ALL_AMERICAN
July 19th, 1945
Her opponent towered over her, so much so that she had to crane her neck upwards to even make eye contact. As the punches started again, even Dorothea herself didn't understand why she wasn't scared at all. Left hook. Uppercut. Right hook. One jab, and another, striking her liver just as her opponent intended. She could hear the audience groan with pity. She was down on points now, and she most definitely didn't have the audience's faith. Just pain couldn't stop Dorothea de Coulomb, however. She lunged forward, extending her first, and..
"DETHRONED! Fan favourite Dorothea de Coulomb has become 1945's lightweight boxing world champion!" The referee threw Dorothea's hand up into the air, and the deafening cacophony of the bell and the audience erupting into incredibly loud cheers drowned out everything else. Suddenly, the cheers stopped, supplanted by hoarse coughing. Dorothea looked around, confused, before her opponent and the referee fell down to the ground, their painful-sounding coughs nearly deafening her. Her convulsing throat felt like it was being torn open, and she tumbled down as well.
July 25th, 1946
Drenched in sweat, Dorothea sat on the rickety bench in the locker room, towel around her neck. Her stare at the trophy sitting on the table was so intense she could've burnt holes into it. Sparks of lightning fizzled in her hand as she clenched it, and she jumped a little bit, startled. A voice coming from her right side startled her again.
"For a two-time champion, you sure don't look happy."
"By Jove, you're still here? I told you to bugger off, Du Romanet."
"Door was open. And, fortunately for you, Thea, playing hard-to-get works extremely well on me."
She looked up at the boy standing in the locker room's doorframe. His smug personality didn't match his extremely polite appearance, with his stiff-collar dress shirt and chunky glasses making him look a bit like an old man in a seventeen year old's body.
"Your.. affliction. Electricity? That sounds useful."
Dorothea stiffened up. She didn't respond.
Pierre du Romanet grabbed a tennis ball out of his pocket, and threw it forward. Without losing height, it flew back into his hand. "See? At least you're not stuck with that."
"Stop!" Dorothea hissed. "You know damn well you're not supposed to show such things in public. Just because you're Coach's son doesn't mean I have to tolerate you, let alone talk to you, you know?!" She picked up her trophy and stomped out of the locker room, annoyed by Pierre in record time.
"Thea, c'mon! We're all stuck with these things, you know. Fearing your own body won't help. The world will accept them in due ti-" The door slammed shut in his face.
August 1st, 1949
Three-time lightweight champion, two-time welterweight champion. Dorothea de Coulomb walked the streets of New Orleans, trying to shake off the sweltering summer heat. Sparks flew off her hand as she brushed away some sweat - her body froze up, and she looked around terrified to check whether anyone had seen. Once she'd confirmed no one had witnessed it, she continued on.
A short conversation with a fan had been more than enough to make her day, so with a bit of a spring in her step and a smile on her face, Dorothea finished her morning walk. Just as she was about to buy some pears from the nice old lady who she suspected was a bit of a fan as well, she heard a scream in the distance.
The next instant, she'd skidded to a halt, shoes kicking up dust inside the alleyway while she stared down the seven-foot-tall human. Whether 'human' was the right term was debatable - dozens of sharp rocks jutted out of his body, and he swung his arm around like a spiked mace. To her left, she saw a man laying on the ground, bloodied, but still breathing.
'Fearing your own body won't help.' That phrase echoed in her mind. Her opponent towered over her, and still, Dorothea didn't understand why she wasn't scared in the slightest. Dorothea de Coulomb lunged forward, extending her fist. Electricity coursed through every bit of her body, and as she made contact with her opponent, a thunderclap boomed throughout New Orleans.