Watching Sophia step forward, trying to mask her movement with a half-step, I realize her level is far below Glory Girl's. Well... that's understandable. Sophia is a Ward—she lives and trains under a thousand restrictions, instructions, and safety protocols. I doubt the PRT can afford the best instructor; it's probably some retired special forces sergeant, maybe Green Berets or Navy SEALs, and those guys have their own approach to hand-to-hand combat. They see martial arts more as a way to develop endurance and readiness for conflict—there's no high art here, and there can't be. For a Green Beret soldier or SEAL operator to engage in hand-to-hand combat, they'd first have to consecutively lose their assault rifle, pistol, knife, and all their last-resort weapons... and of course find an equally stupid opponent on the battlefield.
In the eyes of such specialists, the art of one-on-one unarmed combat has no particular practical value. So no one's going to bother with serious training. They gave Sophia basic strikes and movements, and she makes up the rest with natural aggression, physical strength, and paranormal abilities.
Sophia fires her first punch with her left hand and immediately follows with her right, not realizing I've shifted away from her strike. I moved deliberately far—practically a full step to the side, ending up beside her. She seems slow and predictable to me, like a fly in syrup. Looking at her, I understand why I don't want to kill or fight her. When I faced Glory Girl, I felt challenged. Against Lung and Butcher—mortal danger. Here, there's neither.
Sophia turns her whole body toward me, and I note that she's falling onto her left foot. They didn't teach her to "float like a butterfly"—she's heavy on her feet and in maneuvering. She's on our track team, but dancing and running are different things.
I watch her, tilting my head. If I understand her correctly... yes, there it is. A hand strike that I easily deflect with my palm, and immediately—pulling her right leg to her left—she shoots forward with her left, driving a straight kick toward my stomach. Well... she thinks she's "shooting." I block this attack too. Standard two-piece combo. No follow-up attack, no battle plan—pure aggression and strength. Of course, you shouldn't underestimate aggression and strength, because that's usually enough. But not against an opponent who's stronger and more experienced. In my case—also with combat precognition and perfect body control.
Sophia snarls and lunges at me. Her strikes become increasingly wild, she's no longer controlling her stance, falling into her swings. The tactician in my head lazily notes her mistakes, showing how and what could be done. Here—catch her on a counter, just step forward and present an elbow, strike, break her nose. There—catch her arm on the return and break the elbow joint against the bend. Here—a knee strike to remind Sophia that "Kneecaps Are A Privilege." There's a lot I could do to Sophia, but I'm already losing interest. Because I can. I can do all this and more. She's no longer scary to me... she hasn't been scary since the moment I woke up in the hospital under an IV, but I understood that intellectually. My body, however, would tense up and release adrenaline every time at the sound of her laughter or that "Hey, Hebert, get over here, you tall four-eyed freak!" But now even my body, my subconscious, understands that Sophia Hess is no match for me. On any level. As they said in one movie: "Only if they tied my hands and blindfolded me... though even then—no."
I should really go to Tattletale, check on Bakuda and what they're up to, but leaving Sophia like this won't do either. After all, she asked for this lesson herself. If I dropped the mask right now... figuratively speaking, that is, actually called insects to cover my face and showed that I'm Butcher Fifteen, the pedagogical effect would certainly be achieved. But I don't just want to scare her—I want to show her that all her efforts are futile. Show the difference between us. And also refute her stupid philosophy, all this "predators and prey" nonsense. I don't just want to beat her up or scare her—I want to prove my point, defeat her in argument, not in a fight. Because in a fight, she has no chance. So first I need to show her this.
I leap to the side. Sophia stays in place, watching me with narrowed eyes and breathing heavily. Yes, I know—endurance in hand-to-hand combat requires something completely different than running, and she went all out in those few seconds.
"What's this, Sophia?" I say, shaking my head. "And here I was afraid of you. Thought you knew something."
"Shut up," she snaps and lunges into attack. I deflect the straight punch with my palm, block it, use the same hand to redirect another strike, present the base of my palm to meet her shin when she tries to strike from below. I turn sideways to her, hide my hand behind my back like a fencer. I deflect strikes, redirect them, while standing in place, not moving an inch. Pure defense. Strikes rain down like hail, Sophia's fury gives her strength, she snarls, baring her white teeth in a grimace.
Finally she tries powerful strikes, now almost right up against me. I simply stop the elbow strike to my head—stop it by pressing my palm against her forearm. Raising my leg, I deflect the knee strike to my stomach. I lower my leg next to Sophia's foot, present my knee, pressing it against her knee from the opposite side and lean forward with my whole body, shifting my center of gravity and...
Sophia falls to the ground and rolls. The technique is called "snake leg," and under normal conditions I probably couldn't have pulled it off. However, against Sophia with my clear advantage, I could not only execute "snake leg"—I could start using professional wrestling moves, all those "drive head into ground" and "drop ass on opponent's face" techniques. I can do whatever I want with her, and please stop advising me to "twist her nipples," I send the thought to my Butchers.
