Are your hurt or injured? If you hurt suck it up. If you are injured seek medical attention. Sometimes it just hurts. It is supposed to hurt. You press on. Fear? You press on. Pain. You press on. Emotional distress. You press on. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my chest heaved with each breath. I was sucking wind. Press on. I dropped into a fighting crouch, knees bent, back straight, arms tucked close to the chest, forearms turned to present the strong bones and muscles, rather than the more vulnerable, vein and tendon filled inner surfaces. The metal floor was cool against my bare feet, the slight ridges on the surface providing good traction. My opponent wasnt there. He existed solely in my mind. He charged.
I stepped forward and to the right, breaking myself out of the line of his attack. As I moved my empty hands filled. A pair of swords; bastard swords; my swords. The double-edged blades were a matted, the steel barely catching the fluorescent lights overhead. Their lines were simple with no ornamentation. They were tools. Physical manifestations of my will that could be created and dismissed with a thought. My feet shifted, not crossing as I pivoted. My balance remained undisturbed, my center fixed and ready. Bladework is important, but for a proper swordsman, it is footwork that is the key. You cannot dance about from one foot to another, bouncing like a rubber ball. In order to properly parry and strike, you must be centered and stable. Dont lean forward; it paints a target upon your head. Dont strike with only one foot on the ground, it robs you of power and can shatter your balance. Remain stable and centered.
I struck empty air, not absorbing the force of the blow, but allowing the strikes to flow from one motion to another. Using two swords is not, as some would think, merely a matter of slashing the air in front of you as if you were a Moulinex Magi-blender. You would tie yourself up like an INXS frontman, and in a fight, die just as badly. Though perhaps with your genitals still in your pants a very small comfort. The swords follow disparate paths, never crossing where they can be pinned or redirected with a single blade or body part.
If I was using my own swords; back in my own world, my options would have been more limited; but here my options had opened up like a flower and I was exploring the petals. I beat down a thrust with my right and moved in, opening my left hand and grabbing the wrist of my imaginary opponent driving it down. My right cleared the blade out and drove back with the pommel. The blow came right up from the deck, the pommel striking in a perfect uppercut that would snap the head back and cause the brain to take a little half-second nap. A lot can happen in a half second. My left snatched a sword from the air and slammed it into the back of my opponents neck. A killing blow. I paused, rewinding the scene in my mind. I ran the scenario again, changing the nape strike to a pommel strike to the back of the head. A blow that could kill, but would not immediately limit the victims immediate career options to soccer or basketball. According to the identity card my profession was now superhero; and my mandate was to arrest the bad guys, not render them into separate bits.
I saluted with both blades and stepped out of the training area, bowing to it as I left. Old habits, but good ones. While I could certainly fight in a variety of non-lethal ways, almost every single technique required a higher degree of risk. Worse, having to close to smell-their-breath range negated some of the tactical advantages of longer blades. I liked my arse where it was, and the thought of a troop of gibbering Hellion baboons kicking it up into jaunty hat territory was not appealing in the least. Perhaps there was a solution so obvious that it was staring me in the face. Sticking a feather in my arse wasnt that solution, though it would at least make the wear-your-own-arse-like-a-hat meme considerably more stylish. Something challenging from the Versace; this years fat ostrich line. I considered again. Bastard swords are not cutting weapons. They are crushing weapons with an edge. This can make them very efficient cutters; but that was not what I wanted. I manifested my blades and concentrated on the edge. What if the vector of the force ran opposite? Instead of shearing through, they drove away. The efficient transfer of energy should remain constant but without the mess of disembowelments, decapitations and various festive amputations. Part of my mind, a part that I was only now becoming aware of, thrummed. The blades in my hands shimmered, a cold, black, sheen briefly dancing across their surface. I continued to concentrate; my mind playing with the physical reality. There would be times that I would want to cut; there would be times that I would want to crush without cutting. I might have to switch in an instant as I changed targets. Practice. More practice. I didnt mind that. It was how you got to Carnegie Hall or created enough holes to fill the Albert Hall. I returned to the training area.
