Vagrancy

by Stacey Mac

  I can’t run all that fast. I’m alright, but I’m better over long distances. Year after year, it is the only thing I have excelled in. I relish in the movement now. It has been so long since I’ve run like this – running just to run.

  The ‘gym’ is essentially a torture chamber. It is purpose built to wreck your body. You don’t leave until you are literally at your wits end – completely fatigued. It isn’t the sort of physical abuse that hurts on impact, like a bullet would, but it breaks you in a more permanent way. You’ll run, lift, throw, jump, crawl, sit up, push up, and then do all of it again. The pain is slow.

  I’m sure the appointed torture master will be a natural.

  All too quickly we stop, and the Galore trainer – Flint, his name is – orders us to stretch and then pair up.

  I can feel him standing behind me. Dean. That’s what Trey had called him. I’ve never known his name. As I’m shaking out my arms I glance over my shoulder to see him leaning against the wall again, arms crossed, and he stares back.

  I blush and curse myself under my breath. I look away quickly and go to stand by Vincent. “Partners?”

  “As always, my lady,” he says, offering his hand. “Lead the way.”

  We go to a thin rectangular mat in a corner of the Arena. There are many of them, spaced a few feet apart. Slowly, initiates pair off and claim a space in the room – Galores with other Galores, Resolute against Resolute.

  Flint instructs us on a few techniques to practise first, ones we’ve been trained in previously, then he shows us new techniques and we practice those. After several hours, it’s finally time to fight.

  “Don’t go easy on me now,” says Vincent, shaking out his hands. Sweat drips from his hairline, down his forehead and into his dark eyebrows. We’ve discarded our jackets; they lie several feet away on the ground. By now, my shirt clings to my body with perspiration. I am surprisingly eager to fight Vincent. Weird. Definitely not my general style. I pride myself on being perpetually unspirited when it comes to the fight. Call me gutless, I just see no logic in wounding or being wounded for the purposes of preparing to wound and be wounded. I’m fairly certain that it will still hurt, regardless. But here I am, relishing in the thought of popping Vincent one in the jaw. Is it the adrenaline perhaps? No, more likely it is the anger and embarrassment still searching for release.

  I brush away my hair, take my defensive stance, and assess Vincent’s form.

  He’s taller than I am, and slim, but I know that he is strong. Wiry muscle vines through his arms and torso. I try to anticipate what move he’ll make first. He babies me when we spar, always has done, so he won’t be the one to make the first move.

  We shuffle in a tight circle around each other, and I watch his arms drop carelessly from his face. Seeing my chance, I strike. My palm flies forward and meets his nose.

  He clutches his face and grunts loudly, stumbling back.

  “Letting down your guard on purpose, Vince?” I accuse him. “Are we fighting, or not?”

  Vincent gives me a perplexed look. I guess he hasn’t seen me so keen. He takes his stance again. I see his arms tense this time. His eyes narrow, focused. He won’t let me slip one in again.

  Suddenly his leg flies around and collides with my hip. I fall sideways and he is on me in a second, holding me down by my forearms.

  “Since when do you aim for the face?” He growls with exertion.

  Struggling, a try to remember the techniques for grappling. I bring my knee up hard and slam it into his back. It doesn’t make much of an impact on him, but it is enough to loosen his grip, and I twist, sliding from underneath him. I grab his shoulder and drag it behind him, using my knee in the small of his back to keep him down.

  He is too strong, though. With a grunt, he lifts himself onto his knees and throws himself backwards, slamming onto his back... with me underneath. The impact sends a ripple of pressure through my spine and I gasp.

  Vincent spins and pins me to the floor again. This time, he sits on my legs and I can’t budge them.

  I laugh breathlessly. “Okay, Okay.”

  “Give up?” He asks, his bright, white smile taunting me.

  “I give up,” I say, going limp.

  He sniggers and lets me go, helping me back to my feet.

