Some Light-Hearted Wren Fun

[Verdana]

[I'm not going to mess around. Derelict Draught and I know what is happening here. We will both be able to keep up.

Let the torment commence!]

The Commander's Office was a magnificently bizarre place. Situated right at the back of HQ, as far as possible from anything else, it was usually shrouded in silence, making the walk down the long, desolate passageway seem doubly ominous. The door was of a dark, somber wood, which had a faint odour reminiscent of hazelnuts. The knob, on close inspection, was very slightly charred. By this point, the potential enterer would be feeling slightly nervous.

This would change to bewilderment as they entered the mayhem of her office.

Shaygrin's office fitted her personality perfectly. It was wild, exotic, and filled to the brim with stuff. Priceless vases shared roughly-hewn surfaces with rubber ducks and devices for pulling out fingernails. A stuffed crocodile, its tail sadly battered and its teeth yellow, hung from the ceiling. And, on top of everything, sat papers. Papers and papers, some new, some old. Some of the documents seemed to be written on parchment. One corner deviated from this norm, and in the middle of a fastidiously spotless square sat a neat little desk. This was where Bree often worked. However, the rest of the space was overflowing, as it were, with Shay, and in the middle, at an ancient, claw-footed, worn-velvet-topped desk, was the woman herself, writing away quite tranquilly, apparently oblivious to the madness around her.

Anyone entering the space would experience a moment of overwhelmed astonishment. This was how Shay liked things.

As she filled out a form for more explosives (Ty had been whining about a lack of supplies for some time, and she knew that he was nearing desperation), Shay waited to hear a familiar tread in the hallway. She had called Malberry to her office that morning. His appointment was drawing near. It would not have done for him to be late. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face, and could not help but notice that the grey strands in it were waging a war with the black ones. For some time, the black army had kept control, but the grey was invading. She was getting old. This made her meeting even more important.

She glanced at the clock mounted directly above the door, where she could see the time and her interrogatee could not. Two minutes to twelve. Malberry was running out of time. She hoped that he would not be late.

She would have to be firm with him if he was late.

[Derelict Draught]

Malberry ambles through the halls of the Wren. Each room was alive with activity but not a single one held the individual he was bound to meet. As he strolls the halls, he listens for some tell tale sign of what would be Shay's office. His path takes him past an unnecessarily long hall lacking any sign of comfort or familiarity for the individual. Pausing a moment, he lets out a soft sigh. Two minutes. Just enough time to barrel down this overly dramatic hall. If this wasn't the right place then he would be in a world of trouble.

Starting down, he ponders what other possibility the hall could lead to. There weren't many positions or individuals with both enough ego and enough presence to get such a hall dedicated to them. Quickening his pace, he advances on the door examining the details and having his theory reinforced with each step. Slowly rotating the handle, he tugs the portal open and his heart sinks. A storage closet?

The tick of a clock above him draws his eyes, he only had a few seconds until...He would just have to be late then. Might as well learn about this new room. His eyes skim the walls and their assorted collection of junk. Papers coated everything from delicate vases to the adorable little rubberduck. He would have squeaked the toy had the movement of the hanging gator not brought his eyes to a low clear desk and the woman that sat so studiously engaged.

Spinning himself into the appropriate salute, he faces his eccentric (and apparently hoarding) Commander. "Marcus Malberry reporting as requested, Ma'am." His body remains rigid as he holds his stance awaiting the order to stand at ease.

[Verdana]

Tick tock, Malberry. Tick tock, Shaygrin thought as she dropped her head down to her work. She signed off her order form with a flourish. As old-fashioned as it may have been, Shay liked to use the post. She did not trust the electronic alternatives. She did not like the way that software was designed, and its inherent ability to record anything which passed through its sneaky tendrils. She preferred good old pen and paper. She slipped her form into an envelope, and sealed it very swiftly. The inside of the envelope contained a reactant to the substance on the surface of the note. Combined, they created a cunning corrosive which would disintegrate the letter within an hour of its first contact with air. This same substance would also break any photocopier or scanning device it encountered. She could not help but smirk.

