The Discarded

Alone Chapter 4 - 5

Mr. Snake was standing on the porch as they came back, Andras answered the question in his eyes with a slight shake of his head. Walking up onto the porch, Andras nodded at Cesare. "I noticed you seem to prefer hand to hand, how would you like to give it a go? I might be able to give you some pointers."

Cesare didn't even have to think about it, nodding his acceptance before his good sense stopped him. Andras grinned, a lightness entering his steps as he led the way around the house.

Mr. Snake fell into step with Cesare. "You feel up to helping me with Beast and Dart later?" the man asked, walking with him to what looked like a corral.

"Sure," Cesare said, mind focused on the upcoming spar.

In another time it had been used to break horses with leather, rope, and sweat, stripping an animal of its wildness with cruelty, instilling bastard born submissiveness with sadistic ease. The old wood of the corral was the faded gray of old love smoothed from decades of hardship. Inside the wood cage, the hard-packed dirt smelled of old violence, blood soaked glory, and shattered dreams.

Andras laid his canvas trench coat on the fence, stripping off the plaid shirt underneath, baring the man to the cold wind. Golden sigils stood out in the sun, collecting and reflecting pitiless rays. The man slipped between the slates in the fence, rolling his shoulders as he warmed up.

Cesare slipped his duffel bag off his back and followed the man into the corral. Snake's words caught him as he was walking away from the fence. "Don't hold back kid, because he won't."

The moment flowed over him, instincts firing across his mind. He didn't plan or anticipate; he was the moment, and the moment was everything. Nothing was between him and his instincts, no thought or doubt troubled the tranquility of his mind.

Andras grinned. "You need to warm up?" He asked, feet spread out, balancing his center of gravity.

Shaking his head, Cesare watched approval light the man's eyes. Walking forward, the man brought his hands up, gravitas gathering around him. Cesare felt Andras break the bubble of his sphere of control.

Lashing out, Cesare's leg snapped forward, cracking into the man's face. Andras shrugged it off as a tendril of blood dripped from his lips. His fist hammered forward, sinking into Cesare's stomach, folding him over in an explosion of air. Smashing into his face, Andras fist sent Cesare's vision spinning, the follow up rocking his skull back, legs wobbling as he tried to get his bearings. The kick appeared out of nowhere, cutting his feet out from under him, sending Cesare down with a grunt of pain.

It had taken maybe seconds for Andras to put him down as easily as drowning a kitten in a sack. Stripped of fancy, they were the workmanlike strikes of a man who'd fought for more years than Cesare had lived. Andras was a brawler, this wasn't his favored way to kill, he'd learned because he'd had to. The quickest punch is straight forward, brutal, and telegraphed with bright neon. But simple didn't mean easy.

Looking up, Cesare locked eyes with the man. Understanding passed between them in those long seconds. Cesare hadn't gotten lucky yesterday, he'd been good. He'd had his weapons ready and acted decisively to put his attackers down hard and permanent. But that didn't change that he'd had a decent hand of cards. They hadn't known he'd have explosives or chemical weapons; Beast had already been shot and was on her last legs when they tangled. Now he knew going one on one with these guys was a failing proposition ... if he played by their rules.

Nodding up at the Pack Master, Cesare got the point the man was laying down. The pack, each cold-blooded son of a bitch of them, had years of experience at killing. That depth of crimson tainted knowledge obliterated any advantages Cesare might have, unless he changed the game.