by LK Walker
“Come on,” he waves me over.
The floor beneath him looks solid, like concrete. Bone breaking solid.
“Do you need a hand to get the mats?” I thought it was a fair question. Zander laughs a little and bounces up and down on the spot. Somehow the floor is elastic, not soft looking but less solid than I’d thought.
The doors at the far end slide open. I hadn’t heard the muted sound of them gliding on the floor, but movement out the corner of my eye, and the brush of a slight breeze on the back of my neck, have drawn my attention. A woman in her early forties strolls in as if she owns the place. Complete confidence, she has no hesitation as she walks up to us.
“Cara,” she greets me like an old friend.
“It didn’t take,” Zander says to her.
She looks at me and screws her nose up. “We’ll start contact training anyway,” she replies, before moving past Zander and greeting me with her hand extended. Her short-cropped platinum blonde hair suits her. There’s a touch of color on the side, a glittering gold that somehow looks perfectly natural.
“I’m Sergeant Kobayashi.” Her voice is firm just like her handshake. I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on her hand but don’t want to stare. All I can see is a block of beautifully scripted text.
“Everyone calls her Nana,” Zander adds. Her face is hard but the corner of her mouth twitches at the nickname. In fact, her whole body looks hard. No part of her would dare to move if not told to. I am so tempted to reach out and touch her to see what she feels like, all those perfectly sculpted muscles, but I think she might be able to rip my arm off. Maybe later, when I know her better or if I no longer need my arm.
There is a pretty decent scar above her right eye, bisecting her eyebrow, straight down the middle. It's strange that everyone else’s faces are clear. Everyone except Zanders. Perhaps I’m having problems deciding on what he should look like. Although the last look I had, I was very satisfied with what I saw.
“It’s time to see what you've got.” Nana's tone makes me nervous. My instincts are on point. She lunges at me; her muscles tighten and lengthen as her body moves seamlessly through the air. The only element that takes away her grace is the abrupt stop as her palm catches my shoulder and I lose my footing, smashing into the floor. I could have sworn my brain had given the signal to get the hell out of the way, but I got as far as swaying gently to the left. A flower in a stiff breeze would have better reactions.
I get to confirm my previous assumption—the floor does give, but it’s far from soft. My body aches from the impact and my throat releases a pathetic cough as I try to refill my lungs with the air they expelled on impact. All the while, my eyes stay focused on Nana. Since she hasn’t made any further movement, I scurry back up onto my feet ready for her to come at me again. The anticipation of being hit is nearly as bad as the shock of finding myself flat on my back. My nerves are jiggling in wait.
“Reactions are appalling, but they can be improved,” Nana says. I’m not thrilled that she put so much emphasis on how crappy my reflexes are. She walks towards me. My feet step back in time with hers. Her hands go up in a sign of surrender. “I needed to see. I won't do it again.” Her hands stretch out to me. “Well, not today anyway.”
There is not an ounce of muscle in my body that relaxes at her say so, in case it’s a trick. After all, this woman put me on my arse without warning, or hesitation.
“You got up,” she says, smiling as if gratified by my threatened posture. “No whining, just back on your feet. Reactions can improve. Fighting can be taught, but persistence, it comes from deep down. It comes from a basic survival instinct. You have enough of that. It doesn’t matter what else you have, persistence is the difference in a tight fight between having a chance at winning, or at least getting away, and digging your own hole.”
I had never thought of it like that. Some days I think I’m an idiot for getting back up. Staying down, waiting for the world to divine my course is so much easier. I smile a little because, for once, all that pain may have had a reason. And I may have received a compliment.
“Don’t get cocky, we would all have been extremely disappointed if you showed us anything less.”
And just like that, I feel like my A grade got cut to a C.
Nana takes hold of my wrists, my palms facing inwards, pulling them up, so they are in line with my breasts. I get a closer look at her tattoo. It sits on the side of her left hand in line with her first finger. Scars crisscross that part of her hand. They look as if they were once deep fissures in her skin, having healed white and rough. The words are entwined in the scars—to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.