Try to overpower that, technology.

As the hands of the clock stroked the deadline, Malberry opened the door without a knock. Shaygrin did not look up from addressing the envelope, but she could smell the young human perfectly well. He was not out of breath, but he smelled faintly of tension. He hadn't wanted to be late. Neither, apparently, had he wanted to be early. Nonetheless, Shay was impressed. He had found the room. That in itself was noteworthy. She patiently ignored his salute, and continued to write, apparently heedless of his presence. The room became quiet, only the creaking of the crocodile (disturbed by the opened door) and the snickering of pen on good-quality paper preventing silence from reigning.

Finally, Shaygrin looked up. She smiled. It was a disconcerting expression in its unremarkable nature. Shaygrin's reputation was so dense that it could probably have applied for citizenship of its own. However, her eyes were kind, her mouth relaxed. With her hair in an unravelling bun, she looked like somebody's maiden aunt. Or, in fact, somebody's mother. She blinked at Malberry, appearing innocently surprised.

Come now, dear, she said reproachfully. Her voice was low and soft, and held the barest hint of an unplaceable foreign accent.
Sit. This is not the army. I'm not here to put you on latrine duty for insubordination. Sit!
She gestured to a chair. It was scattered with papers, and a knife stuck out of the back. One of its legs was also substantially shorter than the rest. This in itself was a test. Shaygrin would make several judgements on how the young man dealt with this, if he chose to deal with it at all.

Without changing her tone, Shay steepled her fingers and said, conversationally,
I'm glad that you accepted my invitation. As if there'd been a choice.
I do not like time-wasters. if you had been late, I would have cut off your right testicle and inserted it forcefully into your nearest nostril.
Her tone had not altered. Her face was just as pleasant and maternal, but there was no space for doubt. She meant what she said.

However, you are not late. That is good. Very telling. Anyway, let us get straight to business. I have two things to talk to you about today.

I am promoting you, sweetheart. You weren't here when Jervais was my deputy, were you? Oh, such a pity. He was a lovely man, very efficient, very proper, she said fondly, as if talking about a dog she'd once had.
It was such a pity to kill him. He really was a good chap. Very keen. Very thorough.

In any case, I've been without a deputy for some time now. I'm getting old. You can see where this is going, can't you, dear? She slid a small piece of cloth across the desk. On close inspection, it bore a sign of a bird, impeccably embroidered into the material. Black on black. Very ominous.
You've worked impressively while you've been here, Marcus. You've been diligent and intelligent, and have hardly ever obeyed orders. Luckily, you've often been right. So, I'd like to formally instate you as my deputy. That is, if you choose to take the role.

There wasn't a question in her tone. It was not really a choice. With Shaygrin, it hardly ever was.

[Derelict Draught]

Malberry remains standing before the woman, shifting his body into parade rest to alleviate the pressure on his body. As he does so, he keeps his gaze locked on the woman at the desk. His mind makes small notes about the woman's calligraphy, tracking the movements of her hand to trace the muscle tone and the most fluid and familiar of her strokes. With a slight nod in response to the Commander's invitation he allows himself the liberty of reply. "I've sat a little too long for my taste over the last, ma'am."

Within the chambers of his mind, he traces the paths available to him should he need to escape the room. The most direct path in which he could double back on himself would leave him fully vulnerable to any projectile the woman might produce. No...There would be no way to avoid a direct engagement should the woman seek such. The clutter within the room offered numerous weapons should a fight arise. Even with such, Marcus knew better than to attempt to defeat the woman in a fight. He had not witnessed the woman fight but he understood well that she was far more than she appeared and he had not desire to experience her wrath.