"You..." Sophia exhales, struggling to get up from the ground. Her chest heaves as she greedily gulps air. No wonder—working at that pace, lungs aren't made of iron.
"Hebert..." she says, falls silent, gasping, and shakes her head.
"Oh, so I'm back to last names? Lost your first-name privileges?" I say. "What a shame."
"What the... who are you anyway?" she starts to say, but I don't let her finish. If she figures it out herself now, the pedagogical effect will be lost. So...
"Who am I?" Step forward and strike! More like a push—I don't want to cripple her, don't want pain to interfere with her listening to me, but I can't let her think either. Base of palm, not to the chest but to the shoulder, but it's enough—Sophia flies sideways! Rolls head over heels on the ground. Struggles there heavily, gets on all fours, raises her head, searching for me.
"Who are you, Sophia?" I ask, walking toward her. "What kind of idiotic philosophy do you have, and why the hell do you think you can interfere in my life with your lessons? Huh?" I'm beside her and slap her across the face. Her head snaps to the side, she gasps and grabs her cheek.
"Get up, Sophia. Get up, pull yourself together. You wanted to teach me a lesson? Here I am—teach away. Sensei Sophia..." She gets to her feet and wipes the blood running from her split lip, opens her mouth to speak, but I hit her in the face again, and she rolls on the ground again, collecting dust on her fashionable short jacket.
"Oh no, Sophia. You talked. Now I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. Understood?!" She sits on the ground and looks at me with disbelief.
"You... how?! Bitch, wait!" She gets to her feet and raises her hands, taking a stance. Her knees are shaking—she's not a Brute classification like Glory Girl. She's already taken damage—a push that sent her flying several meters, and now her arm hangs limply. Two slaps... probably ensured a concussion. I was holding back my strength, but now I see I need to hit even lighter, or Sophia will be finished quickly. And I'm just getting started. But in any case, Sophia Hess isn't going to give up—she won't cry or beg for mercy. Though... I could make her.
"I think I said be quiet. Didn't you hear?!" In an instant I'm beside her, her pupils dilate, but she can't do anything, she's thrown aside and... she disappears! The tactician in my head wails like a siren, red lights seem to flash, and I instinctively pull my phone from my pocket and throw it where Sophia was a split second ago, having forgotten everything and used her ability.
Flash! Sophia tumbles out of the air, falling to the ground with a sound like raw meat slapping onto a cutting board. Splat. She falls without trying to soften the impact, put out her hands, turn, or even tense her body before impact. She's unconscious. Or dead? Shit. Another Butcher victim, this time a young Ward—tomorrow all the papers will run that headline.
I run to her, lean down. She's breathing, thank God. My phone lies nearby. Battery level—zero. And it had been at ninety-seven percent.
"The bitch reacts to electricity. Her body conducts energy even in ghost state," Tok helpfully informs me. "Now you know how to neutralize her only trump card."
"Wrap her in Christmas lights and plug her into the wall. Rape and devour," one of the Butchers advises.
"Why won't you stay in the pillbugs?" I ask. "Everything was fine."
"Who wants to sit in a pillbug when you're about to twist Shadow Stalker's nipples?" Pestilence reasonably notes. "When you're sleeping or sitting in class, it's better to wait it out in a cockroach, but when there's action like this..."
"I'm not going to twist anything."
"Shame. Think about it, think. The bitch bullied you at school and even made up justifications for herself. And when things got tough, she wanted to escape in ghost form. Confident creature. If you let her go now... there could be problems," Pestilence says. "Not that I care."
"Whatever," the First Butcher interjects. "Do what you want with her. This girl doesn't even interest me. Kill her and let's get out of here to the store—buy new tablets."
"It seems to me, gentlemen, that you're exploiting me..." I look at Sophia, calling on the powers of the Butcher who could control and see blood. Judging by the picture, Sophia is having a rough time. And I'm not finished with her yet. I should have modulated my strength—this isn't Glory Girl. On the other hand, most of the damage was done by my phone's instantly discharged battery.
I sit down next to the unconscious Sophia and look at her, experiencing conflicted feelings. On one hand, she deserves it, and I could have twisted her head off entirely. On the other hand... I don't have any anger toward her now. No anger, no hatred, nothing. There's pity. And not because she's lying here beaten up, but because her head is full of garbage.
I get up and go toward where her backpack lies. I take it, open it. I grab her phone and head back. On the way back, in the bombed-out wheelhouse of some tugboat lying on its side, I rip out a bundle of wires. Tok in my head is practically jumping with joy—tinker time!
