Session 11

"Keep the rhythm nice and steady, boys." Sensei threaded his way through the rows of his paired off pupils.

Still, that voice was nothing but an annoyance to Vicious. His palm accepted Spike's strike even as the two remained locked in a stare. Both grinned. Oh that grin teased at Vicious mercilessly. He wanted to wipe it off that punk's face. Driving his own fist in the repetitive exercise Vicious added a bit of extra power to it at the last second. The force jarred Spike, earning Vicious a clearly unplanned exhale. But still his smile remained unbroken. I will change that.

Spike smoothly flowed into the next posture and delivered the strike. Though Vicious had been prepared for it, the force was enough he took a half step back. The glint of triumph in Spike's eye stung.

But Vicious denied him the pleasure of seeing his own expression change. He kept the smile locked. So what if Spike knew his secret. Except … one would think that would frighten the boy all the more. Unlike the others who wailed in pain at injury, Spike included, nothing short of a structural injury would impair Vicious.

For days now Spike had kept his mouth shut, but that challenging gleam in his eyes always teased Vicious with a new goal. He longed to shatter that spark, especially as the other boys seemed to flock around him. Everyone had their limit. Vicious would find his, and make this boy scream for mercy—just like all the others!

The pattern was a simple one. The strikes direct into the palm, elbows were intended to give a bit on impact. Neither Vicious nor Spike absorbed the impacts. Every round increased steadily in pressure.

Soon, even though Vicious wouldn't feel it, they would approach bone fracturing force. Soon he would glimpse the breaking of this upstart's spirit. He would show the others there was nothing special about their precious candy thief.

The smack of flesh against flesh echoed in Vicious's ears. Red. He didn't even have to break their staring contest to see the tone change in the skin of their hands, changed from repeated contact. Just a bit harder. Was that a flinch? It had to be a flinch. He has to break soon.

The dojo door opened. Sensei's spun to look. "Places."

Like clockwork every boy broke from their partner and knelt at their assigned place on the edge of the mat. Hands on their knees, eyes cast down in front of them from years of drilling.

Vicious stole a glance. Two men entered and stood at the edge of the dojo. Mao Yenrai, that man he knew well. But the other? He didn't know the man in the suit standing at stiff attention beside the capo. Vicious craned to overhear as Sensei spoke with Yenrai briefly in hushed tones.

Sensei took a step back eyeing the suit, "Hrm, I'm not sure which would be appropriate."

The man locked eyes with Sensei. "The kind of rat I need to borrow must be street savvy. Quick, agile."

A rat! Though Vicious wasn't fond of the term. He knew of the task. It didn't happen often, but occasionally a boy would be needed to assist one of the officers. This was a chance to get out there on the streets. To prove one's worth. He clenched his fists. No one would be a better choice than himself.

"Street savvy, huh." Sensei tapped a finger on his chin. "Then there's an obvious choice."

Vicious kept his head down, though he longed to peek as he followed the sound of footsteps. Sensei was always so strict when Mao Yenrai entered. Respect must be shown—earned or not. Well, it was time Vicious be given the chance to show he had what it took to enter the ranks. He had a future and the only one holding him back was Yenrai.

"You should be up to the task."

Raising his head, Vicious's eyes shot wide. Sensei stood in front Spike. Him? Why would the runt do?

Spike climbed to his feet obedient as the dog he was. He bowed. Sensei guided him over to the man in the suit. "Masanori, this is Spike. He should serve your needs well, it wasn't that long ago he was surviving in a slum crater."

Yenrai raised an eyebrow. "Leonard, are you certain he is ready?"

There is no way that brat is ready! He's been here a couple months. You should be selecting me, I've been training for four years. Four long years! Take me! I'm ready to serve.

Sensei nodded. "As long as he promises to mind Masanori … do you, boy?"

"Well, yeah, of course." Spike shrugged. "I mean, I like this place. I want to come back. But seeing the city sounds cool."

Masanori cocked his head. "Who told you about that?"

Spike met his eyes, staring as if an equal. "Anders did."

"That explains that. Go change back into your street clothes. Masanori will meet you in the dorm." Sensei clapped his hands as Spike dashed off. "The rest of you, back to the drill. Vicious, looks like I'm your partner."

Grinding his teeth so hard Vicious heard them squeal.

Tharsis city. Alleys stretched out in some form of order, like some more developed and stylish version of Deseado. Far fewer broken down vehicles and crumbling buildings, here it seemed things were mostly working as Spike watched a polished car drive on by. But there was a vibe, an energy here that demanded attention beneath the shiny facade. One wrong step and it would be the end … like lurking in a pack's territory back in Deseado.

Spike padded along beside Masanori, the man now dressed in jeans and a leather jacket looked far less imposing. He leaned his head back and released a breath of smoke into the air from his cigarette. "You got the plan, kid?"

Spike pulled out a cigarette of his own and lit it before nodding. "Yeah."

"Repeat it to me." Only a quick glance followed the smoke, but Masanori didn't comment.

