He is built from tens of thousands of hours.

  He is built from years of spilt blood.

  He is built to be perfect, and he is built perfectly.

  His lines are clean and sharp. His balance is immovable and quick. His bones are steel and iron. His tendons are rubber and springs. His muscles are gears and flywheels. His eyes are decisive and unwavering. His skin is rock and stone. His hands are lead and bricks. His neck is concrete and rebar. His legs are cable and carbon fibre. His lungs are billows and hydraulics. His breath is boiling steam. He is a machine forged through practice and assembled through pain.

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  He can never be broken, for he will be assembled again better than before. He is an un-killable war machine. He is an automaton of pure energy willed to fight. He fights because it is all he wants to know. He fights, because what greater purpose is there in life other than to dance in a ring and spill blood for sport? There may have been a time when he fought for money, or fame, or thrill, or power, but now his purpose is the fight itself, and he could not wish for a happier existence. To him, to fight is to live. He forced upon himself one luxury: a single golden tooth hidden under his mouthguard so that me may call himself vain if any were to ask.

  His eyes still as he marches toward his canvas, left foot leading. The dust, and beer, and words, and spit fly.

  He cares not for theatrics.

  He cares only for war.