"Has he agreed to it?" Arthur murmurs as he comes to stand next to Merlin behind the observation window. The Kingsman inclines his body towards Arthur, but does not take his eyes off of his clipboard.
"Begrudgingly, yes," Merlin answers absentmindedly, ticking something off on his clipboard before lowering it to clasp against his body with both hands, giving the two men inside the room his full attention.
"He'd be a wonderful teacher," Arthur notes thoughtfully. "His experience is unique, and he'd offer an insight into combat that no others can give."
"Indeed," Merlin nods. "He understands the necessity of learning and teaching, yes. But his reluctance stems more from his unwillingness to associate himself with these prospects. He looks at them with disdain in his eyes sometimes, though he does understand that they had no part in Lancelot's death."
"He's still feeling guilty, after all this time," Arthur sighs. "As ashamed as I am to say it, though, the former Lancelot's death has set Harry on the right track."
Merlin hums non-commitally, picking up his clipboard to read through the statistics to Arthur. "The last two candidates, both Oxford graduates. Robert Henry, age 28. Promising in all fields, but lacks aggressiveness. Maximilian Broadmoor, age 31. Excelled in all areas, but a bit of a hothead. His arrogance makes him a poor fit for team efforts, and is more prone to impulsive decisions than analytical."
Arthur lets out a small chortle under his breath, not holding back the wry smile as he watches Broadmoor dancing around the rink, jabbing at the air while Henry takes his time stretching by the benches. "Let's see how long his arrogance lasts, shall we?"
Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees Merlin's lips also twitch upwards in a suppressed grin.
Broadmoor's a typical, spoiled, billionaire's son, with tendencies that lean more towards bullying than anything just because of his stature and class. While he's a good candidate, with the assertiveness and brilliance that any of their operatives require, he'll have to be knocked down a few notches before he can be molded into the perfect Kingsman.
There's a reason why the military organizations of the world have bootcamps. The drill sergeant's job is to break down a soldier's behavior, ingrained and formed from civilian life, wipe the slate clean before building them back up in a way that would prepare them for the militaristic world.
In this case, instead of bootcamps, they have a lesson; a hard lesson that these two recruits will have to learn.
"He's here," Merlin announces a split second before the door inside the sparring room opens.
Harry comes tumbling in, a flurry of mussed hair and breathlessness, an arm full of books, dressed in regulation sweats. He freezes like a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed as he takes in the room with the same confused energy as a lost squirrel. The pair of men inside pause to take in the newcomer.
"OH!" the boy chirps, his voice pitched higher than usual. "I'm - I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong room."
"More like you've got the wrong building entirely, rugrat," Broadmoor quips, settling against the ropes to take a swig of water, smug and self-assured. Though Harry hides it quite well, the slight twitch of the boy's eye at the term 'rugrat' certainly doesn't escape Arthur's notice. Arthur won't be surprised if Broadmoor ends up in the med-bay after this.
"Are you looking for someone?" Henry asks, abandoning his stretches.
Harry looks back at the door quickly, then down at his paper, every bit the harried student he's supposed to be. "Umm...Well...Yes, actually, is - is this where the defense classes are supposed to take place?"
"You?! Learning to fight!?" Broadmoor busts out a good hearty laugh as he ducks under the ropes. He hops off the platform and lands on the floor with a loud thud, strolling up to the boy with an assessing gaze. "Training them young, I see."
"Who were you supposed to meet for the class?" Henry asks, frowning.
"Umm.." Harry worries on his lip as he studies his paper. "Maximilian Broadmoor and Robert Henry? Which, I assume, must be you two. I'd thought that there'd be more people here, considering it's a class and all. But - "
"Guess you're going to be learning from us then, rugrat!" Broadmoor announces, drowning out Henry's quiet, "That's odd. Weren't we supposed to be learning from a new instructor today? And Merlin never mentioned anything about a new recruit."
Broadmoor slaps a hand on Harry's shoulder and steers him towards the rink, ignoring Henry's warning, "Perhaps we should wait for Merlin, Maximilian. Something feels off about this."
Arthur quirks up an eyebrow for the astute observation. He can see what Merlin was saying about these two recruits. Henry is level-headed, calm, and takes his time in asking the appropriate questions, but he lacks the drive that Broadmoor has. Broadmoor, though, is too self-assured, too confident in his abilities, that he doesn't even think to question his judgment or the situation.
"Nonsense, ol' chap! I'm sure Merlin's bushed, dealing with you and I. Something as simple as showing the rugrat the proverbial ropes, is the least we can do to help out the poor bloke," Broadmoor declares to Henry, thumping Harry hard on his back before divulging the boy of his books and helping him onto the platform. "Come along then, rugrat, let's see what you're made of."
