A new Challenger!

By Patrick D. Lambert

Commissioned by notafurry2001

The chaos. The noise. People bumping you from side to side. The annual anime convention was nothing like the small events taking place over the year. It was a test of endurance, not meant for those who lacked the strength and courage to walk from hall to hall, evading the general public and cosplayers alike while carrying a bag with all the stuff bought during the day. Griffin saw many leave early, the weariness visible on their faces, clouded only by their frustration from those events they’d miss. 

He went through that. The first two years were the hardest. But time honed his resistance, and the naive enjoyer grew to become a dedicated fan who knew when to take rests and how to sneak snacks and water to prevent the overpriced products sold inside the precinct. 

A white loose t-shirt with the silly joke “How are you, Ken?” above the blue Hadouken covered a beefy body, perfectly balanced between fat and muscle—he didn’t look strong until you feel the grip of his hand. Large cargo pants did the same with the thick legs that he unconsciously trained at a work that required him to walk and climb stairs up and down most of the time. He constantly shaved a beard that only needed a week to grow back to how it was,  bushy and messy, like the brown hair he didn’t try to comb. 

On his shoulders, he carried his trusty backpack: a plain blue one that he used for work, nothing too fancy and with the right amount of space for all he needed. He already had run through his rations for the day, and that space was now occupied with small figures, clothes, and other souvenirs bought during the day. His left hand carried a bag with the rest of his stuff that didn’t fit in the backpack, along with a notebook to collect autographs of the multiple actors and artists that he followed. 

His headphones kept him disconnected from the bustle happening around him. He had his playlist on shuffle, jumping between video game soundtracks and anime openings, appropriate music for his surroundings. It was better than the mismatch of voices and songs coming from all directions, a brutal assault to his senses that he wouldn’t endure for more than 5 minutes. 

The schedule for today needed him at the main stage in 20 minutes. The prize for the Best Cosplay would take place later that day, but the staff also set up a space for those who weren’t looking to be part of it and wanted to show off their work. It was mostly for new cosplayers and others who weren’t that involved—which didn’t mean their work was bad. That wasn’t stopping the contenders to get up on stage and gain some extra cheers and applause before the main show. 

Griffin loved that parade. He usually found obscure and not-so-popular characters, even from recognized franchises. There were also some great cosplays made with little effort, a true display of talent rarely rewarded by judges whose preferences were on complex designs or a lack of cleavage, depending on what part of their bodies reacted first. 

It was also a chance to contribute to the community by making a public album for those cosplayers who didn’t get a good pic of them on stage. He was by no chance a professional but still got takes good enough for people to thank him. The Nikon he got three years ago was still in perfect shape, and working as well as the day he took it out of his box. Nothing special on a digital camera that did all the hard work for him, reason enough for Griffin to trust it every time he pushed the shutter. 

However, even with his profound love for the art of cosplaying, Griffin couldn’t but show a glimpse of sadness every time he looked at them and their fantastic work. It was something of a passion that he only practiced in private, lacking the confidence to wear one of his many improvised costumes. The fear of what others might say dwelled deep inside his heart like a weed watered by the years of bullying endured at high school. Not even a place that acted like a sanctuary for the weirdos like him could offer the courage to walk around acting like one of his favorite characters.

But he never let that sadness stay around for too long. Only a sigh was all it got from him, in a moment when he knew no one could see his expression. And when he put the camera down, a smile of gratitude was all the others saw, so no one ever suspected that little secret of him. It gave him some comfort to imagine he wasn’t the only one going through that—if only they could come forward.

Luckily for him, that sorrow wouldn’t bother him during the parade. Street Fighter 6 was coming up, and that brought a lot of fans to the convention. It has been his favorite game since childhood. So many quarters went into the arcade where he and a couple of friends played for hours, always trying to get the best score while learning combos out of the blue. The joy, the excitement, that energy rush that came after they successfully replicated and decipher the correct control input. Griffin treasured those memories more than anything in the world, and his love for the franchise and his characters indirectly defined most of his personality. 

