every inch of her golden skin. Her lips were slightly parted in a pitifully sexy manner, and from there, he traced her taut, smiling cheekbones down to her bare neck. She pouted and flicked her hair over her eyes; she nibbled at the tip of her fingernail with her perfect white teeth as she beckoned him with her flashing brown eyes.

"Uh..."

"What's wrong?" she said, breaking her pose.

"How do you know how to do that?"

"What do you mean?"

He hid back behind his camera again to hide that he was blushing. "Nothing."

***

"So you got ya ass whooped, huh kid?"

Michael let out a disdainful, miserable sigh from the side of his mouth that wasn't swollen and purple. O sat the wrong way in his chair, arms folded as he leaned over the back of it. He looked amused. But only until he quickly saw that Michael wasn't having it. So he changed his countenance. His brow was even, and his eyes were big and bold. "Get up." Michael's eyes got wide. O smiled cheerfully. "Come on, put your hands up. Like this." He put his fists in front of his face: the right one nearly touching his cheek, the left one just a tad out in front. Michael tried to copy him. "No no no." His broad palms encircled his tiny walnut fists, manipulating them to where he wanted them to go: right one on the cheek, left one on the cheek and then slightly out front. O knelt down in front of Michael, extending his left arm as he turned it. "That's ya jab. Ya 'one.' It's a quick pop." Michael did it along with him. "No extra unnecessary motion, keep your elbow straight." O stood up. After a few jabs, he fired off a straight, exaggerating the movement in his hips, and turning his back foot along with it. "Here's ya power punch. That's ya 'two.' Get ya hips and feet into it, like this." He made his forearm parallel to the floor as he swept his fist in front of jaw, the palm facing toward him. "Weak hook. 'Three.'" He whipped his right fist around in similar fashion. "Strong hook. 'Four.'" With his forearm parallel to the ground, his left fist swung upward. "Left uppercut. 'Five.'" And, with the right, "right uppercut. 'Six.' Those ya punches. Got that?"

"Uh?" Michael replied as he aimlessly tossed his fists at the air in front of him.

O knelt down in front of him again, this time with his palms open like mitts. "Gimme a 'one.'" Michael jabbed. "'One.' 'One.' 'One-two.'" O scooped at the air in a wide circle, catching the unsuspecting pupil right on his cheek. "You forgot about defense," he said. "Every time you throw a punch, you leave yourself open to a counter. Stop admiring every punch you throw and get those hands back or you're gonna get decked."

He seemed to get it, O thought. He watched him flinging his scrawny arms; his fists were the size of nectarines and still the biggest thing on him. O stared at him for a long time. So long he didn't even notice Michael staring back at him, with his hands to his sides. "What?" he said. "Ain't I doin' it right?"

O shook himself out of it. "Yeah," he finally replied. "Yeah, you got it."