“You need to start with a defensive stance.”
I need to focus. Otherwise I might end up flat on my butt again. I pull my eyes from her hand and onto her face.
“When I strike you like I did before, I want you to use this arm to push the blow away.” She is holding my arm up while slowly moving her fist towards me. I help shift her fist past my face with my arm, as she suggests.
“Good, now my body is exposed for you to strike.” Nana indicates at the unguarded area with her eyes. I swing my arm up and into her abdomen not daring to make contact. More to show that I have understood.
“Go again.” This time, she moves faster and I deflect her strike.
“Good. Again.” She keeps repeating it until she is really swinging at me and the movement is starting to feel more natural.
Within half an hour, Nana has shown me half a dozen moves, all defensive, and we practice over and over again until I do each without thought. Nana comes at me as she did the first time. Her palm makes contact and I am back on my bruised butt, staring at the ceiling’s metal bracing. I didn’t expect to have perfected the technique but Nana appears disappointed.
“Shall we try the anchors?” Zander calls out. He’s been standing patiently to one side, watching silently. He picks up a small box from the ground, opening and dumping its contents into his hand.
“I'm not sure—if you think it’s a good idea,” Nana says, stepping back. “You’re the expert.”
“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work normally,” he replies. “Only one way to find out.”
Zander walks towards me. Palm outstretched. He holds two small metallic discs, each smaller than the irises in my eyes. As I move my face in for a closer inspection, his hand flexes and the small discs do too, as if they’re fabric.
“They're called anchors. We place them on your head. They transmit a frequency to your cerebellum. They make learning a whole lot quicker than you’re used to. You watch the movements and then you can repeat.”
“Just that easy?” I ask.
“They’re not perfect. But faster than bare training. And you spend more time on your feet.” Zander steps in close, putting his body between Nana and me. He places a hand on my jaw and tilts my head to one side, exposing my neck.
“I need to find the right spot to put these things. They are fantastic but bloody finicky. If I get the wrong place, they’ll do nothing for you.” His fingers run along my jaw and down my neck to the point where Jack kisses me when he wants me. It makes me melt every time. Jack does it so well that it’s almost a learned response as soon as he’s in the area. Including now. Jack, my mind repeats.
I'm allowed to dream. No harm in that.
Zander sticks a dot on, stroking it with his thumb to check it’s in place. He does the same on the other side and lifts my head up, no doubt to check they’re positioned correctly.
“Come on, Zan, time to get a sweat up. I promise not to hit your already bruised face,” Nana shouts.
“It’s been ages since I’ve had to place these. I need to check they’re in the right spot.” Even without a face you can tell which way he’s looking. His attention comes back to me. “Do they feel alright? Like they’ll stay on?”
“They’re fine.” I give him a sharp nod.
I’m looking up into his eyes, they’re no longe
r a blur. He’s been knocked around worse than I had first thought. But I can see his face. My body heats, a physiological reaction to being so close to Zander. The psychology of it would be fascinating to Doctor Abrams, no face—no problem. Butterflies make their way into my stomach. Zander smiles, a little quirky with the injuries, and he winks. My natural reaction is to smile back. And just like that, his face is gone again.
Nana walks up to Zander. “Take off the kit. Cara will need to see body movements. Wasn’t it you who said something about research showing it makes for better learning?”
“Anything to get my shirt off.” Zander tugs his shirt up over his head.
“Don't flatter yourself, sweet cheeks. You've met my guy Jay, right? I’ve got no reason to stray. Oh baby, look at those bruises.” And they are hard to miss. Startling purple-hued splodges cover his chest. They take nothing away from bulky muscles, though. Zander’s body looks as unforgiving as Nana’s.
“If you could try not to hit all of the bruises that would be nice,” he says.