"Take this wire," he advises. "Need less resistance. We won't short-circuit directly, let's set it up like this... and in the middle—a bracelet. On her arm, so if she wakes up and wants to go into ghost state, she'll get such an electric shock her shoes would fly off. Yes, this red one. And take the blue one, strip the sheathing. Too bad we don't have my tools. I'm t-telling you, we can create not just handcuffs, but a behavior modification module. Wait! I can build mechanical insects! No, stop. Y-you can't control them... Oh! Mechanisms that your insects can control! That's it! Uh... for starters—metal spiders! Based on clockwork mechanisms, they're self-winding, can be autonomous. Or a reactor for absorbing protein mass—fill it with insects and you have fuel. You have s-size problems, so why didn't you come to me? Flying drones, crawling ones, jumping ones, with shaped charges, fragmentation-explosive and non-lethal ammunition—from rubber bullets to electric shock. And yes, a chainsaw, of course."
"Seriously?" I pictured an army of metal spiders, flying drones, and walking robots with machine guns. And here I am struggling to breed larger insects!
"Of course. T-tinkers are the elite among capes. Other capes, they're... n-n-not so flexible. Take and break. Only tinkers c-c-create! Listen, I can make you a flying suit. Or just transport, like an air motorcycle or car. Could do a jetpack, but..."
"Well then I'd rather have a motorcycle. Or even a car. With climate control."
"Need lots of parts. And a car. A good one. Two of them. And a workshop. A shop with equipment. First I'll build an assistant with your hands, then you can leave me a cockroach and I'll do everything else myself through it—you won't even need to be distracted." Tok got excited, even forgot he stutters. Makes sense—he doesn't have a body anymore, his stutter is in his subconscious, and when he forgets about it, it's not there.
Meanwhile, my hands under Tok's control quickly assembled a necklace of wires, attached it to Sophia's phone, and put it around her neck. I slipped the phone into her pocket. Admired my handiwork. And now...
"Don't you dare! You hear me!" the First Butcher's voice warns me. "Don't even think about it! Just forget it!"
"Come on, Taylor, do it!" Quarrel eggs me on. "Come on! I want to see this!"
"You don't understand, you idiot!" Butcher snarls. "There are restrictions! It's not just..."
"Taylor, really..." Edward starts to say, but I've already gathered saliva in my mouth and spat right in Sophia's face.
"Well, that's it, four-eyes, you're dead," Butcher says. "No one should know that Butcher can heal, you fool."
"What's the big deal?" I shrug. "Spit and rub it in. God, I could spit on people all day. And not just people. On objects of the material world and philosophical teachings, especially flawed ones like this athlete's. Just with saliva from dawn to dusk."
I look down at Sophia. Nothing changes. She's still in very bad shape. Butcher's saliva doesn't work? Edward couldn't have deceived me like that—I don't believe it.
"You don't understand," Butcher sighs somewhere deep inside. "As soon as saliva separates from the tongue, it loses its properties."
"What?!"
"You won't be spitting on people all day—you'll be licking them. How did you put it—objects of the material world and philosophical teachings? You'll be licking those too. Do you need that? Better that the world doesn't learn about this ability, four-eyes. Butcher can be crazy, can be scary. Can even be stupid—look at Quarrel."
"Hey!"
"But Butcher can't be ridiculous. And a Butcher who licks girls on the streets is a laughingstock. Material for funny memes. After that, my reputation would collapse. So don't even think about it."
"Look at that, I found something to blackmail you with," I tell Butcher. "But don't worry. I won't be sticking my tongue in Sophia Hess or licking her. Whatever Pestilence says."
"I would have watched that," Pestilence interjects. "Why not? At least some entertainment, since you kicked me into a pillbug and left me out in the cold. Mine was hungry and weak too... probably sick."
"Sorry, you get what you get," I shrug. "When am I supposed to sort pillbugs for you?"
"I've got it!" Tok exclaims. "Gravity suit! Well—shorts. Uh... yes—flying shorts!"
"And while we don't have flying shorts, how do I drag this lady to my lair to use her for her intended purpose, continue the lecture on eternal topics?" I wonder. "Any ideas? I'm not walking through the city with her on my shoulder."
"Call your friend," the Butcher suggests. "Open her backpack, dump her things out, and pull it over her head instead of a hood. That way, if she wakes up, she won't know where she is. Torture requires preparation—strip her naked, tie her to a chair or a bed, and blindfold her. Plug her ears, too. Then leave her like that for a couple of hours. A gag would be good, but her nose is busted and swelling—she'd suffocate. Ideally, she'll wet herself by then… that'll make her even more vulnerable. Oh, and the basement should be cool, not warm. Around sixty to sixty-five degrees."
"Damn, you really know your stuff," I say. "Only problem—where the hell am I gonna get a phone? Hers got wrecked when I choked her with that necklace, keeps her from going ghost. And mine's dead—I drained it blasting her."
"Ask our tech genius over here… if he doesn't know how to charge a phone, then I—"
"Of course I know," the tech guy cuts in. "We just add another element to the circuit and charge it directly from her phone. Watch…"
And once again, my hands move on their own.