St. Louis, Missouri, March, 2078, Friday…

Nate "Hammer Fist" Jones was in the fight of his life. He knew he was hurt but he didn't know how badly. He heard old Joe Duncan, his trainer, talking on his cell phone, but Nate knew he wasn't talking to him. He was talking about him.

"The kid's pretty bad, Gus. Yeah, the referee stopped the fight but the asshole sucker-punched him. They did an MRI. They're sure there's brain damage. I don't know if he's going to come out of the coma or not. He sure put up a fight."

Hey, that's me you're talking about. I guess I didn't win. But why can't I see anything or feel anything? It's like everything's black. Yet how can I hear? He remembered the fight. He had been on a roll up until then, winning six straight welterweight bouts either by KO or TKO. His nickname had come earlier, though, from the Olympics. Some of the big shots were starting to take an interest in him.

The asshole was Teddy "Bull" Johnson from Kansas City. The cross-state rivalry had brought in a big purse, even though the fight was local to the Midwest. Nate had been a slight favorite. It was Bull who deserved the "Hammer Fist" nickname that night, though - by the ninth round he had Nate gasping for air and seeing out of one eye. The referee stepped in to stop the fight just when Bull let a jab fly that would have stopped a rhino. Nate had gone down and ended up in the hospital.