Disclaimer: Punch-Out! and all its associated characters do not belong to me. They are the property of Nintendo and I make no profts from this piece of fiction.

Author's Note: Well, well. Looks like I'm starting yet another anthology of sorts. I'm not sure whether this is an anthology or just a collection of loosely-themed drabbles, though. These are certainly a lot shorter than what I usually write.

I've set myself a sort of challenge here. Decide a word for each letter of the alphabet, assign a boxer to each word, and write about it. So this will have 26 drabbles/short oneshots in total. I'll be uploading them in sets of three. And yes, this involves every boxer in the Wii game. Except probably Donkey Kong. x.x I've already pretty much assigned a letter/word to each boxer, except a couple... so maybe he can use up those.

I'm also expecting a few boxers to have more than one drabble. There are only 13 boxers in the game (discounting Donkey Kong) and some I have more ideas for than others - we'll see how it goes. As a general rule, the drabbles won't have pairings - they're actually more like reflections of what they feel, their past we didn't get to see, and their unseen actions through the course of the game. Each drabble is different - some are angsty, some are funny, some are sad, and some are just plain wtf material. I hope you enjoy this little collection.

First up is A-C, starring Soda Popinski, Von Kaiser and Aran Ryan respectively.

Withdrawal was hard, but the Russian had very little choice in the matter.

After his humiliating defeat in the hands of Little Mac, some of the best scientists from Russia had taken the matter into their own hands - Soda Popinski had only ever been defeated twice, and those losses had actually been expected. He had been up against the Champion once and a particularly cranky Bald Bull the other time; it was not of very much surprise to anyone that he had lost those matches. The man still boasted thirty-three wins, third rank in the World Circuit, a merry attitude and an affinity for his trademark soda. That wasn't bad at all. But this time was different; how could he, the tallest and most muscular man in the entire Association, be brought down by a scrawny young man within minutes? It didn't make any sense and that news had shaken up everyone - but it had shaken up himself most of all.

So his manager and the scientists got thinking. They ultimately decided that Soda Popinski's skill itself was unquestionable and did not need any modifications - it was probably far more that his metabolism was failing him compared to a sprightly young lad. After all, the man wasn't all that young - he was thirty-five and older than most boxers, losing out only to Von Kaiser, Glass Joe and Bald Bull. And given what had happened to the former two with Little Mac, metabolism was probably the key.

He'd been drinking his soda for years now, knocking back dozens of bottles every day, and it had helped tremendously with his training regime over the past years. But that soda was no longer good enough, they had decided; when it had been first engineered, the Russian boxer had been young and full of energy. They needed something stronger now - something that could quite possibly support him through the rest of his career. And most of all, it needed to enable him to defeat Little Mac if for nothing else but to save his fallen pride.

Soda Popinski thought that was perfectly fine. He would rest for a while and amp up his training while the scientists developed a new soda for him. Nothing wrong about that, except for the fact that he was still extremely sore about his loss to that infernal boy - but he was confident that it would eventually turn out well. What he wasn't happy with, however, was the fact that he was no longer allowed to take even one sip of the soda he had been drinking like water for the past decade or so. They needed to monitor his natural metabolism from now on and the soda was no longer of any use to him.

That had crushed him more than anything. He had been drinking his soda for so long that the thought of never being allowed to touch another drop actually made him feel horribly ill - the announcement had been made so suddenly that he hadn't even been allowed to cut down gradually. This was only his second day of abstaining and already he was experiencing insomnia and disorientation. He had never truly thought about the possibility he would one day lose his greatest joy in life - and thus he was vastly unprepared for it when it came.

Forget Little Mac, he thought to himself as he sprawled on his sofa and stared at the ceiling. The worst thing about this whole business was entirely about the soda. It wasn't good enough for him anymore, and he wasn't good enough for it either. He wasn't as youthful as he was when the soda was first made, and now his metabolism was failing him. Not even energy drinks were allowed to him for the time being; the only thing he could think of that would probably get him back on track for a while was vodka, but he liked to think that all that 'drunk' business was over him now, and he was left with little else. And it could be two, maybe three weeks before they engineered another one...

He sighed and brushed a hand over his forehead. It was hard, he couldn't deny it, but he had to go through this rough patch. It was like breaking an addiction, he supposed - he'd have to let go, and let go he would. Soon they would contact him with details of the new soda. And he supposed he was luckier than most addicts - he had no access to any of that soda so he couldn't even relapse even if he tried.

Soda Popinski sighed and downed some grape juice, frowning. Not strong enough. He sighed again and lay back, staring again at the ceiling.

