The Circle- Taken

by Sage Sask

  In the far corner, a boxing ring steals a large swath of the space. Two members circle each other inside the rope. Sweat pours down their faces and over their necks, drenching their matching black shirts. They bare their teeth, prepared for a kill. Riveted, I focus as the girl ducks to miss a punch. She spins on her heel and strikes her opponent in the abdomen. He flies backward, hits the rope then slumps over.

  “Is he dead?” I wait for someone to help him, but everyone continues to stay focused on their own training. I step forward, ready to help, when Ryan throws out his hand to stop me.

  “If Henry’s lucky.” Ryan assesses me, seeming surprised by my concern. “Zoe’s not an easy opponent.”

  I prepare to push past him when Henry starts to open his eyes gradually. Zoe watches and waits until he’s fully conscious before bending to meet his gaze.

  “You good?” Before he can answer, she punches him in the nose. His cry of pain echoes through the gym. Satisfaction fills her smile. She slips beneath the ropes and jumps out of the ring. She swallows a cup full of water. She acknowledges two nods of congratulations from other members.

  “This is how you train?” A feeling tugs at me that I have seen this type of fight before — in another place and time, with different people. I push it away, hating it. “Beating up one another?”

  “There are people who want us dead,” Ryan says without apology. “If we don’t learn how to fight here, then they succeed out there.”

  Henry crawls out of the ring. Blood drips from his nose. He inches toward the water table and reaches for a glass. Again I step forward, but Ryan lays a hand on my bare arm. The pain hits me in the middle of my forehead. I push his hand off and wait for it to subside.

  “If you don’t want me to read you, don’t touch me,” I bite.

  “Learn to control the visions,” he returns.

  Henry kicks the table. The full glasses of water start to wobble. He knocks it again with his hand. Two glasses fall over, and water drips off the side. Henry crawls beneath it and opens his mouth to drink from the trickle. After quenching his thirst, Henry salutes Ryan and me.

  “Helping him would have weakened him.” Ryan’s voice loses some of the hardness. “Zoe won the first round. Henry won this one.” He motions me toward a mat in the middle of the room. “We start here.”

  Around us, the room goes quiet. A few people call out a greeting to Ryan, but mostly everyone watches me. They appraise me as if I am a threat to be assessed. My initial instinct is to cower. But understanding my circumstances is my only chance of overcoming them. So, I meet their stares head on, evaluating them as they do me. Some immediately look away, while others give me a nod of hello. Though cautious, I return their greeting. Ryan watches my reaction silently.

  “They don’t know you,” he finally says.

  “That puts us in the same boat,” I return.

  He studies me before jerking his head toward a back room. “No audience.”

  Surprised and grateful, I follow him in. I barely have time to survey the small, empty room before Ryan points to two mats. “Get in position. Ever been in a fight before? Outside the orphanage, of course.” His words tell me he doesn’t believe me.

  Faded memories rush forward. They nag me with the insistence of a heated poker stick but, like the smoke from a fire, disappear into thin air.

  “Only with you,” I reply sweetly.

  “Get used to it.” He raises both arms and makes a fist. “Standard fighting position.” In slow motion, he juts out his fist toward my face. I jerk back, dodging his punch. “Good. Use the balls of your feet to maintain balance and twist your body toward your opponent.”

  He gently grasps my elbow to rotate my body toward him in demonstration. The pain starts on his touch. I wince and step back. On my reaction, he drops his hand.

  “You need to shut down.” His voice is gentler than I would have expected given his fury yesterday when I read him.

  “Not so easy.” I begin to breathe through the pain when Ryan suddenly grabs both my upper arms from behind. Caught off guard, I struggle against him.

  “Let me go.”

  He responds by pulling me flush against him. “Focus on where the pain is beginning.” Furious at his actions, I push harder, but he only tightens his hold. “Now.” The calmness in his voice belies his actions. “It will help. Trust me.”

  His insistence breaks through my resistance. Desperate, I relax my body and focus. The pain exists everywhere, without a start or end point.

