It was just after seven in the morning at the Kent Farm as the cows trudged happily from the barn, eager to begin grazing in the fields after having been milked. A few seconds later, Linda blurred out the barn doors over to the henhouse; the chickens squawked and scattered out of the way as she quickly gathered eggs and scattered chicken feed on the ground, waiting until Linda had left before venturing out to get their breakfast.
Inside the kitchen, Linda washed the eggs before putting them in the fridge. She glanced around the house, walking from room to room—checking to make sure she had finished all her chores and the house was still neat and tidy; having been fed earlier and very satiated, both Streaky and Krypto lounged on the couch, dozing. Satisfied, she made her way into the kitchen to fix herself some breakfast and stopped short when she saw Jimmy's jacket draped on one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
The teenager tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows, confused; she hadn't seen it the previous night before going to bed or even that morning when she came down. Shrugging to herself, she pulled her phone out and dialed Jimmy's number. She frowned slightly as it immediately went over to voicemail:
"Hey, it's Jimmy Olsen," she heard. "Leave a message; thanks."
Linda waited for the tone. "Hey, it's Linda," she said. "Sorry to call so early, but you left your jacket in the kitchen. Give me a call so we can figure out how to get it to you." She hung up and glanced at the wall clock; J'onn wasn't scheduled to arrive for their weekly meeting for almost two hours. The young girl blurred around the kitchen, making and eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich with orange juice in less than three seconds; it took another two seconds for her to clean all the dishes and put everything away.
Once completed, she zoomed upstairs and drew a hot bath, spending the next hour soaking in the tub; as she lounged, her thoughts wandered back to the previous night, remembering the words that Jimmy had told her before leaving: 'as you wish.' Sighing softly, she found herself smiling as she sunk below the surface of the water, absentmindedly picturing Jimmy dressed in black and fighting off a horde of R.O.U.S.s with nothing but a sword, a charming smile, and the occasional dry quip.
The air was thick and rank, smelling like a public toilet that hadn't been cleaned in weeks, the large, cavern-like room dimly lit by hanging lights; a large white circle in the center of the room was flanked on three sides by a few rows of wooden benches, arranged stadium style; almost every available space was crammed with young men, ranging from mid-teens to early twenties. All were dressed in various medieval and cosplay garb, and they cheered and hollered at the two combatants standing inside the ring.
The first was a young man in his early twenties, tall with dark hair, eyes, and a bit of facial scruff, dressed in a costume that gave him the appearance of Robb Stark from Game of Thrones; he stood still, shoulders squared, facing his opponent. Jimmy stood at the opposite end of the ring, fully dressed in his costume, trying to convince himself that what he was doing wasn't completely idiotic.
"Combatants, ready yourselves!" a young man, dressed completely in black—tunic, trousers, belt, and boots—shouted as he stood next to the ring. The fighters gripped the hilts of their swords and pulled them from their sheaths; they narrowed their eyes as they held their weapons and assumed fighting stances. "Fight!"
Jimmy just stood there, holding his ground, his eyes fixed on the Stark wannabe as he charged, sword upheld. He swung hard at Jimmy, who brought his own sword up to block; the two blades met, metal clanging loudly. The teenager pushed back with his weight before throwing a kick to Stark's stomach; Stark stumbled and staggered, but recovered quickly, growling and looking more determined to best his opponent. The two circled each other for a few moments, their eyes locked on each other, as the crowd's cheers echo loudly, before Stark took another shot. Jimmy couldn't bring his sword up to block in time and only just managed to dive out of the way; he felt the tip of Stark's sword tear the sleeve of his shirt as he tumbled and quickly got to his feet, still holding his blade.
Jimmy stared at Stark, who smirked at him before turning left and swinging his sword at the teenager; Jimmy managed to parry. He pushed forward, swinging at Stark with a number of attacks, driving Stark backward. Emboldened by a fresh rush of adrenaline and the fear he saw in his rival's eyes, the teenager pounded at Stark with a number of attacks, pouring on swing after swing. He shouted loudly and swung his blade down with all his strength, striking Stark's sword with such a force that it was knocked from his hands; it clattered to the ground.
Stark tried reaching for his sword, but the blade thrust against his throat; the young man kept his hands out as he slowly got to his feet and glanced over at Jimmy. The teenager smirked as he held his sword against Stark's neck.
"Give?" Jimmy asked.
Stark sighed and furrowed his eyebrows slightly. "Give," he replied reluctantly.
The crowd erupted into loud cheers, and Jimmy slowly lowered his sword; he watched Stark retrieve his own sword and put it back, looking upset. When his gaze met Jimmy's, the photographer could see a bit of respect wash over his opponent's eyes; he nodded slightly, and Jimmy returned the gesture before Stark walked out of the ring. The teenager had started to sheath his sword when the announcer walked over and grabbed Jimmy's wrist, holding it aloft.
"The winner of Round One!" he shouted over the throngs and cheers. Jimmy tried to appear humble, but he had to admit to have the cheers and accolades aimed at him for a change; he allowed himself a small smile as the applause continued. It died down after a few moments, and the crowd dispersed. Jimmy wordlessly put his sword up and examined the tear on his sleeve; he couldn't see any visible wound or blood, but he knew it was going to take a skilled hand to fix the sleeve.
"Impressive."
Jimmy glanced over when he heard the British accent and raised an eyebrow, quickly and reflexively sizing up the newcomer as he approached, removing the hood from his head, giving Jimmy a good view. The guy was about six feet in height, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, wearing an exact costume replica of Jaime Lannister, from the matching tunic and boots, all the way to the sword and sheath hanging from his left hip.
"It was nothing, really," Jimmy replied.
"I've seen good sword fighting in my time," the man said, "so when I say someone's impressive, I don't say that lightly." He held his hand out to the teenager. "Name's Armstrong. Ulyssess Armstrong; I run this dog-and-pony show."
"Freeborn," Jimmy responded, shaking the offered hand. "Ridley Freeborn. You're in charge?" Armstrong nodded. "So, why are you doing all this, if you don't mind me asking."
"Didn't they explain everything when you signed up?" Armstrong asked curiously.
"Well, yeah," Jimmy answered, "and I think what you're doing is really awesome. I mean, I love sword fighting and cosplay, but I don't have much time to do it, so when I heard about this, I couldn't say no."
"Well, Mr. Freeborn," Armstrong said, "that's pretty much why I'm doing this: I want those who have a love for sword fighting to have a bit of a sanctuary, where they can truly come and enjoy their sport, for a fraction of the cost of anything above ground could offer."
"And the quarter million dollar incentive?" Jimmy inquired.
Armstrong smiled. "Even I have bills to pay," he replied, "plus the expenses of keeping things under wraps; wouldn't be much fun having the cops visit."
"No, of course not," Jimmy replied, nodding, before glancing around. "So, uh, I won, now what?"
"Well, you get a break for a couple of hours while we finish the first round of competitions," Armstrong answered. "Come back at nine for Round Two." He nodded politely before walking away, followed by the announcer; Jimmy watched the two of them disappear.
"You can count on it," he muttered, barely audible, under his breath.
(End of Chapter 7)