Broadmoor holds the rope up for Harry to pass through, and over his shoulder, the man sends Henry a conspiratorial wink and smirk, as if to say Let's show this kid what he's really getting himself into.
Henry, suspicious still, merely shakes his head in resignation, and sits back to watch.
"All right, rugrat, you stand here," Broadmoor says, stationing Harry on one side of the rink while he goes to retrieve another set of gloves for the boy. "Put these on. Extra-small should be perfect for you. You know what these are?" He asks, showing Harry his own gloves. "These are to protect your hands and, well, your face. I'm sure your mum and dad would not be too happy if you go back home with a - no no no you put it on backwards, it's like this - they won't be too happy if you go back home with a black eye and split lip, now would they?"
"No, sir," Harry answers, holding up his newly-gloved hands to examine curiously. The fingerless padded gloves will offer protection, as Broadmoor stated, to Harry's hands, wrist, and, well, Broadmoor's face.
Broadmoor takes his own position opposite Harry, his hands raised into a fighting stance, bouncing on his toes. "All right, rugrat. First lesson..." throws out a right jab.
Harry promptly deflects the hit, and connects his fist with Broadmoor's face. Despite the gloves adding much needed padding, the man goes down like a sack of potatoes, blood spurting out of his broken nose. Henry yelps in surprise, flying off the bench, but he doesn't dare approach. Wise to be cautious, Arthur thinks approvingly.
Harry steps over Broadmoor's body until he's standing over the man's chest, feet on either side of his torso. Across the expanse of his body, Harry looks down and tells Broadmoor in his real voice, "Actually, Broadmoor, first lesson: don't trust anyone. Which brings me to the next lesson: never underestimate your opponent."
Dazed, Broadmoor blinks up at the boy, one hand trying valiantly to staunch the flow of blood.
"Get up," Harry orders, backing off of the man.
"You - Are y - Are you mad!? The bloody hell do you think you are?" Broadmoor sputters furiously, spitting out blood. The effect of his anger is a bit lost, considering his voice is comically nasally, and he's sprawled still on the floor, his right elbow propping him up and his left held under his nose. Henry comes up to the side of the rink, helpfully throwing in a towel, which Broadmoor snatches up immediately and presses it to his face.
"I'm your worst nightmare," Harry quips with a roll of his eyes. Arthur hears Merlin chuckle under his breath.
"You're the new instructor then, I take it," Henry deduces, climbing onto the platform to stand by the corner.
"That I am, Mr. Henry," Harry nods, and points a finger at Broadmoor. "Just a fair warning, considering this is my first day with you gentlemen, I abhor repetition. I am giving you to the count of three to get up, or else you're disqualified."
"Disqua - ! You must be - !" Broadmoor bellows, speechless. He waves wildly at his face. "Don't you see I have a broken nose, you loony twat!"
"And you're going to fight through it," Harry drawls lazily. "There are no time-outs in the real world. It's either kill or be killed, and just because you have a broken nose, doesn't mean your opponent will go easy on you. Now. Get. UP."
Arthur has to give it to the man when Broadmoor gathers his dignity and courage and throws the towel to the side, climbing to a stand, uncaring of the way the entire lower half of his face is covered in gore, and raises his fists up at the ready.
Merlin scribbles something down onto his clipboard.
The spar that ensues, isn't so much a spar as it is Broadmoor trying to get hit after hit in, and Harry dodging each blow with such fluidity it's like he knows exactly where the man's going to aim even before Broadmoor thinks to do so.
As the minutes tick past, Arthur can see Broadmoor getting more and more frustrated by his inability to even touch the boy. At one point, the man's started to growl, rumbling low in his throat like an irate dog. A sure sign that he'll be snapping soon.
The recruit's patience peters out at around the twenty minute mark, and then his frustration takes over completely. He sends out a wild left hook, and Harry sinks down low, twists his body around and sweeps Broadmoor's feet out from under him with a leg.
Broadmoor hits the mat hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him in one big oof.
Harry doesn't even sound breathless when he returns to his corner, re-strapping his gloves tighter. "Next lesson. Actually, they're not lessons; they're rules. Rules that you'd be wise to remember if you know what's good for you. So...third rule: never let your emotions cloud your mind. You control them, they don't control you."
"That was underhanded, was it not?" Henry remarks as Broadmoor groans and wheezes air back into his lungs.
"Are you saying that I cheated, Mr. Henry?" Harry asks, tilting his head at the other man. "I wasn't aware that when one's fighting to the death, there are policies and restrictions. Rule number 4: there are no rules. Do whatever you must to win. Do whatever you need to survive. Hell, I once took a chunk out of a man's arm just to keep myself from being strangled to death."
