Trove stood to the side, his arms crossed, his mouth set in a hard line. Gone was the relaxed man that Meke had seen. Now he was a tense, angry man. No wonder Gladys was nervous, even Meke herself felt a bit shaky at the sight of him.
Trove threw a staff, and out of mindless reflex, Meke caught it in the air, but not before flinching. The staff was about her height. The weight surprised her; she had to grip it so it wouldn’t fall.
“You’ll start with the staff,” Trove said, walking around her.
For some foolish reason, Meke wished that she could see the old Trove once again, the one who had been kind to her on the mountains and here. This man didn’t appreciate having to train a Zero—even Meke could understand that. A Fiver soldier training a Zero sounded ludicrous even to her. But there was no other way, silly or not, of bettering herself. Meke needed to prove something to everyone. This was the best way she knew how. If Trove didn’t appreciate that, there was nothing Meke could do about it.
Trove nudged her feet into position, angling her arms, adjusting her grip. He circled around her, brows furrowed. He had her hold the position for an unnaturally long time. Trove pressed his lips together and nodded.
“Let’s practice some blocks,” he said.
Trove had Meke practice blocking thrusts from all directions: up, down, left and right. Meke’s hands sweat as her right hand gripped the front of the staff. This pose still felt strange, holding the staff as if she was carrying it. Her arms ached from the awkward strangeness of the pose.
After what felt like hours, Trove rose to his feet. “Okay. That’s it for today.”
Meke let the staff drop to the floor, grateful for the rest. She had let her body slide into complacency since she entered the Barracks. “Great. I’ll see you here at the same time tomorrow.” Meke said. Trove raised his eyebrows but said nothing, then left.
Gladys wiped her hands on her dress, exhaling. “What’s wrong with him?” Gladys asked.
Meke shrugged. “How would I know? He probably doesn’t want to be here.”
Gladys frowned but didn’t say anything.
◆ ◆ ◆
Meke stood in the middle of the bare training room. Stifling her yawn, she took a staff from the wall. Regardless of her protesting internal clock, Meke started practicing. She righted her feet, gripped the staff and started the thrusts.
During the first few weeks, Meke’s muscles had felt stiff and unyielding, resisting the morning exercises. Now, Meke had schooled them into pliancy. Meke stretched her neck before the next thrust, enjoying her muscles’ responsiveness.
She had been at the staff for weeks now. She felt ready to do something else. Trove’s corrections grew more minor every day. He frowned at the end of every training session. Meke told herself that he was just being stubborn, but smatterings of doubt remained. What if she was truly a Zero? Perhaps hard work wouldn’t do much other than embarrass her.
She felt Gladys walking up behind her and raised a hand in greeting. As Meke turned, she saw Gladys’ grimace. “It’s too strange.” Gladys’ hands waved in the vicinity of Meke’s head.
Meke blushed. Her sense had slipped her mind. Somehow, her sight had become an indivisible part of her. Life before now seemed so limited, so dull. Her world was now full of shapes, colors, information.
“I forgot,” Meke said.
“Forgot that you see behind you?” Gladys asked, eyes wide.
Trove strode into the room, making Gladys jump. He nodded at both women, more of a head jerk than anything else.
“Good. Practice makes perfect,” Trove said. Despite his words, his face showed no cheer. Meke wanted to snort. No amount of practice seemed good enough for him.
He grabbed another staff, flipping it around. “Let’s see how you do with a real opponent,” he said.
Meke swallowed. She hoped that she would do this right. She placed one foot forward and twisted her body to hold the staff in its proper position.
He swung the staff in a downward arc toward her knees. Meke angled the staff to block Trove’s blow. Trove’s staff stopped just short of hers.
Gladys clasped her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. Meke was too busy with her hold to attend to Gladys. Perhaps she’s just the nervous type, Meke thought.
Trove withdrew, placing the staff next to him and nodded. “Good reflexes, but your grip needs work,” Trove said. With a firm, impersonal touch, he adjusted Meke’s hold on the stick until he was satisfied. Meke tried not to flinch from his touch, but she couldn’t help it. Others’ touch still unnerved her.
