The Discarded

Alone Chapter 4 - 5

With a tight smile, Andras eased back, willing to put Cesare through his paces now that dominance had been established. He wasn't like Tamlin, but no one was. Tamlin had a thousand ways to teach, moving from style to style, always with an eye on the lethality of the skill set he was teaching. Beating him down with the same strike, tearing Cesare apart until he was a mass of whimpering flesh, or helping Cesare polish a move to shining, simple, perfection. Tamlin was the consummate teacher, adapting to his student, keeping him on the edge of his ability.

Andras wasn't even a chip on Tamlin, but he was a man with a lifetime of experience in teaching practical fighting. Andras had learned to strip a technique down to its simplest form. Every angle broken down, aligning it with the body's internal strength, almost Neanderthal in its basicness. Andras had no time for fancy footwork or ornamentation, for him, fighting came down to hitting hardest and connecting the most.

Pushing him hard, Andras grinned every time Cesare got back up. Delighting in being given another chance to see what Cesare was made of. Blows hammered against Cesare's guard, turning arms into numb meat. Sweat ran down Cesare's face, slicking his hair back, shirt molding to his starved frame under the hoodie. But Cesare ran this gauntlet every day, Andras couldn't say the same.

Huffing and blowing, the man moved slower and slower, hours of constant sparring wearing him thin. Andras backed up, motioning wearily for Snake to come into the coral. "Your turn, Snake."

Coated in sweat, sigils gleaming from inside the borders of wet skin, Andras took a bottle of water from Beast while scrubbing himself down with a stained towel. The two women looked like hammered shit with bandages covering their bodies, but they were standing.

Smirking, Mr. Snake walked by the big man. "I've told you a hundred times, you're getting fat."

Andras glared wearily over at the slim man. "And I've told you a hundred times, when you can kick my teeth in, you can give me orders."

Shaking his head, Mr. Snake came into the corral. "Movement and flexibility are the keys to any fight. Style is a box. A straitjacket dictating angles you can attack from. Blinder's to the true fight. We learn a style to know how to fight, only to learn that we always knew how to fight. Fluid, changeable, loyal to the movement of the body, stripped of the perverse constraints of style. These are the hallmarks of masters, those that have learned what they've always known."

Mr. Snake was the polar opposite of the Andras, a martial artist through and through, techniques complex and multifaceted. With foot work that looked like he was turning his legs into origami, the man came in from directions Cesare would swear were impossible. Not only could he land those strikes, he could do it with power.

Relentlessly finding fault with Cesare, the man's words wove a cruel, barbed web around the corral. Dodging through the verbal onslaught, Cesare pushed to the edge, letting go of ego, determined to drink deeply of this poisoned well of violence. Strain settled into muscles, the low burning of meat tearing. Mr. Snake was fast, experienced, and in shape, but as minutes dripped by, they stole the lightness from his feet. Sweat drenched the blade of a man, shirt molding to his whipcord body, highlighting hardened muscles, golden sigils shining through the soaked shirt.

Stepping back, Mr. Snake called a stop to the training. "You're a machine," Mr. Snake said, motioning for Cesare to follow him over to the fence. Tossing a water bottle to Cesare, Mr. Snake snagged one for himself. "How long have you been training?"

Shrugging, Cesare picked up a towel and dried his face and hair. "A few months."

The four Hounds went still at his words, exchanging long looks. Andras met Snakes eyes with his own, giving the man a slow nod as something passed between them. "He's a fucking monster," Dart said, eyes hard on Cesare.