Everyone in the WVBA accepts that out of all the boxers in the Association, Von Kaiser is probably the most experienced. His emotions seldom get in the way of his fights; he's also been boxing and teaching the sport since he was young, so although he may be down in the Minor Circuit, he has undeniable composure. His ability to stay calm and collected also has one major advantage - he isn't afraid of seeing blood, whether from himself or some other boxer. It's quite surprising how horribly squeamish some boxers are, even the experienced ones - some blood is to be expected, because of their profession, but one major injury and they're backing away from the ring and whimpering helplessly. Von Kaiser has often been the first to jump into action whenever there's been an injury in the ring, regardless of how bad it may be. He's often looked after injured boxers, wiping away blood, sticking band-aids and applying tourniquets whilst they wait for medical aid to come. This is a man who once attained a two inches-long cut on his arm during a fight, and proceeded to sew it up himself afterwards in full view of everyone in the WVBA without blinking an eye.

He managed to send even Sandman rushing out of the room to be sick that day. Quite an achievement. But that aside, his military background is the main reason for this rather helpful trait and everyone respects that.

Little do they know that the first time the German had gotten someone else's blood on his hands, he'd wept. Von Kaiser has never been squeamish that way, he was used to seeing open wounds and severed limbs - but at least back then he'd had the reassurance of seeing blood on those who were alive. That was also the first time he'd ever killed anyone and he'd wept like a child, locking himself in the bathroom, frantically trying to wash it off underneath scalding water while simultaneously being loath to even touch his own skin. It hadn't been entirely on his hands either; it had gotten on his face, his arms, had stained his own uniform and he simply couldn't wash it off. So he'd stayed there and wept for hours, for the first time in his life utterly terrified of the outside world and his own (murderous?) self.

He had whispered so many prayers on his knees, begged for so much forgiveness, had trouble sleeping for days on end. But he knew even then that it was hopeless, even when it wasn't visible anymore and his palms burned from the heat; blood penetrates deep, into the skin, the bones, the depths of the very soul itself and the stain never goes away.

The first time's always the hardest. The second time, he didn't take more than a few minutes to recover from it; and then again and again, until he no longer balked at the sight and could move on with ease. But blood never washes off, only builds up like multiple layers of skin, and eventually he became numb to it all. So whilst the other boxers may express their envy at his uncanny ability, Von Kaiser prays that no one he knows will ever feel that sinking sensation of bone-deep filth. Blood from lacerated skin, open cuts and broken noses simply doesn't compare to what he felt, years and years ago on the battlefield, then only a pale-faced young soldier who knew nothing beyond what he had been taught.

Just him is more than enough.

"Found one!"

"Hmmph. Not for much longer, though. I'll find more."

Silence follows, only occasionally punctuated by 'hmm's and small gasps as they brush upon what they think they're looking for - followed by sighs as they're proven wrong. The girl brushes her hair back and presses her lips together, her forehead furrowed in thought. "I think that was the only one."

"Rubbish," the boy (slightly younger than her) retorts. "it can't be just that there's only one four-leaf clover in the whole patch. There's got to be at least two or three, you just wait..."

No reply comes to this haughty statement. But the girl stops searching and instead flops down decidedly on the ground, her eyes defiant and narrowed as she gazes at the younger boy. "Really, Aran. What's the point of all this? You don't really mean to spend the entire day searching for four-leaf clovers, do you? You can do that yourself - in fact, why did you even talk me into doing this? I promised Brianna that I'd go see her at three o'clock sharp today-"

"Be quiet for a minute, woman," he cuts her off. "I think I saw something."

He picks the clover in question and peers at it, tossing it away in disappointment as he finds that it's just a normal three-leaf clover with one leaf torn in half. That's not good enough. Although he didn't mean to antagonise her, she takes offense and huffs, standing up from the clover patch.

"Just grow up already, Aran."

"Why should I, sister?" He shoots back, resentful that this is ending with him losing out again. He frantically combs the patch for a glimpse of the elusive four-leaf clover and comes up with nothing else.

"Because you are twenty years old," she replies casually as she walks away from him and into the house. "and continuing that, you're far too old for such childish games."

The door shuts behind his back. His sister is probably getting ready to meet her friend - maybe she's off to curl his hair or something, Aran doesn't really know nor care what she's off to do. He's just mad that he couldn't match up to her even in something like this; finding a four-leaf clover is one of the prime examples of chance, nothing to do with talent or intelligence or whatever. All things that she's better at. This wouldn't be so damned maddening either if she had excelled in such things; he probably wouldn't even have felt the need to best her in the first place had she been too far above him. But no, it's always a close competition - she is always just a step forward than he is, making him think that he can get ahead of her for once. His sister truly does have the luck of the Irish when it comes to besting him, Aran thinks to himself with a frown. He searches for half an hour more and gives up.

Aran never forgets these moments when he is reminded that his sister is better than him. He surrounds himself with lucky charms; horseshoes and emblems of four-leaf clovers are only the beginning. He trains, he gains fame, and he knows that he's skilled. He knows that he's far better off in the world of the WVBA, and he tries to be content with that.

But he's never that way wherever he and his sister share a world.