Chapter 16: Fundamentals
The mat hit my back before I registered Brian's arm hooking under mine.
My spatial awareness fragment painted the gym in ghostly geometry—distance to the wall at fourteen feet, the angle of the overhead lights, the exact height of the ceiling—but none of it helped when Brian moved faster than my brain could process the data.
"Again," he said.
I got up. My shoulders ached from the last three throws. My jaw still throbbed where his fist had caught it on the opening exchange, thirty seconds into our first spar that had ended with me flat on the floor wondering what just happened.
We'd been at this for forty minutes.
Brian circled to my right, weight low, hands up. The abandoned gym the Undersiders used for training was cold and smelled like old rubber and rust. Industrial space, probably a boxing gym before the economy cratered. Now it was just concrete and mats and Brian systematically dismantling every assumption I'd had about combat.
"You move like someone who knows where things are," Brian said, "but not what to do about it."
"That's... accurate."
"You're relying on the awareness. Waiting for the data to tell you what's coming." He stepped in—I saw it, saw the exact distance closing, saw the angle of his shoulder—and still got my guard batted aside like a child's. His palm stopped an inch from my face. "By the time you process it, I'm already there."
I stepped back, breathing hard. The firearm handling fragment had steadied my hands but done nothing for my footwork. Oni Lee's spatial instincts mapped the room but couldn't teach me to fight.
"So what do I do?"
"Learn." Brian dropped his guard, the lesson portion taking over from the demonstration. "Your awareness is useful, but it's a tool, not a foundation. You need fundamentals. Stance. Guard. How to take a hit without dying."
The irony wasn't lost on either of us. I'd died three times already. Taking hits was something I had experience with.
"Start with your feet," Brian said. "Shoulder width. Weight centered. You keep leaning forward like you're trying to run through problems instead of handling them."
I adjusted my stance. He kicked my left foot back two inches without warning.
"There. Feel the difference?"
I did. More stable. Less committed to any single direction.
"Good. Now—"
The gym door banged open.
Rachel walked in with Angelica, ignoring us entirely. The dog padded beside her, massive and alert, heading for the obstacle course set up in the adjacent space. Cones, low hurdles, a wooden ramp. Whatever routine Rachel ran her dogs through, it was happening whether we were here or not.
Brian watched her for a moment, then turned back to me. "Again. This time, watch my hips, not my hands."
We reset. Brian moved in and I tried to track the rotation of his body instead of the obvious threat of his fists. It helped—I saw the throw coming half a second earlier than before.
I still ended up on my back.
The mat drove the air from my lungs. I slid across the floor and came to a stop three feet from where Rachel was setting up her first drill.
She looked down at me with the flat indifference of someone watching a bug struggle on its back.
"Get up," she said.
Not advice. Not encouragement. An order, delivered with the authority of someone who didn't respect anything that stayed down.
I got up.
The training session lasted another hour. By the end, my body felt like one continuous bruise, but I'd learned to absorb a hip throw without losing my breath and blocked two punches out of every seven Brian threw.
Progress. Incremental, painful, humiliating progress.
"Water break," Brian said. He walked to the supply area—a corner with a mini-fridge and some duffel bags—and tossed me a bottle.
I caught it with hands that shook slightly from exertion. The spatial fragment tracked the arc of the bottle automatically, distance and velocity feeding into my awareness without conscious effort. The firearm instincts steadied my grip.
Neither helped me fight Brian. That required something the system couldn't give me: actual skill.
I drank half the bottle in one pull and slid down the wall to sit. Brian joined me, leaving a comfortable distance between us. Rachel worked Angelica through an obstacle course across the gym, her commands short and precise.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.
"Fighting? Since I was fourteen." Brian's voice was casual, but there was weight underneath it. "Boxing first. Then whatever I could learn from books and YouTube and people willing to trade lessons for other things."
"Other things?"
"Favors. Information. Sometimes just helping them move furniture." He smiled slightly. "Not everything in Brockton Bay runs on cash."
I thought about the lesson fee I wasn't paying. "What do I owe you for this?"
"Nothing." He leaned his head back against the wall. "You're team now. Team looks out for each other."
The words hit harder than they should have. In my past life, "team" had meant colleagues who'd smile at you in meetings and gossip behind your back. Here, it meant Brian getting up at 5 AM to spend two hours teaching me not to die.