  “I can’t.” Frustrated at my weakness, I try harder.

  “Where did you feel it first?” he asks.

  “My spine.” Then, like a poisonous spider, it crawled up my backbone, repeatedly biting to spread its toxin through my cells.

  “Flood the area with white light.”

  “What?” Confused by the directive, I’m sure I misheard when the words repeat in my head. White-light your body. But it’s another voice from another time. The source veils itself, refusing me further information. “What does it mean? White light?”

  “Like a shower of white over you,” Ryan explains.

  His description is a prompt, my mind insists. A reminder of something I should already know. But it doesn’t make sense – no matter how hard I struggle to understand it. With nothing to lose and anxious for a respite, I imagine a white light flooding my neck and back. Seconds pass and nothing happens. Angry, I restart my struggle against him, but he tightens his hold.

  “Again.”

  Frantic, I repeat the process. Out of nowhere, there’s a flicker of relief. I’m sure I imagined it but, hopeful, I try again. The pain lessens. Shocked, I visualize a shower of white light. The pain dissipates all at once. Grateful for the stay from the hurt, my body falls slack against his.

  “How is that possible?” My strength comes back in small amounts.

  “You’re controlling the pain versus it controlling you.” His arms constrict gently around me, bringing all the pain back in a rush. “It’s all mental. Try again.”

  Sweat drips down my forehead. The battle I just fought and won against myself left me drained. I question if I can do it again. He pulls me in harder, refusing me the option of defeat. From a shower to a downpour, I flood my body with white light until every cell is saturated. Slowly, like I’m a child learning how to walk, the pain dissolves in baby steps. Soon my breath stabilizes.

  “I did it.” His arms drop when he feels my muscles loosen. “How did you know to do that?” Hands on my thighs, I gasp like a runner who has just finished a marathon.

  “Standard training here,” he answers.

  I glance up at him. His gaze remains steady on mine. His message is clear — if raised at the Circle, if I were one of them, I would already know this.

  “Thank you,” I say, grateful and amazed. “The pain — my whole life — I’ve never been able to control it.” Embarrassed at my stammering, I stop and wait for him to respond.

  Ryan looks away before returning his gaze to me. “Time to train. Get in position.”

  He shuts down, and I immediately follow suit. No matter how thankful I am, I don’t know him or his motivations. To let down my guard could be a fatal mistake. Facing him, I mentally readjust when David enters, followed by Ian and Levi. David’s gaze immediately locks on mine. I stiffen at the unbridled fury in his, wondering what I did to deserve it.

  “We meet again.” David smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. A dagger etched at the base of his buzzed hair shines bright — a trick of the light. “Small world.” He cracks his knuckles. Another tattoo runs from his wrist to his shoulder. We study one another silently. His face scrunches in disgust. “Still can’t see what the fuss is about.”

  “We’re training, David,” Ryan says, an edge in his voice, though his face remains blank.

  “Good.” The vein in David’s neck
pulses. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side, continuing to examine me. “I’ll help.”

  Before either Ryan or I can respond, David drives his fist into my solar plexus. I double over, gasping as I chase my breath. Ian and Levi step back, their reaction unreadable. The hidden rolls sail out of my pocket and onto the ground.

  “Looks like I caught a thief.” David smirks then smashes them with his foot before pushing the crumbs toward me.

  A cold sweat breaks out all over my body. Fury and humiliation wrap around me like a vine. Anger pushes me as I slowly reach for my hidden knife. He’s still laughing as I lunge at him with my outstretched blade. He ducks before I hit skin then rams full body into me, knocking me off my feet. The knife tumbles out of my hand and clatters to the ground. Pain from the full body contact renders me immobile. Using the limited energy I have, I push myself onto my knees. David moves to slam his foot into my stomach. Before he can make contact, Ryan steps between us and pushes David back.

  “Enough,” Ryan yells. “David, you’ve proved whatever point you were trying to.”