“Are you asking me to take it easy on you?”
They attach little circles, the same as mine, at several places on Zander’s arms, chest, and back. I can’t see his back clearly, only patches of it. Nana pulls his pants up from the bottom, attaching one dot to each calf muscle before covering them back up. Zander goes down from the top of his pants, and my imagination starts a riot until I notice the movement of his hands on both thighs.
They place the anchors on the same spots on Nana’s skin. I’m not so keen on watching Zander’s hands trailing over her skin.
“That should do it.” Zander throws the rest of the small bag of anchors off to the side. Nana grins and begins circling her prey.
They’re in their own conversation, ignoring me, goading each other. It’s good they are. Neither notices me ogling Zander’s bare chest. I try to keep a stern looking face so that I’m not too obvious. I swear my eyes are now twice the size they normally are and my mouth keeps popping open.
Zander’s gray pants are resting low on his hips. Taut pelvic muscles poke out, leading up into a firm stomach.
“Slow, first up,” Nana says, two hands beckoning Zander to her.
“You watching?” She’s talking to me and I have to pull myself from the lust-induced stupor.
Zander's movements are slow as he feints an attack. I can see the strain on his muscles as they move. Nana counters, grabbing his arm and twisting. All done slowly, controlled, right up until Zander’s arm is bent past normal. He lets out a grunt and falls to the ground.
“Up,” Nana calls. “Fast.”
“Yes ma'am,” Zander flicks himself back up onto his feet without the use of his hands.
They do the same again, this time, faster and more violently. Zander lets out a cry before he hits the ground. I wonder whether I should notice the anchors doing something, but I don’t. They sit inertly on my skin.
“Cara, you’re up,” Nana calls as she walks out of the middle of the floor leaving Zander standing there waiting for me, shaking his arm out.
“Ready?” he asks.
To be smashed into the floor. “Sure, why not?” I say, not wanting to sound scared.
Zander strikes at me. Warmth fills the base of my skull. My instincts take over and he is lying on the ground as he had with Nana.
Soon I have learnt the bare basics of Sergeant Kobayashi’s favorite style, something called the Kajukenbo technique. I have no idea what it is, but I’ve never felt so alive. Zander and I are facing off. He slams his heel into my thigh and I scream, dropping to the ground. The anchor doesn’t work perfectly every time and there are still large chunks I don't know or haven’t picked up properly. For those times, I try to improvise. The pain in my leg has done the same trick as the anchors. I'll not fall for that again.
The leg he hit pulses with pain as I put my weight on it. It soon dissipates and I stand in a defensive stance again. This time, I manage to get a strike in, a blow to his chest. Zander sucks in air. I hear it whistle on the way in. Too late, I realize that my face is unguarded and his fist smashes into my nose. I hear it break. Blood flows out from it. Seconds later my feet are swept out from under me and I lay flat on the mat looking up at Zander.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His head comes closer, probably checking out his handy work. It hurts like hell and my eyes are watering furiously. “I’m not crying if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Nana throws me a towel. “Use this to clean it up,” she says, as if a broken nose is only a slight inconvenience. The touch of the towel sends pain rippling through me. I clean up as much blood as I can. There is likely to be a halo of blood around my nose that I am too scared to wipe off.
“Shouldn’t I go get this checked out?”
“Give it a minute. You’ll be fine.” Nana dismisses the idea without the need for any further discussion.
Five minutes later she’s got me back on my feet. I don’t know how long we spend training. Hours must have gone by. My broken nose, which had been exceedingly painful to start with, is all but numb now. It’s distorted to the touch, but it no longer sends a bombardment of agony through my body whenever it’s touched. My brain appears to have turned off the pain. It’s the weirdest sensation. To his credit, Zander hasn’t tried to strike me on the nose again.
“Stop playing with it,” Zander rebukes. “That’s enough for today. Let’s get out of here, relax a bit.”