Still, everything was a possibility. In the event of assault, the chair before him offered his greatest chance of survival. The papers would provide a suitable veil for his movements as he seized the chair. The dagger was a tempting option but a predictable means. He wouldn't be surprised if she had taken some measure to booby trap the weapon. No, his goal was the shortest of the three legs. He suspected whatever trauma the chair had witnessed to damage the leg so would have weakened the bonds that held it in place.

With his impromptu weapon, he would be capable of deflecting a physical strike or two allowing him to reach one of the many objects he'd mentally flagged in the room. If nothing more, he hoped striking the woman with one of the many vases about the room would stun her long enough for him to slip through the doorway. After that, he would need to slip through the hall quickly and make his way to the entrance. Battling the dozens of assassins that roamed the halls would pale in comparison to the Commander...

Such was his best chance for survival anyway...Except of course not angering the woman. His eyes trace the woman's lips as she speaks, logging the words even in his mind's leave of preparatory absence. A soft smile crosses his lips as her language changes, she had said sweetheart. Nothing ever good came from a woman calling him sweetheart. That meant that there was some great ill awaiting him, some hidden misery. Last time he'd heard those words, he'd been ambushed two hours later.

"Yes ma'am." He considered thanking her for a moment but decided that such a gesture was inappropriate given the nature of the matter, to his understanding, he had just received a death sentence. He makes no movement to retrieve the cloth placed on the desk despite her intent for him to claim the material, there was still another matter. He suspected that the latter would be the worse of the two sentences. "The second matter?"

[Verdana]

The boy, Shay noted grimly, was more than slightly traumatised. He was tense, anxious, drawn. He searched the room, scanning it with the practiced eye of an escapee. Shaygrin did nothing to put his mind at ease, even though attacking him was the last thing on her mind. She liked him watchful. It would make him better at his job. She was not a gentle leader. She was merciless, manipulating her assassins to unleash their optimum potential. Her children were not exempt from this, so why should Malberry have been? First and foremost, Shaygrin was a criminal. Everything else was a mere detail.

Nonetheless, she was pleased by Malberry's answer. He realised that she had not given him a gift. The position was not a treat, a game, a perk. It was a necessity which Shay had been filling. She looked up and met his eyes. Her approval shone through briefly, before she looked down and picked up another paper with a sigh.

There are several perks to your new rank. A private room in the area of your choice, for one. If this was anything but a formality, it did not show in her tone. She scanned through the paper briefly, muttered something about clauses, and make three swift, slashing motions with her pen. It was, despite the age of the artifacts around her, a modern ballpoint pen, with faint bite marks in the tip. A good place to inject a poison. Oh, yes, Shay knew it. That too was a test, but to a different group of people.

She had heard Malberry's question. She was choosing to ignore it, for the moment. There was another pause. She made no comment about his choice not to sit. He had tackled the problem by not confronting it. It was one way, she supposed. Overly cautious, to her mind, but it would work.

Finally, she looked up, as if she were continuing a conversation without a break.

You know my daughter, yes? Although, of course, she certainly does not willingly advertise our affiliation. It was an odd way to put it, but it aptly summed up the nature of their relationship.
A difficult girl, by all accounts. Odd. Obsessive. Damaged. Like most assassins, I suppose. However, it's providing a block in her work. She's taking a path which will eventually lead to her being... Ineffective. I don't want that.

It's no secret that I plan for Bree to replace me when she is ready, and this, I feel, will be sooner rather than later.

She looked up, and a tired expression crossed her face. She pushed her hair back, the faint wrinkles beside her eyes deepening.
I'm old, Marcus. Old and tired. A tired assassin is a dead assassin, and I have no desire to die at this desk.
Shay, of course, was exaggerating. She was not that old, and could easily have stayed in position for decades more.

Before I can leave, though, I have to know that she's 'up to the job', as it were. She is an excellent assassin. Her technique is flawless. But... There's more to it than the technique. More to life, too. I'm not sure that she knows that. It concerns me. She has never been formally trained. I did not organise it. This was a mistake, but she is still young. It can be repaired.

