The Elf

by Max Dune

  “No arguments here.” I shake the katana. “What do you want me to do with this thing?”

  She waves a hand at the tall bamboo stick poking out of a metal platform on the floor. It’s about three inches wide and over six feet tall. “Cut that in half,” she orders.

  That’s it? Shoot. Even I can do that. I’ve seen my share of Samurai movies.

  After giving her a confident shrug, I saunter over, raise the katana, then hack at the bamboo with all my might, but the blade doesn’t cut squat. It only gets stuck in the wood. I look around the room, hoping nobody witnessed my pathetic sword-wielding action. It appears that only Yuriko is paying any attention, and I can tell by the way she’s pressing her lips together that she’s suppressing a laugh. I glare at the stupid katana and pull back, determined to get it right the second time around, but it won’t budge. I pull even harder, groaning under the strain and practically dislocating my shoulder. Still nothing.

  “May I?” Yuriko asks in a tone that is somehow polite and condescending all at once.

  I huff out a breath, then step back. “Have at it.”

  She steps over and pulls it out in one smooth move.

  “That super strength must be nice,” I mutter, still embarrassed.

  Yuriko ignores my quip. “Did you see how I grabbed the handle with my right hand and keep my left pulled back?” she asks.

  I give a reluctant nod.

  “When you swing, your left hand must do a pulling motion, while your right one guides it. During your swing, tighten your grip by turning your hands into the handle.” She moves up to the bamboo pole, raises the katana, then slices through it like it’s a stick of butter.

  The severed part clatters to the floor near my feet.

  She hands the katana back to me. “Again.”

  I rearrange my grip. Just focus on her instructions, I think. You got this. I take another swing.

  Clack!

  Of course it’s stuck again.

  Yuriko continues working with me, assuring me it’ll get easier with practice.

  It turns out she’s right. After several more tries, I’m actually able to chop a two-inch-thick bamboo stick. I’m not graceful about it—by any means—but I finally get the job done.

  She gives me another lesson, on throwing knives and shurikens. It goes as well as can be expected. At least I don’t slice my fingers in the process, which earns congratulations from my mentor.

  Small victories.

  Once our hour is over, she sends me to the shooting range. Approaching Bullets’s area, I see that the man-mountain still hasn’t reattached his machine-gun arm yet, and I scold myself for gawking at his empty sleeve.

  Bullets raises a brow. “You Lucian?” he asks in a loud, deep voice that startles me.

  “Yes, sir,” I stutter, wondering if he was a drill sergeant in his army days.

  He punches his barrel-chest. “I’m Bullets.” He steps aside so I can see his collection and gestures proudly with an open palm. “And these are my babies.”

  In front of me is every kind of firearm imaginable—the stuff of every Grand Theft Auto gamer’s dreams: pistols, shotguns, assault rifles, and one glorious-looking bazooka that immediately captures my heart. Spotting my preference, Bullets gives a quick nod, letting me know it’s okay to take a closer look.

  I approach with childlike glee and run my fingers over the cold metal barrel of the big weapon.

  He lets out a deep chuckle. “A man after my own heart.”

  “It’s...amazing,” I whisper, my eyes glued to the bazooka.

  “You can say that again.” He sighs, calling up an old memory. “Man, you ain’t lived till you’ve blown up a tank with one of these.” He glances at me, curious. “You ever fired a gun before?”

  “No,” I reply in shame. “But I’ve shot crossbows.”

  “I figured. Jack told me you used to build those.” He grows serious. “You ever shot any people?”

  I shake my head. “Just wolves,” I say, then am struck by another memory. “Oh, and I almost shot a goat,” I announce, as if adding that tidbit will somehow redeem me.

  Bullets gives me a baffled look.

  “Well, we ain’t fighting no damn goats, so let’s start you off with this.” He hands me the smallest pistol.

  I can’t help frowning down at it. Is this really going to be the first gun I fire?

  “Quit sulking,” he says. “Everybody’s gotta start somewhere. See those paper targets there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shoot one of them...in the chest.”

