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Disclaimer. Disclaimed. But since it is my writing and character stylization, some reviews will be appreciated. Reviewers will recieve virtual sugar cookies. How about cake? everyone likes cake, right? I'm told I do a mean virtual upside down pinapple cake.
Gregor sighed as he looked at the schedule for this month; June. Why did the higher-ups always assign him 'the park'? Not that he should complain. It was a fairly easy beat. But it brought back memories that he liked to avoid. Maybe he could ask them to change it? No, it wouldn't work and he'd have to give a reason. Besides, somebody might start to wonder why he didn't ever want it and Gregor didn't like to have to make up stories. He'd just have to take it and hope for a slightly different beat next time.
He was also doing refresher training with the second year men, he noted. Assistant tirainer. Well, that's always fun. Maybe Sergeant Franck will let me use my own routine this time? It is more efficient than the normal routine. They use it in-in that other place, after all, where people fight for their lives every day and still manage to stay alive. Ripred uses it, taught me some of it, and I have modified the basic moves for batons instead of swords. It hadnt been difficult, once he remembered that he didnt have to twist his weapon so that he was parrying with the flat and striking with the edge anymore.
But Sergeant Franck did not approve of Gregor's unconventional methods. He allowed him to teach the more advanced trainees, because, after all, there was nobody better with a baton than Gregor, but he believed that the normal routine would suffice for the less skilled. It had worked for years after all, been improved and precedented by decades of traning. How could Gregor, a talented young man, yes, but still just a kid off of the street, hope to better it?
Of course, my routine's been used and improved by the best fighters of that other place for far longer than the NYPD has existed, but it's not like I can tell him that, can I? What would I say? "Look, Sarge, I know that this routine sounds revolutionary, but really, it's proven and tested. No, not by me, by a forgotten race of people who live in huge caverns under New York. Yes. They were brought there years ago by a man named Sandwich, kind of a nutjob really, and they've been living there, undetected, since. No, I havent been smoking or sniffing anything odd recently. No, you can't see them, the tunnel I use to get down there kind of collapsed ten years ago. Gregor chuckled slightly at his mental image of Sergeant Franck's incredulous face. And then he could take me off of active duty until I 'feel better.' Visit a few psychiatrists.
Gregor snorted. That might not be fun- he'd barely made it through the psychological exam required to get the job. He wondered how he might fare with the psycho-analyst already firmly convinced of his instability. Probably not very well. That was one thing that he hated about this job. He didn't object to the fact that they didn't want crazy people on the force . He had met the Bane, after all. What he objected to was the fact that he was considered a crazy person. It was annoying, trying to guess the correct answers to their questions without the shrinks figuring out what he was doing.
Well, he didn't have to worry about work right now. It was finally Saturday, he hadn't pulled overtime, and his fencing club was holding its bi-monthly meeting. Time to relax and get out of the apartment.
He lifted his sword from its rack. It was beautiful.
The sword was not made in the style of most newer swords, but in an older style, the same style as Sandwich's sword had been. He had snapped that one of course, claiming, and fully believing, that he would never lift a sword again. But he had soon found that swordplay calmed him, serving as a release for anger and frustration. So he had spent his first year's savings on a custom-made sword.
He hadn't named it. It was a tool, a chunk of metal, a focus, something to be used to control his inner rager, not a memento or a had seen what that could lead to. If a weapon meant something important to you, fighting would become important to you as well. Gregor would never again allow fighting to become important to him in that way. Instead, he used this weapon to conquer himself.
Still, Gregor liked his sword. It was pretty and he had worked hard for it. So he smiled, testing the weight and balance, before placing it carefully in its leather case and slinging it across his back. Then he left, locking the door behind him securely. Time to have some fun.
Thanks for reading. Thanks even more for reviewing. After this, updates are going to come a lot slower. I did not prewrite this story, so figure three days to write a chapter and one day to upload it. (The cut-and-paste thing doesn't work without an external keyboard, so I, a very slow typer naturally, have a lot of work to do. This took me two hours. Though it only took me half an hour to write it on my word processor. . The fanfiction document thing really stinks.) Repay me for my hard work. Review!