Shaygrin spoke of her daughter in a bland, objective tone, just as she would of any of her other assassins. Although, inwardly, she loved her daughter and wanted the best for her, Bree was an assassin, and too good a one to waste. In fact, she was superb. She far outclassed her mother. Nonetheless, she didn't understand the world, not really. It would do her good to be challenged. And who better to do so than the assassin who made her feel most uncomfortable?

I think you can see where I am going with this too, dear, she stated mildly. During the course of the conversation, she had been making rapid progress through a pile of papers on her desk. She pushed them aside, and began on another pile.
This is far from compulsory, you understand. However, if you choose to accept, you will teach her at least one day a week, for however long you deem necessary. When she has to miss a session, she will make it up when you deem it suitable.

[Derelict Draught]

Marcus watches the woman calmly as she drifts into silence, her attentions stolen by the paper in hand. While the lack of regard may have unnerved or irritated any number of individuals, Malberry found himself quite use to the gesture. Time with the military and the general disregard his CO's had for anyone below their ranks removed any desire for great recognition during his stay. The redirection of her attention gave him the perfect opportunity to make a few more observations and run a few more simulations through his mind.

The woman's thoughts remained masked to him as her facial features only shifted to mutter to herself as she read. His eyes trace the gnarled pen she used with moderate interest. The woman had taken measures to conduct herself with a mask to conceal her thoughts and emotions, yet this small modern utensil bore an all too telling message for the man. Three strokes of the pen in question mark the woman's shifting attention returning to him. The words that followed were not of the sort he had always anticipated but never here.

"You know my daughter..."

Over the years of Malberry's youth he heard many variations of this phrase. The words which followed were always accusatory and not once ended well. His breath freezes in his chest as his focus narrows on the woman, dropping the monitor he maintained on the room and the door. To date, his actions towards the woman's daughter had been mere flirtation, always with the same exhausted dismissal. Still though, this woman possessed far greater skill than the average girl's mother and he had no desire of measuring himself against her.

His eyes scan her body language in search of any hostility she may hold even as his mind pleads his innocence to his paranoia. Every word sinks into his conscious mind, being analyzed for any additional meanings that could be carried with, any warnings to watch for. A slight movement foretells her rising gaze and Malberry positions his own to meet the new position. Without warning, the woman's appearance changes. Her face seems to age several years within a single second as she adjusts her hair.

A chill runs down Malberry's spine sparked by the woman's sudden change of appearance. The change was not nearly as dramatic as the memory triggered but the resulting panic, however small, was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. Malberry's stance shifts, becoming more sloppy and loose. To an individual unfamiliar with the strict military forms, he would appear to just be standing at a slight angle and stoop. A soft smile spreads about his face, his eyes bearing an infectious humor.

"I understand. We'll begin this upcoming weekend. I know the perfect test to determine her existing skills." His mind returns to control quickly, the memory repressed once more by a sea of laughs and jokes. Stepping forward and collecting the cloth set before him. "You don't look a day over 90." With a wry smile, he continues. "You should get out of this office more, the ink's bound to give you cancer if you chew nearly as much for those forms as that one. Get out and have some fun, it'll add years to your life. Maybe even decades."

[Verdana]

Shaygrin was not immune to the shiver of surprise, the shiver of fear, which passed through Malberry as he watched her act. She was not, however, vain enough (though vain she could be) to believe that it was all through her talent. Marcus had not come back from his ordeal unscathed, even if his body was whole. (He also, she suspected, was somewhat concerned about his apparently inappropriate behaviour towards her daughter.) Although Shay personally felt rather sorry for the young man, she was acutely aware of the growth that could take place due to this state. It was not only Bree, she felt, who would benefit from the lessons she had arranged. She was plagued by no doubt of his acceptance. Anyone with half of the potential necessary to be her deputy knew that she only appeared to give choices.

