I would like to once again thank everyone who has read this far. It means so much to me. This is the longest chapter yet in the story, and a lot happens in it. I'm on Chapter 9 currently and having a great time with this story.
After this chapter is posted, I intend to switch to a four-day schedule of updates. That is all you need to know before beginning this chapter, which I hope you will review to let me know what you think.
BRANDON'S POV
The following day I was released from the hospital. My arm still felt a bit tender in the spot where the wolf had bitten me, but the pain was not nearly so acute as it had once been.
Everything Dakota and Pranjal had told me was difficult to assimilate. It was not unlike having had a particularly vivid, weird dream, and then waking up to find that reality was even more unhinged. Sometimes truth was stranger than fiction.
Right before I left the ward, a girl about my age, maybe a year younger, entered the building. As soon as she saw me, an odd scowl forced its way onto her face.
"Good morning, Brandon" she told me, but there wasn't much warmth in her voice.
"Hello" I said awkwardly. I knew that I was speaking to a person with at least some authority, so it was hard to figure out what to say.
"My name is Reyna, and I'm the praetor at Camp Jupiter" the girl told me. "There used to be another praetor here, but he left. It's a very long story."
"Well, I've got time," I replied, moving my legs a bit to make sure they worked. Surprisingly, they held my weight well despite having been in bed the last few days.
Reyna's tanned skin curled into a frown, and she slapped her black ponytail back over to the other side of her head. I realized then that I may have gone a bit too far.
"My apologies" I told her. "If you do not wish to speak about it, I understand completely."
The praetor grunted. "Well, parts of it aren't that hard to talk about. The part about saving the world…that's something I'm proud of. But it came at a cost."
I knew better than to ask about what that cost had been. If Reyna felt comfortable telling me what she'd given up, she would do that. But she had every right to keep her mouth shut.
The praetor led me out of the infirmary and into the town of New Rome. The white marble buildings, as well as the sidewalk restaurants, were clearly meant to evoke something about Rome, at least from what I knew about it.
Many stares were directed our way as we walked through town. Given that I was still shirtless, and my wound was still dressed, it must not have been hard for the legionnaires to recognize me.
"Just look away and walk around like you own the place" Reyna whispered in my ear. "It works well enough for me."
Well, the difference is that you do own this place.
"So what god are you a daughter of?" I asked. "Who is your dad?"
Reyna scowled at me again. "Don't say anything about my dad" she muttered. "But he's mortal. It's not just gods who had affairs with mortals."
"Fair enough" I replied, feeling my face flush. "So your mother is the divine parent?"
She nodded. "Bellona, the goddess of war. And before you ask: She has no Greek equivalent."
"Why did you think I'd ask about the Greek equivalent?"
"Because some people have mentioned it before," Reyna replied sternly. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll mention the Greeks as little as possible during your stay at Camp Jupiter. It's a sore subject for us."
So Roman and Greek demigods seem to be at odds for some reason. But why?
"Anyway", the praetor continued, "welcome to the Fifth Cohort. This is where you will sleep, though meals will be held in the mess hall."
We had arrived at a long, low building consisting of numerous bunk beds, all with purple sheets containing an olive branch and the SPQR logo in gold. On the outside, Dakota stood, pointing me right inside.
I froze. Once I went inside, I would be the center of attention; the rest of the Fifth Cohort would want to welcome me. Although this attention was for a very different reason, I knew that if the other campers had been police officers, my ass would be hauled into a cell immediately.
But it was something I had to do, much like writing that paper about the symposium. The essay that, by this point, seemed so trivial in comparison to everything that had happened since.
A number of other legionnaires sat inside the barracks; at least, that's what I assumed they were. Some were playing cards with one another, not an activity I imagined to be befitting of demigods, while others read books. However, this didn't last very long.
The instant I entered the barracks, most eyes turned to me. I was the shirtless outsider, so it's only natural that they'd notice me before Reyna. Still, it wasn't exactly a comfortable experience.
"You're the new guy, aren't you?" one girl asked me.
I nodded sheepishly, seeing no other choice. My face was probably beet red by this time.
"We've heard so much about you," another girl said. "Brandon St. Lawrence, the infamous killer of his parents."
