by Dima Zales
Without waiting for a reply, the stranger walks back into the gym.
“Let’s go,” Nero tells me over his shoulder as he follows the guy.
The gym is empty as we walk through it. Did Nero clear it for us?
We stop next to the room where yoga and the other classes usually meet.
“Put these on.” Nero hands me knee pads, a boxing helmet, a mouth guard, and a pair of gloves that look vaguely familiar.
I don the gear and examine the room.
Someone put a thick mat on the floor there, and the panda guy stands on the mat, legs apart, in a martial arts stance not unlike the one his bear counterpart would assume in the cartoon.
“Sasha, this is Bentley,” Nero says. “Bentley, this is Sasha.”
I give Bentley a beauty-pageant wave with my glove, and he smiles a round-cheeked grin at me.
Nero gives him a stern look, and the man’s face turns serious.
“Bentley will be your martial arts trainer,” Nero says, facing me. “You have a penchant for getting into trouble, so as your Mentor, I decided to arrange for you to be able to take care of yourself.”
Wow. You know your shenanigans are out of control when Nero is finally forced to fulfill his Mentor duties.
“Okay,” I say with nervous excitement as I step onto the mat. “How is this going to work?”
“Assessment first,” Bentley says, his grin coming back with a vengeance. “Hit me. If you can.”
“Okay, Morpheus,” I mutter and walk toward my opponent. “You asked for it.”
I swing a fist at Bentley’s copious tummy.
My hand whooshes through empty air.
Grinning even wider, Bentley stands two feet away from where he was a moment ago.
Though I expected him to do something like that—him being a teacher of martial arts and all—I still underestimated him. It’s a mistake I don’t intend to make again.
I put my fists in front of me as misdirection and aim a kick at Bentley’s shin.
My magic-inspired attack fails.
Bentley’s leg isn’t where I thought it would be.
“I said hit, not kick,” he says jauntily. “But either would—”
I swing at him before he finishes his sentence.
He moves before my fist connects with his temple.
“Stop trying to hit me and hit me.” He winks at me.
Did he hang out with Felix before he came here? That’s a second quote from Felix’s favorite scene in The Matrix.
I attack—and fail.
Then again.
And four more times.
Sweat beads roll down my forehead as I pant.
To my chagrin, Bentley looks less winded than a panda eating a bamboo leaf.
The next time I try to hit him, he catches my wrist and with the most miniscule move makes me faceplant onto the mat.
The fall hurts my pride slightly more than my face.
Groaning, I roll to the side and get on my feet, panting like a marathon winner.
In my peripheral vision, Nero looks annoyed.
“That settles it,” Bentley says. “I think I’m done assessing you.”
I look at Nero for a reaction, but his earlier annoyance has been replaced with a careless, stone-cold expression.
“I’m going to start by teaching you a fighting style used by the nuns in the Jinto mountains,” Bentley says.
I struggle to catch my breath. “Geography isn’t my strong suit, but I’ve never heard of mountains by that name.”
“You haven’t?” He looks at Nero with a “what have you been teaching her?” look. “They’re the tallest, most sacred of the dead volcanos on Voikomlya.”
I shrug. “Still doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”
“It’s one of the Otherlands,” Bentley says with exasperation. “The nuns in question are into two rather mutually exclusive activities: self-defense and fasting.” He rubs his belly as though in defiance of the very idea of skipping a meal. “That’s why I think the style would be perfect for you. Though not as emaciated as the nuns”—he looks me up and down—"you’re pretty puny, and their style of fighting should fit you perfectly.”
Nero nods approvingly. Does he think I’m puny? Because I’m totally not.
“First, let me teach you the stance,” Bentley says and walks up to me. He stops so near I can smell the cookie-dough on his breath.
“Put your leg like this,” he says, grabbing my yoga-pant-clad leg and pulling it forward.
As he positions my other leg, his sausage-like fingers tickle my skin though the holes in my pants, and I can’t help but giggle.
Nero folds his arms across his chest, his expression turning stormy.
“Now your hands,” Bentley says and positions my arms in an insectoid pattern that I doubt I’ll ever be able to replicate on my own.
He then gets into the same pose—which makes him look like a black-and-white lovebug standing on its hind legs.
“Thrust your arm out like this.” He executes a tai-chi-like maneuver.
I repeat his gesture to the best of my ability.
“No.” He grabs my wrist and moves my arm as though I were a marionette. “Like this.”
Nero’s expression grows darker. He must think I really suck.
Ignoring my boss, I repeat the gesture—doing my best to mirror the movement required.
“That’s better,” Bentley says. “But it should be more like this.”
He grabs my wrist once more and shows me the proper arc again.
Nero looks on the verge of ripping apart orcs.
Damn. Someone really wants me to get good at self-defense double quick.
Doing my best to avoid somehow triggering my boss’s ire, I repeat the motion as carefully as I can.
“Good. Finally,” Bentley says. “Now do this with your other arm.”
He shows me a new move that looks even trickier.
I fail.
Bentley walks over and grabs my wrist.