  I shift my attention to the human silhouettes in the distance and choose my mark. I take aim. Despite being kid sized, the gun feels solid and heavy in my hands. I take a breath, hold it, then pull the trigger.

  The kickback takes me by surprise. I didn’t expect it to be so powerful. Still, that doesn’t stop a grin from spreading across my face. What a rush!

  “Keep shooting till you’re out of ammo,” Bullets instructs.

  My grin widens. “Okay.”

  I shoot again, still focused on the chest, then fire again. Once I feel more comfortable with the sensation of the blast, I try firing in rapid succession. I continue until I hear the metallic sound, the barrel clicking empty. “How was that?” I ask.

  “Let’s find out.” He presses a button, and the target rushes toward us. When it comes to a stop, we see it’s untouched.

  Not even get one good shot? Unbelievable.

  “Well, that’s embarrassing,” Bullets mutters under his breath.

  I glare at the target, my jaw flexing. “Can I try the bazooka?”

  My request is denied. Bullets thinks I should start off by building my procedural memory, so he teaches me to disassemble and reassemble 9mm guns. It’s not what I was hoping for. The training is tedious and reminds me of factory work. At least his loud, blunt personality keeps me fully engaged the whole time. When not instructing me, he yells at the slow-moving joggers, ordering them to pick up the pace. Bullets doesn’t pull any strings, nor is he afraid to speak his mind. I prefer people like him. I hate having to guess what others are thinking. That’s one of the main reasons I’ve remained friends with Zeb for so long.

  Fuego is next. He’s unleashing powerful punches into a bag as I arrive, exhaling loud hisses upon impact, shuffling around on his feet. He moves ever so nimbly, confidently. When I clear my throat, he stops, smiles at me, then throws a pair of gloves at my chest. “What’s good, amigo?” he asks in a raspy voice.

  “Hey,” I say, slipping my hands into the cushiony cotton.

  “Name’s Fuego,” he says. “Can you guess what I’m going to teach you?”

  I look at the punching bags. “Uh, how to knock someone out?”

  He laughs unexpectedly, a warm, genuine sound that puts me at ease. “We’ll get there, I’m sure. First, show me what you’ve got.”

  I step up to the punching bag and try to mimic Fuego’s previous barrage, pummeling the red plastic as hard as I can. It doesn’t take long for my knuckles and shoulders to throb. I stop when the pain becomes too much.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Fuego asks, watching as I rub my hands.

  “I may have been a little...overzealous,” I admit sheepishly.

  He gives a faint smile. “You’ve got heart, Lucian. You really do, but broken hands aren’t gonna do you any favors. Try softer blows. Strike with your largest knuckles. Also, breathe more, so you don’t get gassed.” He does a demonstration, going slow enough for me to catch the details in his movements. “Try it like that.”

  I copy him, motion for motion.

  “Better,” Fuego says. “But straighten your spine. No leaning or slouching.”

  I do as he says.

  “Mind your legwork. Small steps only. Maintain a narrow stance.”

  The more I follow his instructions, the easier it gets, and the more my balance improves.

  “Good. Now speed it up and let your punches bounce back to you.”

&n
bsp; I start to throw my flurries a little quicker and connect with more authority.

  Once Fuego is satisfied with my form, he switches me to jump roping. I assume he’s trying to give me a break or take it easy on me, but I couldn’t be more wrong. Jumping rope is far more strenuous than I expected. Thirty seconds in, and my head feels as if it’s going to explode. I sweat profusely, wheezing. Eventually, I trip and fall on my side. I’m so tired that I can only lie there, curled up like a ball, seeing stars.

  “You okay?” Fuego asks, peering down at me.

  “I think I-I’m dying,” I croak.

  He just laughs. “Bueno! That means I’m doing my job!” He extends a hand and helps me up.

  I rub my sore ribs. “Could I be any more pathetic?”

  “It will take time to build up your stamina,” he reminds me. “Remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  I can’t help sighing. “I just feel so weak...compared to you guys, I mean.” I look a Fuego’s well-defined arms, which could probably punch through a wall without any problem. I wish I was bigger, stronger, more of a fighter.

