Tymon enters the office and quickly walks past Ignas’s friend, making a b-line for Cyryl. Cyryl is sitting at his station on the other side of the table, getting a bit of work done.

“Hey!” Cyryl’s ears perk. “How’d it go? Still got your-“ Cyryl notices his friend’s dipped ears and rounded eyes. “Ooh. Sorry to hear that. Well, hey, you’re still the most experienced-“

Tymon blurts out “I pushed Ignas down the stairs.” There’s a slight, nervous smile on his face, and he’s hunched forward to deal with the stomach pain.

Everyone’s ears perk upon hearing this.

“Hmgh?” Urban mutters through his bandages.

“You didn’t,” Klem says.

“Oh my gosh,” Daria smiles.

“Ha! No way!” Cyryl leans back and slaps his knee, “that’s awesome!”

But Ignas’s friend, Stepas, glares at him from his spot by the door, “you did what?”

Ignas then throws open the door, and it swings so fast it bashes against the cabinet lining the wall. “Where is he?” He speaks calmly, with authority, though his eyes are bloodshot and his ears are flared.

He locks eyes with Tymon for a moment. Tymon struggles to keep his eyes open and not desperately flinch, but he manages to maintain eye contact. He’s even able to clench his teeth and step out from behind Cyryl.

Ignas snarls, rage boiling from his wounded pride, “you son of a bitch!” He rushes in, leaping over the large table, heading straight for Tymon.

Cyryl jumps from his seat to protect his friend, throwing himself in the way of Ignas’s lunge, and grappling him. Stepas heads over, while the other bureaucrats back away from the brawl that ensues. Some bureaucrats stand to watch, cheering the men on, while others lock up and aren’t sure what to do. Cyryl may be their friend, but he’s also halfway responsible for their increased workload, and Ignas is a high-ranking member of society. Would it be okay for convicts to jump in?

Cyryl isn’t concerned with that. He’s throwing punches, he’s grabbing Ignas’s clothes and shaking him around, he’s digging his shoes into the carpet and pressing the full weight of his body against Ignas.

Ignas is doing much the same, though with his eyes locked on Tymon. “You little rat!” “I’ll kill you!” “Get out of my way, bastard!” Peldaks have an enormous capacity for strength, and the millennia have been kind to Ignas in that regard. The weight of nearly 4,000 years of training, conditioning, and experience crashes into Cyryl, though his strength is slightly tempered by Ignas’s blood rage. Nothing so fancy as complex choreography, he’s simply scrambling to get to Tymon, barely paying Cyryl any mind.

Cyryl may not be nearly as old, but adrenaline fuels his movements. He twists, he turns, he uses Ignas’s weight against him as he does everything in his power to keep him separated from his friend. There’s no room for punches or kicks, and Ignas wouldn’t feel such things anyway. Though, in Ignas’s flailing, a few stray blows catch Cyryl, and he might as well be getting hit by a boulder. An elbow to the jaw splits his lip, a wild punch in the chest sends him reeling from what’s assuredly a broken rib.

But despite it all, thanks to Tymon backing away, Cyryl can keep the enraged elder away from his boss.

But then Stepas approaches Cyryl from behind and wraps his arms around the man’s neck, putting him in a headlock. Cyryl is still focused on blocking Ignas even while being choked, and doesn’t let go of Ignas’s clothes or limbs.

Klem finally makes up his mind and runs in to help his friend. Though, thanks to the extra time of thought, Klem realizes the best choice is to try and separate them, not to start swinging. He grabs Ignas and tries to pull him back, catching a few strays from the monster of a man.

With this, a few other convicts are spurred into action. Keep Ignas from murdering Tymon, free Cyryl from the headlock as his face increasingly turns purple.

Ignas continues to scream death threats, and continues to push through the efforts of five, then six, then seven convicts. They yell at him to calm down, but he ignores them.

Cyryl’s lungs are on fire from the lack of breath, but he still doesn’t release his hold on Ignas. In turn, Stepas increases the pressure on his throat, and starts yelling at Cyryl to give up.

Finally, the half-giant Urban comes in. He puts one hand on Ignas’s chest, one hand on Cyryl’s, then uses all his might to shove them apart. Cyryl falls back, landing on Stepas. Ignas finally loses his footing too, taking the convicts down with him. “Hmph!” Urban’s deep voice resounds even through the bandages, and there’s finally stillness.

Ignas is calm, and Stepas releases his hold.

“Gya-!” Cyryl gasps for air, then rolls to the side to start coughing.

Ignas keeps his eyes locked onto Tymon, and quickly gets to his feet. “You’re dead,” he doesn’t yell, but he doesn’t need to. “I want you out of this office, I want you out of this department.”