Something about the second girl pissed me off to no end. It wasn't anything about her physical appearance; it had everything to do with what she'd just said.
If Reyna hadn't restrained me, I feel certain that I would have attacked her there. Judging by her muscular build, however, I probably wouldn't have won the ensuing fight.
"Knock it off, Lindsay" Reyna shot at the muscular girl. "That's no way to treat a new recruit."
"I don't care," Lindsay replied, narrowing her eyes. "If he killed his parents, I want him to suffer the consequences."
"Please remember, Lindsay, that you're on thin ice as it is," Dakota reminded her. The centurion had just crossed the threshold into the barracks, joining in on the "fun." "You don't want to suffer the consequences of…misbehavior, shall we say."
When Dakota seemed to realize that he was bringing down the mood, he shook his head. "Anyway, welcome to the Fifth Cohort here at Camp Jupiter. I know we've got a certain reputation, but we have to overcome it somehow. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy."
Reyna frowned at him. "Please, Dakota. Try to make Brandon a little more excited about being a legionnaire."
Now that I got a better chance to look at the barracks, I saw that they could really use some attention. The floorboards were cracked, and they creaked with every step you took. Additionally, the bedsheets seemed to be caked in dust, and it was almost impossible not to sneeze.
"Don't worry, you can work your way up," Dakota said. "And I could have done that too. But being a centurion in the Fifth Cohort is honestly better than being a regular legionnaire of any cohort. I get special privileges."
"Please don't wave them in our faces" Lindsay grumbled. "Or else…".
Reyna glared at Lindsay before continuing. "Anyway, dinner's in half an hour. Brandon, you'll recognize your bed immediately. It has your uniform on it."
I saw which bed the praetor meant right away, just as she'd promised.
"Now, I suggest you wash up, put some fresh clothes on, and get to know your fellow Fifth Cohort members."
Zeus: What was your impression of Camp Jupiter when you arrived?
Defendant: Well, it seemed pretty rigid and traditional. I suppose that's what one would expect from the Roman Empire.
Zeus: You're dodging the question. Could you be more specific?
Defendant: It's not like I have a right to complain about anything. They did save my life, after all.
There seemed to be two schools of thought, if you will, among members of the Fifth Cohort.
Some of them refused to speak with me. Precisely why they were so afraid to, I couldn't tell you; perhaps they didn't want the attention that would come with talking to the new guy.
Others, however, wanted to know everything, and I mean everything, about the case that I'd fled from. They peppered me with questions about it until I finally told them to stop. Not all of them respected that request, but I stopped answering them even vaguely.
At least I'd gotten some new clothes on. My Camp Jupiter uniform was a pair of long silver pants, as well as a purple T-shirt with SPQR on it. It didn't necessarily feel fresh, but it was a lot better than a single pair of old pajama pants.
The mess hall was a lot more casual than I'd expected. Legionnaires sat on sofas and in armchairs as food floated through the air on plates, as though carried by invisible hands. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood at first, but once they saw me, tension rose in the air.
Dakota showed me to an empty couch at the back of the room. Once we'd sat down, he said, "The aurae will deliver you your favorite food. You don't even need to think about it."
"Aurae?"
"Invisible wind spirits. Somehow they know what everyone likes to eat. Don't ask me how that works."
"Huh." Truth be told, there were definitely stranger things I'd seen over the last week and a half, but the mess hall was one of them.
Almost as soon as I sat down, a plate was set in front of me with steak and a baked potato. The steak seemed to be cooked just the way I liked it, medium well with a good deal of juice, and the baked potato was cut open and seasoned with pepper and butter.
My mouth watered. With all the uncertainties of the last few days, it felt great to relax with some good old-fashioned comfort food. Of course, the other members of the Fifth Cohort didn't exactly help me relax.
"We're going to have war games tomorrow" Dakota said eventually as he took a sip of wine.
I couldn't help but be startled at just how casually Dakota mentioned war games. To me, those weren't something to take lightly, but the son of Bacchus spoke as though they were such a normal occurrence.
I nearly choked on my steak. "War games? But we're not at war, are we?"
The centurion shrugged. "No, we're not actually at war, though we could be at any time. We just do them to ensure we're ready for battle at any point, because last year was anything but peaceful."