* * *
I consulted the map again and cursed my piss poor sense of direction. While our new base had a kitchen my lovely wife had seen to that as a priority we hadnt found time to get groceries. That meant dinner would be take-out. Money wasnt an issue, at least not yet, the Portal Corporation had been generous in funding us in some small apology for their monumental pooch-screw. It would not last forever, but it was more than ample to keep us clothed, housed and fed for the foreseeable future. I had money, but had encountered a cultural difference, at least in Paragon. No pizza delivery. It just didnt happen. Between the ward walls, the roving gangs and other such troubles, it was just not economically feasible. Perhaps the ritzier areas had such things, but if they existed, they were quite beyond our means. Still, I wasnt too worried about going out. What worried me was the food. Perhaps hero kitsch did not necessarily translate to bad food, but with names such as City of Gyros, Pizza Hero and Major Traumas Flamethrower Fried Chicken well my hopes were not set too high. We had settled on Pizza Hero. While indifferent pizza is commonplace, truly bad pizza takes a genuine effort on the part of a truly incompetent chef. You can do it; but you have to work at it.
Then I made a mistake.
I was so intent on the map, the new city and my inner monologue on the Tao of pizza, I walked into a mugging. I wasnt the one being mugged; but I couldnt ignore it either. Three hellions. I dont know if there was a Papa Hellion, a Mama Hellion and a Baby Hellion; I considered asking which one was Mama, but I suspect they would have volunteered me to the position. It was not a position I was particularly suited for, nor one that I would be in any way inclined to take. They were big. They were bad. They were tough. It made me very aware of the extra weight I was carrying, and the fact that while I am not a short-arse, five foot, ten inches is certainly not six foot, two inches. The lead Hellion, or at any rate, the largest of them, was, as the British might say, rock. There was a lot of rough, tough, looking muscle. His six pack, visible through his ripped shirt, looked more like an eight pack, where they slip you a couple more beers as a bonus.
I am a wise arse. I know it. My lovely wife knows it. My students know it. These guys werent going to know it. If you can spare wind to talk, youre not fighting hard enough. Three Hellions trying to steal a purse. If they wanted the purse, they would have already taken it, and been on their way; unless they decided to come back for the matching pumps. That wasnt their intent. They were there for the terror; deliberately goading their victim to further fear, and reveling in it; perhaps even growing stronger on it. Sucking at their victims emotions like a baby might suck a teat, or more accurately a vampire a neck.
Fresh Meat. The Papa Hellion growled. This lardball looks like hes going to try and stop us.
Do I have superhero tattooed on my forehead? I considered this. No. Not last time I looked into a mirror. It is the sort of thing you notice, even if you have to read it backwards. Then I noticed a small detail. Papa Hellion had a little key fob taped to a very large shotgun; a small LED blinked on it. He was pointing both at me. The little LED was green. A couple of possibilities occurred to me. Conjecture the first he needed a garage door opened for his shotgun. Unlikely. Conjecture the second he liked the pretty lights. Perhaps more likely, but again, unlikely. Conjecture the third. It was a detector keyed to the medical transport beacon system, which in turn was keyed primarily to registered superheroes. A quick and dirty way to separate the sheep from the slightly meaner sheep; green probably meant amateur hero, with additional colours representing journeyman hero, established hero, and Oh shit its Statesman.
All I wanted is a pizza. Well a bunch of pizzas. There were a lot of hungry mouths to feed at the base.
I wasnt going to get the pizza.
I was going to get an opportunity to wear my arse like a hat.
I briefly regretted not investing in the feather.
I let them come to me. I stood balanced and ready. Some people like to be a serene pool in a fight. Reflecting nothing, offering nothing; a blank space on which the story of the fight will be written. Others prefer to be aggressive; moving in with dread intent, and a face that echoes their aggression. I like controlling territory. My swords were out and comfortably held in a guard position. My weight was evenly distributed, my shoulders loose and ready; my features intent and focused. My testicles had retreated to just below my kidneys and were shaking so fast that had they been closer together, my chest would have echoed with the sound of Spanish musical theatre. They were as scared as I would have like to be. I fully understood them. They were used to hanging around with a prick, and with three to one odds, it was likely that this prick was about to get beaten.
Mama and Baby Hellion had bats. I could have kissed them. Knives are far, far, scarier than bats; perhaps even scarier than swords. They were not professionals; but could be readily called enthusiastic amateurs. They were swinging for the cheap seats. I moved. One of the hardest things to do in a fight is to enter without fear; to purposefully step into danger and towards pain. I have never mastered it; but I do a pretty good imitation. I stepped back, the bat ringing against my sword. I didnt block the blow, but let it flow past me. The Hellion checked his swing through sheer muscle, but the effort cost him the barest moment to recover. I stepped past him on the right, delivering a backhand strike to the base of his skull. Rather than carve a golf-course destroying divot in the back of his skull, the sword transferred kinetic force more broadly into the target. He hit the ground and slid for a foot on the pavement, leaving at least part of his elaborate facial tattoos, and the skin covering them, in the rough surface. I am sure he made several city scavengers happy with this generous donation. I was already thrusting in a half circular motion, the sword in my left hand dropping low and then driving upward into the plexus of Baby Hellion. I dont think he remembered eating half of what gushed out of his mouth as everything in his lungs and stomache came charging forward like the six hundred. His bladder and sphincter also gave way, but I like to think that it was their own idea. I tried to keep him between me and Papa Hellion, but he collapsed too quickly.
