The next day, Mark came back with a black notebook, three pens (all stolen from Home Affairs), and a new tracksuit he insisted made him "more aerodynamic."
Brian was already outside.
Shirt off. Sweating. Breathing heavy.
Punching a makeshift bag filled with rolled towels and gravel, tied to the old washing line with speaker wire.
One punch.
Two.
Then he dropped to his knees and vomited next to the aloe plant.
Mark cringed. "Bru, you sure you're not dying again?"
Brian wiped his mouth. "It's part of the process."
Week One
Training was chaos.
Brian's body betrayed him at every turn. He couldn't run ten steps without feeling like his stitches were tearing open. His ribs ached. His legs wobbled. His hands shook.
Night after night, he woke drenched in sweat. Gasping. Grabbing for a blade that wasn't there. In his dreams, the stabbing replayed again and again. Sometimes it was in slow motion. Sometimes it was his mother's face watching. Once, it was himself doing the stabbing.
He didn't tell Mark.
Mark, meanwhile, couldn't throw a punch to save his life.
"Imagine your arm is like… a whip," Brian said.
Mark swung.
He hit himself in the face.
"Okay," Brian said, "maybe don't imagine that."
But they kept at it.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Jabs on the bag. Running laps around the shack. Every night they ended slumped in the dirt, wheezing like pensioners on discount day.
"You think Batman started like this?" Mark asked.
Brian nodded. "We probably worse. At least he was rich."
Week Two
Brian stopped puking every day.
Only every second day now.
He could jog around the block twice without collapsing. The scar on his belly had turned an angry purple, but it held.
Mark's punches were getting straighter. Tighter. He still looked like he was dancing to a song only he could hear, but at least now it was a fighting song.
They trained in bursts, ducking between gusts of wind and nosy neighbors.
"Oi! You guys doing karate there?" shouted a tannie from the yard next door.
Mark bowed. "Yes, Auntie Cynthia. We're preparing for the street tournament."
She clapped. "Go beat up those boys from Belhar. They're very rude."
Week Three
Brian was fast again.
Not hospital-bed fast. Not crutch-and-slipper fast.
Real fast.
Push-ups with one arm. Punches that snapped like gunshots. Burpees until the sky spun.
Mark kept up, somehow.
He was skinnier now. Lean. His new nickname in the area was Little Mayweather (mostly as a joke, but still).
They sparred in the yard, feet kicking up dust, sweat flying, bruises forming like badges. Mark took a punch to the lip and spat blood into a Coke bottle.
"Did I chip your tooth?" Brian asked.
Mark grinned. "I had no dental plan anyway."
At night, they watched fight videos. Old Bruce Lee clips. MMA street fights. One time they watched Power Rangers for "inspiration."
Brian started writing in Mark's notebook.
Targets. Patrol routes. Disguises. Names.
He circled one word again and again:
Purpose.
By the end of the third week, the Wendy house smelled like deep heat and dreams.
Mark could throw a proper combo.
Brian could sprint and still breathe after.
Their hoodies were washed.
Their eyes were different.
Sharper.
Ready.
"I think it's time," Brian said one night, watching the sun dip below the rooftops.
Mark cracked his knuckles. "For what?"
Brian pulled out the cracked old GoPro they got from a guy who owed him R150.
"To go viral."
That Friday night, they missioned out to Belhar Self-Help, the land of backyard mechanics, sour fig bushes, and loose pitbulls with trust issues.
Jermaine still lived with his parents in a cramped small house that smelled like plug-in vanilla and fried viennas. His room was a shrine to gadgets, LED lights on every wall, a cracked monitor balanced on a crate, and a gaming chair with a torn armrest duct-taped like a war wound.
Jermaine himself sat hunched at the desk, big glasses, socks but no shoes, watching anime on 1.25x speed like he was cramming for an exam on Naruto.
Brian stepped in first.
"You still owe me airtime, Jermaine."
Jermaine blinked. "Bro. That was like two years ago."
Brian sat on the edge of his bed. "You still owe."
Mark slammed the door shut behind them. "But don't stress. You can pay us back… by joining the revolution."
Jermaine frowned. "What revolution?"
Brian leaned in. "We going to Bellville."
Jermaine raised an eyebrow. "...Why?"
"To fight crime."
"With what budget?"
"With us, bro."
Jermaine's eye twitched. "This is a prank, right?"
Mark dragged the gaming chair closer with a screech and spun it dramatically. "It can go the easy way… or the hard way."
Jermaine leaned back. "Guys, I can't get arrested. I have outstanding varsity projects. If I die, my mother will bring me back to life and kill me again."
Brian stood up, slow like a movie villain. "So you've chosen the hard way…"
Before Jermaine could react, they both launched.
"AGH... NO! WAIT!" Jermaine shouted as Brian tackled him onto the bed.
Mark followed, elbow dropping like The Rock on E TV. They flipped him, twisted him, attempted a botched suplex that took out two of his anime posters.
Jermaine flailed. "I'LL DO IT! I'LL DO IT!"
Then...
BANG.
The bedroom door flung open.
"HEY!" Jermaine's mother shouted, half-wrapped in a gown and fury. "Are you boys mad? You wanna break his spinal cord before the weekend?! Voetsek! Take your WWE and go!"
They scrambled out, giggling like guilty toddlers.
Later that night…
The squad stood outside under the pale orange glow of the streetlamp.
All three wore black hoodies, black trackpants, and fresh Air Forces (Jermaine's were fake but clean).
In front of them rumbled the sacred chariot: Jermaine's white Uno Turbo, rusted fender and all, with "Baby Groot" on the dashboard and a sound system louder than the engine.
Inside the car, Brian reached into his backpack and pulled out three ski masks.
He took the red one and slid it over his face like a soldier ready for war.
"I'm Red."
He handed the green mask to Jermaine.
"You're Green."
Then the blue one to Mark.
"And you're Blue."
Mark blinked. "Wait… why do you get to be Red?"
Brian looked at him. "Cause I got stabbed."
Mark nodded. "Fair."
Jermaine muttered, "Can I be like… Green Lightning?"
Brian deadpan: "You'll be Green If You Don't Crash The Uno."
They all climbed into the car.
Jermaine revved the Uno like it was a Batmobile.
Mark held the GoPro like a baby. "We really doing this?"
Brian looked out the window as Belhar flew past in smears of yellow streetlights and barking dogs.
"We're not just doing it," he said.
"We're starting something."
Jermaine added, "Starting a riot, maybe."
Mark grinned. "No, bro…"
"We're starting a legacy."
And with that, the Uno peeled down the road, muffler rattling, speakers blasting an old DJ Ready D beat as three masked kids from the Flats went hunting for justice, likes, and possibly petrol.