Zangief was a good example. The Russian fighter inspired the beard Griffin was so proud of. At the gym, his theme from Super Street Fighter 2 gave him that extra push to finish his routine. An impulse led him to mimic the idle animations while standing in front of the mirror before his shower. With a little more confidence he could’ve got the same mohawk Zangief has. His liking for the character walked dangerously between admiration and platonic love, fitting perfectly on any of the definitions. 

Another detail that strengthened his interest in the character was when he started to grow up as a gay man. Hard to ignore a stud with muscles that big and chest hair that acted like a magnet for anyone’s face. Whether that type of body had always been of his liking or Zangief is the one to blame, it’s an answer that had evaded Griffin for years—not that it would make any difference. 

So far he had seen three guys cosplaying as Zangief. None of them had the same body build—an already hard-to-achieve feat—, and they only nailed the mohawk, recurring to a fake beard and chest hair to fit with his appearance. That said, the three of them were still eye candy, courageous enough to wear the appropriate outfit the character was so well-known for: the shiny red wrestling trunks with a golden belt, red and gold wristbands, and the red wrestling boots with golden trim. 

It was Griffin’s heaven. His camera was ready to snap as many pics as it could before they get off the stage. He was aware that it didn’t make him look good—but it was a crime without victims, and as long as no one find out it was ok, right? Well, that’s how the young fan justified his attraction to that specific type of body.

Looking to snatch a front-row place, Griffin began to make his way across the multitude. With a gentleness that contrasted with his frame, the 6-foot-tall man evaded the people as best as he could, trying not to damage their goods or costumes. They were in their own world, selfishly ignoring all the people around them until a stranger bumped accidentally, the moment when they gave the most despicable look as if that had been a capital offense—or that’s how Griffin perceived it whenever it happened. 

Ahead of him, a group of idols had gathered a lot of people in front of their table. With no visible path to take, Griffin sighed heavily and went back his steps to take the next aisle. 

“This is a mess,” he groaned. “Every year is the same.” 

The aisles continued getting smaller every year to make room for more tables. Griffin was one of many who wasn’t against more artists getting a spot to sell their goods, but the administration behind the event had shown multiple times they weren’t up for the task, yet they refused to make a change unless it benefitted their pockets. 

“It’s only a matter of time before this collapse,” Griffin thought while he continued evading people that really couldn’t see the giant passing by. On his mind popped other events that met their doom thanks to a greedy staff. He didn’t want the same to happen there—no matter how successful it could be, people would reach their limit eventually. 

The constant bumps and mean looks pushed Griffin out of the Artist Alley. His patience and gentleness also had a limit. He wouldn’t explode and start shoving people away, and instead, quietly make his way out of the event to deal with his anger in private. Griffin wasn’t ready to leave, not without those pics and some extra merch. He put his hopes into two or three minutes of “fresh” air to calm down and clear his mind—if the reek of sweat reigning the air could be called fresh.

“There’s still time,” he thought, looking back at the stage at the other side of the Artist Alley. “It’s not at the other end of the world.”

It was on this break when he noticed a solitary red door to his left. He knew about an improvised lounge for cosplayers to rest and make fixes to their costumes. The shiny red paint stood out above the multitude around him, and Griffin felt pulled by it as if an invisible lasso had been thrown around his neck. There were no signs forbidding non-cosplayers to walk in, something probably too obvious that Griffin decided to ignore. There were rumors about a professional bodybuilder and cosplayer that would visit the event dressed as Zangief. The staff never confirmed anything. But Griffin had a hunch that behind that door was a massive stud attired in red trunks and boots that would gladly accept to pose and flex for him. A silly fantasy, yes, but one that led him into the unknown and forbidden realms beyond that red door.

He knew it was wrong. It was a ticket out of the event—probably forever. But the risk was worth it. And with everyone focused on their own little worlds, not even the staff noticed the giant approaching the lounge, with his hand reaching for the handle and his mouth slightly open in anticipation. It was there. It was there! He was sure of it. He didn’t even bother to look around to check if someone had noticed. Griffin was confident no one was looking at him. 