"Umm, I'm not sure how I should feel about that little anecdote," Henry mutters uncertainly, blinking rapidly with a frown.
"You don't need to feel anything," Harry tells him, and goes over to kick Broadmoor on the leg to get him up again. "All you need to remember is that nothing in this world is fair. People of all ages, sizes, and color will always be there to kill you every step of the way. You can't trust anyone. The only person you can trust, is yourself. Through the thick and thin, you will be the one person that you can always depend on. No one else."
"That's pretty dark, coming from a rugrat," Broadmoor groans, struggling into a stand.
Harry shrugs. "The world is a dark place. I'm just here to knock you on your arses enough times for you to remember that. You'll be a Kingsman. You'll be facing the worst that humanity has to offer. There will be hordes of people who will do all they can to kill you; with all sorts of underhanded moves. And to keep them from being successful, you will do everything necessary to make sure you survive. If it means you have to bite and cheat and scrape and crawl through the mud and shit to stay alive, then you do so."
"All right, rugrat," Broadmoor says, smirking through the blood. He raises his fists up to the ready, and jerks his chin up at Harry. "No holding back this time. Let's see what you got."
Looks like having the wind knocked out of him, has given the man a burst of fresh air. There's a gleam in Broadmoor's eyes that tell Arthur he knows exactly who Merlin will choose for Lancelot's position.
-x-
Miles away...
Eggsy trudges back home alone, miserable and hurt and angry. He kicks open the front gate, and ducks his face down when the door to their flat swings open. He isn't surprised when a man he's never seen before, steps out of it, looking every bit like the cat that got the cream. HIs mum stands framed in the doorway, blowing the man a kiss, which the bloody sod catches in the air and presses to his lips.
Eggsy holds back a gag at that, and steps around his mum to get in the house. He almost makes it to the sanctity of his room when his mum finally closes the door and calls to him, "Eggsy? Eggsy, what in the world happened to your face?"
Eggsy's surprised she even noticed, what with the way she'd been making doe-eyes at the bloke who's currently Lay Of The Day.
"Nothing happened," he grunts back, not in the mood at all to make nice.
She's behind him before Eggsy even notices, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him around to face her. Feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, Eggsy can't make himself look up. She touches her fingers to his chin, and coaxes him until he's looking her in the eyes.
His mum sighs, sympathetic. "Who was it this time, my love?"
"It was no one," Eggsy lies. Well, not exactly a lie. It was not one, but a group of them. He'd fought and scratched and bit his way out of the fight. He's just glad he got out of it with only a bloody nose, a cut lip, a few bruises, and a black eye. His pride, more than anything, took the biggest hit.
She sighs again, hearing everything that he's not telling her. She leads him down the hall to the bathroom, where a first aid kit is most likely making an appearance in the close future.
"What happened?" she asks, sitting him down on the edge of the tub.
"Does it matter?" he grumbles to his blood-specked, dirt-caked shoes.
"To me, it does," she says, scrounging through various drawers.
He doesn't respond, so she pokes at the subject again. "Was it because - "
"It's nothing, OK?!" Eggsy snaps. "Just forget it, mum!"
She does. For a short amount of time. But in the duration where she's wetting a towel with warm water for him to press to his eye, she says softly, "You know you can tell me anything, right Eggsy? I'm your mum, and I love you, and I would do anything for you. I'll be here to listen whenever you're ready to talk."
Annnnnd now Eggsy feels like absolute filth. He sighs, and rolls his eyes up to the heavens to search for strength. Oh sod it.
"Some blokes at me school made some comments which I took offense to. I told them to fuck off, and they responded by punching me in the face. End of story," he explains, not bothering to expand on anything more.
He's not going to tell his mum that those imbeciles were talking about her. Talking about how she's the bicycle of the town, letting all the men ride her anytime they wanted.
Just the memory of it has rage boiling under his skin again, and he clenches his hands into fists to keep from punching a hole into the wall.
His mum rings out the excess water from the towel, and hands it to him. He presses it to his eyes, savoring the warmth against his aching muscles.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks, crouching down to be at eye level with him.
You can stop sleeping around. You can stop drinking. You can start acting like the mother you used to be. You can bring my father back from the dead.
"No," he mumbles. "I'll be fine, mum."
"I know you will, Eggsy. You're always so strong, and I know no matter what you go through, you'll keep your head held high and your spine straight. I'm very proud of you, love."
Eggsy looks at his mum. She smiles warmly at him, but her eyes...her eyes still hold so much sadness.
Like sunshine through the rain.