“I-“ Tymon starts.

Cyryl turns his head and manages to speak between the coughs and gasps, “fuck you!”

Tymon ignores his friend, “no, I’m the manager here, and you can go to hell. This is my job, this is my office, I’m not giving it up just because you want to do a favor for your buddy. And we’re on the fifth floor, so there’s a lot more stares I can push you down!”

“You’re dumber than I thought if you think I’ll let you do that again.”

“A-and you’re exactly as dumb as I thought!” Tymon’s shaking, and his voice cracks.

Ignas straightens his uniform of all the wrinkles caused by Cyryl’s grappling. His fiery eyes settle, he exhales harshly from his nose. He stands straight and proud, then looks down at Tymon. He turns his head slightly to watch Stepas stand, and quickly notes his friend’s lack of injury. “Very well,” Ignas says, his gaze returning to Tymon. “We’re civilized men-“

Tymon coughs, “y-you just flew into a rage and overpowered like ten people!”

“-so we’ll handle this like civilized men. You want to keep your job, and Stepas wants your job. There’s a fighting ring in this building’s gym. You can see where I’m going.”

A wide smile creeps onto Stepas’s face. “Hehheh, yeah. That could be fun.”

One of the bureaucrats scratches the back of his neck, “would it? He’s like two feet shorter than you. Do you typically enjoy beating up weaklings?”

Stepas shrugs, “I killed a lot of people his height these last few years. I won’t lose sleep over it.”

Tymon tightens his brow. “If it’s a fight for who gets the manager position, give me a chance to call my fiancée. She’ll come over and fight on my behalf-which!” He strings the two sentences together to avoid being interrupted, “makes perfect sense since I’m also using her to instill discipline.”

“No,” Ignas crosses his arms. “You want the job; you fight for it. I’m not an idiot. Obviously, you’d lose against anyone here, and it wouldn’t be fair to give you a challenge you can’t win.” He smiles softly. “You want to fight for your job, then fight. So long as you don’t pass out, or give up-…” He glances between Tymon and Stepas. “Hmm… No, so long as you don’t give up, then congrats! I’ll let you keep your job.” Ignas walks forward and places a firm hand on Tymon’s head, intentionally slapping down hard enough to hurt his neck just a little. “For what it’s worth,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I hope you don’t give up while he’s beating the hell out of you.”

Ignas walks past Tymon, collects Stepas, and the two laugh as they head out.

Steps tries to whisper to his friend, but he accidentally speaks just loud enough for everyone’s sensitive ears to pick up. “I think I’ll let him win if he can take a few good punches. I doubt the little guy’s ever been in a fight before.”

“Haha, yeah, yeah. Might as well reward him for having the balls to attack me.”

Stepas shakes his head, “I can’t believe you let that squirt push you down the stairs.”

Ignas blushes a little and raises his chin, “it… was a surprise.”

“Then he kicked you in the face? He might have even broken your nose!”

Ignas frowns, “shut it.” He reaches up to pinch his nose, and the cartilage is indeed broken. “I’m fine.”

When the stairwell door closes behind them, Tymon puts his hands to his face. The others crowd around him and give him supportive pats on the shoulders and back.

Cyryl rubs his chest, and his eyes bulge in pain when he presses against the broken rib. “S-sorry I can’t be the one to fight.”

“No, no, not your fault.” He slides his hands down off his face, pulling his bottom eyelids and lip, “thanks to you, I’ll get the shit beaten out of me in a ring and get to keep my job, rather than getting the shit beat out of me here for no benefit. Thanks.” Tymon takes a deep breath, then heads for the door. “Can one of you cut to the chase and call an ambulance? I don’t think this will take long.”

“You want us to call Cassy?” A convict says.

“Not… particularly, no.” But as Tymon walks, his ears perk as he hears the footsteps of all his coworkers behind him. He looks back, and they’re all following. “What are you doing?”

Klem wipes some of the blood from his lip, “well, obviously we’re gonna watch.”

“I mean, we’re with you… but it’ll be fun.”

Daria smiles brightly and gives a thumbs up, “think of it as we’re rooting for you!”

“Plus, you are making us work, so it’s not like this is unexpected.”

Tymon sighs, “…Right.” He pulls his shoulders back.

When Tymon gets down to the ring, he’s made to take his shirt off, and put on a padded headset and padded gloves. The normal padded equipment is far too big for him, so he’s given a child’s set. Everyone laughs at this. They also laugh at his exposed torso.