His hand closed firmly on the metal knob. Griffin swallowed, afraid and excited about what he could find behind that door. The music came to an end and his ears didn’t perceive another sound except for a soft click as the knob rotated, followed by the mechanical sound of the latch. He gave a soft push to separate the door from the frame and…

The sudden bustle startled him. Griffin didn’t notice the playlist had ended, and he was now alone with the uproar coming from the stage, where a small group finished his performance. No one was looking at him. With a doubtful stare at the ajar door, Griffin pondered for the last time if he was doing the right thing. But before he could reach an answer, he rushed into the room, closing the door behind him.

His rushed heartbeats came to an abrupt stop after he saw an empty room. Five cheap vanity tables with generic chairs, three rolling racks at the end carrying all kinds of fabrics, and sealed boxes on a corner. But not a single soul was there beside him. Griffin tiptoed into a room with air so pure it made him think no one had ever walked in before him. A single drop of sweat moved down his nape, cold like the sharp end of a knife grazing his skin. With no other door leading into the room and no place to hide, Griffin still felt unease by a quietness stronger than the sound coming through the drywall. 

After leaving his bag and backpack against the wall, Griffin asked with a shy tone.

“Hello…?”

No answer. Hunched, Griffin was about to leave when something pushed him to the ground. In a blink, he got pinned down, with his cheek pressed against the carpeted floor by a hand the size of his head, and the full weight of a stranger trapping his hands with his knee. The impact sent his headphones flying away from him. He couldn’t even turn to see his attacker, but the terrifying strength of his grip and the aggressive tone with which he spoke moments after froze Griffin’s blood. 

“This area is off-limits! How did you get in?!” 

“The door was open! I wanted to meet the cosplayers!” 

The aggressive aura coming from the stranger forced an immediate answer. Griffin’s whines acted like fuel to the stranger’s anger, expressed through a deep grunt that scared him even more, resulting in a vicious circle. He felt him breathing next to his ear. A dirty smell of alcohol and tobacco flooded his nose with each puff of air thrown by his attacker, his struggles to escape from that reek only provoked him a laugh.

“They couldn’t just leave the things outside? It’d have been the same,” another voice, softer, said. A frustrated sigh came before he spoke again. “Dude, leave it. You’re gonna get us sued.”

Something similar to a growl came from his attacker, who moved his knee away from Griffin’s back, only to get him up with little effort. He kept a tight grip on both of Griffin’s wrists, while his other hand held him from the neck of his shirt. Scared to death, he tried to break free; even with his strength, the stranger didn’t flinch and instead tightened his grip to force Griffin back into submission. 

“Help! Somebody help me!” He yelled. 

Just some seconds was all it took for him to stop fighting after the pain became so intense he got afraid his wrists would break. 

His voice couldn’t get over the music and voices coming through the wall. And no one saw him walk into that room. His heartbeats sound like walls being hammered straight into his ears. Both legs felt like noodles after the panic pushed out all of his strength with each hurried breath. Dizzy, all he could do was turn his head around to meet with the newcomers, both attired in black suits. 

The one with the soft voice had a young appearance. Radiant skin and a slender frame gave him an elegant bearing that contrasted with the disdain in his sky-blue eyes. The other one, taller and stronger than Griffin, was the living definition of rough: from the facial features to his sun-tanned skin, along with the murderous intent reflected in his black eyes.

“Did you lose something, boy?” The giant spatted, his crooked teeth visible.

Griffin shook his head immediately.

“-if he can make it, is that so hard?”

An energetic, squeaky voice was approaching from outside. Moments later, a 5-foot-tall old man walked in with a suitcase in his left hand and a fancy cell phone in the right one. The silver tone of his hair was not caused by age. Anger kept him moving on his weak-looking body. His face hadn’t shown a smile of happiness in years. 