“This time, I’ll actually hit you,” Trove said. Meke felt Gladys cringe beside her.
When Trove struck, the staff’s roughness jarred against her palm. Her arms shook with the exertion of keeping the staff aloft. This strike was no play strike. It fell hard and heavy on hers. Trove didn’t think her a delicate, fragile thing. Meke didn’t know whether to be pleased or nervous.
As she held her staff against his strikes, blisters started to form on Meke’s palms. The force of Trove’s attacks wearied her shoulders and wrists. The blisters, coupled with her shoulders’ soreness, weighted down Meke’s arms. Meke gritted her teeth, enduring her palms’ tearing skin. Don’t be weak, she ordered herself, or Trove will never let you become a soldier.
It was one blow too much. Meke’s sweaty palms slipped, allowing Trove’s staff to push her staff aside and it collided with her temple. Trove tried to yank it up but it was too late.
Meke stumbled backwards, dropping her staff. Her hands flew to her head and only found a swelling bump and a slight cut. Dizziness overtook her and she touched the ground to steady herself.
Trove immediately shook Meke’s shoulders. With effort, she focused her eyes on his. He firmly lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “What happened?” he demanded.
Meke looked down at her mangled hands, now covered with red and white splotches. She winced as he grabbed them, baring them for his inspection.
His mouth moved in a clear curse. Shaking his head, he dropped her hands and left.
Meke closed her hands, feeling ashamed of herself. She had confirmed Trove’s suspicions. Her weakness had allowed her to get hurt. Perhaps this was the end of it, Meke thought. No more training.
Pale-faced, Gladys stood in front of Meke, examining her head. Her fingers probed the bump, taking care not to touch the cut. Meke flinched at the touch. She could feel it swelling and the slow leak of blood.
“Does your stomach hurt? Do you feel dizzy?” Gladys asked.
Meke shook her head and soon regretted it. Her head pounded as if it had expanded to twice its size. “A bit dizzy and I have a terrible headache.” Meke said, focusing on keeping her signs clear and crisp.
Gladys pressed her hands onto her dress. “You should go to the doctor.”
Trove returned with ice for her head and bandages for her hands. Meke cringed from his dark expression, but the ice’s coolness and the bandages’ warmth were welcome relief. Trove sat on his heels, arms crossed. He remained still for a few minutes. “You’re useless to us if your hands get destroyed. You must speak up before someone gets hurt.” Trove said. “That clear?”
Meke closed her eyes, hoping that he wouldn’t stop her training for this. Pushing on when she was injured was a fool thing to do, she saw that now. Meke just hoped that Trove wouldn’t let this mistake define her. Gladys stood by, wringing her hands, making Meke even more nervous.
Trove sighed and rubbed his jaw. “Look, I hit you harder than I should’ve. Regardless, being a soldier isn’t just about fighting. It’s also about knowing when not to fight. Everyone makes this mistake at one time or another.”
“You’ll let me continue?” Meke asked, holding her breath.
Trove looked up in surprise. “Yes, once the doctor clears you.”
Meke couldn’t help but smile and leapt to her feet. As she got up, she realized how wretched she was. Dizziness overtook her. Her shoulders protested any movement. Her head throbbed in rhythm wit
h her heartbeat. Her hands were rubbed raw.
As Meke finished her inventory of her aches, she noticed Gladys and Trove talking. Gladys shook her head as Trove spoke. Gladys slouched as she refused to meet the taller man’s eyes. Minutes ticked by, but they didn’t move. Trove’s mouth moved in a silent concession as he waved her away.
Red-faced, Gladys walked to Meke. “How are you feeling?” Gladys asked.
Meke shrugged. The pain in her head was now a deep throb. “What were you two talking about?”
“I told him that I can’t help you two anymore.” Gladys paused, clenching her hands together. “I can’t do it.”
“Wha—Why not?” Meke asked. Surely, Trove hadn’t said anything that would scare Gladys.