"What happened last year?" I blurted out once I'd swallowed that bite of meat. Reyna might not have been comfortable discussing it, but Dakota's lips seemed a lot looser.
"Of course you don't know," the centurion muttered. "Anyway, the second war against the giants took place, which featured seven demigods against Gaea's army."
"Seven?" I asked. "How could seven demigods stand against a whole army?"
"Well, they had gods on their side. That's the thing: Giants can't be defeated unless gods and their offspring work together. And even then, they can only be defeated, never killed; even now, they are slowly re-forming in the Underworld, a process that can take decades or even centuries."
"So you'll have to fight them again?"
Dakota shrugged. "We probably won't. Some generation of demigods in the distant future will, but that's not our problem. Anyway, these seven demigods were a mixture of Roman and Greek. This was notable because Romans and Greeks have historically been at odds with one another."
"Huh. I guess a common enemy really brings people together."
"Quite" the centurion replied. "But as nice as it is that both groups of demigods worked together, there was another part of this war that we're not so proud of. More specifically, a different war."
"Well?" I asked. "What happened?"
Dakota grimaced, as though he were about to say something to the tune of You don't wanna know. But then he frowned, probably seeing that I kept staring at him. So he spoke quickly, slurring his words together somewhat.
"Okay, I'll tell you. Our augur back then - a legionnaire with the gift of prophecy - was this guy named Octavian. He was a legacy of Apollo, and a centurion of the First Cohort. But he also had a vindictive side; he led Camp Jupiter to war against the Greek demigods."
"Wouldn't that be pretty counterproductive?"
"Not in his mind. Of course, he's dead now, shot himself out of a cannon towards the earth goddess in a literal blaze of…well, I'm not sure you'd call it glory."
"Good riddance. He sounds like an asshole."
"Oh yeah, he was. He got a lot of other legionnaires to follow him too. But now we try not to talk about him, since it's a rather shameful period in our history. Still, it's important to at least know what happened so that we can avoid it in the future."
Suddenly my steak didn't taste so great. I set my fork and knife down, realizing that the knife was almost identical to the weapon I'd used against the wolves. Of course, both served the same intended purpose, so it's not like I should have been surprised.
I'm calling it now: That specific steak knife is going to be beneath my bed when I get back to the barracks.
The rest of dinner was marred by what I'd just been told about Octavian and what he had done. I didn't look up from my food, yet the food itself was only enjoyable as a distraction.
After the meal, we headed back to our barracks, where I was all too happy to climb into bed. According to Dakota, most legionnaires didn't turn in so early, but I didn't care about that.
Sleep, however, was hard to come by. Every time I blinked, I pictured the wolves that had chased me here. For all I knew, they could still be out there somewhere, those steel blue eyes lying in wait before those fangs could feast on me.
I tossed and turned. It was too hot beneath the covers, so I shoved them off of me. That increased my level of comfort somewhat, though not by very much.
I should feel safe here, I told myself. After all, I am a lot safer here than I would be at home. I have to assume that Camp Jupiter's got some sort of divine protection.
And then I remembered the most important thing: There was no such protection at Camp Jupiter; or at least, it was greatly diminished. Someone, either Dakota or Pranjal, had mentioned that Terminus was gone. Perhaps that was how I'd managed to enter.
Well, the fact that the camp hasn't been attacked by wolves yet has to mean something. I've been here a few days; they would have had every chance to invade by now. So why haven't they?
It took me a few hours to quiet my mind, and when I finally did sleep, I found myself in a memorable dream right away.
In the dream, I stood in the same place as in my first dream about Lupa. It may have been the same geographic location, probably somewhere in Northern California, but there was a key difference this time.
The building was no longer in ruins; in fact, it was a magnificent mansion, the likes of which only existed in the glitzy areas of L.A. like Beverly Hills. There stood a wolf statue on the porch, made of the same stone as the rest of the porch.
Suddenly, the wolf statue came to life, revealing a familiar face. The way those eyes stared into my soul would not soon be forgotten.
"Good evening, Brandon St. Lawrence" Lupa announced ominously.
"Are you threatening me?" I asked somewhat angrily.