Then I got shot.
It was a new and terrifying experience.
Something hot and loud crashed into my chest, smashing me backwards. I hit the ground and training took over as I rolled completely over and back to my feet. I grunted and embarrassing as it is to admit it, farted. Anyone who has done yoga or lot of breakfalls and rolls has had a similar experience. Some positions and movements make it nigh impossible to maintain iron clad starfish control.
Papa Hellion thought this was funny. The victim of the purse snatching found this funny. Mama and Baby Hellion would have found it funny if they were not unconscious or puking. Hell, I found it funny and I had just been shot.
Farts are funny and for the most part absent from the Superhero mystique. Captain America has never ripped one for Truth, Justice and the American way. Superman saves his for his Fortress of Solitude; where his whiffy Kryptonian blasts will not flatten entire city blocks. Batman doesnt fart. Period. He cant. The Shadow farts, for he knows what evil lurks in the
It took me a few moments to piece together the next few moments. I am pretty sure they included delivering at least six separate strikes to Papa Hellion. He was on the ground; I was kneeling on top of him; one knee on his face, the other buried deeply in his broken ribs. I had also broken his right arm. I also wasnt dead.
I concentrated on the not dead part. I figured that it was important. At least to me; and my lovely wife. I was bulletproof, which is a strange realization to come to; especially when you really are not expecting it. While I could not complain, I felt that it was perhaps misrepresented. Catching two barrels of buckshot in the relatively small area between your east and west nipples hurts like a motherfucker. I smiled. I was hurt, not injured. Lawrence of Arabia Time. Of course it hurts; the trick is not minding that it hurts. Papa Hellion was injured.
The police will be here shortly. I informed him. Dont move.
He moved. It was everyone in the house time. I waved his broken arm in the air. I waved it around like I just didnt care.
He went ash pale with a delightful hint of sickly minty green under his tattoos.
You bastard. He managed.
No. I corrected him. Excalibastard.
I stepped forward and to the right, breaking myself out of the line of his attack. As I moved my empty hands filled. A pair of swords; bastard swords; my swords. The double-edged blades were a matted, the steel barely catching the fluorescent lights overhead. Their lines were simple with no ornamentation. They were tools. Physical manifestations of my will that could be created and dismissed with a thought. My feet shifted, not crossing as I pivoted. My balance remained undisturbed, my center fixed and ready. Bladework is important, but for a proper swordsman, it is footwork that is the key. You cannot dance about from one foot to another, bouncing like a rubber ball. In order to properly parry and strike, you must be centered and stable. Dont lean forward; it paints a target upon your head. Dont strike with only one foot on the ground, it robs you of power and can shatter your balance. Remain stable and centered.
I struck empty air, not absorbing the force of the blow, but allowing the strikes to flow from one motion to another. Using two swords is not, as some would think, merely a matter of slashing the air in front of you as if you were a Moulinex Magi-blender. You would tie yourself up like an INXS frontman, and in a fight, die just as badly. Though perhaps with your genitals still in your pants a very small comfort. The swords follow disparate paths, never crossing where they can be pinned or redirected with a single blade or body part.
If I was using my own swords; back in my own world, my options would have been more limited; but here my options had opened up like a flower and I was exploring the petals. I beat down a thrust with my right and moved in, opening my left hand and grabbing the wrist of my imaginary opponent driving it down. My right cleared the blade out and drove back with the pommel. The blow came right up from the deck, the pommel striking in a perfect uppercut that would snap the head back and cause the brain to take a little half-second nap. A lot can happen in a half second. My left snatched a sword from the air and slammed it into the back of my opponents neck. A killing blow. I paused, rewinding the scene in my mind. I ran the scenario again, changing the nape strike to a pommel strike to the back of the head. A blow that could kill, but would not immediately limit the victims immediate career options to soccer or basketball. According to the identity card my profession was now superhero; and my mandate was to arrest the bad guys, not render them into separate bits.