Gladys' eyes grew shiny. “I can’t watch people being hurt.” Gladys’ face paled, then reddened. She clasped her hands into her dress. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to sign before fleeing.
Meke stood there, staring at the now-empty door. Trove must have been particularly harsh. She would have to tell him a thing or two, but perhaps when she felt a little better. With her head throbbing and hands aching, she plopped herself down on the floor.
Only if there were chairs in this stupid room, Meke thought. Then she could rest more comfortably and think. Meke cursed whoever decided that chairs couldn’t contaminate the training room. Trove walked over and sat in front of her. Meke was in no mood to deal with him. First, he hit her head. Second, he scared away her friend. Now, he had the gall to place himself in front of her.
Meke pointed at Trove’s handheld, he handed it over compliantly.
What did you say to Gladys?
Trove raised an eyebrow as he read the words, then tapped, I didn’t say anything. She just left. I don’t understand why.
Meke frowned.
You must’ve done something. You’ve looked as if you don’t want to be here. Who would want to work with someone like that?
I don’t think I scared her. I don’t want to be here but I was nothing but polite to her.
Meke shook her head. Trove had no idea how imposing he looked to someone else. He towered over most men and women and never smiled and Gladys scared easily.
You weren’t polite. It showed that you didn’t want to be here. You’ll have to train a Zero, like it or not.
Trove crossed his arms and looked at these words.
Why do you want to do this, anyway?
Meke frowned, unsure why her motivations mattered.
Because I want to. What does it matter to you?
He squinted at her as if looking at her anew.
It matters because I don’t want to teach you how to kill.
You’re one to talk. I’m not doing this to kill people. I’m doing it for myself, not anyone else.
Trove scowled at the screen and fiddled with the handheld for a long while.
I know what I am. Now, how should we proceed with training? We don’t have Gladys anymore, for whatever reason.
Meke looked at her hands, now bandaged with fresh white gauze. The crisp whiteness masked the torn skin underneath, but Meke could feel the damage. The bandage also covered the zero on her hands, making Meke smile slightly.
Trove was right. They needed a new way to communicate, a new way to relate.
What do you propose? Meke asked
I’m not sure. Any suggestions?
Why don’t you learn sign?
Isn’t that hard?
I thought you were smart being a Fiver and all. Do you have any other suggestions?
He didn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
INSTEAD OF the grinding effort as with Gladys, Trove was an easy and attentive student. His fingers willingly contorted themselves into unfamiliar shapes. Meke only had to show him a hand shape a few times before Trove memorized it.
The man that she had seen in the training room was gone. This man lounged in a chair, enjoying fiddling around with his fingers. “Braiding my sister’s hair finally paid off,” he said. “Flexible fingers, you know.” Trove wriggled his fingers.
She wrinkled her nose. It couldn't just be the hair braiding; there was something more. His memory was something else. Most people struggled to link the letter to the movement, but not Trove. It wasn’t just his aptitude; his usual focused and harsh countenance had turned into something easier and softer. Neither of those words would ever have described Trove Anderson before that day. Meke even glimpsed his smile a few times. Meke had to remind herself that she didn’t like him.
Even just two weeks after they started their lessons, Trove could finger spell anything and had a basic grasp of signs. With effort, Trove could compose entire sentences, but he still needed practice understanding Meke’s rapid signs.
“How does your head feel, now?” he asked.
Meke shrugged. Her headaches had faded after a day. Her hands still felt tender, fresh pink skin covering old blisters. “Much better. I would like to start again,” Meke said.
The doctor had prohibited her from practicing in fear of concussion. Her hands and fingers tingled with the eagerness to move, to push and to pull.
Meke had to repeat her words twice before Trove understood. “Are you sure?” Trove’s eyes searched Meke’s face. “One moment—let me check something.”
He tilted up her chin, bringing his face close to hers. His eyes focused on hers, searching for any signs of muddled thinking. Meke wanted to shy away from the unfamiliar touch. Once he let go of her chin, Meke filled her lungs with air that she hadn’t known was missing.