He is limping away from me. I had gotten a little carried away during our final fight and connected with a good strike to his thigh, repaying his earlier kindness. He must still be feeling it.
Zander leads me further into the interior of the gym, to a café. It had been in darkness until we walked in. The lights turn on, dimly lit, and then increase until the room is bathed in artificial light. The large area is decorated with plants. One whole wall appears as if it’s a green waterfall, sporadically dotted with bright, colorful blooms and pieces of hanging fruit. We sit down at an empty table. There are plenty to choose from since we’re the only ones here.
A small section in the table glows in front of us both. “Ready to order?” The text appears to move out from the table. Too weird. I sit back, practically sitting on my hands as if that will keep me safe.
“It’s the in-table order system.” Zander sounds amused.
“If it stayed in the table that would be great.” I lean in to have a look. His hand floats through the ethereal form.
“What do you feel like?” he asks.
“Orange juice?” Seems like a safe request. I have no idea what half of the things are under the drinks section.
He flicks his hands around a little more before the table absorbs the projection in front of me. I run my hand along its surface, tilting my head to get a better angle. I glance up to see Zander staring back, an amused grin softening his features. I suck in a breath at seeing him. His hand goes to mine, it is lying still on the table, finished its search for the source of the menu projection.
“You’ll get the hang of it.” His caress makes me look at him again and I’m sure he’s blushing.
There is a clatter from the adjacent room. Somebody must be back there, perhaps readying our order. It takes my attention from Zander for a moment and when I look back, he smiles and looks away, his hand lazily sliding off mine. I can still feel where he touched. I leave my hand there a little longer hoping his will return. My lonely hand soon feels like a lump of coal lying on the table. I pull it back and sit it on my lap.
“I see your face is back.”
“It’s temperamental, sorry. I’m still working on it.”
When I wake, the images start to fade immediately. I try to hold on to them, but they linger only long enough to remember Zander's touch on my neck where he placed the anchors. I lift my hand and stroke the spot. At least some things can still make me smile. I know it was a good dream. I can remember having control of it. It’s like Doctor Abrams said, lucid dreaming. But it is still a
dream and it disappears like water through my fingers.
Jack.
I roll over to look at him. He’s no Zander. How could I ever expect him to be? Zander is a figment of my imagination, of course he would be perfect. Jack has never struck me across the face and broken my nose so, by modern standards, that’s a point in his favor. I reach up and touch my nose, recalling the blood. It’s in perfect shape, unharmed. I knock my lip on the way back and flinch with the sting of pain. Now I remember what happened last night. I wish that had been the dream.
The curtains in our bedroom are thin and the street light streams in, filling the room with a gentle glow. Darkness was never my favorite, so the faint light’s a comfort to me, especially when I wake from a nightmare.
Jack’s eyes flick open, startling me.
“Sorry did I wake you?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“I just got to bed. I fell asleep in front of the TV. But I did do the dishes. They must have tuckered me out.” He gives me a kiss on my forehead followed by a tender kiss on my lips, ever so carefully. I recall Zander’s hand trailing down my neck. Feel it placed tenderly on my hand. Such innocent touches yet so heated. It seems the emotions of my dreams have followed me back to real life.
In one movement, I flick the sheets up and straddle Jack, looking down at him with an impish smile.
“What’s got into you?” he asks. “Never mind. Answering will take too long.” He rolls me back over, his weight happily pinning me to the bed. He gently kisses my lips again before tracing along my jawline, his kisses becoming firmer as he goes. He reaches the point where I dreamed Zander had touched. I close my eyes and for a moment I imagine Zander’s lips caressing me there. I let out a moan. It’s my private little fantasy and it thrills me. My enthusiasm has had the same effect on Jack. I can feel him stiffen against my leg, still imprisoned in his boxers.
His lips trail down my body. I am so utterly engrossed I feel the exact instant they leave my skin.
“I’m always going to do the dishes before coming to bed.”