  Their conversation fades into the background as a memory takes shape. Like a glass of water in the desert, I reach for it desperately.

  Next to a boy, I weigh the knives in my hand. We face a wall with the outline of a person drawn on it. I pull my arm back and throw. The base of the knife hits the wall then clatters to the ground.

  “Concentrate,” the boy murmurs. I know and trust him. Just as I start to say his name, he throws three knives in succession, each one landing directly inside the bullseye. “Keep the focus on your enemy. When trying to kill, you can’t afford to blink.”

  The memory fades even as I fumble for it. When gone, it leaves only the faintest details — like a dream you struggle to recall. But it is the impetus I need. Ready, I reach for the fallen knife and slowly stand. Ryan catches me in his peripheral gaze. He steps in front of me, hidden from David’s view. He grabs the knife from my hand before I can throw it.

  “Don’t start a fight you know you can’t win,” he says for my ears only.

  Unaware of the conversation between Ryan and me, David heads toward the door. “As I said, don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

  “Why does he hate me?” I ask once he leaves. Frustration rips through me at how effortlessly he beat me. I fight back the urge to slam my fist against the wall. Instead, I call on the instinct deeply embedded in me to shut down all emotions – like a trained soldier, I realize.

  “That wasn’t hate. That was David on a good day.” His words are clipped. When I glance at him, he’s staring at the knife he took from me. I’m about to give him an excuse, a reason for it, when he says, “We need to get started.” Grateful to him for holding his tongue, I watch as he lays it down on a table.

  I am too weak, too vulnerable. Anxious about my limitations, I try to regroup. I tell myself I lost the battle, not the war. With deep breaths, I swallow the lingering pain. Ryan’s gaze bores into mine.

  “What happens during the Evaluation?” I shift my focus to something other than my defeat.

  “I’m not here for conversation.” Ryan gets into position.

  “Because you’re not good at it?” I snap back.

  I always hold back and keep my own counsel. Every time I came across a safety patrol officer, I dropped my head and rushed past. I stayed out of the way so my secret would remain hidden. But right now my entire body aches. I am a prisoner without having committed a crime. David’s humiliation of me stings. The past, mixed with the present, fuels my anger. It is the only explanation for why I egg Ryan on now.

  “Careful,” Ryan cautions. “You might get hurt.”

  Chagrined, I refuse to react to his threat visibly, but silently heed his warning. “Every hit, I get one question and answer,” I renegotiate. “You expect me to fail, so where’s the harm?”

  “Is that your first question?” Ryan grabs my elbow and pushes my arm up until it is level with my shoulder. “Hit me.” When I hesitate, he throws a sample punch out, barely grazing my chin. “Hope that didn’t hurt,” Ryan says mildly.

  “Not even slightly.” In truth, my face burns from not having shut down fast enough. I silently chastise myself. “And I thought you weren’t good at conversation.”

  “You need to attack.” Ryan ignores my comment. “Now.”

  I thrust my fist and connect with the bone in his jaw. Fierce pride flows through me when his face flies sideways. I quell my excitement but can’t help my grin. When he sees it, I expect a lecture, so I am taken aback by his return smile.

  “Good job. Again.”

  Adrenaline pumps through me. I throw a punch with my right fist, but he ducks it. Anticipating his next move, I swing my other fist out and strike his chin.

  “I did it.” Though he barely reacts to the hit, I feel fierce pride.

  Ryan grasps my covered elbow again and pushes my arm up. “Next time,” he says, “use the area beneath your knuckles to hit.” So fast that I don’t feel any pain, he folds my fingers to form a fist. “Try again.” He gets back into position.

  I aim for his chin, but he jerks his head back. Frustrated, I emit a low growl. He grins in response but wipes it when I glance at him, surprised at his reaction.

  “Once more,” he orders. “And patience? Learn it.”

  I match his every step. As if in perfect rhythm, we circle one another. He nods in approval.

  “Your instinct was right,” Ryan says. “When you drop one fist, immediately attempt with the other.”