I saluted with both blades and stepped out of the training area, bowing to it as I left. Old habits, but good ones. While I could certainly fight in a variety of non-lethal ways, almost every single technique required a higher degree of risk. Worse, having to close to smell-their-breath range negated some of the tactical advantages of longer blades. I liked my arse where it was, and the thought of a troop of gibbering Hellion baboons kicking it up into jaunty hat territory was not appealing in the least. Perhaps there was a solution so obvious that it was staring me in the face. Sticking a feather in my arse wasnt that solution, though it would at least make the wear-your-own-arse-like-a-hat meme considerably more stylish. Something challenging from the Versace; this years fat ostrich line. I considered again. Bastard swords are not cutting weapons. They are crushing weapons with an edge. This can make them very efficient cutters; but that was not what I wanted. I manifested my blades and concentrated on the edge. What if the vector of the force ran opposite? Instead of shearing through, they drove away. The efficient transfer of energy should remain constant but without the mess of disembowelments, decapitations and various festive amputations. Part of my mind, a part that I was only now becoming aware of, thrummed. The blades in my hands shimmered, a cold, black, sheen briefly dancing across their surface. I continued to concentrate; my mind playing with the physical reality. There would be times that I would want to cut; there would be times that I would want to crush without cutting. I might have to switch in an instant as I changed targets. Practice. More practice. I didnt mind that. It was how you got to Carnegie Hall or created enough holes to fill the Albert Hall. I returned to the training area.
* * *
I consulted the map again and cursed my piss poor sense of direction. While our new base had a kitchen my lovely wife had seen to that as a priority we hadnt found time to get groceries. That meant dinner would be take-out. Money wasnt an issue, at least not yet, the Portal Corporation had been generous in funding us in some small apology for their monumental pooch-screw. It would not last forever, but it was more than ample to keep us clothed, housed and fed for the foreseeable future. I had money, but had encountered a cultural difference, at least in Paragon. No pizza delivery. It just didnt happen. Between the ward walls, the roving gangs and other such troubles, it was just not economically feasible. Perhaps the ritzier areas had such things, but if they existed, they were quite beyond our means. Still, I wasnt too worried about going out. What worried me was the food. Perhaps hero kitsch did not necessarily translate to bad food, but with names such as City of Gyros, Pizza Hero and Major Traumas Flamethrower Fried Chicken well my hopes were not set too high. We had settled on Pizza Hero. While indifferent pizza is commonplace, truly bad pizza takes a genuine effort on the part of a truly incompetent chef. You can do it; but you have to work at it.
Then I made a mistake.
I was so intent on the map, the new city and my inner monologue on the Tao of pizza, I walked into a mugging. I wasnt the one being mugged; but I couldnt ignore it either. Three hellions. I dont know if there was a Papa Hellion, a Mama Hellion and a Baby Hellion; I considered asking which one was Mama, but I suspect they would have volunteered me to the position. It was not a position I was particularly suited for, nor one that I would be in any way inclined to take. They were big. They were bad. They were tough. It made me very aware of the extra weight I was carrying, and the fact that while I am not a short-arse, five foot, ten inches is certainly not six foot, two inches. The lead Hellion, or at any rate, the largest of them, was, as the British might say, rock. There was a lot of rough, tough, looking muscle. His six pack, visible through his ripped shirt, looked more like an eight pack, where they slip you a couple more beers as a bonus.
I am a wise arse. I know it. My lovely wife knows it. My students know it. These guys werent going to know it. If you can spare wind to talk, youre not fighting hard enough. Three Hellions trying to steal a purse. If they wanted the purse, they would have already taken it, and been on their way; unless they decided to come back for the matching pumps. That wasnt their intent. They were there for the terror; deliberately goading their victim to further fear, and reveling in it; perhaps even growing stronger on it. Sucking at their victims emotions like a baby might suck a teat, or more accurately a vampire a neck.
Fresh Meat. The Papa Hellion growled. This lardball looks like hes going to try and stop us.
Do I have superhero tattooed on my forehead? I considered this. No. Not last time I looked into a mirror. It is the sort of thing you notice, even if you have to read it backwards. Then I noticed a small detail. Papa Hellion had a little key fob taped to a very large shotgun; a small LED blinked on it. He was pointing both at me. The little LED was green. A couple of possibilities occurred to me. Conjecture the first he needed a garage door opened for his shotgun. Unlikely. Conjecture the second he liked the pretty lights. Perhaps more likely, but again, unlikely. Conjecture the third. It was a detector keyed to the medical transport beacon system, which in turn was keyed primarily to registered superheroes. A quick and dirty way to separate the sheep from the slightly meaner sheep; green probably meant amateur hero, with additional colours representing journeyman hero, established hero, and Oh shit its Statesman.
