Fighting Chance Vol 2 #11 (Patreon)

Warehouses at midnight all breathed the same.

It was all dead air with a metal-mouth taste to it; piss in the corners and the smell of old iron from rust flaking off any and everything in the place. With a grunt, Zain slid through the busted roll-up. 

Chain snug on his waist and sneakers whispering on grit, he poked his head in and after a few seconds, the rest of him came with it. Let’s get this over with. 

He had no idea how long this whole training thing was gonna be, but he was a quick study and he knew that much. Either way, he’d left Colleen a paper square on the fridge and took the rooftops across town till this place.

As he walked deeper into the warehouse, Zain blinked already squinty eyes as moonlight cut the room crooked through a blown-out window. …now, that’s just creepy.

The old guy was there, already, like he said. But for some reason, he stood center floor of the warehouse, half in shadow; planted like a street sign and just as still. That walking stick of his was there in one hand, straight as he was, his other hand held loose; no stance, all stance.

He tried to ghost forward, quiet as he could be. Unfortunately, he was no ninja. The sound of his shoe scuffing against something slapped a loud echo across every corrugated rib in the walls and came back louder. …shit.

“You’re late, kid.” The voice wasn’t loud, but it was all gravel like he remembered; the sound that came with either being a smoker or having lungs older than the Empire State. 

Zain smirked, mouth ready for a sprint because he loved running it.  “I-”

“I-I-I-I didn’t ask about I’s kid.” The old blind man was as still as ever, the only thing moving was his mouth. “I ain’t got no use for eyes.”

Huh? Zain blinked.

“Now, drop. One hundred.”

Zain blinked again, just as confused. “What? Nah, I already ran drills today; I hit my nu-”

Crack.

His shins lit up; left then right, shock hot and bright enough to make his eyes go white as his legs forgot their job at the exact same time. Motherf-! Palms slammed concrete as his breath stuttered and came back thin. Wha… what the hell?He hadn’t even seen him move when New Balances beat to hell appeared in his field of vision, the old man suddenly shuffling like he hadn’t just flash-stepped. “One hundred,” the gravel came again, voice much louder now that it was right above him. “Pushups. Now.”

The teenager hissed a breath in, sharp and tight. “Y-you broke m-”

“I ain’t break a thing, kid. If they were, you’d know.” The tip of Stick’s stick tic-tic-ticked the floor an inch from his eye. “Now, one-hundred.”

Old fuck… Hissing again, Zain swallowed everything he wanted to say and set his shoulders, arms up and shins screaming as he went chest to ground. One. Two. Three. He counted in his head, quiet and biting down on his tongue as Stick kept talking as the man kept moving in that old-man shuffle he knew was a lie.

“This ain’t about muggers. Never was, and now, never will be.” Tap, tap, tap. “This… this is a war. Of the oldest kind. And the Hand are some of the oldest and unkind.”

It only took a few minutes, body still strong even past the pain, as he finished all one-hundred of the exercises. Breathing low and slow, Zain stayed down ten extra beats to be petty before he finally popped back up again.

“Stance.” 

Clicking his tongue, Zain slid into what Colleen drilled him all the time; it felt good. 

It felt r- Crack.

“Agh!” Zain shook his hand as he snapped back from the hit, forearm already buzzing like he’d slept on it. He shot the old man a glare, eyes going right to that stupid fucking stick. “Man, the hell I do now?”

“Base wider.” He flinched back as the stick poked his hip, a growl and a glare on his face again as Stick snorted. “Center lower.” Another poke, this time right above his butt. “You seem to like posing for pictures, but this ain’t Spacebook or whatever. You gotta fix yourself. All top weight; no root.”

“Pict-what pictures? I d-” His complaints turned into a hiss as the stick’s tip tapped his ribs, the exact inch he left open by habit. “You drop your right when you like your own combo,” gravel said. “You admire your work. Sloppy.” 

Another tap. 

“Your body remembers the wrong lessons.” Stick stepped back. “Again.”

Zain reset his guard, arms up one more time. 

“Better.” The stick slid under his forearm, almost faster than he could see it, and lifted. “You fight like you think you’ll be lucky forever. You trust that too much.”

Zain grinned back, months of kicking ass their own example of how good he was. “Nobody trusts luck; I am luck.”

A dry laugh scratched the edges of the room as Stick shook his head. “Kid, you’re a lil’ idiot, but that comes with being a kid.”

Zain rolled his eyes and bounced once, twice, a third time; feet loose and wrists even looser as he shook them free. “So, you gonna swing or you just tap me all night?”

The old man didn’t say a word back, but Zain knew it was coming anyway.

Air moved around the old man as Stick darted right; Zain immediately rushing left.

Not even a full second later, the walking stick ghosted where his forehead was. Zain flinched back as his shoulder took the hit instead of his head and Stick clicked his tongue. “Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy, kid,” that gravel hit his ears again. “Read what is, not what you want it to be. Eyes ahead of your feet, hands ahead of your mouth.”

“Wow, never heard that before,” he bit back under his breath, the last word coming out louder as he slid in and swun- “Sonofabitch!”

