Inner Discord, ch 25 (Patreon)

Alex blocked the punch and barely kept himself from striking back. He’d already sent one of his…trainee to the infirmary this session. That was the quota he allowed himself.

“Don’t look at your fists,” he told the woman. “They aren’t what you’re trying to hit. I’m your target. If you aren’t paying attention to what I’m doing, you’re not going to be able to adjust.”

They were hopeless. There was no way around that fact. If he’d been told to mold them into anything close to combat capable, he’d have told Teklile to go fuck himself. But this was about Alex. It was about forcing him to exert control over himself. Telling the leader of his place he didn’t think anyone here could push him hard enough there was a risk he’d lose control wouldn’t be productive.

She came at him clumsily, and he batted her hands away, ending with a slap to the face hard enough to leave a mark when her eyes focused on her fists again.

Maybe if one of the retiree stepped in there would be a chance, but they, as a whole, wanted nothing to do with fighting. Even Tristan’s fan was only there because he didn’t trust Alex not to hurt one of the trainee.

He’d been proved right multiple times in the sessions.

Alex sucked at training people. He’d know that going in. Fuck. He’d known that when he trained the Samalians. It was simply because, for them, clawing at one another was just roughhousing that Alex’s method of going into it as if it was an active fight had borne any results.

And it had taught him the horrible habit of going into teaching anyone as if it was an actual fight; it turned out.

She came at him hard, angry, humiliated. He wasn’t gentle as he sent her down on her back.

“Get emotional and die,” he told her. “You’d avoided that slap if you’d been looking at me.”

He’d broken three arms in that first session. Enough, the fan had put an end to it, nearly come to blows over Alex purposely hurting them. Alex hadn’t, but he’d been there, agreeing that he wasn’t suited to teach anyone, when the fan had demanded Teklile put a stop to it.

The man had replied that if Alex found himself without students, then he would have to stop.

Alex had been tempted to injure each of them until they couldn’t train, but he’d found out that a medical bed was among the few technological tools the sanctuary had. It was older, but it got the job done. Of those three injured on that first session, one hadn’t returned.

One injury, he’d decided that day. He was allowed to cause one injury that required the medical table. Anything more and he’d failed them.

He wasn’t there yet.

He offered her his hand, and she struggled to put her anger away before taking it.

“Anyone else want to test if they’ve learned something from this?”

Tristan’s fan glowered at Alex’s tone. The man was welcome to take over and do this in his place. They’d probably learn something from him.

The young man who approached had at least changed into something loose, but not flowing. One of the first lesson Alex had taught them the hard way was how their clothing could be used against them, but even after nearly three months, some still wore the robes they favored for the days.

It was like they thought this was some vid where they’d get so good they’d used the flowing clothing at part of the fighting.

The young man came at him without preamble, which was good. His eyes remained on Alex, so he avoided the severe hits, until he overextended himself in an attempted punch and Alex slammed his elbow in the man’s back, sending him down. It was only as he took position to wait for him to attack again he noticed the man was still on the floor and had trouble breathing.

Alex cursed. There went the one injury. “Someone take him to the infirmary.” 

It was the merc’s fault. Another team should have attacked by now. He didn’t know where the closest merc station was, but three objective months had to be enough for that Hart guy to have gotten another team here.

This training did nothing more than remind him he hadn’t had a decent fight since the last mercs. He wanted to tell the fourteen trainees left to gang up on him. Try to make him work for the win, instead of barely having to try.

But, he reminded himself, the fighting was for them. Exercising control was what he needed to work on.

Tristan’s fan glared as another trainee took position, but, again, stayed on the sideline.

Alex had this one down in three moves, but, at least, the worse he’d given him were bruises.

* * * * *

The silence registered in the lull as one trainee moved to the bench and the others looked among themselves for the next victim. They were always quiet; looks instead of discussion. It meant other sounds made their way to the training room, bouncing on the stone walls.

