I keep going forward, taking a random path whenever I reach splits. I pass all sorts of rooms, and when I feel like it, I poke my head inside to see what’s there. Storerooms, bedrooms, what look like meeting rooms. At one point, I pass an entrance that lets out into a cavernous hall with nothing but a stage set in the back and a continuous ramp circling the rounded walls of the room. A lot of people rush through the multiple entrances of the huge hall or huddle together to talk inside it. It’s too many strangers, and I don’t want to get stopped by anyone or have to talk, so I keep going down the hallway until the huge room is far behind me.
The more I walk, the better I feel. It’s not as good as walking in fresh air, but it does the job.
I don’t stop again until I hear the dull clanging of metal against metal. I recognize the sound instantly. Sparring.
Funny. I thought this was supposed to be a peace coalition.
I follow the sound through the tunnels, careful to keep quiet in case I’m not supposed to be here. Just because I decided to wander around doesn’t mean I want to get caught.
There’s no door that leads into what’s obviously a training room—just a hole in the shape of a doorway. I sneak a look around the edge of it. Inside, dozens of people are sparring with each other. With dulled weapons, with sticks, with just their fists. A couple of people stand around watching the matches and calling out advice or instructions, but they’re way outnumbered by the people training—and they don’t even sound like they’re sure of what they’re saying.
It’s nothing like when I’d watch soldiers spar in Central. Back in the military, there was this sort of synchronicity everyone had. Even if someone wasn’t the best fighter, they were good enough to last. They’d be dead on the field otherwise. People knew what they were doing. And if they didn’t know, they were good enough to improvise. There weren’t people who fell after one hit. There weren’t people who hesitated. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t fight like their life depended on it—because it always did.
I sigh. What are these people even doing? What’s the point of sparring if you’re going to do it this badly?
A man falls over backward—not because of a strike from his opponent, but because he trips over his own feet.
That’s it. I stride into the training room. I don’t know why I’m so annoyed watching them, but I don’t have to keep quietly spying on them as they suck.
“You need to fix your stance,” I say as the man who fell gets back up. He and his partner turn to me with startled looks. “You fell because your feet are too far apart. You can’t balance like that in a fight. Look, like this.”
I sink into a crouch, my feet shoulder-width apart, fists raised in front of me. I nod for him to do the same.
He glances at his partner and hesitates, but the woman shrugs and copies me. After a few seconds, the man does the same.
“Good,” I say. “Be careful where you put your weight. You’re leaning too far forward.” I move his shoulders back and rap his lower back. “Keep it straight.” After I adjust the woman’s stance, I say, “There. Now try it again.”
The man lunges forward with a punch that almost makes me groan. The woman dodges it easily, but the way she moves is so stiff that if he’d been fast enough to throw another hit, she would’ve taken it.
“Stop. You have to lead with your arm, not with your fist. That’s where your actual strength is.” I make sure they’re both watching as I demonstrate with a few punches. “See? My arm controls the direction and force. I’m not just flinging my fist out hoping it’ll hit something.” I jerk my chin at the woman. “And when you dodge, you can’t hesitate about it. You don’t have time to think in a real fight—you move, and you try to do it as naturally and smoothly as walking. Try it again.”
I keep running them through the practice, stopping them to give advice when I need to. Honestly, though, what they need are drills. They don’t even know the basics, and they’re trying to fight. It’s like trying to drive a byc when you don’t know the controls. This is as good as pointless. Just who’s teaching them?
A bunch of the people sparring around us start to come over and practice with the original pair as I go through demonstrations. Eventually, I stop the matches altogether and do actually start drilling them. Proper stance, ways to punch, effective ways to dodge. More and more people begin to drift over until one of the “teachers” stomps over with his face screwed up.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “We’re practicing fighting here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” I say. “Your practice needed improvement.”
His face turns red. “Who are you? Who authorized you as an instructor?”
The giant group I’ve accumulated stops practicing their punches. I don’t need Jay’s gift to pick up on their unease as they probably realize they’ve never seen me before. Shit. I was trying not to get caught wandering around on my own, and instead I openly give myself away. Great job, Al.
I’m about to tell him I’m a new member who couldn’t just stand aside watching such a pathetic display when someone says from behind me, “I did.”
Everyone turns to the speaker. He’s a man in maybe his mid-twenties, with midnight-black skin and a close-shaven head. He’s huge and muscular—probably solid in a fight. He watches me curiously from where he leans against the wall by the entranceway. My heart pounds, but he just smiles.
“T-Trist, sir,” the teacher says. He fumbles to get the words out, but the newcomer doesn’t seem to notice.
“I thought we could use assistance,” the stranger says. “We still need much work, do we not? I asked our new friend to observe and help. She is a very skilled fighter, you see.” He beckons me over to join him, still smiling. “Excuse us while I ask her thoughts.”
“Of course, sir. Very well, sir.” The teacher glances at all the people still watching. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get back to practicing what the new instructor has taught you.”
I don’t usually follow strangers, but this one did just save me and it’s not like I want to stick around here, so I go with the new guy. We don’t go far. Once we’re in the hall, far enough away from the training room to be out of earshot, he stops.
“You are Al, correct?” he says. “I do not believe we’ve met before. I am Tristao Clemente—but please, call me Trist.”
I keep my eyes trained on his hands in case he makes any sudden moves. “How do you know who I am?”
“Ah, Lai has told us much about you,” Clemente says. “Determined, strong, just.” His smile grows a little wider. “Headstrong and willful. But a good friend and teammate.”
Lai said all that about me? The praise—or mostly praise—makes my chest feel light. Until I remember our last conversation and how she slammed the door on her way out. My heart sinks even lower than before. All those things she said must’ve been before Paul’s death. Before we ended up in this mess. Of course.
“Yeah, well, she hasn’t mentioned you to me at all,” I say. “Or anything about this place, in fact.”