(pfp: @Porqueloin on Twitter!)

"Left, right, left, left, right hook, duck." Ivy coaches, your gloves connecting onto her leather training pads with each strike she tells you to, each landing with a satisfying thud. "Jab, jab, duck!" The botanist–now your trainer—instructs, then does a practiced swing to your jaw. Which, you probably should have dodged, but after training for four hours straight in this dingy Gotham boxing ring?

The mitt clips your chin. It rocks your head, causing you to momentarily see stars, dropping you flat onto your back, hitting the canvas with a thud. At least it's a break from non-stop practice. Still, you got a match happening soon. Maybe, you could just take a small nap...

"Hey!" Your girlfriend chides, dusting off her white Gotham Boxing League shirt. "You gonna just lay there all day, or are you gonna get up, hon? I thought you were a boxer." Ivy says, but her voice is soft and caring.

Ivy pulls off her mitt and grabs you by your wrist. "C'mon. Up you go." She softly coaxes you to your feet, swiping the sweat from your forehead and then softly kissing it. "You got a match in two weeks, and I ain't lettin' my fighter get knocked out, alright? We're gonna go for another round, then you're free." The green woman says, lifting her practice mitts. "Start with a one-two."