  “Don’t compare yourself to others. That’s a battle you will always lose,” he coaches, squeezing my shoulder. “Focus your energy on being the best version of yourself.”

  I take in his words. “You give a heck of a pep talk.”

  “Encouragement works better than criticism or punishment. It’s a lesson I’ve learned time and again, training kids at my gym.”

  So far, he’s the most approachable of the rogues. Rather than fear or intimidation, I only feel admiration for him. “How long have you been doing that?” I ask, curious to know more about his background.

  “I started right after I won my world championship belt, about seven years ago.”

  “That must have been hard, leaving the glory behind.”

  “You might think so,” he says, wearing a thoughtful look on his face. “I wanted to stop though. I achieved all the professional goals I set for myself. Plus, the Señora of the house was worried I’d lose my mind—literally.” He laughs, probably remembering the scolds he’d received.

  I laugh with him.

  The rest of our session is spent rotating from jump roping to punching. Fuego finds ways to motivate me, even when my energy wanes. He’s my favorite trainer so far.

  When I’m sent to Tiktok, I encounter the opposite end of the spectrum. The blond doesn’t even bother to look up from the complicated device he’s working on.

  That’s not what I think it is, is it? My heart starts thumping. No. Chance assured me there’re no bombs in the training area. I’m just being paranoid.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Still not looking up, he responds in a bored voice. “Run thirty laps around the perimeter.”

  I wait for him to give me further instructions, but he says nothing more. “Okay. And after that?” I ask

  “After that, we’re done.”

  I furrow my brow. “That’s it?”

  “Correct.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Why are you still here?” Tiktok snaps.

  My mouth closes, and I just stand there, frazzled by his harsh reaction. What did I do to make him chew me out like that? Did I offend him somehow? I try to pinpoint the reason for his nasty demeanor but can’t.

  I give him another once-over. He’s certainly dressed differently than the others. Unlike their military clothing, he dons a black silk shirt with gold cufflinks, as well as shiny dress shoes. I spot a Gucci label on his glasses. He has a taste for the finer things in life.

  He finally stops tinkering and turns to look up at me, with a withering scowl spread across his pale, smooth face. He appears to be my age.“What? Do you expect me to show you how to build bombs or something stupid like that?”

  As a matter of fact, the thought did cross my mind. No way I’m going to tell him that though. I just shrug.

  He snorts. “Not a chance in hell. The only person who handles the explosives around here is me. You got that?” he asks, his voice low and cold. “I’m not about to be blown to bits because of any amateur idiot. Now start running.”

  I just about shoot off my mouth, then think better of it. I remind myself that Frost did not bring me here to make friends. I am here for training, to be molded into a fighter. To emphasize that point, I think of Santa and how badly I want to riddle his body with bullets. The Rogues are here to help me get my revenge. They are a means to an end. Just that. They’re not my buddies.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, then turn and begin to run.

  A means to an end, I tell myself. Nothing more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zeb stops outside Lily’s building. He’s certain she’s in her room, since he saw no sign of her at dinner earlier. They must have already told her, he thinks, reflecting on the line of bull they fed everyone: “Lucian died unexpectedly from a mutated strain of the virus.” Of course Oleg threatened Zeb again after Lucian’s unconscious body was hauled off, warning him that if he didn’t play along, his friends would pay for it.

  He hates Oleg.

  He hates Santa.

  He hates that he can’t warn his friends about what’s happening.

  In the main foyer, Zeb is immediately stopped by a guard. “What are you doing here?” the disgruntled guard demands.

  He knows. Of course he knows. Oleg isn’t stupid. He probably informed all his minions about what happened at the laboratory.

  “I’m here to offer Lily my condolences,” Zeb lies.

  The guard stares at him with doubt in his eyes. “Is that so?”

  “I’ll only be a minute. Please?”

  The burly guy in fatigues mulls it over for a discomforting moment. “Fine,” he says. He then grabs Zeb’s wrist, the one sporting the surveillance watch. “Remember that we’re always listening...and watching. We have eyes and ears everywhere. One false move from you, and I’ll put a bullet in her brain.”