  I place my hands on my abused hip as I walk around our mat, getting my breath back. There should be quite the impressive bruise there tomorrow. I lift up my shirt to check, and it is only then that I notice Dean. Arms crossed, he is standing in front of our mat.

  His eyes are green but more noticeable are the dark shadows that encase them. They make him instantly intimidating, unapproachable. His hair is a dark brown colour and it is cut closely but unevenly to his scalp. Not as tall as Vincent, but stockier.

  It isn’t so much that I am afraid, but that the hatred I feel replaces any other feeling.

  He considers me closely, intensely. “Someone pins you to the floor, and locks your legs in, what should you do?” He asks. His voice is foreign. It drags, collects and scatters in weird patterns. It’s distracting.

  His speaks again. “What do you do?”

  Is he really trying to teach me how to defend myself? Him? Of all people? It’s a strange reaction to have to someone; the irrepressible defensiveness. He could tell me I was doing well and I’d object.

  “Head butt,” says Vincent suddenly, coming to my aid. “Or if their skull isn’t close enough, bite something that is.”

  “Yes,” Dean says, though his eyes haven’t left mine. “Got that?”

  I have to address him. He’s a trainer now, he outranks me. I have to answer. Have to. “Yes, trainer.”

  He nods, “Try it again.”

  I turn away immediately.

  “Tess,” Vincent calls, “you ready?”

  I nod, but my body, raging earlier, has now turned cold. I’m not ready. Not even a little bit.

  Vincent starts toward me.

  “Get your arms up in front of your face!” Dean calls angrily. “Focus.”

  But he only muddles me further, and all I can think is that I hate him, and that I wish he wasn’t here; I wish I wasn’t here, and I don’t feel it when Vincent’s fist collides with my jaw.

  My head hits the mat. My ears ring, and I taste blood. My vision tunnels, becoming narrower by the second, the edges darkening, and the last thing I see before the tunnel eclipses is Dean’s face, bent down to mine.

  Chapter Five

  To catch you up, we’ve met before: Dean and I. Though I never knew his name, didn’t care enough to ask. The last time I saw him, it was the same as this; on the ground, my consciousness collapsing in on me.

  He was just another Resolute initiate at the time and I barely noticed him among the others, similar as they are. Like this time, Resolute came to Galore under Snare’s invitation so that we could learn from each other, reinforce the alliance so that our militias can be stronger and all that shit. Or, if you’d like: “you’ll fight together in the future, so please don’t shoot one another and make friends.”

  Though I didn’t pay any particular attention to individual Resolutes, I watched, and I liked them. They are careless, unorganised, sometimes disobedient... free. They don’t wear proper uniforms, don’t stand in drill lines, don’t talk properly. They call their superiors by name, and their superiors know their initiates names, too. Aliens, and I liked it.

  At the time I was amused by their immaturity. I envied their ease, and so I hated them for it too.

  When combat training began, I was paired with Vincent, but for the final week. Our assessments began, and our trainers decided to get creative and pair Resolutes with Galores. Low and behold, I was paired with Dean.

  For years I’ve only fought Vincent, my friend, and he has coddled me. I’ve never feared he would really hurt me. I looked at this Resolute boy: stronger, more careless, clearly more athletic than Vincent, and I was afraid.

  And it was clear when he approached me on the mat that he saw
the way my hands shook, the way I couldn’t look at him. Instead of goading me, he gave me something that is rare in the compound (fuck, in all of Galore): sympathy.

  “You ain’t got to look so worried,” he had said. “I ain’t going to hurt you.”

  I looked up then, and not just because of the weird voice. Most initiates would have been ecstatic to land me as a partner during final examination; an easy target. I’d make them look spectacular in comparison. Even Vincent, generous as he is, stood to gain from being my partner. I expected to see hunger, Instead I saw pity.

  And yes, the world is that bad that a girl like me would see chivalry in a guy for not beating me up.

  “You’re not?”

  “There’re ways we can both come out of this looking good,” he had said lowly. “Relax.”

  Was I suspicious? Yes. But I was also desperate. I remember looking him over, not being very subtle about it, thinking that we could be friends.

