"You're not my daughter, today."
Seventeen years old, young, strong, augmented not four months ago. Iola stood at the other end of the Freelancer courtyard, opposite her opponent. It had been cleared for today.
Her father cracked his fluid, scarred knuckles. His right eye was bound by a patch.
He gave ALL of his students this handicap. It was Freelancer tradition for nearly twenty years. This Rite had remained standard ever since the Spartan Colin betrayed his peers.
New blood needed to be filtered. Broken down. Tested by fire.
That's where Iola's father came in. He'd known Colin to be a bad egg from the beginning. It was his responsibility.
"You know what you have to do, child. You either take down your opponent, or you go back to class for a year." Agent Nine, tough, powerful, and in his prime.
Her father, in many ways, had been her most powerful friend, save for her mother, since the day of her birth. He held her. Carried her. Gave her a goal to follow.
Taught her to be patient. Kind. Balanced.
But Nine saw no love in her eyes. Simply the hard, competitive, fearful look that he beat into all of his students.
"Got anything to say, kid?" Nine cracked his neck, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His shadow was long over her.
Iola smiled an easy going smirk, opening her hands like sharp blades, holding them before her as she dipped into a fighting stance.
"What're my odds?"
Nine grinned maliciously.
"You're fucked."
Nine began his approach. His evil grin didn't fade. He'd learned the hard, angry look from Blaine himself.
It was a look that made Iola's blood boil. That took her off balance.
Oh, you stupid little girl.
Iola felt her father's hateful power bearing down on her. She felt her legs tremble for an instant.
Then came the power of anger and entitlement she never expected. The joints in her hands popped as they formed angry claws. How DARE you give me that look.
Then came her battlecry.
"YOU WANT SUMMA THIS!!!"
She moved in, hard and fast and low. Nine was stronger than she'd ever be, but she had speed. Flexibility. Stamina.
Her youth, and the courage she'd inherited from her father and mother, were her weapons more than her fists.
Blows echoed. Iola fell away first, Nine's fist putting a rivet in her forehead. She came back for more, her foot kicking up grass as she swung a hard, low kick.
Nine moved like water. His blocks stopped her attacks cold like the trunk of an obstinate, hateful tree.
Iola watched his muscles shift. She knew moving to his blind side would only enrage him. She needed to fight smart, not dirty.
She saw her opening, as he shifted back to avoid her clawed, striking hand. She went for his throat with her free hand.
Nine swung the blunt end of his hand, striking her wrist. She felt her light skin turn red as fire with pain.
But she didn't back down. She snatched at his throat again, this time striking. Leaving three stinging bruises with her iron-like fingers.
She swung her knee into his gut.
He held his ground, his body flexing. Thick and powerful, TOUGHER than he ever was in his twenties, he took the full force of the younger Spartan's blow with gusto.
"That was SOLID." Nine spat. He pistoned his forehead forward, striking her in the face with a brutal headbutt.
Iola wiped her mouth, no pain of fear showing in her eyes.
She saw another opening.
He's not stronger than me. He's just DIFFERENT. I can WIN.
She dropped to her back, swinging her knees. Nine's legs were tangled by the strange, breakdancing series of sweeps, driven to the ground.
Iola had practiced capoeira for years.
She pounced, once again going for the vitals. Throat. Face. She didn't have the heart to gouge out her father's only good eye.
Nine's arms were longer. They found her throat as the two struggled. His hands tightened, as he pinned her down, throttling her neck.
She pried at his thumbs. No give.
...Dammit... Iola stared at Nine with pure anger and dismay.
By pure reflex, she brought her knee up. His gut, already tender from her last blow, spasmed in pain.
His hands loosened.
She broke free and headbutted Nine's nose, right between his eyes.
She swung her hands, striking his neck and collerbone. She snaked free, and leaped onto his back.
Her arm wrapped around his throat. She stomped the back of his knee.
Nine pulverized her stomach with his elbows. He clawed at her arms.
It was a cub choking a bear.
But she had stamina. Youth. Energy.
And she'd learned more from Nine than he'd taught.
She had a duty. She HAD to win. She NEEDED to be in the field. To have her armor.
To be like him, she needed to ENDURE him.
Nine's blows softened, as her grip tightened.
Soon, Nine was exclusively targeting her arm, clawing and pulling at it.
Blood dripped down her face. Her stomach was bruised to hell. Her neck was covered in spotted, hand shaped bruises from Nine's death grip.
But Nine was defeated. His left eye rolled back, and he fell forward, unconscious.
Iola stood over her defeated teacher.
She threw back her head.
"IIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE WWWWWWWWWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN"
Iola lifted her fists, tears streaming down her face. "I WIN! I FUCKING WIN!!!"
Nine slowly raised himself to his feet, rubbing his neck.
"...Yup." Nine turned back to her, and she leaped back in fear, expecting another attack.
Iola realized with creeping terror that she was incredibly tired. Damaged. Nine barely had a scratch.
She'd failed to permanently damage him in any way.
He could simply KILL her now.
"Well, Agent Eighty-One, you passed."
Iola lowered her guard, sniffling. "...Yeah...still have a lot to learn though, huh?"
Nine threw out his arms, and stepped forward, embracing her in a hug.
"Yeah. But hell, I still did at your age."