“Enough,” Nero growls so viciously that both Bentley and I flinch.
“Your own pose is lacking,” Nero says to Bentley. “You’re supposed to stand like this.”
He assumes the pose Bentley was teaching me, and I have to admit, the pose looks much more natural when my lean, fit boss does it.
“I didn’t realize you knew the technique.” Bentley smiles nervously at Nero. “I just—”
“Watch me,” Nero says and walks onto the mat.
Shuffling his feet, Bentley goes to where Nero stood earlier, while my boss takes the stance again.
I do my best to replicate it and find it is easier to do so now that I’m copying Nero. Perhaps because my eyes enjoy roaming over the grooves of those muscles and the—
“Move your left leg an inch back,” Nero barks at me. “And lift your right hand two inches.”
Though I’m tempted to tell him that a “please” would be nice, I just do as he instructs.
“Now.” Nero walks over to me and stands within slapping distance. “Do the strike from before, but like this.” He performs his own version of Bentley’s maneuver, and as he does it, it looks like a cobra striking a fluffy mouse.
“I’ll hit you if I do it now,” I say uncertainly.
“If you do, I’ll deposit ten thousand into your savings account.” He smirks. “If you couldn’t hit Bentley, I’m pretty safe.”
Bentley clears his throat. “I’m not sure you’re paying me enough for verbal abuse.”
I don’t wait for them to settle their differences.
My only chance to make the ten grand is a sneak attack—though I don’t know the fancy move well enough. Then again, Nero only said “if you hit me.” He didn’t clarify that it had to be a strike in the proper Jinto-nun style.
I make my hands into fists as time seems to slow. Blocking out everything else, I focus on Nero’s smug face.
My fist flies forward and, to my utter shock, smacks into his jaw.
Even through the gloves, my hand screams in pain.
Wait a minute. I saw a vision about this yesterday.
Just like in my vision, Nero doesn’t look the least bit hurt.
Also like in the vision, there’s a hint of satisfaction on his face.
He looks meaningfully at Bentley.
Bentley shrugs. “She didn’t use the move.”
“But she landed a hit on me,” Nero says. “With proper motivation—”
“Do I get the money?” I ask.
“A deal is a deal,” Nero says. “Now if you’d like, I’ll give you a chance to make even more money. All you have to do is land another hit, but in the proper style, at least once this week. If you do, I’ll give you ten times your winnings so far.”
My breath catches. “And if I lose?”
“I keep my ten thousand,” Nero says. “What do you say?”
“Deal,” I say and try to sucker-punch him with my best imitation of the move Bentley showed me—hopefully before my words even reach Nero’s ears.
My boss moves his head exponentially faster than Bentley.
My fist misses the target.
Then, with a touch so soft it feels like a lover’s caress, Nero manages to make me lose my balance, and I plop onto the mat.
“Your form was atrocious.” Nero extends a hand to help me up. I let him get me to my feet and pretend to be mildly concussed. “Though you do deserve some brownie points for trying to seize the element of surprise.”
As suddenly as I can, I lash out with the move again.
Nero’s head isn’t where it was a second ago.
Somehow, I end up on the mat again, and as I lie there for a moment, a simple truth becomes clear: the bastard played me. He let me hit him that first time, knowing full well I will become like a gambler chasing that original dopamine high. And the worst part is that knowing about his scheme doesn’t make it any less tempting to hit him again—and not just because ten thousand (or a hundred) are riding on this or because of the smug expression on his face.
I want to learn to defend myself.
He extends his hand again, and I lean on it as I get to my feet, then try to hit his midsection—figuring he never said I had to hit his face.
His torso isn’t where it was a moment ago—and neither is his hand.
Losing the support, I fall.
This time, my back smacks into the mat at a strange angle, causing the air to painfully vacate my lungs.
“Ouch,” I pant when I can make a sound. “I hope you have a chiropractor booked after this.”
Nero kneels on the mat next to me and examines me closely, his expression unreadable.
Now would be a great moment to deck him, except I’m still catching my breath.
“Why don’t you learn proper technique for a while,” Nero suggests. “You’ll then have an advantage when you execute your sneak attack—plus I’m less likely to see it if you lull me into complacency with good behavior.”
It’s annoying when Nero is right.
Whenever I need a new sleight-of-hand maneuver for an illusion, I rehearse the movements involved until they become instinctive. Hitting him isn’t that different from fooling him with an effect, so my usual illusionist approach is the way to go.
Starting with this cobra punch, or whatever it’s called.
Grunting, I roll over and start pushing myself up.
Strong hands land on my bare shoulders, helping me with the task.
My breath catches again, and warm electricity pulses through my body.
Oh no. Not going there.
Pushing away the unwelcome sensations, I assume the prerequisite pose.
Nero steps up and places his hand on my right leg—presumably to correct my stance.
Why, oh why did I wear yoga pants with holes in them?
I can feel Nero’s calloused palms on the sensitive skin of my thighs, and martial arts are increasingly far from my mind.