"Thanks," I said. "Seriously."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you can actually land a hit."
"Aspirational thinking."
Brian laughed—short, surprised, genuine. His whole face changed when he laughed. Softer. Younger. Less like someone carrying the weight of four other people's survival.
"Favorite food," he said.
"What?"
"It's a question. Getting to know you. Since you're team now." He took a sip of his water. "Mine's jerk chicken. My mom's recipe. Haven't had it in years, but it's still the answer."
I thought about it. In my old life, the answer had been Thai curry—the place near my apartment that delivered until 2 AM, always arriving lukewarm but still better than cooking.
Here, the answer was different.
"Coffee," I said. "Good coffee, specifically. The kind you have to actually brew instead of pouring from a machine."
"That's a drink, not a food."
"Coffee counts."
Brian tilted his head, studying me with the same intensity he'd used to dismantle my guard. But this wasn't assessment. It was curiosity.
"How long have you been in the city?" he asked.
"Born here." True for Evan Hebert. Not true for me. "Grew up in the Docks area. My dad's a dockworker. Union guy."
"Family man."
"Something like that."
The questions continued. Casual, calibrated—Brian building a picture of me the old-fashioned way, without powers or interrogation. I answered honestly where I could, deflected where I couldn't, and the silences between questions felt comfortable rather than charged.
After twenty minutes, he stood.
"Same time next week?"
"I'll be here."
"Good." He offered a hand. I took it—the grip was firm but not competitive—and let him pull me to my feet. "You're starting from zero, but you're not afraid to get hit. That's more than most people bring."
Across the gym, Rachel finished her session with Angelica. She walked past us without acknowledgment, dog at her side, and pushed through the door into the morning light.
Brian watched her go with the particular attention of someone who'd learned to read her moods.
"She'll warm up to you," he said. "Eventually."
"How eventually?"
"Could be weeks. Could be months. Could be never." He shrugged. "Rachel respects people who show up consistently. Don't miss training, don't back down when she's testing you, and don't try to make her like you. She'll decide on her own terms."
I thought about her flat command— get up —and nodded.
"I can do that."
I drove home with a split lip and a clearer understanding of my limitations.
The spatial awareness fragment was useful for navigation, for scouting, for knowing where threats were positioned. The firearm handling gave me steady hands and an instinct for sight lines. But neither could replace actual combat training—the muscle memory, the reflexes, the thousand small decisions that Brian made without thinking.
I'd spent weeks assuming that the system would give me what I needed. That dying strategically would compound into capability.
It would. Eventually. But the fragments were tools, not shortcuts. I still had to learn to use them.
The evening news was playing when I got home. Danny was in the living room, beer in hand, watching the television with the hollow attention of someone who didn't really see what was on screen.
I caught the headline before I walked past: Empire Eighty-Eight Conducts 'Show of Force' Through Contested Territory.
The image showed skinheads in formation, marching down a commercial street I recognized from my scouting. E88's outer territory, near the blocks where the ABB had been pushing. Gang war posturing. The kind of thing that preceded actual violence.
"Evan." Danny's voice stopped me. "You were out early."
"Meeting a friend. For a workout."
"You've been doing a lot of that lately." He wasn't accusing. Just noticing. "Early mornings. Late nights. I'm not complaining—Taylor seems better too, whatever you're doing—but I want to make sure you're..."
He trailed off. Couldn't find the word he wanted.
"I'm being careful," I said. "I promise."
"Careful." He repeated the word like he was testing it. "Your mother used to say that too. Right before she did something that wasn't careful at all."
I didn't have a response. He wasn't wrong.
"Just... come home," Danny said. "Whatever else happens. Just keep coming home."
"I will."
I went upstairs and stood in my room, listening to the house settle around me. Taylor's door was closed—homework, probably, or the brooding silence she'd defaulted to since the bullying had backed off without explanation.
The gang war was heating up. E88 and ABB circling each other, Coil pulling strings from the shadows, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a team of teenage villains about to get another assignment.
My phone buzzed.
Lisa: Job briefing tomorrow. 8 PM at the loft. Coil's got something new.
I typed back: I'll be there.
The split lip throbbed when I moved my mouth. Brian's knuckles, catching me clean on the opening exchange.
Learning to fight was going to hurt. But at least I'd have the skills to survive what came next.
To supporting Me in Pateron.
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes.
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!