If he didn't know that then, he would soon learn it.

The man quickly relaxed, folding into the form that Shay was most familiar with: The non-military, persistently flattering Casanova character. Admittedly, it put her at ease to see him less stiff and formal. She felt inclined to behave similarly. After all, he was her deputy. There was no reason why they should not be on cordial terms. She leaned back, propping her boots (heavy-duty, worn footwear more suited to the streets than a cosy, if cluttered, office) upon the desk, and smirked. In that moment, her face was once again transfigured, from the haggard mask of an old woman to the young vixen she had once been: Bright-eyed, fiery and cutthroat. Old Shay may have been, but she was not retiring quite then.

His answer made her laugh; one short, confident burst. She knew that she was being flattered, but after considering putting Malberry in his place, decided to play along instead.
Ninety! Hah! If I was still ninety, boy, you wouldn't have half so much to say. Ninety... she muttered, shaking her head. Ninety had been a very long time ago.

Her face gentled again as he mentioned the pen. She looked at it, appearing almost surprised to see the bitemarks in the tip. Something seemed to strike her as very amusing about Malberry's comment, and she shook her head, chuckling softly, although there was a bitterness in her eyes.
Getting enough fresh air is the least of my worries. As is prolonging my life. If you'd lived half as long as I have, you'd realise that a long time is not necessarily good.

She pulled her pen into position against her palm.
You will give Bree advanced notice about the proposed lesson time and venue. If she has any queries, she will report to me. If you wish to make any changes to your room, you will move there. No questions asked. You have the authority to do so.

Oh, and Marcus? Be careful.

Shay did not elaborate on this. She bent her head to her work, making it abundantly clear that the meeting was over.

[Derelict Draught]

A wry grin tugs at the edges of Marcus's lips as he turns from the Commander and her ornate desk. Silently he passes through the room, ever listening even as he turns his back to his leader. His eyes scan the inventory of the room, checking his mental list of observations and slight edits as new details emerge to the more in depth study. Even as his eyes scan the texture's once more, his feet carry him forward and out the door. The hall seemed to have grown longer since his initial entry. Possibly due to his decreased pace and urgency.

A list of required items rolls through his mind. They would need the tickets to get in, sleeping arrangements, transportation, and...he'd need to inform Bree...He could just imagine her excitement over the trip. So many new faces. The costumes, the atmosphere, the guest speakers. He was looking forward to the entire event. This weekend was every fan boy's dream. Yep, she is definitely going try to kill him for this.

Calmly, his body guides him through the halls lacking any guidance from his otherwise engaged mind. Instinctively, he shoves the door obstructing his path open. Stepping into the firing range, he scoops up the rifle he kept stored within easy reach. After he finished with the demon that still lingered at the edge of his thoughts, a few rounds or so, he would seek out Bree and Ty to set everything up.

Settling the stock into the crooks of his shoulder, he centers his sight on the target down range. His breaths were slow and even as he held the target in sight. Slipping into a slight trance, he allows his eyes to droop and the weapon to sway gently. The range melts away before his eyes, only the distant target remaining. The silhouette begins to dance before his eyes, shifting and pulling at the dimensions that imprisoned it.

With great effort the creature breaks into the third dimension, slowly lumbering forward. The shades and shadows of the silhouette being replaced by the distinct figure of a woman. At one point she may have had an elegance about her that would have drawn the interest of the soldiers she served beside. Now though, her skin was pale and bore a green tint marking the intense illness that plagued her. Her every movement was stiff, racked with rigor mortis and fresh blood stained her uniform oozing from her wounds and mouth alike.

Extensive training fought back the terror that gripped the very essence of Marcus Malberry's existence. Aim for center mass. Headshots are fancy but cost too much time and if you miss its over. The words of his Sergeant echo through his mind as the man feeds him information on the shot. Adjusting for the wind of his own mind and the sway of his panicking heartbeat, he aligns the shot before squeezing the trigger.

