The Interstellar Slave

It was Saturday, June 22, 2030—a summer night in the Bronx, New York City. It was Bituin Lee’s birthday, but here she was, having a bare-knuckle underground fight. Her Caucasian opponent, called the “Ravager,” was a couple inches taller than her five feet and six inches height and maybe five kilograms or so heavier than her fifty-four kilograms weight. Nonetheless, Ravager’s left eyebrow already had a cut, and her face was bloody. Her black racer back crop top was wet with sweat and blood; and her green-and-black Muay Thai shorts stuck to her sweaty thighs. Also noticeably, some wet strands of her shoulder-length blond hair were stuck to her pointed face as her tie loosened. She then kept shoving the strands aside by her shoulder or the back of her hand. Ravager panted while her two bloody hands, which wiped her face to get rid of the blood from flowing down her green eyes, were in front of her, ready to counterattack Bituin. Her shoulders moved up and down faster than normal as she breathed. She swallowed while double checking her mouthpiece, cheeks and lips moving. Meanwhile, Bituin’s navy blue tank top and fitted gym shorts hugged her lean body tighter as sweat soaked it for having been fighting for over ten minutes now. They were on their third of the three-minute round, and they still had a couple more to go. She wasn’t cut, but she sure already had some bruises on her face and body. But these were nothing compared to Ravager’s. The half-Filipina and half-Korean twenty-four-year-old girl was already considered a seasoned underground fighter and was given the nickname “Phenomenon.” Sometimes, she was called “Fil-Ko-menon.” It sounded lame and a bit race-y—to her—though not to the point of being offensive. She was born in California and had never been in her mother’s homeland. She had no relatives there, which was surprising since Filipinos had big families, and the same on her father’s side—none in South Korea. Sometimes, she thought her father was actually from the north and was a deserter, who wanted a better life in another country. She was really weirded by the lack of their relatives but who was she to question and doubt her parents? Their family was just that—small but scattered now. Bituin had been an underground fighter since she was nineteen, when she left home after her parents divorced that same year. Her Filipina mother lived in San Francisco, California, working as a surgeon for a while now. On the other hand, her father lived in Albany, New York. He worked at a real estate company for a long time now as well. She never knew the real reason why her parents divorced, but she guessed it was because of their respective professions since neither had remarried or had a partner ‘til now. They just drifted apart since Bituin was eight, and she noticed it. Her mother was always on call at the hospital, and her father was always on a business trip. As their only daughter, she found the separation so hard, painful and devastating—especially when her father finally moved to Albany. She hadn’t finished her university because she happened to join the underground fight club when she arrived in New York City. A Black neighbor invited and brought her there as he was one of the underground fighters, and he thought she had potential. How he knew she could fight was that he happened to see her at the park performing a kata (form) he’d never seen before, asking her where she learned it. She honestly told him her mother had a friend who was disciplined by TRACMA (Trovador Ramos Consolidated Martial Arts) and hence taught her since she was little for self-defense. At first, Bituin thought joining the fight club was just for fun, to keep herself in good condition and had something or rather someone to vent out her negative emotions. But since then, she had no desire to finish up Psychology. She did dream to become a therapist someday, but that was ironic because of what she was doing now with her life. Her thirty-ish Black friend went away weeks later, leaving her a note that he moved to another state to join his brother, who had set up a gym. He wished her good luck in the path she’d chosen. She thought it was really disappointing since she liked him—her first ever friend in New York. Now, she tried to not get distracted by her shitty life. An oncoming straight punch was delivered hard and fast, but she was able to dodge in a millisecond. At the same time, she countered it with a left upper cut, hitting Ravager’s chin. The latter’s head was thrown backward, and she staggered. This made the audience go wild; hoots, shouts and whistles filled the ground floor of the abandoned building. Bituin quickly moved forward to follow up with a right hook, which brought her opponent down the concrete ground. Ravager was knocked unconscious, while Bituin was hailed the winner. The excited men and women in the audience tu-whit tu-whooed and shouted again, either clapping their hands, stomping their feet or crumpling the canned beers they were holding and either hurling them against the walls or dropping them to the floor. Maybe the latter ones bet on the Ravager. Since Bituin’s fight was the last match that night, it was already past two in the morning. She made sure Ravager was okay despite her assaults earlier during the match, thankful that the blonde was a sport and was looking fine. “Don’t worry. I’ll see my doctor first thing in the morning to be sure,” Ravager assured her, so she was relieved. She made sure Ravager had her emergency appointment done through her smartwatch that had a Doc app. Half an hour later, Bituin was one of those few that were about to leave the venue, after she got the money from the organizer and changed into fresh pants and shirt. Overhead, flying patrol cars passed by. However, it was dark where she parked her car, when suddenly, out of nowhere, someone assaulted her from behind. She was punched in the back of her head that made her stun and her vision swim. It seemed to her that her head suddenly swelled and heated up. And then, she was kicked hard in the back and heard her spinal c***k, resulting to her small dark brown eyes become bigger. She slumped against the side of her car, while her unknown gigantic brawny assailant escaped without a trace. “Open!” she commanded her automated car while moaning in pain. Her vision was fading in and out, trying to grasp the open door. “Call 911!” she added for the AI to contact. She gasped, suddenly feeling numb, and had no idea what happened next. The female voice of the AI hadn’t registered to her as it said, “Dialing 911.” A passing car passed by, stopped and reversed when she was noticed there lying on the ground next to her car and was immediately brought to the hospital. Several hours later, she woke up in a hospital bed and couldn’t feel her legs.