His shin flared up again, single tap hitting like a crowbar hit as he jumped back.

“Again.” 

He jabbed with the off-hand to see if the man liked jabs and a stick to the wrist answered him with more pain. This fucking guy… 

For all of two seconds, Zain felt stupid but he decided to do what he did best; run his mouth to get his mind off it.. “So, this ancient war or whatever? You gonna tell me ‘bout the Hand or is it just assault and battery night in the creepy Scooby-Doo wareh-ow!”

“The Hand kills children to make soldiers.”

“They already tried. I put belt to ass.” One hand went down to his waist on instinct, fingers tapping the chain under his shirt.

Something else touched it too, the tip of that walking stick knocking on it like it was a door. “You rely too much on that thing. The basics come first.”

“I learn fast, old man.” He looked the old man right in the glasses. “Just need more reps.”

“Reps without correction build the wrong body,” Stick grumbled out. “If you wanna stay alive to see the big one-five, you forget everything you know.”

Everything? Zain blinked at the blind old man. “But she taught me-”

THWACK.

His body folded up, ribs white-hot as his throat worked but nothing working in his lungs. I… I hate that fuckin…

"Your teacher fights like it's a game." Stick’s voice scraped over him, ice-cold enough to burn his ears. 

F-fuck you… He wanted to say something, anything back but his lungs were too busy trying to remember how to work through the hit. H- 

Zain wheezed out loud, air finally going out one way, and a ragged breath in came with sweet relief. How does he hit like that? 8th grade physics wasn’t that good but he knew there was no way a quick hit like that should do that much.

No goddamn way something as light as that stupid walking stick could do anywhere near that much damage.

"That little girl you call Sensei  teaches you what to do,” the walking stick planted itself in front of him again, as Zain looked up at Stick, “not why to do it. Not how to end it." Half-crumpled on concrete that smelled like rust and old piss, he just glared up at the old man ‘looking’ down at him behind those thick black sunglasses. "She fights for fun. I fight for blood. Which one you think the Hand respects?"

His fists clenched, but he couldn’t deny it. He knew Colleen didn’t fight like that, didn’t even kill the Yakuza who tried to take him out.

"Get up."

Zain straightened slow, real slow, glare still locked on the old man's face; all those scars looking like someone took a cheese grater to leather.

"The Hand are worse than any Yakuza, the type of bastards too old and too powerful to forget feelings," Stick shifted, stick tapping twice on concrete, tap-tap. "Aint no ifs ands or buts about it, kid, they willl kill your friends. They will torture your teacher. The bastards will skin every stray cat you ever petted.”

Wha-

Stick scoffed and shook his head. “Just to see you break."

A blond blue-eyed face flashed through his head, snotty and wrapped all tight in one of Granny Halliday's old blankets, Elvin right next to Vince crushing back hot dog after dog with that big goofy grin, Sensei shifting the red streak in her hair before class started and she had him do another hundred pushups for calling her Collie.

"So what," the words rasped out, ribs pulling tight, making every syllable cost. "So what, I'm supposed to just... just kill 'em first? That it?"

"You're supposed to survive." The hiss in that word could've stripped paint. "Hit me."

"Wh—"

"Hit. Me."

Jab snapped out before his brain caught up, fast, clean, all that Colleen drilling in his muscle memory; fist cutting air right where Stick's jaw was—

Wasn't there. Stick blurred left, that walking stick just tapped his wrist, light as anything, light as a joke.

He threw a cross.

Tap. Shoulder this time.

Hook came next, hip rotating, all his weight behind it, mean and fast and please just land you old—

CRACK.

Pain exploded up his whole arm, stick meeting fist mid-flight, shockwave rattling every bone from knuckles to shoulder. Zain dropped down, one knee slamming concrete, a single hand clutching the one that just broke (it felt broke, it felt so broke, oh shit).

"Your street fighting is garbage against real opponents. Everything you think you know? Forget it."

Fuck you. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. His hand-

"Again."

As much as he didn’t want to, Zain got back to his feet. Same combo, jab-cross-hook, muscle memory doing the work.

Tap. Tap. CRACK.

"Wrong. Again."

Sweat ran down his neck, mixed with the grime on the floor, the old stains that could be oil or blood or both. His hand felt like he stuck it in a garbage disposal.

CRACK.

"Wrong. Again."

CRACK.

"Wrong."

"They know." Stick's voice flattened out, nothing but cold dead facts coming out of the blind old man’s mouth. "And they are coming. And you..." The stick lifted, pointed at him again, at all of him standing there bleeding and broken and fourteen and so tired. "...you ain't ready."

Stick shifted his weight.

"Again."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

5K Words (100 DP)ROLL: Wild Devil Screaming at the Heavens (100 CP) [Against The Gods] {Refinement}: As things happen, you may end up undergoing a lot of things that would leave normal people with broken minds and crushed souls. Not you. You have boundless willpower, meaning you can keep yourself going through pain, terror or horror simply out of sheer stubbornness. It also helps you in quickly recovering from old trauma, letting you forget and/or move on unbelievably quickly. Also, you’re good at insulting people.

Dojo Points: 200