"No," the she-wolf responded. "But there are other forces that threaten you, some near and some distant."
"The wolves…not you, but the other wolves…they must be close by, aren't they?"
Lupa shook her head. "Some of them are retreating, though that may not be the peace you wish for. It seems they have moved on to a different target for now."
"There are other targets?"
"Why, yes" Lupa responded coolly. "Why do you believe the legionnaires fear for their lives if they leave Camp Jupiter? Why are they so scared that the boundaries lose their strength? It's because they know what will happen if they no longer have this protection."
I didn't even want to think about that. The she-wolf then continued speaking, each word sounding more worrisome than the last.
"It's said that the truth will set you free. I do not believe you will want to hear the truth, but it's extremely important that you know what has transpired since you left home."
Lupa pointed to a nearby spot in the manor's courtyard, and, as though on an invisible movie screen, a scene began to play out.
I saw the figures of a middle-aged man and woman who would forever be middle-aged. They had both been cut down; they were lying face down in a pool of blood. So much blood, in fact, that I wouldn't have thought a human body could hold it all.
It didn't take long for me to realize that these were my foster parents. Mr. and Mrs. Stark were lying in the street like that. I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought was, At least I can't see their faces.
And then I understood: If the events I viewed now were real, the only people I'd ever known as my parents were now gone. Not only gone, but they'd departed this world in such a grisly fashion that I felt like vomiting.
Tears formed in my eyes as I saw a pair of mustached police officers looking over the bodies. One of them shook his head, scratching his chin.
"This is just terrible," he muttered. "I can't believe he did this."
"The most confusing thing", the other cop replied, "is the question of motive. Why did he do this? By all accounts, our suspect had loving parents and a good enough family life. But even if he didn't, that wouldn't give him a license to kill."
"One thing's for sure," the other police officer said bitterly. "If he's caught, when he's caught, he won't know freedom again. Lock him up and throw away the key, I'd say."
They're talking about me.
The other cop nodded. "Such a heinous crime…terrible, terrible thing. And I'm sure that we'll be able to secure a conviction. But he has to be apprehended first."
Lupa snapped her paws, and the invisible screen shut off. She then turned to face me.
"This scene was from the night your parents were killed by the wolves. As you can tell, the mortal authorities seem to be blaming you for what happened. It's hardly fair, but then, neither is this world."
I was so angry, so shattered, that I could hardly breathe. Not only were my parents gone, but the police, as well as presumably the rest of the populace, believed me to have murdered them. How could I cope with this reality?
"So what do I do now?" I asked Lupa.
The wolf shook her head. "That is up to you. I can't say what your best option is, simply because that's not my place. But you may not be safe at Camp Jupiter too much longer, even if they accept you."
I gulped. "Thanks for the advice" I said weakly.
"I am so happy I could be of assistance" Lupa replied, though she didn't sound happy.
A few seconds later, the scene shifted once more, and I woke up in the Fifth Cohort's barracks.
As I looked around at the rest of the cohort, most of whom were still asleep, I thought about Lupa's words.
According to Pranjal, surfing the Internet as a demigod was very dangerous. As a result, I doubted that many people at Camp Jupiter would have access to a computer, and even if they did, they wouldn't use it that much. Still, I felt certain that many of them would know about the accusations against me.
You may not be safe at Camp Jupiter too much longer, even if they accept you.
I glanced around the bunk, resting my gaze briefly on each of the other legionnaires. Most of their chests were rising and falling slowly, peacefully, but I suspected that some of them might be anything but peaceful towards me.
My eyes rested on Dakota, whose eyes were still closed; he was either asleep or doing a very good job at faking sleep. Given how kind he'd been to me yesterday, it was hard to imagine him being the one to betray me to the monsters; to throw me to the wolves, literally.
It's always the quiet ones, though. At least, that's what they say. Maybe the nicest person here is actually going to be the first to turn on me.
Then my gaze shifted to Lindsay, who was awake. Immediately, she looked at me with a wild-eyed, rather angry expression, but didn't say a word.
Okay, maybe it's her. But she's probably not responsible for the camp's borders failing and letting me in. And if she was, why would she betray me? Why would any of these people want me to die? I'm a fellow member of their legion.