“Coffee! A cold shower! I don’t fucking care. Just. Wake. Him. Up!” 

He hung up, then immediately threw the phone with the little strength he had. “Fucking idiot got drunk. Again,” the disdain and disappointment in his voice pierced Griffin’s fragile heart. “I don’t think he’s gonna take it in time.” 

The old man then gave him a cold stare from head to toe. 

“Who’s this?” 

“It’s part of the public. He was looking for cosplayers here,” the slender man replied.

He gave him a second look that put a sinister grin on his wrinkled face. 

“You’re strong. You train daily, boy?” 

Griffin said nothing at first until the stud reminded him of his position with a strong squeeze to his wrists.

“Y-yes, sir!” 

“Yes, yes. It comes to sight.”

The slender guard approached to pick up the suitcase handled by who was his boss. With both hands free, the old man made a meticulous inspection of Griffin’s body; his touch reminded him of a physical exam—it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. 

“I have an offer for you. While you’re in no position to reject it, I promise a handsome payment. That is, of course, if you make your part as expected.”

Griffin was about to ask something when he saw the slender guard taking a large syringe from the suitcase. Filled with a milky-looking liquid, the large bubbles disappeared after he flipped it twice. 

“Wai-! No, no, no! What’s in that syringe?!” 

“It’s not of your concern. As I’ve already said, you can’t reject this offer.”

The fear brought his strength back, but it wasn’t enough to escape from the stud behind him, who had embraced Griffin with both arms. 

“Help me! Anyone! Please do something!” That and more desperate begs came from his mouth as he saw the syringe approach. The sharp end flashed in great detail under the white fluorescent light, closer and closer to the now exposed right arm. And with a loud shriek, Griffin felt the tip pierce his smooth skin and reach his muscle. 

It took two seconds for the syringe to empty its content into his body. The brute dropped Griffin after the other guard pulled out the needle. In the stupor that came after, he found his legs frozen in place. Griffin saw the small dot of blood getting bigger right when the needle pierced. Fear, panic, confusion. His mind couldn’t pick. He could feel the liquid spreading across the muscle tissue, getting hotter and hotter, until it felt like lava melting him from the inside. And not even the pain got a sound out of him. Not a grunt. Not a scream. Not even a weak gasp. He couldn’t understand what just happened. And the liquid continued expanding through his body.

“It should take effect in any moment,” the old man said. “You two can leave, he’s not a threat.”

“Are you sure, boss?” The brute replied. Griffin couldn’t see the disgust with which he stared at him.

“Yes, yes. You don’t wanna see this. It’s ok.”

Not happy with his answer, they still left them alone. Griffin stared blankly at the people walking outside when the guards opened the door, begging anyone to turn and see his begging eyes just for a second. Only for an instant, that’s all he needed. But everyone was in their own little worlds, too distracted to see what lay beyond the crimson door that had trapped him. 

Pain and despair threw him to his knees. The door closed just when the serum began to take effect. Griffin touched the area where the needle pierced and was left baffled by the hardness of the muscle under the skin. And that sensation soon began to spread to the rest of his body. He felt it, a swelling coming from the inside that stretched both muscles and skin. Like a balloon being filled with water, Griffin took one hand to his chest, where his lungs were getting bigger even when he wasn’t breathing.

“Wha… what’s going on…?” He asked with a voice that had got deeper. 

“It’s not really worth explaining. You’re not gonna understand anyway.”

The old man remained calm. No remorse or sympathy appeared on his face, and what Griffin instead was a look of deep contempt that he was too weak to hold. With both hands behind his back, he paced from left to right inspecting the visible changes happening on Griffin, the only thing that somehow put a smile on that awful face.

“All you need to know is that you will turn into something better. And you and everyone will like it.”

But Griffin wasn’t paying attention. His focus was on his swollen hands. He watched as all ten fingers got bigger, followed by the palm. It didn’t cause him any pain—he didn’t feel it at all. Panic created a fake pain over the idea that those hands weren’t his, as even the skin adopted a light tan that continued spreading along with the swelling. Fingers, knuckles, and every inch of skin gained years of roughness before his very own eyes. Comically disproportionated and heavier than before, they looked like boxing gloves when compared to his arms. 