All I wanted is a pizza. Well a bunch of pizzas. There were a lot of hungry mouths to feed at the base.
I wasnt going to get the pizza.
I was going to get an opportunity to wear my arse like a hat.
I briefly regretted not investing in the feather.
I let them come to me. I stood balanced and ready. Some people like to be a serene pool in a fight. Reflecting nothing, offering nothing; a blank space on which the story of the fight will be written. Others prefer to be aggressive; moving in with dread intent, and a face that echoes their aggression. I like controlling territory. My swords were out and comfortably held in a guard position. My weight was evenly distributed, my shoulders loose and ready; my features intent and focused. My testicles had retreated to just below my kidneys and were shaking so fast that had they been closer together, my chest would have echoed with the sound of Spanish musical theatre. They were as scared as I would have like to be. I fully understood them. They were used to hanging around with a prick, and with three to one odds, it was likely that this prick was about to get beaten.
Mama and Baby Hellion had bats. I could have kissed them. Knives are far, far, scarier than bats; perhaps even scarier than swords. They were not professionals; but could be readily called enthusiastic amateurs. They were swinging for the cheap seats. I moved. One of the hardest things to do in a fight is to enter without fear; to purposefully step into danger and towards pain. I have never mastered it; but I do a pretty good imitation. I stepped back, the bat ringing against my sword. I didnt block the blow, but let it flow past me. The Hellion checked his swing through sheer muscle, but the effort cost him the barest moment to recover. I stepped past him on the right, delivering a backhand strike to the base of his skull. Rather than carve a golf-course destroying divot in the back of his skull, the sword transferred kinetic force more broadly into the target. He hit the ground and slid for a foot on the pavement, leaving at least part of his elaborate facial tattoos, and the skin covering them, in the rough surface. I am sure he made several city scavengers happy with this generous donation. I was already thrusting in a half circular motion, the sword in my left hand dropping low and then driving upward into the plexus of Baby Hellion. I dont think he remembered eating half of what gushed out of his mouth as everything in his lungs and stomache came charging forward like the six hundred. His bladder and sphincter also gave way, but I like to think that it was their own idea. I tried to keep him between me and Papa Hellion, but he collapsed too quickly.
Then I got shot.
It was a new and terrifying experience.
Something hot and loud crashed into my chest, smashing me backwards. I hit the ground and training took over as I rolled completely over and back to my feet. I grunted and embarrassing as it is to admit it, farted. Anyone who has done yoga or lot of breakfalls and rolls has had a similar experience. Some positions and movements make it nigh impossible to maintain iron clad starfish control.
Papa Hellion thought this was funny. The victim of the purse snatching found this funny. Mama and Baby Hellion would have found it funny if they were not unconscious or puking. Hell, I found it funny and I had just been shot.
Farts are funny and for the most part absent from the Superhero mystique. Captain America has never ripped one for Truth, Justice and the American way. Superman saves his for his Fortress of Solitude; where his whiffy Kryptonian blasts will not flatten entire city blocks. Batman doesnt fart. Period. He cant. The Shadow farts, for he knows what evil lurks in the
It took me a few moments to piece together the next few moments. I am pretty sure they included delivering at least six separate strikes to Papa Hellion. He was on the ground; I was kneeling on top of him; one knee on his face, the other buried deeply in his broken ribs. I had also broken his right arm. I also wasnt dead.
I concentrated on the not dead part. I figured that it was important. At least to me; and my lovely wife. I was bulletproof, which is a strange realization to come to; especially when you really are not expecting it. While I could not complain, I felt that it was perhaps misrepresented. Catching two barrels of buckshot in the relatively small area between your east and west nipples hurts like a motherfucker. I smiled. I was hurt, not injured. Lawrence of Arabia Time. Of course it hurts; the trick is not minding that it hurts. Papa Hellion was injured.
The police will be here shortly. I informed him. Dont move.
He moved. It was everyone in the house time. I waved his broken arm in the air. I waved it around like I just didnt care.
He went ash pale with a delightful hint of sickly minty green under his tattoos.
You bastard. He managed.
No. I corrected him. Excalibastard.