“You look well enough. But let’s be careful this time. I’ll be more careful, as well,” Trove said.
“I never knew you were so motherly.” Meke said.
Trove’s cheeks flushed for a moment, almost too quickly for Meke to notice. His eyes cooled. “Despite what you think of me, I hardly want to see you hurt.”
“I know, orders, right?”
Trove leaned on his elbows. “That’s not fair.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Let’s go,” Trove said, rising from the table.
◆ ◆ ◆
They started off slow, repeating the strokes of the staff. Meke wore gloves to protect her delicate palms. It took some time to acclimate herself once again to the awkward motions. They spent the next several days revisiting the different strokes. Meke’s favorite move was the sweeper. With her feet firmly planted on the floor, Meke swept the staff in a solid arc close to the floor, tripping all but the most solidly built.
After Meke’s forehead grew shiny with sweat, Trove picked up a staff. “Ready for a rematch?” he asked.
Meke nodded. They hadn’t fought since the accident. Meke wanted to know the true extent of her skills. Parrying air was a poor substitute for facing someone. Meke held her staff at an angle from her hips, as to block any incoming blows. Trove did the same. They circled around each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.
Trove struck first. He whipped the staff down and Meke angled hers up. This blow was lighter than before. Meke hoped he wasn’t going easy on her. As the two staffs collided, the shock reverberated throughout Meke’s arms. She held fast.
Trove swung the staff up. Meke almost lost her grip as she shifted to meet his strike.
Panting, Meke shifted her weight, bearing down on the contact point between the two staffs. Her eyes met Trove’s. His face was calm and collected as Meke grimaced with effort. With not so much as a grunt, Trove heaved the staff, throwing hers off.
As she tried to regain her footing, Trove swept Meke’s feet out from under her. Before Meke realized what happened, she was falling.
A firm hand grabbed her, stopping her fall almost before it started. Less than a second ago, Meke was standing. Now she leaned back, Trove’s hand the only thing preventing her from crashing onto the floor. Trove pulled Meke upright. Her breath was missing. She must have forgotten to breathe.
Trove tilted his head. “Watch your lower guard.”
Meke nodded. She was holding
her staff too high as she stumbled back. An easy prey, ripe for picking. It seemed so easy for Trove, and why shouldn’t it be? Meke knew that as a Fiver, Trove was genetically predisposed to some kind of extraordinary skill. Trove’s skill was fighting.
Meke didn’t have that aptitude. Trove had told her that it took him only a few weeks to learn everything. It had been two months already for her. Sometimes Meke wondered why she bothered. Other than her sense, she didn’t have anything special about her. That so-called special thing had been foisted upon her. But she still had to try.
Raising her staff, Meke nodded at Trove. “Let’s try that again.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Both of them sat on the floor, drinking water after a long session. Meke was getting better, one millimeter at a time. Trove still beat her, but each time it took longer.
Trove got up and extended his hand. She looked at it blankly. “Come on. Let’s take a break. We’ve been at this for days,” Trove said. Meke still stared at his outstretched hand. “Take my hand, we’re going out,” Trove said.
“Out, where?”
“There’s only one out around here—outside. I promised you something. I’m delivering.”
Meke allowed herself a smile. She had thought that Trove had forgotten his promise in the mountains to teach her how to live off the land. Ignoring Trove’s proffered hand, Meke scrambled onto her feet. It must have been months since she smelled the trees, felt the sunlight on her skin.
Everyone here came from the cities. Even though it was safe to venture outside, most preferred to stay within the Barrack’s confines. Meke thought that they missed all of the possibilities, the freedom of the trees, mountains and the landscape.
It only took a few words to the guards for them to get outside. The sun blazed, filtered by the trees’ leaves. The air was sharper, cooler than the Barracks’ recycled air. She had forgotten the trees’ redness and tallness. Once again, she pressed her hands on the trunk, feeling the hardness. These trees must have been here for centuries, making Meke feel small and awed.
They wandered around, watching the forest around them. Trove showed her the leaves, berries and nuts that she could eat. He told her about the poisonous vines and leaves.
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