  We practised together for half the day. He was careful – not using half the strength I’m sure he was capable of when he picked me up and threw me back down again onto the mat, or gripped me in a head lock, or twisted my arm behind me.

  He coached me. “Stop tugging! If someone has your arm locked like this you ain’t going to be able to pull free. Use your feet. That’s it! Now kick back!”

  By the time we broke for lunch, I was feeling like I could make it through the examination alive, all bones intact – even if my ranking was still poor.

  I was grateful, and confused, and a little entranced. I was stupid.

  We met again on the mat. This time it was one of only five mats in the arena, and a small crowd had converged to watch, including Trey – who would be assessing us, and a group of initiates who had either completed their exam or were awaiting their turn to be assessed.

  We took our stances. As Dean’s eyes met mine, he winked and I blushed.

  We started out with simple strikes which I blocked and returned. Dean threw me to the ground and pinned me, and I used the technique he’d shown me earlier to escape. After a few minutes we were on our feet, circling each other again. I was breathing heavily, sweat catching at the stray hairs on my neck. We would need to keep fighting until someone conceded, or until our examiner had seen enough.

  “Stop,” Trey called in a bored voice.

  And I remember smiling. I thought I was done, and after only a few minutes. I was relieved.

  But then; “You’re wasting my time.” Trey said calmly to Dean. “You’re trainer seems to think you will rank well. Is he lying? Or are Resolute initiates actually this fucking weak?”

  Dean said nothing.

  “You will fight until one of you can’t anymore,” Trey said with finality. “So fight.”

  I was probably close to wetting myself right then and there. I didn’t like my chances in the whole ‘fight to the death’ thing. I also didn’t like fighting to near-death. Which is what happened.

  We took our stances again. This time I was wary, but still I fantasised the idea that he liked me. I suppose I didn’t really think he would do it.

  I watched Dean move his hands gradually away from his chin and I threw my fist forwards, hitting him in the jaw.

  “Stop!” Trey shouted. “You,” he pointed at Dean, “Off the mat. And you,” he pointed at a Galore boy, easily the biggest initiate available. “Show him how it’s done.”

  “No,” said Dean suddenly, and I cringed. You don’t disobey Trey. “This is my fight. I’ll finish it.”

  Although Trey was half a head shorter than Dean, he still looked threatening as he approached him, spitting words between his teeth. “Then finish it, Initiate. Or go home!”

  I watched Dean’s jaw twitch. He turned his back on Trey and shook his head, pacing a few feet away.

  When he faced me again he was a different person. The gentleness was gone, and I found an enemy in its place.

  The dance began again. Dean circled me, his brow strained, his eyes shrouded. His step quickened, and I had to check my footing. I looked to my feet briefly to check my stance. Dean lunged. I was suddenly pinned beneath him once more. Sitting on my chest, and holding down my arms by my head, I realised just how much he had been holding back. His weight knocked the wind from my lungs.

  I couldn’t budge, could barely breathe. Never mind fighting, I was too busy reminding my lungs to be lungs. I found his eyes, disembodied and blurred and floating somewhere above, and only just managed to let two words slip past my lips: “You win.”

  I heard the crack as though outside of myself, like a gunshot in the distance, or the sound of plates in the earth colliding. But the pain found me, bursting from a point behind my ear, and I realised the crack came from me, from within me.

  I let out a cry of shock. I felt the pain move from the back of my head, seeping into my brain, blackening in my eyes. I lost sight of him. My broken head drowned me in fog. And I disappeared into it.

  I didn’t see him again. I spent two weeks in the compound’s first aide wing with a cracked skull – though no one was sure. It was the worst concussion I’d ever had – and I’d had numerous concussions. I was ranked last in hand-to-hand combat, my new archenemy was ranked first. I hated him. I hated me. I told myself that I’d never have to see him again.

  *

  “Tess? Tessa, you in there?”

  “Jesus, how hard did you hit her, Vince?”

