Fighting Chance Vol 2 #13 (Patreon)

Huh? 

The second week started… weird.

Zain blinked as he walked down the stairs from that little loft where he crashed, sneakers thudding on the metal steps. Everything down here; hell, the whole main area was just different from what he remembered last night, no empty floor space anymore. 

Heavy bags hung from the ceiling beams, thick and dark, straps creaking even though nothing was moving them. Wooden dummies lined the wall, with kung fu movie joints and the arms aallsticking out, all scarred up and dented.

And mannequins.

Bruh.

A couple dozen mannequins of all shapes and sizes; just standing there. Some were headless, some were armless, but every single one was beat to hell with dents and bumps, and scars carved in deep. 

Zain blinked as his feet finally touched concrete. This is some serial killer shit.

No other way to describe what he was looking at.

Tap. Tap. He blinked again, turning to the side as he spotted Stick posted up by one of the new bags with that stupid cane tapping his gray New Balances. Tap, tap.

"Week one was breaking you down, kid."

Zain rolled his shoulders, still stiff from yesterday. Breaking me down? Half of him wanted to spit right at the blind man’s feet. Man, you damn near put me in the ground.

"Week two," the old man kept on going, not waiting for a response ‘cause he never ever really did, "is building you up." Something that might've been a smirk cracked across that scarred-up face. "Into something useful."

The old man turned toward the heavy bag, a thick one that had to be three hundred pounds easy, packed hard enough the leather looked ready to split. "You know Bruce Lee?"

"Uh..." Zain pulled a face, actually confused by such a ridiculous question. "Yeah? Everybody knows Bruce Lee, man."

"He had it right. His way." Stick moved closer to the bag, one hand coming up slow. "Jeet Kune Do. No wasted motion."

Then the old man just... moved.

His hand was a flicker, a motion Zain barely even caught, as that old wrinkly fist shot out maybe an inch.

Didn’t matter the distance, though.

The bag exploded.

Sand poured out from a rip that opened up the whole middle, pouring free in a thick stream that sounded like rain on concrete as Zain just stared at it. "Every strike has one purpose." Stick stepped back from the still-pouring sand. "End the fight. Hit first, hit hard. Hit to kill."

"Hit to... kill?" He knew his mouth was a little too open, just hanging out as he tried not to gape like an idiot. “Look, I’m Cobra Kai Never Dies all day and twice on Sundays, bu-"

"Hit the bag." That stick pointed at the next one over.

Zain huffed out a breath, as he shook his head. The next moment, the stance came automatic, weight distributed right. His arm snapped out in a hard cross; fast, clean, strong.

CRACK.

Stick's stick slammed down on his elbow, bone singing all the way up to his shoulder.

"AAGH—MAN, WHAT THE—"

"You stop pulling that shit now." The snarl in Stick's voice made the words come off sharp as his hits. "You ain’t hitting at it. In a ring, you could do whatever. But this is a war, kid." The stick tapped the bag, hollow sound echoing loud and proud enough to make Zain flinch. "You hit at the Hand, they'll cut your arm off and beat you to death with it. Hit through the damn thing."

Another tap, harder this time. "Pretend the bag killed your family."

The kid blinked again, not sure how to take that. That wasn't—that wasn't cool, that wasn't— 

But the anger rose up anyway, that old thing sitting under everything else, the one he tried to keep buried cause thinking about home meant thinking about being here and not-

Nah. He couldn’t think about them. They weren't in trouble. 

They were fine. They had to be fine.

The traffickers, though. Those big bald Russian fuckers. The Albanians with the smug faces, the one who'd looked at those kids like they were just product. The Hand ninja in the diner, blade cutting toward his throat in the dark.

Another breath came out slow through his nose.

He hit it.

THUD.

The whole bag jumped on its chain, knuckles screaming hot as he gave it his all.

Stick's nod was so small he almost missed it. "Better. Again."

THUD.

"Again."

THUD.

"Feel that?" Stick’s voice dropped low, almost quiet, the gravel in it more like the sand from the bags all of a sudden. "That's a broken rib. Again."

THUD.

The wooden dummy was next, Stick already moving toward it before Zain could catch his breath.

"Elbows and knees." Those wooden arms got tapped with the stick. "Close range killers." The old man stepped in, became a blur for half a second; elbow CRACK, knee THUD, elbow CRACK again.

The dummy's head, solid wood thick as his thigh, just snapped clean off the neck-peg and clattered across the floor.

He just...

"Now you."

The combination came out sloppy at first, elbows hitting wrong, knees not driving through. Again. Better that time but still off. Again. Closer. Again.

Elbow, knee, elbow.

Elbow, knee, elbow.

Forty times maybe, or fifty, he stopped counting after thirty cause the forearms were on fire and sweat poured into his eyes, stinging, blurring everything till the dummy was just a dark shape in front of him.

"Again."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Day three of week two (maybe); Zain’s world was all sweat and bruises and that CRACK sound the stick made and fists hitting leather and thick wood till the knuckles went numb.

"You're learning, soldier."