“What did you give me…? Answer me!” He demanded, trying to reach for the old man, who quickly evaded him with a step backward. 

“Does it matter? You won’t even remember this in a moment. It would help you to relax.”

Relax? Did he seriously ask him to relax? Griffin tried to stand up with legs that had no strength left. After the first step, he fell back to his knees. What started at his hands was now taking place through his entire body with no order in particular. Legs. Chest. Shoulders. Everything was growing disproportionally. In seconds, bones and muscles gained the result of years of exercise and dedication, turning into something that went beyond his wildest dreams. An abnormal gravity pushed him against the carpeted floor, where his struggle to get up not only revealed the extra weight gained during the transformation but also the strength of 10 men gathered in the palm of his hand.

Griffin clenched his fist and slammed it against the ground. The weak walls trembled at the impact but his fist didn’t resent the impact but quite the opposite, a newfound vigor invaded him from the shockwave running across his body. With disbelief in his eyes, he watched the gruesome movements of a hand that could grab and crush anyone’s head. It inspired fear. Respect. And strangely, it filled him with pride. 

“I see it’s starting to get into your head. That’s good. It working faster than I thought.”

“… Vhat daz zat meen?” Griffin asked. The voice, unrecognizable, scared him. His hands touched the throat and followed the width of his thick neck. 

New facial hair pushed its way through the skin pores, provoking a severe itch. His old beard fell the more he scratched, leaving a thick and bushy reddish beard in its place that went all the way down his chest. The hair from his head had the same fate, falling like dust and leaving only enough for a mohawk. Griffin continued asking for an explanation while his hands swiped what was left of his hair, discovering in the process the roughness his facial features had acquired; square-shaped with a prominent jawline, high cheekbones, a nose slightly flattened—as if it had received multiple punches in the past. 

“Panic won’t get you anywhere,” the old man said. Still untouched by Griffin’s fear, he slowly walked over to the pile of boxes in the corner. 

“Aye’m a mon-stir!” He shrieked, again with a voice that wasn’t his—but it sound familiar.

“Yes, you’re a monster. You’re big and strong. Your body leaves professional bodybuilders in shame. Your sole presence intimidates anyone. And you’re magnificent.”

“Vhat’s so magnificent abawt zhiz?!”

“Oh, you’ll see,” he replied with little interest while his wrinkled hands searched through the contents of one box.

Something tore off behind him. The cloth fibers succumbed to the pressure, and his outfit shred to pieces to make way for the growing muscles that showed no sign to stop. Shirt, cargo pants, his underwear. In seconds he was completely naked, clenching the pieces of cloth that fell over his trembling hands. Shame couldn’t beat the shock, and he did nothing to cover his exposed manhood. Both feet break through the sole of his Converse, and the thick ankles destroyed what was left of the footwear. 

Right after that, the burst of strength flowed through the new muscles. The fatigue felt seconds ago disappeared immediately, and his body felt light as a feather. Still reeling from the confusión, Griffin got up and advanced over the vanity table, where the large mirror was reflecting a still changing body that didn’t belong to him. But the appearance… the face, the beard, even the chest hair that was slowly coming out through the skin pores, those belonged to someone he knew very well. Griffin hunched down when he got to the mirror, and was speechless when the man he found at the other end was none other than…

“Zangief…” 

“Yes, yes, you are Zangief now,” the old man said behind his back. 

His body was still incomplete, but the resemblance was… beyond perfect. When the tip of his fingers moved over the tanned skin, Griffin realized he wasn’t hallucinating. The body was real. He had become Zangief. He took a step backward and felt the chest muscles. And as his fingers moved over the naked skin, his mind listed the muscular groups. 