The echoes had annoyed him at first, but now were part of the background noises. The sounds of steps, discussions made indistinct with too many bounces, tools working materials. Someone was always doing something during the ‘daytime’.

Only now, Alex heard hardly anything.

Tristan’s fan shifted; the only indication he’d realized something was off. He hesitated when Alex locked eyes with him, then gave a nod.

“Everyone stay here,” Alex instructed as he left the room, the fan at his side.

The first door revealed a painting studio with a woman slumped over her easel. The fan was in before Alex realized he should check on her. Finger on her neck, the man relaxed and gave Alex a nod. She was alive. Which meant this was surgical. They’d be after the one item the rich man wanted and only deal with people who got in their way.

It also meant a small team, so the fight wouldn’t be that hard.

He knew they were being followed before they reached the next door, and while the fan checked on the occupants, Alex turned to glare at the trainees. He pointed the way they’d come, unwilling to speak and risk one of the strike team hearing. They only responded by staying put.

Tristan’s fan was no happier at seeing them, but nodded forward. They didn’t have time. 

The next room informed Alex he might get a fight after all. The retired merc who lived in it was still alive, but she’d been bound on top of being rendered unconscious. Not one piece of furniture was intact. That he hadn’t heard a fight of this magnitude meant sound dampening. They wouldn’t hear the team coming.

He grabbed Tristan’s fan by the arm and kept his voice soft. “Where’s the art kept? That’s what they’re after.”

“I just know about the library,” he whispered back. “It’s the only thing of cultural value in here as far as I know.”

“Other than Teklile, who else might know about it?”

The man shrugged.

And he called himself a merc? Alex had surveyed the entire structure. He hadn’t searched for hidden rooms, but he’d figured there would be some. This was an old building, built by someone of less than reputable morals, or so the stories he’d heard went.

This meant that the team also didn’t know where it would be. He hurried. Which meant they’d go for the person most likely to know. Ideally, the one advantage Alex had over them was that he knew where his office was. Unless the strike team forced one of the locals to guide them, they’d have to check each room.

The thing going against him was that he had no idea how long ago they’d managed to make it in.

How was also a question. But one for after Alex stopped them.

* * * * *

Sounds of life gained in strength as they climbed the next set of stairs. This floor was mostly the locals’ quarters. Teklile had his office next to his. Normal sounds meant the strike team hadn’t made it here yet. It probably meant they didn’t have a guide. Good. It meant they didn’t have someone in easy reach to hide behind.

“Where’s Teklile?” he asked the first local he encountered. She raised an eyebrow at his whisper, then looked behind him. Of course, the trainees were still there. He motioned for her to hurry.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her normal tone sounding ear shattering after the quiet. “Have you tried his office? Otherwise, he might be walking around.”

If he was, he might already have been captured.

“Where is the art kept?” speaking at a normal volume felt wrong.

“He won’t be there,” she replied dismissively. “He only goes when—”

“That’s fine. Where is it?”

“In the library.”

“No, not the books. The art pieces. I know you have some because that’s what this—that attack a few months ago was about.”

“The room where it’s kept is accessed through the library.”

Alex ran.

The silence returned as he went down the stairs. The first two floors had been cleared. He’d ask how it was no one had felt it strange once this was resolved. Another floor down and there quiet was the norm. Locals used the floor the library was on as a place to be with the quiet of themselves, or so one of them had told Alex. 

Another form of meditation.

Alex had already hated to one he’d been stuck doing, so he’d stayed away from this floor.

He knew Tristan spent time here, reading. A Samalian among antique books generated a lot of gossip. He, like them, had no idea what Tristan might be looking for in them. And, considering how he now enjoyed reading them, it might simply be a way to pass the time while he waited for Alex to be done with his chores.

“There is no—”

“Shut up.”

The first voice had been Teklile. Which meant the other one of the strike team. Alex wished he’d stopped by his room for more knives. Three felt wholly inadequate to the task. Hopefully, the team would be kind enough to provide him with weapons.