...Soldier? His fist stopped mid-swing, other hand dropping as the bag still swayed back and forth from the last hit. Lungs pulled in air thick with rust and sweat as the word just sat there in his head, heavy, wrong (right?), not fitting with the rest of the noise.

Not "kid." Not "boy."

Soldier.

Something twisted in his chest, warm and tight. Wasn't just some problem Colleen had to deal with no more, wasn't just flailing around hoping shit worked out. Part of something. Soldier.

"So..." He wiped the back of one hand across his forehead, Zain trying not to look at it too close as it came away wet and red. "What's the mission then?"

Stick's scarred-up face stayed blank. "Survival. Victory." The old man clicked his tongue, tapping the floor once as if to make his point even further. "In that order."

A'ight. Zain tilted his head lazy, a half-nod that was also half-shrug cause what else was there to say to that? Whole lot of bullshit, but okay?

"Time to learn where to hit."

The stick moved, the end of the old man’s cane tapping the bright red X on a mannequin's temple. "Right here is an instant out, kid. Hard enough, you put em down permanent, with a  brain bleed." Another tap to the other side. "Done."

A third tap, lower this time and right on the neck. "Throat comes with a crushed windpipe. On top of that, they get the pleasure of choking on their own blood.” 

This is...

Zain blinked as Stick kept talking, suddenly realizing it was like watching a butcher talk shop, pointing out where the choice cuts were.

"No fighting to disable. That's mercy, that's a luxury." The sunglasses turned his way, once again aimed right at his face even though the old man wasn’t supposed to be able to see. "You fight to put em in the dirt and kick it over them"

The stick tapped right at the red throat X. "Hit it."

The teenager blinked again; eyes going Stick to the dummy and back again to Stick.

The old man let out a rough smoker-sounding sigh. "Don't look at me, kid. Hit. It.”

Zain took in a breath and let it out slow. Hit to kill. The jab came short and hard, aimed dead-center on that X.

CRACK.

Whoa.

Stuffing and broken plastic exploded out through the back as Zain’s whole arm punched clean through, his fingers stuck a good two knuckles deep in the mannequin's neck.

He sared at it. At the fist, at the hole, at the... pieces just spilling out onto the floor.

I… I… This was messed up, this was… 

Nothing. He didn’t feel anything, even though he was pretty sure he should feel sick. Doing something like this to a person, should make him feel some kind of fucked-up. 

Right?

But no. For some reason, he just felt… done.

Zain pulled his hand back, shaking off the foam and plastic bits stuck to bloody knuckles.

"Feel bad about breaking a doll, soldier?"

The fourteen-year old stared down at his raw knuckles as Stick’s voice hit him again, two of them split open again where they’d already scabbed over. "...Nah. Just training, yeah?"

"Yeah… just training." Something in Stick's voice went wire-thin, almost a smile in it that didn’t seem to hit his face just yet. "Enemies of the innocent deserve no mercy. Show mercy, they walk. Get a lawyer, get out, go back." The stick tapped the floor, a steady rhythm for each other syllable. "Kill more innocents."

One plus one equals two. Simple.

One hand went to his stomach as Vince's face flashed through his head, all snotty and raging, then those other kids, the ones in the warehouse with the printed menus and the prices. How many families- If he'd just ended those traffickers right there instead of letting the cops take them, instead of—what, jail for a couple years? Maybe?

Old man ain't wrong.

"So we like..." He looked up quick, clearing his throat. "Some executioners or what?"

"Executioners… don’t make me laugh. Nothin’ that fancy, kid. All we are is soldiers." Stick's correction came sharp, the blind man’s voice a gravelly grunt. "And this is a war most people don't know exists." The old man turned his body to face another mannequin, black sunglasses still aimed right at Zain. "And soldiers hold the line."

Stick pointed. "Again. Temple."

CRACK.

"Again. Solar plexus."

THUD.

"Again. Throat."

CRACK.

Three dummies, three holes, three kill shots. Done done done.

"Now you're thinking like a weapon."

Something hot and bright shot through his chest, made his teeth want to show in a grin he couldn't stop.

Hell yeah.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The days were a vicious cycle of violence and pain, so nothing he hadn’t already gotten used to by now.

"You get ‘em in a good arm bar." The old man stepped forward, mannequin's elbow in his hands as he twisted. "Snaps clean through." Fabric and plastic bent the wrong way, joint splitting with a sound that would mean any real person getting that would be lucky to make it to a hospital.

"Leg sweep into knee stomp." Stick didn’t stop there, his foot coming down hard on the dummy's knee.

The whole leg crumpled with a snap-crackle and an unnecessarily loud pop, the whole thing folding in on itself as Stick stepped back. "Breaks the femur with permanent damage. Means they never walk right again. Y’understand, kid?"

Zain nodded, already used to this by now. Nothing short of pain was gonna make him flinch at this point, almost three weeks into the ninja-school from hell. 

This wasn't Colleen's dojo; no katas, no forms, and definitely no bowing. This was a lot more like watching the world’s most ornery mechanic explain the exact right way to total somebody’s car. 

Systematic destruction. 

And the worst part? Zain was pretty was getting good at it.

"How many hits to stop a normal man?" Stick asked on day six of the second week.

