Years ago, in a quaint, unassuming town Tanker had stumbled upon by sheer accident during his relentless, years-long hunt for Dextin, he sat perched high up in a colossal oak tree. The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves, casting shifting patterns on his scowling face. He gazed silently at the sky, a deep frown etched between his brows, lost in thought.
Below, the front door of a cozy, timber-framed house creaked open, and a woman emerged. Her name was Sarah. She held a wooden tray laden with food, a simple meal of steaming stew and freshly baked bread, the aroma wafting enticingly on the gentle breeze. She scanned the yard, her head turning left and right, a look of mild confusion on her face. "Where could he be?" she muttered to herself, her voice a low, warm murmur.
Her eyes eventually landed on the majestic oak, its branches swaying gently. Still, she couldn't immediately spot him. Then, she noticed it: more leaves than usual seemed to be detaching from the upper branches, fluttering softly to the ground. A frown creased her brow, and she looked up, her gaze piercing the canopy. There he was, perched like a brooding gargoyle on a thick branch, staring blankly at the heavens.
"Would you get down here, you idiot!" she yelled, her voice suddenly sharp, slicing through the quiet afternoon. Tanker, unperturbed, ignored her. He continued to stare at the sky for another moment before finally, softly, without even looking at her, he spoke, "Don't you dare bark orders at me, you woman. I can do what I want, when I want."
The words had barely left his lips when, with a terrifying speed that belied her gentle demeanor, the wooden tray went flying. It spun through the air, a humble projectile of culinary justice, and struck Tanker squarely on the face. He yelped, a surprised grunt escaping him, and lost his precarious balance, tumbling from the tree with a thud. He landed hard on the soft earth, rubbing his head, his initial anger quickly morphing into genuine fear as he saw the incandescent fury radiating from Sarah. Her eyes blazed, and her voice, now a full-blown roar, echoed through the quiet village.
"YOU DARE INSULT ME AGAIN AND I'M GOING TO END YOUR LIFE, YOU HEAR ME?!" she shrieked, her hands clenching into fists. "NOW LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO! CLEAN UP THIS FOOD MESS AND HEAD INSIDE! ARE YOU STILL SITTING ON THE GROOOOOOOUND?!?" The last words were drawn out, a prolonged, high-pitched scream of pure exasperation and rage.
Tanker, stunned by her ferocity, scrambled to his feet instantly. He watched, bewildered, as she mumbled to herself, her steps heavy with indignation, as she stomped back into the house. He blinked, confusion warring with a lingering sense of terror. Complying without a word, he bent down and painstakingly picked up the scattered stew and bread from the ground, placing the dirty food back onto the tray. He then carried the tray into the house, heading directly to the kitchen where he unceremoniously dumped the soiled meal into the trash.
As he finished, Sarah reappeared, her anger still simmering but her voice now softer, laced with a weary exasperation. She stretched out a fresh, steaming bowl of food towards him. Tanker looked at it, then gestured vaguely towards the discarded food in the trash. "I thought this food was mine," he said, genuinely perplexed. "So whose is that one?"
Sarah, still frowning and pointedly looking away, mumbled, "It's mine. Just take it."
Tanker's confusion deepened. "What are you getting at? Why give me your food?"
Finally, Sarah met his gaze, her frown softening just a fraction, a hint of concern in her eyes. "Can you just stop acting so tough and eat already?" she said, her voice now almost gentle. "I'll be fine."
Tanker hesitantly took the bowl. He looked at Sarah, a strange battle playing out on his face. He cleared his throat, struggling with words that seemed alien to his tongue. "Tha-than..." He cleared his throat again, trying to force it out. "Thank you," he managed, the words a rough, unaccustomed scrape in his throat.
Sarah looked genuinely surprised, her earlier anger replaced by a flicker of disbelief. "Seriously? Is it that hard for you to say 'thank you'?" She shook her head, a small, wry smile touching her lips. "You know what, don't even answer that. Once you eat and freshen up, meet me outside. The people of this town are having a discussion about you."
Tanker frowned again, his food forgotten. "Discussion about what?"
"Who you'll be staying with, and your life in this town," Sarah explained, her voice turning serious.
Tanker's frown deepened into a scowl. "I don't need that discussion. I'm leaving tomorrow to look for Dextin. My hunt must go on."
Before he could finish his sentence, Sarah lashed out, not with a tray this time, but with a sharp, open-handed slap to his head. Tanker yelped, clutching his head in pain. "What is wrong with you—" he began, but her tears, sudden and unexpected, cut him off.
Her face was etched with a raw, desperate concern. "What is wrong with you?" she asked, her voice cracking, her tears flowing freely. "Is killing Dextin all you care about? You got lost while looking for him, and you want to go out again? What if you get lost, and this time no one is there for you? I don't know if you care, but people do care about you, and even if they don't... I care about you, dammit! How dumb do you have to be?"
She gently began to pound on his chest, her small fists hitting his hardened torso with soft thuds, the tears flowing faster now. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she sobbed.
To her utter surprise, Tanker pulled her into a tight, unyielding hug. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the comforting scent of her. "There's no need for the meeting," he murmured, his voice rough, choked with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel. "I already know where I want to stay. Right here. With you."
Sarah's eyes widened, then became even more watery as she melted into his embrace, wrapping her arms around him, her silent sobs finally giving way to quiet, heartfelt tears.
Back in the present, in the center of the tournament ring, Tanker stood alone. The light from the arena's great ceiling filtered down, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He wasn't looking at the crowd, nor at the battered Bianca being carried away, nor at Zack who stood ready for their final clash. He was looking at the sky, his eyes unfocused, lost in the ghost of a memory. Tears streamed down his scarred face, the raw, unfamiliar sensation of grief and regret washing over him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered softly, his voice barely audible above the lingering murmurs of the crowd, the apology not for the audience, but for the woman who had stirred a forgotten tenderness within him, and for the one he had just brutalized.
Zack stared at Tanker, his own expression unreadable. He knew this man was the final obstacle. Once Tanker was knocked down, he would face Rider. And then, he would prove to Rider that he, Zack, was the better man, the one truly capable of avenging their mothers and ending Dextin's reign for good. The arena held its breath, poised for the next battle, unaware of the profound shifts occurring within the hearts of its combatants.