  Zeb swallows his anger. He hates that guard too, but he somehow manages to keep his expression neutral and gives a single nod. Until he can figure something else out, he has to play by their rules. He’s quite amazed that he hasn’t freaked out yet. Ordinarily, he would. He’s a scaredy-cat by nature. Yet something inside him has shifted since the confrontation at the laboratory.

  The guard lets Zeb go. “Make it quick.”

  Zeb brushes past him and heads for the elevator. Once he reaches Lily’s room on the seventh floor, he hesitates for a moment before knocking.

  Nobody answers.

  He presses his ear to the door and hears quiet sobbing. A lump builds in his throat. “Lily, it’s me,” he says.

  The sobs are replaced by shuffling, then the scraping sound of a bolt. Lily opens the door. It’s evident she hasn’t stopped crying since hearing the news. Her eyes are bloodshot, and Zeb can see wadded-up tissues scattered all over the place behind her.

  Zeb, on the other hand, hasn’t yet shed a tear. He’s been much too angry, much too afraid, and likely in shock.

  “He’s gone, Zeb,” she whispers, racked by agony. “He’s gone.”

  His response is a weak, “I know.” He enters the room and opens his arms for her. Lily rushes over to him and stands close but can’t seem to look him in the eye as she releases another strangled sob. “It feels like a nightmare...a-and I-I just want to wake up.” She sniffles again. “That’s not going to happen, though, is it? There’s no waking from this, is there?.”

  He reaches out and strokes her back, as if to tell her just how bitterly right she is.

  She pulls back, steps over to her bed, and sits down on it.

  Zeb joins her there, releasing a heavy sigh.

  “They’re having a funeral tomorrow,” Lily says.

  Zeb nods. “I know. Almost everyone’s going.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, surprised.

  She looks away. “I just... I don’t think I can.”

  He tries to catch
her gaze, but she’s staring at the far wall. “Of course you can. You’re the strongest person I know,” Zeb says softly, then takes her hand in his. “I’ll be there too. We’ll help each other through it.”

  Lily turns back to him. New tears form in her emerald eyes, but her expression is now one of gratitude. “Okay,” she softly agrees. She is quiet for a minute, then shakes her head and tightens her grip on his hand. “I just don’t understand, Zeb. He was fine. You saw him. Lucian was healthy.”

  Of course he was. He wasn’t infected. He was murdered, at Santa’s command. But Zeb knows he can’t divulge. He eyes the gadget on his wrist. He has to partake in the charade, and he needs to be convincing about it. Otherwise, Lily will likely meet Lucian’s fate. If not worse.

  “We thought the same thing about Pluto, remember? Viruses can be...unpredictable.” Or fake.

  She doesn’t respond, seemingly placated by his explanation.

  Zeb relaxes and changes the subject. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

  She shakes her head.

  “Can I get you some food? I noticed you didn’t eat dinner tonight. I can go to the cafeteria and bring something back.”

  “Thank you, sweetie, but I’ve sort of lost my appetite.” She rubs her tired eyes, then grabs a coffee thermos from her nightstand and takes a sip. “This is the only thing I’m craving right now.”

  Zeb’s blood freezes, and he almost slaps it from her hands. The urge is so strong, yet he manages to control himself and sits absolutely still as Lily drinks the poisonous concoction. Play it smart, Zeb thinks. Oleg is listening.

  His mind begins to spin into a panic, searching for a solution. He has to find a way to warn her. But how? How can he get her to stop drinking the very thing that’s killing her? How can he do it without alarming her or raising suspicion from the guards? Suddenly an idea hits him.

  “Coffee? This late?” he asks, with a small chuckle, arching an eyebrow at her.

  “I know, I know. What can I say? I’m addicted to the stuff,” she confesses.

  “Me too. I’m thinking of switching to OJ though. Might help with my insomnia.”

  She frowns. “You have insomnia?”

  “Yep,” he lies.

  “I didn’t know that.”