A hole erupts in the creature's right breast, ripping out lung and heart alike and leaving a lovely view of the world behind her. Still she comes, only stumbling in response to the round that tore through her. Malberry's heart leaps into his throat as his trembling hands clear the chamber and slide the bolt into place. His aim wavers as he launches another round into the woman, the bullet chipping a chunk out of her right shoulder.

Two more rounds tear at the woman, the first takes her arm off at the elbow and the second leaves the muscle of her calf hanging exposed the rising winds. Even now the tattered woman continues her slow and broken advance. The damage seemingly unnoticed, only slowing her second step. Nothing he did phased her. The words echo in his mind, screaming louder and louder. His scope settles on the woman's face. Her horrible horrible face. She was coming. Nothing he could do could stop her. She was coming for him. To make him like her.

The rifle rounds towards the man, his finger hovering over the trigger as his eyes watching the shade advance. There was only one escape. One way to escape the fate she pro-offered. The muzzle of the rifle was cold to the touch and fitted nicely in the hollow beneath his chin. His eyes close as his finger wraps around the trigger...

The sound of howling winds disappears as a sudden sense of ease floods through him. Opening his eyes, he finds himself alone at the range. The target down range sported four holes where the man: chest, shoulder, arm and leg. The phantom within his mind had retreated once more, leaving only the future that almost was in the wake. Shifting the rifle from the compromising position, he shoulders the weapon and sends the final round through the middle of the targets forehead.

Center of mass be damned. As the Commander said, he's not in the army anymore.

Replacing a new magazine into the rifle, he cleans and stores the weapon before leaving the range. Strolling the halls once more, he sets about his search for Bree. He'd try the gym first, that was about as good of a place to start as any. From that point, well aimlessly wandering was the greatest of all search patterns, right?

[Verdana]

[Beautiful. Really.]

Shaygrin listened to Malberry leave. She traced his path in her mind, watching him wander out of her Hallway of Daunting and into the populated belly of their new HQ. She pursed her lips and sighed, her right hand resting against her temple. In the back of her mind, a pressure began to solidify. Shay had long become used to this. She had been expecting it. The presence slid into place, watching through her eyes, listening with her ears, but leaving her in control of the body.
It is suitable, it said, after examining Shay's memories of Malberry thoroughly. It spoke with no voice of its own, but rather millions of voices from millions of times, all together and slightly discordant. Shay huffed, almost indignantly.
Of course he is, she said aloud, affronted.
I wouldn't have chosen him if he was not.

...

Bree's day started early and ended late, and ran with the clockwork uniformity seen only in the very busy or the quite insane.

Every morning, she was awake by four and showered and dressed by half past. She ate breakfast alone (except on Saturdays, when her mother forced her to have breakfast with the dysfunctional and bizarre 'family' who, fortunately, were up as early as she was) and waited around long enough to scarf down a vast quantity of food, store some more in her pockets, and eavesdrop on any passing gossip.
By then, it was nearing half past five, and she was off to assign jobs. Assassins were usually coming in at this time, and she would assess their strength and analyse how best to group teams and run hierarchy. Bree loved this part of the day, because it was about patterns, and she was very good at it. She often wondered how her mother had done it without her.

After this, it was usually about nine o'clock, and she would start her own training. This took place in a variety of areas, and targeted a vast number of skills. She worked solidly on her own development from nine to two, with a break at eleven for a gargantuan lunch.

It was this developmental training which Bree was taking part in at roughly half past twelve. After lengthy target practice (which she didn't need) and theory (which, admittedly, she did) she had taken sanctuary in the less-populated of the Wren's two gyms. This one was smaller, and did not have the impressive new simulation centre which Ty had set up, but it served Bree's purposes just fine. She liked to work alone. She did not enjoy being watched. She didn't even like to practice unarmed combat with other assassins. She stretched out, easing the kinks out of muscles which did not get nearly enough sleep. She had not changed her clothes, on the basis that, in a crisis, she wouldn't be able to ask the enemy to just stop for a second so that she could put on something more elastic. Her clothes resisted the bend of her body, but it was not unbearable.