Seventeen years old, young, strong, augmented not four months ago. Iola stood at the other end of the Freelancer courtyard, opposite her opponent. It had been cleared for today.
Her father cracked his fluid, scarred knuckles. His right eye was bound by a patch.
He gave ALL of his students this handicap. It was Freelancer tradition for nearly twenty years. This Rite had remained standard ever since the Spartan Colin betrayed his peers.
New blood needed to be filtered. Broken down. Tested by fire.
That's where Iola's father came in. He'd known Colin to be a bad egg from the beginning. It was his responsibility.
"You know what you have to do, child. You either take down your opponent, or you go back to class for a year." Agent Nine, tough, powerful, and in his prime.
Her father, in many ways, had been her most powerful friend, save for her mother, since the day of her birth. He held her. Carried her. Gave her a goal to follow.
Taught her to be patient. Kind. Balanced.
But Nine saw no love in her eyes. Simply the hard, competitive, fearful look that he beat into all of his students.
"Got anything to say, kid?" Nine cracked his neck, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His shadow was long over her.
Iola smiled an easy going smirk, opening her hands like sharp blades, holding them before her as she dipped into a fighting stance.
"What're my odds?"
Nine grinned maliciously.
"You're fucked."
Nine began his approach. His evil grin didn't fade. He'd learned the hard, angry look from Blaine himself.
It was a look that made Iola's blood boil. That took her off balance.
Oh, you stupid little girl.
Iola felt her father's hateful power bearing down on her. She felt her legs tremble for an instant.
Then came the power of anger and entitlement she never expected. The joints in her hands popped as they formed angry claws. How DARE you give me that look.
Then came her battlecry.
"YOU WANT SUMMA THIS!!!"
She moved in, hard and fast and low. Nine was stronger than she'd ever be, but she had speed. Flexibility. Stamina.
Her youth, and the courage she'd inherited from her father and mother, were her weapons more than her fists.
Blows echoed. Iola fell away first, Nine's fist putting a rivet in her forehead. She came back for more, her foot kicking up grass as she swung a hard, low kick.
Nine moved like water. His blocks stopped her attacks cold like the trunk of an obstinate, hateful tree.
Iola watched his muscles shift. She knew moving to his blind side would only enrage him. She needed to fight smart, not dirty.
She saw her opening, as he shifted back to avoid her clawed, striking hand. She went for his throat with her free hand.
Nine swung the blunt end of his hand, striking her wrist. She felt her light skin turn red as fire with pain.
But she didn't back down. She snatched at his throat again, this time striking. Leaving three stinging bruises with her iron-like fingers.
She swung her knee into his gut.
He held his ground, his body flexing. Thick and powerful, TOUGHER than he ever was in his twenties, he took the full force of the younger Spartan's blow with gusto.
"That was SOLID." Nine spat. He pistoned his forehead forward, striking her in the face with a brutal headbutt.
Iola wiped her mouth, no pain of fear showing in her eyes.
She saw another opening.
He's not stronger than me. He's just DIFFERENT. I can WIN.
She dropped to her back, swinging her knees. Nine's legs were tangled by the strange, breakdancing series of sweeps, driven to the ground.
Iola had practiced capoeira for years.
She pounced, once again going for the vitals. Throat. Face. She didn't have the heart to gouge out her father's only good eye.
Nine's arms were longer. They found her throat as the two struggled. His hands tightened, as he pinned her down, throttling her neck.
She pried at his thumbs. No give.
...Dammit... Iola stared at Nine with pure anger and dismay.
By pure reflex, she brought her knee up. His gut, already tender from her last blow, spasmed in pain.
His hands loosened.
She broke free and headbutted Nine's nose, right between his eyes.
She swung her hands, striking his neck and collerbone. She snaked free, and leaped onto his back.
Her arm wrapped around his throat. She stomped the back of his knee.
Nine pulverized her stomach with his elbows. He clawed at her arms.
It was a cub choking a bear.
But she had stamina. Youth. Energy.
And she'd learned more from Nine than he'd taught.
She had a duty. She HAD to win. She NEEDED to be in the field. To have her armor.
To be like him, she needed to ENDURE him.
Nine's blows softened, as her grip tightened.
Soon, Nine was exclusively targeting her arm, clawing and pulling at it.
Blood dripped down her face. Her stomach was bruised to hell. Her neck was covered in spotted, hand shaped bruises from Nine's death grip.
But Nine was defeated. His left eye rolled back, and he fell forward, unconscious.
Iola stood over her defeated teacher.
She threw back her head.
"IIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE WWWWWWWWWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN"
Iola lifted her fists, tears streaming down her face. "I WIN! I FUCKING WIN!!!"
Nine slowly raised himself to his feet, rubbing his neck.
"...Yup." Nine turned back to her, and she leaped back in fear, expecting another attack.
Iola realized with creeping terror that she was incredibly tired. Damaged. Nine barely had a scratch.
She'd failed to permanently damage him in any way.
He could simply KILL her now.
"Well, Agent Eighty-One, you passed."
Iola lowered her guard, sniffling. "...Yeah...still have a lot to learn though, huh?"
Nine threw out his arms, and stepped forward, embracing her in a hug.
"Yeah. But hell, I still did at your age."
Last edited by Bad John on February 26th 2013, 12:22 am; edited 1 time in total