I shook my head. It all made no sense; if these people had wanted me dead in the first place, they could have just not saved my life to begin with. That was the simplest explanation.
Eventually, Dakota woke up and ordered us to get dressed and head to breakfast. Since I'd slept in my clothes, I didn't have any "getting dressed" to do, so I decided to peek underneath my bed, just to check if a certain weapon was still there.
My throat tightened, and my heart stopped, when I saw a five-inch silver blade glinting beneath the bed frame. It was startling to see it out in the open like that, but even more startling to see it at all.
It has no business being there. I can't remember what I did with it, probably discarded it somewhere on the highway. So does this knife just magically reappear whenever I leave it?
Even if the other legionnaires all knew about my case, perhaps especially then, having the supposed murder weapon under my bunk can't have reassured them. Of course, the others most likely had weapons in their own space, but the difference was that everyone knew they hadn't used them to kill mortals.
We headed to breakfast, where Dakota seemed a lot more alert than he'd been yesterday. He had only seemed a bit tipsy yesterday, but now he was one hundred percent sober.
"We've got war games tonight" the centurion said, a certain fire in his eyes. "And we need to win."
"What happens if we don't?" I asked, somewhat stupidly.
"Nothing," Dakota said, shrugging. "But we still have to win, because "nothing" happening means that the Fifth Cohort remains the least desirable one. We don't want to be the butt of others' jokes any longer."
The other members of the cohort pumped their fists in agreement, myself included. However, on the inside, my stomach turned at the thought of war games.
It hasn't been very long since I healed up from my last injury, I thought bitterly. Now I'm probably going to get a lot of new ones.
I suppose breakfast tasted good enough. The croissants and fruit salad hit the spot, the cantaloupe being some of the freshest melon I'd eaten in my life. I was left to wonder how Camp Jupiter managed to import such succulent produce, since I hadn't seen any orchards in the valley.
Eventually, once we had all finished eating, we went back to the barracks to prepare for training. Dakota said that I would find armor under my bed, which I hadn't noticed earlier. Perhaps that was because I'd been so preoccupied with the knife.
The armor felt very cold and metallic against my body. However, I knew that in the summer warmth, this would change quickly. I guzzled several glasses of water before heading out to meet the other legionnaires.
Lindsay, the girl with bushy brown hair who'd acted so suspicious of me later, gave me a wild glance as I found my spot in the formation. I didn't engage her, but I was well aware of the lightning in her eyes. She did not like me, and the feeling was mutual.
Once we were at the arena, a replica of the original Colosseum in Rome, I was already perspiring beneath the armor. It didn't take long to grow short of breath, and I wasn't even the most agile person to begin with. There was little doubt I'd get destroyed.
"Okay, Brandon," Dakota instructed me. "Pick a sword, any sword."
I saw that there was a collection of swords, each roughly the length of a baseball bat. All were made out of the same golden yellow material, which glinted in the morning sun.
"These swords are made out of Imperial gold," the centurion explained. "They will not harm mortals; they'll pass right through them. But they are highly effective against both monsters and fellow demigods, which is why you must exercise extreme caution when using them here. Who's going to teach the new guy some moves, huh?"
Dakota looked around at his fellow Fifth Cohort members. All of them looked rather disgusted, as though they'd just been asked who wanted to help clean the toilets.
I hoped I didn't blush as much as I thought I did. Even if I'd managed to hide it, I was damn embarrassed when it turned out that all of my cohort-mates thought I was useless.
But then another person walked into the arena. He was a thickset young man, probably of Asian descent, with black hair in a crew cut. He carried a near-identical weapon to mine, and he glanced at me with a fierce, yet friendly expression.
"Frank Zhang!" Dakota exclaimed, sounding a bit more excited than he should have been. "We're saved!"
The other boy, the one identified as Frank, grunted and pointed his sword at the ground.
"Well, not exactly," Frank said shortly. "I'm willing to help you, but you have to treat him with more respect. Don't forget, I was new here once."
"We all were," Lindsay muttered. "That doesn't mean he's worthy."
Frank shot Lindsay a murderous glance, and I saw a weird glint in his eye. I could hardly breathe; at any moment, this war of words might get physical.