She would cope. She would always cope.

She started her music player. It was a remarkable little machine. Ty had made it for her. It was wireless, so she could leave it on a bench while she pushed her young body to the extremes, and if she wanted to change track, she merely had to give her head a decisive tip to the right for forward and left for back. It was one of the presents she had most enjoyed receiving from him. Her mother had once made the mistake of telling Ty that handmade gifts were often better than something expensive. Ty had taken this to heart, and resolved never to buy a gift ever again. This had led Bree to receive a mucus retriever (don't ask), the prototype pear gun (painful, and she'd smelled like dessert for weeks) and a singing pair of jeans which, unfortunately, had fitted perfectly. She'd had to wear them at least once. Being cruel to Ty was like trying to drown a particularly stupid rabbit.

However, sometimes he got it right. Like in the case of the music player or, in fact, her new gun. She traced it lovingly with one finger. It was more silent than a weapon could be, with various bullet settings and a kick like a mule. She'd blown two of the targets to smithereens. She loved it to bits. She clipped it onto her waist, holstered and extra gun across her back, and placed several knives about her person. Only then did she feel remotely ready.

She set her music player to the Chicago sound track. Everyone had their guilty pleasures. Bree's happened to be Broadway musicals. With the Cellblock Tango playing in her ears, blocking out all other sound, she straightened, began to run, and leapt, her thin, long-fingered hands effortlessly gripping the gymnastics bar. Unpowdered, her skin pulled painfully against the worn wood. She sucked in a breath, and pulled herself onto the thin surface.
It's a gutter, she thought, And below me are eight enemy assassins. No time to feel pain. Draw your gun with one hand. That's it. Balance with the other. Scout them out. Where have they taken cover?

And so her own private simulation began.

[Derelict Draught]

Marcus stands outside of the smaller of the two gyms. The first had been a bust, the room had been bustling with activity but even drawing near he knew the girl he sought to be absent. The men were rowdy and the room wreaked of numerous odors, more than a little uncomfortable for the girl. On top of that, he could hear the men talking about the various women they worked alongside which they would not have risked if a female had been actively present. Even so, he had taken a moment to step inside and evaluate them. See some human faces for a change.

A few words pass between him and the men who recognized him though nothing of importance was exchanged. Slipping out once more after turning down a few challenges, he made his way into the quieter area of the headquarters, savoring the sound of a lone trainee. Sliding inside, he examines the unused equipment in comparison to that bustling activity of the larger gym. The equipment was clean, much better than the sweaty oily surfaces of the other gym.

Sitting on one of the benches not far from the girl, he traces the various bandages that still remained hidden beneath his garments. Small movements flex his muscles to test their sensitivity and the remaining damage to the tendons connecting the new and old tissues. Satisfied that his body would withstand the rigor, he begins the training regimen he'd been expanding since he'd begun his recovery.

His movements remain slow and reluctant, his mind more concerned with the tension on his wounds than the stinging sensation that echoed throughout his body. The pain was a good thing as far as he concerned. If he hurt, then he was still alive. His movements gain momentum exponentially growing in both complexity and speed as his anticipated limits grow. Throughout these movements, he tracks the sound of the girl's movements, keeping himself clear of her path until he was ready.

A sharp change of direction puts him directly in the girl's kill zone. His eyes break the invisible veil curtain he had placed within his mind, locking on her with a challenge. This would be the best way to deliver the message. Giving his body a much needed test, one that he could measure more accurately than the repeated exercises could be trusted to and at the same time giving Bree an outlet for her irritation. His stance shifts in anticipation of his opponent's arrival.