“Pecs… upper abs… obliques… quads… biceps… delts… traps…”

They inflated like balloons until all reached their final stage, but it wasn’t air what he felt by pressing down but muscle. Slightly soft to the touch, it hardened like steel by flexing it, with veins popping and the skin stretching to give the muscles an ever bigger aspect. 

With each flex, blood and adrenaline flowed through his body. Griffin felt powerful. Threatening. His heart claimed the ovations of those who would fear and respect his presence. He backed away from the mirror until he could see his full body reflected on it, and continued flexing in ways that were new to him yet he somehow knew. 

“Yes. Keep doing that. Keep flexing. You’re feeling the strength, right?”

“Da!” Griffin replied.

“Good. Don’t stop. Keep flexing. Get used to your new body. Feel the muscles. Their hardness. The power.”

His words echoed in his mind. Each flex defined the rest of his muscles. Triceps. Glutes. Hams. Calves. Like clay being engulfed by the intense flames of a kiln, the muscles got molded under the intense pressure put with each flex, getting him closer and closer to looking exactly like Zangief. 

And the closer he was, the better he felt. Euphoric, he ignored the voice in his head trying to tell him something was wrong. The liquid injected into his system. The transformation. The fear he went through became a thing of the past with each pose struck. He put more and more enthusiasm, groaning and shouting, taking deep breaths to fill lungs that were twice the size. The ground trembled under the potent stomps of his giant feet. 

“Great. You’re strong. You’re powerful. It makes you feel good. Happy. Excited. Feel it. Embrace this new self. The weakling you once were belongs to the past. This is the new you. This is Zangief. You are Zangief.”

Memories and knowledge unknown to him invaded his fragile mind, kicking out everything that made Griffin who he was. The intense effort brought drops of sweat. His muscles adopted a shiny look as he flexed more and more, absorbed by the imposing aspect returned by the mirror. His mind succumbed to the pressure of his own body and the pride burning inside him, making way for Zangief to take his place.

With a loud laugh, Zangief slapped firmly his palm against his chest, then adopted the idle pose he was so well known for. Bones and muscles were completely developed. The 7-foot-tall monster grinned with confidence, untouched by his nakedness and free from that pesky voice that insisted something was off.

“Incredible. You adopted his personality quicker than anyone else. I’m amazed.” 

The old man was standing next to him. In his hands he carried an outfit he knew very well. Without a second thought, Zangief proceeded to put on the red trunks. Their tightness carried with them a sensation of filling, a firm grip that got him closer to the persona he aspired to become. Both wristbands offered confidence, power, and a special touch to the jabs and uppercuts he threw in the air.

“I have so many questions, but I doubt you could answer them. Was it ambition? Devotion? Respect for the character? I might never know. And it won’t make a difference,” the old man said. His voice carried a faint feeling of disappointment that quickly disappeared after he spoke again. “Doesn’t matter. Right now you’re presence is needed in the main stage. The public awaits a surprise and it’s up to you to deliver it.”

Zangief had sat on the floor to put on the massive boots. The image of a foot half that size flashed before his eyes. It didn’t feel right for a moment how perfectly his foot fit inside the cushioned insides. As if it wasn’t his boot. But those doubts were crushed after he pulled both shoelaces. 

“This is your new life,” the old man continued. “This is the new you. You will keep it forever.”

Who was that man? Zangief didn’t know. But from the deepness of his mind, he knew he had to follow his commands without question it. So he put a challenging grin and slammed his fist into his palm, the resounding pow repealed the old man for the first time. Zangief had no reason to give relevance to the doubt in his eyes; all he wanted was to get out and give a good show. 

The courage abandoned the bodyguards after both stared in disbelief at the stud that walked out of that room. No one had ever reached that level of likeness, much less without training. The man walking towards the main stage wasn’t an actor; he was the real Zangief, straight out of the video game!

Zangief had that same thought crossing his zonked mind. His presence pushed people out of the way, whose jaws dropped to the ground by the intimidating aura coming off him. Their minds refused to believe what their eyes were seeing. His sole aspect, covered in the most simplistic attire, put to shame even the most complex cosplays seen in the event. No one around was a match for the manliness expressed in his walk and his expression, whose blue eyes carried a distinctive flame from the many battles fought during his life. 