Compared to a human of equivalent height, Tymon is shredded. Well defined muscles, popping six pack, very low bodyfat percentage, and enough definition on his back that every muscle group is visible at a glance. But it’s not up to peldak standards. A real peldak, man or woman, should look like they’re walking marble statues, they should be lined with battle scars, their veins should bulge under the skin. Plus, Tymon is too pale. Since Peldor doesn’t have a sun, pale skin was the standard up until 500 years ago. But, as peldak warriors started being sent to other worlds, tanned skin became the norm. If their tan fades, it’s a sign they should reenlist in the legions and be sent to a sunny world to renew it.

Cyryl stands outside the ropes of the ring, and Eliza the receptionist is standing at his side with a bell connected to a wooden plank. “Only punches,” Cyryl says, “no hitting Tymon when he’s on the ground, got it?”

“Got it,” Stepas raises his fists, rhythmically flexing his muscles to make the veins pop.

“Any special rules for me?” Tymon asks.

“Don’t… die? Come on, man. Don’t make this harder for me.” Cyryl takes a small mallet connected to the wood board with a string, then whacks the brass bell to give it a nice, reverberating ring.

Stepas moves in and punches Tymon in the face. There’s nothing Tymon could have done to block it.

The man’s head whips back, he’s launched off his feet, he spins backwards twice before landing on the padded ring floor with a devastating thud.

Everyone except Cyryl, Ignas, and Stepas laughs. Cyryl is too kind for that, Ignas is smiling, and Stepas wears a face of smug satisfaction.

Blood trickles down Tymon’s nose as he’s laid out on the ring floor, but as he stairs up at the ceiling, he doesn’t make a noise. It’s a great deal of pain to be sure, but he’s resigned himself to it. There’s no use rolling on the floor and giving these people a show. He tries to stand, but his brains are too scrambled. He rolls onto his stomach, crawls to the three horizontal ropes that line the ring, then uses them to climb to his feet.

Once Tymon faces his opponent and raises his fists, Cyryl hits the bell again.

Stepas moves in to launch a devastating punch to Tymon’s left side. So much force is applied, and Tymon so light, that he’s thrown to the other side of the ring. He’s knocked over the ropes, but Klem catches him before he can land on the unpadded ground.

He lays in Klem’s arms, gasping for breath and hissing in pain. The slight motion of Klem breathing aggravates his now-broken ribs. Again, the room explodes in laughter, but this time Klem doesn’t join in. He’s set inside the ring, and it’s nearly a minute before he can stand on his own, without aid from the ropes. There are deep bags of exhaustion and misery under his eyes.

“C’mon, Tymon! You’re like a top tier punching bag, you can take him!”

“Yeah! Mind coming over to my place after this? My daughter could use a target around her size.”

“Oh come on, be fair. Nobody could have expected him to take two hits.”

The moment Cyryl sees that Tymon is ready, he rings the bell. Stepas uppercuts Tymon in the gut, raising him two feet in the air before Tymon falls back hard, landing on his hands and knees.

From this position most unbefitting of a peldak, Tymon pukes his guts out.

He starts crying.

As much as he wants to suppress the tears, he can’t.

It’s the sort of ugly cry, with thick tears running down his cheeks, and his nose running with blood and snot. He can barely breathe, and not just because his mouth tastes like vomit and his nose is full of blood. The pain is excruciating, yes, but it’s more so the embarrassment of it all. Everyone knows how small and weak he is, but having to take off his shirt was just excessive, and the comments they’re all making in the background doesn’t help.

This is where it stops being funny for everyone involved.

Cyryl remains quiet.

One of the convicts dips their ears, “T-Tymon? Are you okay?”

“You want a break?”

“Or at least a towel?”

“It’s… just the manager position anyway, right?”

“Yeah, like, who cares?”

Tymon barks out, “shut up!” Biting his bottom lip, he forces himself to stand.

Cyryl watches his friend, and their eyes lock. Cyryl’s eyes carry neither sympathy, nor pity. Tymon chose to fight for his position, and the only way to keep it is to have the rounds continue until Stepas gives up. It would be insulting to ask if Tymon wants to continue, and it would be a betrayal to try and pressure him to give up. The only thing Cyryl waits for is confirmation, and Tymon, through clenched teeth, gives it via a look in his eye.

Cyryl hits the bell. Eliza’s lips are pursed, and she’s already looking away.

Stepas is hesitant for only a moment, but punches Tymon in the chest at full force. He’s sent flying back to the ropes, which bend, then sends Tymon back into the ring, landing on his face. The ribs already broken are shifted in his chest, sending the man spiraling in pain, and even more are cracked. The blow messes with the beating of his hearts, and a wave of nausea washes over him. It’s a sensation similar to an intense heart attack, but the feeling only lasts for a moment.