  “You owe me an answer,” I remind him, my gaze unwavering on his. “What happens during the Evaluation?”

  He folds his arms together as he considers me. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he says, “We’re dropped into one of the zones. There, we overcome different tests.” He motions for me to get back into position.

  A zone means a chance at escape and my freedom. Excitement buzzes through me. I get into position immediately. He looks surprised but doesn’t comment. Instead, he pivots and strikes me in the stomach with his leg. Though restrained, the hit nonetheless knocks me to the ground. Surprised that he is holding back, I wonder at his choice not to hit me harder or fight dirtier.

  Embarrassed, I jump up quickly and reposition. Ryan readies without missing a beat. Sweat drips down my forehead and into my eyes. My muscles tighten up from exhaustion, and my breath comes in heavy beats. The outer gym empties and refills. Two hours pass. During the third one, I drop my head.

  “Is there a time limit or do we keep going until I collapse?” Without waiting for an answer, I head toward the water table.

  “I didn’t say it was time for a break,” Ryan calls out.

  “No,” I acknowledge, “you didn’t.”

  I swallow two full glasses before he joins me. As he reaches for a drink, I grab his arm. Quickly white lighting any pain, I punch him in the stomach then smile in satisfaction when he grunts. His t-shirt pulls down to reveal a small tattoo on the edge of his shoulder. The sun eclipsed by the moon. He catches me staring then pushes me back with controlled force. He rights his shirt then lifts an eyebrow.

  “Is that your next question?” He gestures to the tattoo.

  “Who are the people who left the Circle?” Anxious for more information, I ignore his question to ask my own.

  Ryan doesn’t blink. “Jackie?”

  I stay silent, refusing to reveal her as my source and potentially get her into trouble. Out of everyone, she’s the only one who has been giving me any information.

  “They’re part of the Resistance.” He looks impressed at my loyalty.

  “The terror network?” I murmur.

  “You know about them?”

  I shrug my shoulder. “The Resistance was behind attacks in our zone. Everyone knew about them.” The woman and the bakery flash in my mind. “Why would readers jo
in with them?” With his answer, I hope to understand the snippets of memory filtering in and out of my head.

  Instead of responding, he grabs my arm and spins me around, so my back is against him. He locks both arms around my stomach then pushes me down. I topple to the floor, breaking my fall with my arms.

  “To destroy us no matter the cost,” he whispers in my ear. “They hate the Circle and every one of its members.”

  Chills course down my spine. Before I can ask more, Ryan lowers his knee into my lower back. “Don’t ever lose focus on your opponent’s actions. That leaves you vulnerable.” He pulls both my arms back with restrained force. “Use your back and knees to push me off.” When I try and fail, he says, “Harder.”

  With a roar, I twist my upper body and, mustering my limited strength, lift to push him off. I bend forward on the mat and pull both knees back, hitting him with my feet. As he falls back, I jump upright and onto my feet.

  “Good,” he says with a quick nod.

  “Why do they hate the Circle?” Exhaustion saps my adrenaline. I stumble on my next step, barely catching myself in time. Self-conscious, I take a step back.

  “Another question needs another hit.” He punches the underside of my mouth. “Guess that one’s mine.”

  I rock back on my heels. Though Ryan was controlled, the pain still bites. With my tongue, I check for broken or loose teeth. Coppery liquid coats the inside of my cheeks. Furious, I take a swing at him, but he only grins at my effort.

  “You missed.” He grabs my waist and flips me over his shoulder, then tosses me. I hit the ground then arch up as the pain trails down my spine. He bends down, his face a mask of fake concern. “You OK there?”

  Infuriated, I jump to my feet and lunge for him, my fists flying.

  “Angry?” He jumps back. “Good.”

  He sidesteps every hit. Exhausted, I drop my head and rest my hands on my thighs. My hair frames my face, hiding me.

  “Give up?” He leans down to see my face. I raise my hand like a white flag. “That was fast.”