  “I swear, it wasn’t that hard. I was being careful.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I groan. The voices arguing above me are too loud. My temple is pulsing audibly.

  “I think she’s coming ‘round. Hey, Tess! Wakey, wakey!”

  My eyelids try to fight themselves shut again, but I manage to force them apart.

  “There she is!” Sings Mia. “How are you feeling?”

  “Great,” I say, my voice scratchy. “What did I miss?”

  “Well,” says Delilah’s voice, though I can’t see her. “Vince beat you unconscious –”

  “I did not beat her unconscious!”

  “And Flint told him to bring you back to the dorms to sleep it off,” Delilah finishes, ignoring Vincent.

  I look around. I am in fact lying on my cot. No one has thought to bring my jacket from where I left it in the Arena so I’m fucking freezing. I shiver.

  “Here,” Vincent says, “Take my jacket.” As he hands it to me, our eyes meet, and his look remorseful.

  “Thanks,” I say, “And stop looking so guilty. It’s not exactly the first time you’ve beaten me.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve knocked you out, though,” he says gruffly, pressing his lips together. “Sorry.”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Vincent nods, “you hit the mat pretty hard. I think the contact your head made with it did the trick. How’s your skull?” he asks, poking me in the temple. It gives a dull ache.

  “Still holding in my brain,” I say. “What time is it?”

  “Almost dinner,” Mia says. “We were just about to leave. Maybe we can see if we’re allowed to bring something back for you.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “I’m not hungry. Thank you, though.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says. She lays a delicate hand – her knuckles bruised - on Vincent’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “You sure you’re alright, Tessa?” Vincent asks me. He still looks sorry.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m fine. Go and eat.”

  They leave our dormitory, leave me in the quiet, and I close my eyes again. It’s only the first day, and I’ve missed half of it to a concussion. I scrub a hand down my face and sit up. In an hour I’ll have to report to the gym for extra training. The thought makes me feel sick, but there is no avoiding it. I swear out loud, furious with Tilly for making me late, furious with Vincent for knocking me out. But I know that I’m not really mad at them. I’m mad at the guy who is now not only responsible for one, but two concussions –
the same guy who is now responsible for my disciplinary training for an unknown amount of time.

  *

  I leave the senior dorms just as everyone is retreating to them. I envy them. Most have satisfactory smiles on their faces. They’re happy to be back in the compound. Thrilled with their achievements today, and will soon be blissfully asleep.

  My feet have become cinder blocks and I haul them up the stairs. The special room of torture is on the second level. It is really just another room, but stocked with weights, bench seats, jump ropes, tyres, and any other device they’ve thought of to punish us.

  When I open the door, I realise the room is still empty. Dean hasn’t arrived. I walk to the centre of the room to the mats that are piled there and sit down on one. There are no windows in this room, and the few solar lights that hang from the walls merely cast dim shadows. It is dark enough that I can’t see the ceilings when I look up.

  Maybe he won’t come. Maybe he thinks I’m in the hospital or something and can’t make it. Maybe he died. Man, I hope he died.

  I stand and walk to the low beam that stretches three metres. It is padded and narrow and deteriorating. When I was minor, balancing on the beam was my favourite thing to do in the compound. I run and jump onto it now, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. I wobble a little, walking carefully along the beam to the end, and then backwards.

  “Clever,” says a low voice behind me.

  I turn on my heel to find Dean standing a few feet away, watching me.

  I jump down and cross my arms in front of my chest, saying nothing.

  “Ain’t you going to stand at attention?” He asks.

  “You’re Resolute,” I tell him, and even I can hear the dissention in my voice. “We aren’t comrades.”

  Immediately I wish I could take it back. He could whip me, or beat me, or throw me in isolation.

  But instead, he looks pleased. A smirk stretches across his strong, square chin. “A simple ‘No, trainer’ would’ve sufficed.”

  Years of conditioning have taught me to not use my powers of sarcasm, and I’ve said too much already. He may not be from Galore, but he is still a trainer.