There’s still some laughter, but it’s much more subdued. More of an awkward chuckle as nobody can believe Tymon is still trying to force his way back to his feet.

Stepas frowns. This isn’t nearly as satisfying as he anticipated, and Tymon’s bones are breaking far easier than they should. He has no way of knowing that Tymon is medically weaker than a normal peldak due to the circumstances of his birth.

Ignas, standing on the side of the ring, is still smiling politely. He’s had enough experience of breathing through broken ribs to know what Tymon is going through. “Ready for another hit?” His voice is even, without a hint of cruelty or enjoyment. “I was 50 cycles old or, what is that, 150 years?” He shakes his head, “I was young when I learned to push through the pain and make a fist, even when every bone in my hand was shattered. If you can’t handle it, give up.”

Tymon frowns, his eyes hazy, and Cyryl reads his expression to ring the bell.

Stepas throws a much weaker punch to the stomach. He’s sent to his knees, but thankfully already puked everything up. He doesn’t have to deal with that particular embarrassment.

Klem gulps, “excuse me, sir Kosinski?” Ignas’s ears perk in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Tymon as he struggles to get up. “Isn’t this a bit… excessive?”

Another convict nods, “y-yeah. I mean, the guy’s clearly weak, this is just being cruel.”

Daria looks to Stepas with a weak look of disgust. “I was sentenced to a century and a half for this kind of bullying. Are we really supposed to be enjoying this?”

Various murmurs, grunts, and small comments agree. But Cyryl doesn’t join.

Ignas doesn’t avert his eyes from Tymon, but thinks for a moment. “Raise your hand if you’ve never enlisted in the military before.” No hand is raised. “Raise a hand if you’ve never suffered an injury worse then what our Mr. Czepiel is currently experiencing.” Nobody can raise their hand. “If you were in his place, with equivalent injuries, raise your hand if you would give up right now.” Nobody can do it. At least once in their long lives, everyone present has suffered worse injuries in combat, yet still continued to fight. “Then shut up. I don’t care that he’s weak, I don’t care why he’s weak. If he’s a peldak, he should fight for what he wants. A cirathan would give up, a tendori would give up, any alien would.”

Tymon finally stands, and Cyryl rings the bell.

Stepas punches him in the leg. Then the face. Then the arm. Round after round. Skin splits, bones break, pain rocks his frail body. All the fun and enjoyment is wiped from Stepas’s face. As far as he’s concerned, he’s performing an execution under the orders of his superior. Yet, each time Tymon falls, he gets back up. One of these punches breaks his leg, and Cyryl calmly walks into the ring to stand him up on his good leg. Then, he returns to ring the bell once more.

Nobody laughs, nobody makes a sound. Tymon isn’t even grunting or whimpering anymore.

After another hard punch to the face, Tymon is sent tumbling over the rope and lands on the ground outside. He struggles to move, but can’t. His body stops working.

Cyryl heads around the ring and picks him up. There’s nowhere Cyryl can touch that doesn’t agitate a broken bone, but he picks his friend up anyway. He hardens his heart as he watches Tymon’s cheeks puff up to suppress a scream.

But, when Cyryl steps into the ring and prepares to set his friend against one of the ropes for support, he sees Ignas walking away. Stepas quietly removes his gloves and leaves the ring too. There’s no need for a grand declaration, everyone knows that Tymon won, and he’ll be keeping his job. With a stoic face, Cyryl sets Tymon against the rope, keeping the weight on his non-broken leg, then grabs his friend’s gloved fist to raise it high.

Since he’s still in the ring, his fist stands above Ignas and Stepas’s heads.

The audience of convicts begin to clap, and whistle. It’s instantly a roar of cheers and congratulations.

“Way to go!” Klem yells.

“You did it, Tymon!”

“Tymon Czepiel, manager for life!”

“Ruler of the department,” Daria giggles.

Urban pounds his fist against his broad chest.

The peldaks begin rhythmically stomping their feet in recognition, and it shakes the whole bureau. From Laura down in the lobby, to the men in the warehouse, everyone thinks it’s some kind of earthquake.

Tymon takes an agonizing breath in, but the accomplishment overpowers his sense of pain. His tired, bruised eyes glance to the door, and Ignas is just about to leave. “H-hey!” He coughs out, a bit of blood trailing down his chin.

The convicts go silent in an instant; Ignas and Stepas turn around. They have a rough idea of what he’s about to say, and they can’t avoid what’s coming.

Tymon needs a moment to gather the words in his broken chest, making sure he’s clear, concise, and there’re no stutters. “Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out.”