He stopped by the archway and glanced in, then had to do it again as the sight hadn’t made sense.

One person was holding Teklile by the arm as they headed for a wall of books.

Alex looked around for the rest of the team and didn’t find them. The library was a series of rooms with shelves against the walls. He didn’t remember the layout, but they were heading for the wall of the first room, and this was the only entrance. If there were more to the team, they’d be here, keeping watch.

Hopefully, the one merc was skilled enough to make Alex work for it.

He ran at them.

He made it halfway before the merc pushed Teklile away and turned, drawing a gun. The blasts flew over his head as Alex slide under a table and continued crouch, mono-edge knife in hand. When the table between him and the merc exploded, he ran again, throwing the knife and pulling the vibro-edge one from the sheath at his back.

The merc batted it aside with his gun, which felt a sparking gouge along the side. Alex made use of the moment of annoyance to rush him. When this was done, he wasn’t strapping a knife to his ankle any more.

The merc had another gun out, but Alex was in striking distance. The gun was again turned into an impromptu deflecting tool, and this time, was sliced in two. The merc then danced out of reach of each of the knifes Alex slashed with.

He reached for the sheath at his belt, and Alex grinned as the hand closed over nothing.

“Are you—”

Alex  rushed him, slashing and thrusting, and the merc managed to keep out of reach.

Just as Alex started wondering if he’d ever go on the offensive, the man slipped through his attack with nothing more than a shallow cut on the shoulder and landed a punch that sent Alex off his feet and onto a table. He slid off, and a knife clattered away.

He got to his feet with a pained groan, then grinned at the surprise on the man’s face.

“You must be the bodyguard.” The man was slimmer than Alex expected from the strength. That the punch hadn’t gone through him meant organic enhancements; the blood on the shoulder meant no armored skin.

He rushed, vibro-edge before him. This time, instead of dancing away, the man struck Alex’s wrist to deflect the strike. His hand went numb, and the knife flew away, but Alex planted a knee in the man’s stomach. His following punch was deflected and then a strike on his shoulder rendered Alex’s entire arm numb as he staggered away.

He dodges the man’s attacks, then kicked him in the crotch, only to encounter armor, and the man smirked and nearly planted a fist in Alex’s face.

“Look, I’m not here to hurt anyone,” the man said, keeping his distance. “Only one item. That’s it. I get it and I’m gone and you can all go back to whatever you do here.”

“Meditation is what we do here,” Alex replied, and took advantage of the fraction of a second of surprise to close the distance. He punched hard, and the man staggered back. He pressed with another punch, and another. He couldn’t let him gain the advantage again. He aimed for the throat, but that was deflected. Then so was the next punch, and the next fist was in Alex’s face.

It had been nowhere near as hard as it could be, since he could still think, but his vision swam and he couldn’t avoid the fist that came down on his shoulder, sending him to his knees from the force and the pain as the shoulder shattered. Fortunately, it was the already incapacitated one.

“I hate it when a job gets messy,” the man grumbled, holding his side. “Come on, stay down,” he said in exasperation as Alex put a foot under him.

“Not what I was trained to do.” He looked up and smirk. “And the man who trained me hits harder and more viciously than you.”

“Fine, just remember that you brought this on yourself.” He stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Alex’s hair.

He closed his hand on the knife’s pommel and stood, hand coming up as the fist came down. He was temped to turn his hand in the process, but he had questions he needed answered before he could kill this merc. So it was the end of the pommel that slammed under the man’s jaw and sent him staggering back, then falling.

Alex kicked him in the head before he could get over the hit, then search him for the restraints he’d used on the others. With that done, he turned to face Teklile, his trainees, and Tristan’s fan. The only one not looking at him in amazement was the fan.

“Make sure he’s secured,” Alex told the retired merc. “I need to go use the medical table.”