"Well, kid, I hope that coma and two weeks of rest haven't stripped you of your skills, and you can entertain me at least a little," said the pile of muscles, performatively warming up his fists.
"I remember all your lessons, teacher, and I'm even wondering if it was such intensive sessions that caused me to lose consciousness."
"You won't pin that on me. I know how to make your body remember a lesson while still leaving it the ability to recover afterward."
There was clear irritation in his voice, which was understandable: the old Rain was quite passive in his interactions with Brooks. Though, who wouldn't be, if from the age of 12, three days a week, year after year, the same person beat you and you couldn't change it? It's unlikely you'd talk back or act up during your "sessions."
"Enough useless talk. It seems you've already forgotten my diligent instructions; it's time to start beating them into you again."
With that, he lunged in my direction, intending to grab my arm, but at the last moment, I pulled it aside and stepped back, opening up a two-meter gap. At least, that's how it looked to him. In my accelerated state, while he was quite fast, dodging was no great effort.
"I see rest has done you good. Now this will be a bit more interesting."
Breaking into a run, he was no longer trying to grab me. He swung his right hand directly at my face—a blow that would have definitely "realigned" the old Rain's nose—but I was at the helm now. Accelerating, I decided to test his durability: dodging the right hook, I delivered a punch to his stomach. Judging by his initially bewildered expression, followed by a grimace of pain, he hadn't expected it and wasn't prepared to take a hit of that power. Without letting up, I landed three more blows: two to the kidneys and one to the liver. That's when my coach realized something was wrong, and his gaze turned serious.
"What the hell happened to you? Where did that strength come from?!"
"You know how after a coma, people sometimes start painting, playing instruments, or speaking unknown languages?"
"And?"
"Well, I heard a voice, and it helped me return to this world just to kick your ass."
"Too much arrogance for someone whose mother's milk hasn't dried on his lips yet."
The fight continued, and now I couldn't land a hit so easily. Once the coach turned serious, his weaknesses vanished—or at least, I couldn't find them. Even though my speed was higher, he suppressed me with pure skill. Stamina became the problem; after a while, I noticed I couldn't dodge or strike as quickly, while he was still fresh as a daisy. I estimated his endurance to be over 60. Unable to land a solid blow or wear him down, I had to use my secret move. I turned off the acceleration and began to ostentatiously show fatigue. He couldn't resist; he was too used to the old, weak Rain. Letting myself fall into his grapple, I accelerated again. Before he could adapt to the change, I delivered a swift strike to the groin, and while he gasped for air, followed up with a left hook to the base of his ear. I don't think his face showed that much pain even when he was gaining new lead-filled holes. Clutching his "treasures," he fell and blacked out. For a moment, I actually felt like the bad guy for bullying the poor man, but I quickly shook off the thought and headed upstairs.
On my way up, I received a notification that my Martial Arts skill had increased by 1. It seems the system appreciated my secret move.
After that, my training sessions went surprisingly smoothly. Although I started noticing small gaps in Brooks's defense when I used kicks, I didn't yet have the skill level to exploit them.
The next day after training, I went to withdraw money from my account. After losing some "not-so-subtle" followers—who didn't seem to be trying very hard—I gained 2 levels in Stealth. I headed to one of the most criminal places in New York: Hell's Kitchen. Where else is it easier to buy illegal weapons? But first, I needed contacts, which was simple enough. I just had to flash a wallet full of cash in a bar. As I left, I immediately noticed two guys, maybe 3-4 years older than me, following. I decided not to make it hard for them and turned into the first alleyway. As expected, they followed.
"Lost, little boy? Your big brothers can help you get home... for a price, of course."
"Yeah, for just 500 bucks, you'll get home safe and sound. So, deal?" they said with smiles that reeked of trouble.
"No thanks, I know where I'm going. In fact, I think I'm close to my destination."
"He doesn't realize the situation he's in, bro!"
"Let's enlighten him then." He lifted the edge of his shirt, showing a handgun tucked into his waistband.
"Now, friend, do you understand that it's better not to be greedy? Since you look like an outsider and I'm in a good mood, you can just leave the wallet and go. Deal?"
"I understand that my search is finally over."
I activate acceleration and throw a piece of brick I picked up at the turn at the one showing the gun. Moving at my maximum speed, I rush them. Dodging a pathetic swing that wouldn't even be called a punch by 13-year-old Rain, I strike his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Then I quickly kick his knees and move to the other guy, who, seeing what happened to his friend, is already about to bolt. But how could he be faster than me? I catch up and kick the back of his leg—he falls and tries to crawl away, but I don't give him the chance, sending him to dreamland with a solid kick to the face.
Returning to the first guy, I took his pistol and checked the magazine. It was loaded, and the imbecile was carrying it with the safety off. Let's just say I saved him from an accidental injury he would have eventually caused himself. After waking our "big brother," I found out where he got the piece and went shopping. It turns out a man named Martin runs the sales in this area, and you can get almost anything from him.
Approaching an unremarkable house, I notice several very "unobtrusive" cars filled with people who definitely weren't Good Samaritans. Likely Martin's security. At the house, I was met by a friendly Black man nearly two meters tall.
"Password," the man asked, looking me over and making a personal assessment.
"Password," I answered honestly, knowing the local rules.
"What do you need?" The man relaxed slightly after my answer.
The local dealers had come up with a clever system. Everyone expects a code, and police usually try to beat it out of suspects. But here, there is no password; the code is the word itself. Although Martin was a newcomer—only having arrived six months ago—I'm sure no one had tried to mock the cops this way before.
"A heavy sniper rifle, an assault rifle, medium body armor, and three suppressors."
"We have that. How are you paying?"
"Cash." I shook a black opaque bag where I had stashed bundles of bills recently taped to my body.
"Works." The man checked the cash and got a nod from his friend inside the house, to whom he had passed a random bill from the stacks.
"Have fun." He handed me several neighborhood maps marked with different caches containing the gear I wanted.
Getting goods from Martin was also cleverly organized. The buyer received maps with points where the order was hidden. This not only secured the "sales" points but also made him a less attractive target for bigger fish, as his business relied on micro-transactions. No serious gang is going to spend days driving around the city to collect their guns; they'd rather place a large order with the Russians or the Kingpin.
Leaving the area without incident, I caught a taxi to the caches. After checking the purchases, I used a street phone to book a container at a warehouse. Leaving all the purchases there and tipping the manager, I was able to rent the container without providing my real data.
Now all I had to do was pray for news about the kidnapping of the future Iron Man and keep grinding my skills.
At least, that's what I thought. But as they say: "The end snuck up on me unnoticed."