"I'm to blend into the surroundings and hang in the area you show me, keeping an eye out for the guy with X shaped scar on the bridge of his nose. When I see him, I signal you by whistling."

"You can whistle right?"

That sounded like someone had failed to verify that in the past. Spike plucked the cigarette from his mouth and whistled a cat call.

Masanori chuckled. "Yeah, you got it. That's all you have to do. Stay out of the way, me and the boys'll handle the rest. Hated to pull a kid into this, but Jayce proved to be more perceptive. We couldn't pull off the hit before he figured out why we were being so nice to the schmuck. Now that he knows us he won't pop his head out if we're visible."

"Hit?" Spike cocked an eyebrow.

Masanori ruffled his hair despite Spike's protest. "Don't you worry about that. Just carry out your task, we'll handle the rest. Unfortunately it might be a long wait."

"That's ok. I'm used to killing time."

They came to an alley. The brick rears of the buildings all had large metal doors, some in better repair than others, an older district. A few lights stretched out over the narrow passage, all of them off at the moment due to the late morning sunlight. "Right, Spike. This is where we'll need you to keep an eye on things. Rumor has it that Jayce hangs out in one of these clubs. Not sure which one, the intel wasn't that precise. When he gets jumpy, he uses the back doors to slink around. He'll probably have a ball cap on and keep his head down. That's why we need you at street level. Remember to whistle when you see him. You won't see us, but we'll take care of everything else."

Turning his back, Masanori strode off vanishing around the corner. Spike caught a glimpse of the gun sticking out of his waistband under his jacket.

Damn, he looks so cool. So in control, but not caring one shit about anything.

Spike turned and kicked a can, listening as it rattled along the pavement. Now he was alone. Shoving his hands in his pockets he wandered deeper into the alley playing the part of a truant child quite convincingly, after all—he was exactly that.

Occasionally a door would open and a worker would haul out some trash or take a piss in the alley. Each time Spike idly glanced their way content that Mao Yenrai had provided him not just with a dark gray Henley shirt but also a vest, similar to his previous one but in much better repair. If he felt the need to run, if he had to evade capture, this piece of clothing could provide a perfect opportunity to shed his skin—so to speak.

The angle of the sun shifted as the hours watched over Spike balancing along narrow ledges, skipping pebbles in the pot-hole puddles, and spinning tin cans on the ends of sticks. When a pigeon landed he palmed a stone and considered pegging it for a quick snack.

A strange sound caught his attention. Music? The wailing of a blues harp accompanied by not a drum, but an overturned bucket.

Echoing off the imprisoning walls of the alley, it rose beckoning, ever upward to the sky. Defiant. Unwilling to be contained.

What was this? What was this … feeling in his chest? He had to chase it, had to know. At the end of the alley, across the narrow one way street two boys sat on a stoop. Couldn't be much older than Spike himself. The boy with the blues harp wore an old tattered fedora cocked so it cast his dark face into an even deeper shadow. Beside him, a slightly young boy, obviously his brother, beat a bucket with taped up drum sticks. His foot lifted the edge of the bucket to change the tone.

For the longest while, Spike lingered at the corner, enraptured by the raw music springing to life before him.

The blues harp fell silent, and the player lifted a finger, pointing. "Heh, looky we got here, bro. This here be an alley cat."

Spike took a step back as he'd been noticed. "Who me?"

"You see anybody else?"

"I'm not a cat." He blushed a bit. "Just heard the music … and it sounded cool, s'all."

The harp player threw his head back and laughed. "Boy, you an alley cat if I ever seen one. A stray, all right."

Spike folded his arms across his chest. "Stray? Not hardly. I'm here on a job." Too late he realized he shouldn't have said anything. He glanced over his shoulder wondering where Masanori was. No one was supposed to know what he was up to. Shit, he shouldn't be here … but if he leaned just right he could see the whole alley. No one was coming out. And Masanori did say to blend in. Technically … hanging with the locals was blending in.

"Name's Dizzy." He pushed back the fedora and met Spike's gaze. "This here is my brother, Zeke. You got a name, cat?"

"Spike."

Dizzy held up a hand, waiting for Spike to come closer and deliver the requested high-five. The moment he did, while insuring he could still stakeout the alley, Dizzy tugged the fedora back down. "Sick name. You from around here?"

He shook his head. "Not really. Newer to the area."

"You play?" Zeke beat out a quick rhythm on the plastic.

"Nah. Never even heard this style before, what is it?"

"Ha haha! This is jazz, brother. A music that lives and breathes. Are you getting what I'm laying down?"

Spike forced a grin. He didn't really have an answer to that. What was this … jazz?

To his relief, Dizzy took him to school and laid into another melody, wailing on the blues harp as Zeke kept the beat. Leaning against the wrought iron railing, Spike rested his chin on his folded arms and sank into the music. This … this music invaded his cells. It sang to him bearing a cocktail of emotions. Joy, sorrow … all of it wrapped up together, inseparable.

He smiled as the jazz infected his foot, forcing it to tap.

This was the life. No—this was life.