Seemingly oblivious to my discomfort, Nero corrects my left leg next—leaving it tingly and aching for more touch.
“Bend like this.” He places a big, warm hand on my lower back and gently pushes me forward. “You should feel tension in your core.” His fingers brush against my abs—and I do indeed start to feel something in my core, but probably not what he meant.
“Now your arms,” he says and touches my right shoulder, spreading liquid heat—
“Perhaps you two should get a room?” Bentley says, unzipping his tracksuit. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
This is what those pandas in zoos must feel—the ones forced to watch panda porn as motivation to propagate their dwindling species.
Nero steps back and glares at Bentley. “You’re fired.” His voice is sharp enough to skewer. “You did an acceptable job figuring out what style she should learn, so you’ll get paid for that, but—”
Bentley bolts out of the room as though chased by a forest fire.
“Now, where were we?” Nero looks me over.
I clear my dry throat. “The position. You were showing me how to—”
“Right.” He effortlessly assumes the prerequisite stance. “Hit the air this time around.”
I do.
“No,” he says. “Like this.”
His muscular arm pierces the air with an audible whoosh. “Now you.”
I try it as well as I can.
Nero winces. Approaching, he grabs my arm and directs my motion.
I swallow. Now that we’re alone, I feel his touch all the more.
Am I screwing up my movements so that he touches me?
No. That’s a silly theory.
“Focus,” Nero murmurs, letting go of me. “Part of any martial art is being in the present moment—conscious and aware.”
“Right,” I croak. “Got it.”
“Now do it again.”
I execute the move.
He nods approvingly, walks over to the corner of the room, and pulls on a pair of punch mitts.
My guess is, they’re there to make it easier on me rather than him.
“Now hit one of these that exact way,” Nero says, putting his covered hands out. “Do your best to keep the form as you move.”
I punch his right mitt, then his left.
A droplet of sweat rolls from my face into my sports bra, and I notice Nero’s gaze following it.
I flush. I guess I’m not the only one affected by this.
Shaking it off, I try to focus. Nero is distracted, so now is as good a time as any to make that hundred grand.
Pretending I’m about to hit his mitt, I go for his face instead.
He ducks effortlessly, then smirks.
“Not bad. You may yet succeed. Now keep hitting the mitts.”
I do as he says, channeling all my pent-up frustration into the pummeling.
As far as workouts go, this is a great one.
At least, I hope my skyrocketing heart rate is due to the physical activity and not someone’s proximity.
After a few more minutes of this, Nero grunts approvingly.
Encouraged, I repeat the movement, over and over, until my muscles start to burn.
“You’re getting better,” Nero says after a few more minutes of grueling exercise.
I want to say, “Shall we test this theory?” but throw a punch at his face instead of at the soft mitt.
Before I even finish the movement, something similar to my driving intuition tells me this attempt will fail, so I follow with a punch with the other hand, aiming for where I think Nero might end up by dodging the first.
My first punch hits air and pulls me slightly forward.
The second stops a nanometer from Nero’s surprised face.
Does it mean I almost got him?
I don’t get a chance to figure out the answer because Nero taps me with his finger just as I regain balance after the second punch.
Flailing my arms, I start to fall.
If I’m goi
ng down, I’m bringing my tormentor with me.
Turning my hand into a grabbing claw, I grasp Nero’s shirt on my way down.
There’s a sound of ripped clothing, followed by a muffled curse.
My back hits the mat again.
Nero tumbles at me, but manages to gracefully land on top in a pushup position—arms straight and hands planted firmly on my wrists.
My pulse surges into the stratosphere, and my breathing goes from ragged to supersonic.
He bends his arms as though showing off his pushup skills.
Is he about to kiss me again?
He stops just outside kissing distance, his own breath fast and muscles tense under the large rip I made in his shirt.
“I think this is enough for today,” he mutters, seemingly an hour of staring later. “We will resume this tomorrow at seven.”
He leaps to his feet with supernatural speed, but I let myself lie there for a couple of seconds, mostly to catch my breath.
When I’m feeling semi-human again, I accept Nero’s extended hand and get to my feet.
Do this again?
And to think, yesterday I worried about getting out of shape, of all things.
Chapter Twelve
We enter my metal cell, and Nero sets the timer again.
“Eight hours?” I almost try my luck at making the hundred grand by punching him in the face right now.
“The martial arts training is part of your Mentorship.” He walks toward the exit and over the shoulder adds, “Please have a stock tip ready for me when you’re done.”
He leaves the room, and a moment later, the impenetrable door seals shut.
I stare at the keypad on the door device, reminding myself of the severe penalty if I try to guess the password and fail.
At least Nero said please this time around.
I don’t remember him saying that before.
Standing there, muscles aching, I even out my breathing in order to get into Headspace.
If this works, I can retest all of yesterday’s accomplishments.
Before long, I find myself floating among the shapes.
That didn’t even take much effort. My powers have clearly recovered, and I’m able to get into Headspace even when uncomfortable.
First, no doubt inspired by that “please,” I do my best to initiate a vision about the stock market.