Paragon ✓

VIII. Man from Machine

Katia watched carefully as the others fought, studying their haphazard, blended styles with equal measures of disdain and trepidation. It reminded her a bit of the mixed martial arts matches she'd watched on television; only there was less method to this madness. The men, too, noticed her standing in line, waiting for her turn. She could hear their whispers from across the room; they were wondering whom she might fight against. To their credit, none appeared to want it to be them. To their discredit, they were generally too caught up in cheering for the current fights to worry much about fighting a girl.

Holden was across the room from her, watching the fights with a bored expression. When Samson called his name, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, but stepped forward onto the mat. Samson then called out the name of another mercenary, and Katia saw that it was the brown-haired young man she'd seen in training. Kellen Connolly.

Kellen appeared positively ill as he removed his shirt, and went to shake Holden's hand. Holden looked halfway between unwilling and amused. Then his eyes fell on a tattoo across Kellen's chest; a Celtic cross surrounded by Chinese symbols, and amusement won.

A bell rang out, and neither moved. Holden's arms were limp by his sides. Kellen was too afraid to make a move.

"Well, go on," Holden prodded, and Katia thought he was being cruel.

The teasing look proved enough to motivate the hapless mercenary. Connolly swung hard. Holden wasn't even paying attention; he was still blinking at Kellen's tattoo, his grin growing wider by the second. Without looking, he reached up and caught Kellen's fist in his palm, as easily as a baseball.

Absently, Holden dropped the mercenary's fist. "Try again."

A few men chuckled at the pitiful scene. Kellen was becoming furious now, and he swung again. Holden swivelled out of the way effortlessly. "Almost!"

More mercenaries were laughing, driving the opponent's humiliated rage. He swung twice more, his blows coming closer and closer, but never quite hitting the mark. Then Holden did something strange. He sighed and rolled his eyes. For just an instant, an odd expression passed over his face; it wasn't amused or gloating. It was miserable. Katia wasn't certain that she'd even seen it, when, in a motion all too swift for them to really quite see, he knocked the mercenary out.

The men were driven to silence in the aftermath of the impossible hit. Holden crouched down by Kellen's dazed head.

"Sorry about that," he said, offering a hand as Kellen came to.

To Katia's great surprise, Kellen took it. "It was gonna happen anyway."

"That's true," Holden answered, helping him to his feet. "You did well."

Kellen chuckled at the false reassurance, but Holden took him by the shoulder and looked down at the older, but smaller man. "Seriously. They don't normally get as close as you did. You're too stiff when you fight. You need to loosen up, so that you can adapt to the hits."

"Adapt to the hits? What the hell does that mean?" the young man asked curiously.

Holden laughed and grabbed them both bottles of water. "It was some quote I heard once. I thought it might help."

"Help how?" he asked, his brow furrowed together in confusion at Holden's twisted logic.

Holden shrugged helplessly and took a swig of his water. "You seem to like meaningless quotes."

Kellen's face dropped to his chest, then back up at Holden. "That's a family quote. You don't even know what it means."

Holden glanced down at the tattoo. "It means; he who doesn't know Chinese symbols should not get them tattooed on his body."