Zain pulled in a single breath, half-slumped against a wall; sweat pouring down him coated his palms the same as it did his forehead. "Uh... depends where you hit him?"

"Wrong answer." The sharpness in Stick's voice could've cut. "One. Always one. If you need more than one to take down someone who ain’t trained to fight, you hit wrong."

The old man shuffled over to a fresh mannequin, already taking that old-man tai-chi stance that was a hundred times more dangerous than it looked. "One hit."

Stick’s palm came out, an open-hand strike to the chest that looked like nothing, especially considering the old man barely moved. Zain didn’t let that bring his guard down for a second; he knew what white Stinkmeaner could do with regular old-man movements.

Case in point…

BOOM.

The whole mannequin just launched backward, torso caved in like someone hit it with a wrecking ball. A split-second later, the thing slammed into the opposite wall ten feet away with a sound that rattled teeth.

Zain raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly. Gotta figure out how to get my Ki to do that. Might take months, might take years; either way, he was gonna figure it own one way or another.

"One hit." Stick turned back his way, the old man waving debris and dust out of his face. “All you need. Every time. You hit with intent, you hit to end it." The stick pointed at another dummy. "Now you. Add your little light show too."

"My Ki?"

"Ki, chi, prana, life force, whatever the hell you wanna call it." The old man pointed at a wooden support post, thick as his thigh. "Add it. But only when you need to end things fast." Another point. "Show me."

A'ight. Zain squared right up to the mannequin and let out a breath slow through his nose as he rolled his shoulders loose. One hit. He pulled hard at the rush in his chest, tight and coiled, until blue light hissed to life around him; every bit of his ki mixed with every single lesson Stick had been beating into him; end it.

CRACK-BOOM!

Wood exploded outward in splinters that peppered the wall like buckshot, the whole post splitting down the middle. 

"Combat isn't about fighting fair." Stick's voice cut through the ringing in his ears, through the sound of wood still clattering to the floor as the teenager took in what he just did with eyes wider than they’d ever been. "It's about winning. By any means available. Use the environment, use their weaknesses, use their friends. Use whatever it takes."

Zain nodded slow.

The next day was another bunch of bullshit; lighter bullshit, but still more of Stick’s usual craziness laid out for him to deal with.

"Situation." Stick snapped out while Zain was mid-combo on a dummy. "Three enemies, one has a knife. What do you do?"

"Uh..." He blocked, struck, tried to think and move at the same time. "Take out the knife guy first?"

"Wrong. And look at that, he killed you." CRACK.

“You’re dead.” 

The stick slammed into his ribs, pain exploding hot and immediate. "Dead just because you went for the obvious threat like an amateur. You take out the one behind you first, the one you don't see." The stick tapped at his feet, insultingly gentle when Zain knew just how much fucking damage that thing could do. "Then the knife becomes irrelevant. Always assume there's one behind you."

Damn. His hand went to his ribs, pressing where it hurt. He's right, though.

It took till the end of another session before he caught his reflection in a piece of broken mirror someone had taped to the wall, the glass all cracked and dirty. Sweat ran down his face, dripped off his chin.

He looked... different.

His eyes—

Wait. Zain blinked, leaned closer. For half a second, something in his eyes looked wrong (right?), but then it was gone and they just looked normal again.

"That kid who walked in here two weeks ago? I don’t see him any more."

Zain turned quick, the white-haired old man’s voice pulling him right out of his thoughts. "Good or bad?"

"Depends.” Stick tapped the ground, tilting his head to the side. “You feel bad about what you're becoming?"

The teenager thought about the question, really thought instead of just reacting. The Hand with their blades and their red handprints. Traffickers with their menus and their prices. All the real monsters walking around out there in nice clothes, pretending.

"...Nah." His voice came out low, certain. "I feel ready."

A thin smile cracked across the old bastard’s face, dry as the desert and with just as much humor in it. "Good. Because we’re gonna get you training with more than just that chain of yours, kid."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Two AM and sleep wasn't happening.

He sat on the warehouse roof with his legs hanging over the edge, watching as people walked down there on the streets, all of them going about their lives.

Jugular. Carotid. Femoral artery. Spine. Clavicle. Solar plexus. Brainstem.

The pressure points, the weak spots, the places to hit for maximum damage; he could see them now even from up here, his brain automatically mapping vulnerabilities on every person who passed under a streetlight as the world seemed to go red.

On everyone.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Stick It Out (100 DP)

Survive the first part of Stick’s training.

ROLL: Initiate (FREE) [Luther Strode] {Source}: You have nothing, start with nothing, and where everyone else is concerned, are nothing. But you also have no obligations to fulfill, no new urges to sate or stifle, and no attachments to the world. For those who do not wish to follow the perilous path of Cain, perhaps no power corrupts nothing.                                                                                        Initiate Level of the Path of Cain - Red Vision

The practitioner has begun to see the world as a living canvas of flesh, bone and blood. They can easily isolate and target the living organs, tearing flesh like paper with bare hands and teeth. They have a body equivalent to a top-level athlete. This can be toggled and does not inherently cause the practitioner to think less of others. 

Dojo Points: 300