Heavy stomps to assert his dominance. His wide smile was a challenge to anyone around him. With fists clenched, he studied the people before him, finding no real threat coming from any of them. The shock from each step pushed him deeper into the mindset of a Russian fighter, not a mere actor trying to gain his paycheck. Fake memories convinced him of a life of illegal fights around the world, sparing with people possessing inhuman skills that defied logic itself. 

The pride in his strength and aspect devoured him. In the people’s eyes he saw fear and respect, a profound admiration and terror for a man that could destroy them with a single jab of his mighty fist. It fueled the fantasy. The attention fit like the last piece on the jigsaw that was his head, a sensation of accomplishment that he felt was needed. With both fists in the air, Zangief roared, getting even more admiration in return.

On the stage, a little man cosplaying Naruto was gathering the people for the parade. “We’re about to start. Don’t be afraid to show off your hard work to others. Every cosplay is made with passion!”

His enthusiasm didn’t last after his eyes landed on the massive beast coming forward. A knot in his throat kept his words from coming out while Zangief pushed the competence aside with his presence. The metallic surface gave his stumps an extra pow that scared those who were in the line; none dared to stop him, not even the presenter, whose height became even more obvious with Zangief standing next to him.

Everyone went quiet for a moment, with only the mismatch of songs awkwardly playing in the background. They were all baffled by his appearance. No one could hold the challenging look from those eyes. 

The presenter woke up and shook his head to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. His eyes couldn’t pick up where to begin, astonished by a musculature that defied logic. With a body like that, it was clear no was not an answer, so he didn’t even consider telling him to get out. Instead, and after clearing his throat, he looked at the public and extended his right arm to Zangief.

“A-a-a-and here’s our first cosplayer! From everyone’s favorite fighting game, Zangief!” 

It was amazing how quickly his professionalism made it back. The enthusiasm in his voice spread like a virus across the public, who burst into loud claps and ovations, as expected from a likeness that only a dedicated cosplayer could reach; with an outfit so simple, the dedication to the character had to be reflected on the body, a look he nailed to perfection. 

“I think I speak for everyone when I say this is the best cosplay of Zangief we’ve ever seen!” 

More ovations. Zangief replied to that raising his arms to flex and show his biceps the size of a melon. He continued holding both hands together as high as he could and turning his back for the audience to see his deltoids. And the answer was the same. 

“This is—I have no words, this is incredible!” 

The cheers were music to Zangief’s ears, who shut everyone up slapping the palm of his right hand against his pecs with all his might. Everyone but him flinched. His smile remained untouched. He didn’t feel a thing. And with that revelation, the audience burst again into ovations, trapped like him by the perfect appearance.

“I gotta ask. How much it took you to reach this level? Because this isn’t a mere cosplay. You can put to shame all bodybuilders around the world!”

“Kosplay? Dis is not kosplay. Dis is Zangief!” He exclaimed to the entire audience to hear. “And I have been him all my life!”

He pushed the presenter away and took one step forward. With both arms extended to the sides, he spun three times at high speed, slapping the audience with a potent gust of wind that left them speechless; those who paid attention later swore a red glow engulfed his fists, leaving a trail of light that lasted for an instant.

Zangief stopped and punched the palm of his hand with his fist before yelling from the top of his lungs: “I am the Red Cyclone!”, a declaration that got a thunderous roar from an audience that had never seen something like it. 

All that attention… Zangief felt happy. Accomplished. It was weird, since he couldn’t remember a moment of his life where he needed that kind of attention to feel happy. But those cheers reached a sensitive point deeply hidden in his heart, and for a brief moment, it softened his smile. 

Zangief woke up after slapping his chest again. With his fist in the air, he encouraged the audience to keep screaming, the obvious winner of the contest, the young man that had turned into Zangief.