But then Lindsay sighed, shrugging. "Fine. You can help him, Frank. It doesn't seem like anyone else here is willing to."
Jesus Christ, what is her problem?
Of course, that thought was replaced almost immediately with the realization that most of the Fifth Cohort would now be watching me practice swordplay with Frank. And if I didn't manage to be somewhat decent, I'd never hear the end of it.
"I defended myself with a knife, I shouldn't be that bad with a sword" I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but probably failing.
A few of my cohort-mates rolled their eyes, and I turned my attention back to Frank. His short black hair shone in the sun, and his eyes gleamed in it as well.
I grabbed a nearby sword; they all looked the same, so what difference did it make? Then, I gripped it in my right hand.
"A knife is very different from a sword, Brandon," Frank told me. "A knife is only good for stabbing someone; it's not good for sweeping motions like a sword would be."
I barely resisted the urge to facepalm. I'd already made a big mistake by showing some bravado; now I'd have to do damage control in the likely event that I screwed this up.
"The next thing you need to know is that it's best to hold a sword in both hands. It might not look as badass, but it's easier to control the sword's trajectory that way. Besides, style points just don't matter if you're dead."
I readjusted my grip on the Imperial gold, moving my left arm to grasp it. Already, the weight of the Roman armor was taking its toll on my body; my arms felt leaden, probably because that's exactly what they were.
"Okay, you've shown you can hold the sword correctly, at least with some instruction" Frank said. "Of course, that's only the first step, but if you can't hold a sword, you can't use it properly."
The sword still felt awkward in my grasp; my palms sweated, and I felt certain I might drop it at any moment. I was already bracing for the impact.
"What…now?" I panted, staggering a bit from the weight of the sword.
"Now, I want you to practice the art of war," the other boy said. "In general, it's best to start with parrying first; do you know what that word means?"
"It means to block attacks, doesn't it?"
"Correct" Frank responded. "Now, I'm going to swing my sword at you, and you will try to swing back in a way that cuts my attack off. Since you are wearing armor, this sword will not do as much damage as it would otherwise, but still try to avoid the attack."
I gasped. "As much?"
"Well, these swords are made of Imperial gold. The thing about Imperial gold is that it can melt through clothing, and even armor can only do so much. But I'll go easy on you…for now."
Before I was prepared, Frank lunged at me, swinging his sword right into my suit of armor. Some of the metal was melted off by the golden material.
"That's not fair!" I exclaimed as I smelled some smoke coming off of the armor. "You didn't give me a warning!"
"That was by design" Frank replied once he had gotten a few feet away. "In the heat of a life-or-death battle, your enemy isn't going to warn you when they're about to strike. The element of surprise is incredibly valuable."
"Fair enough" I grumbled. "But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."
"Well, you can adjust to it" the black-haired boy responded matter-of-factly.
As Frank spoke, I felt the eyes of several dozen legionnaires boring into me like nails. I didn't hear any laughter, but that didn't mean there was no laughter.
The pressure is on now, I thought. If I fail to parry his next attack, they are going to laugh out loud this time.
I readied my stance, keeping a death grip on my sword. My dominant right hand was on top of my left hand; at least, that's how I thought it was supposed to work.
Frank launched himself at me yet again, and I was holding my sword in the right position to absorb the blow. He stumbled back a bit, but quickly regained his balance and swung his sword again.
This time, I wasn't as ready, and he knocked the weapon out of my hand. It clattered to the ground, bouncing off the arena as though it were a trampoline, then landing for good.
And then the laughter came.
There wasn't much of it at first, and for a few relieving seconds, I felt certain that I'd avoid the worst of it. It would be embarrassing, yes, but only for a short time.
But then the guffawing intensified, and it seemed like every one of my cohort-mates were having a good time making fun of me for being bad at swordplay.
"This. Isn't. FUNNY!" I shouted as I turned to face the rest of the Fifth Cohort. My face was probably the color of a cherry tomato.
I saw that even Dakota was struggling (and failing) to hold back his chortling. His hand was clamped over his mouth, but it wasn't working. Not well enough.
"Come on, guys; you were new to this once! Surely you all can cut me some slack, right?"
"I mean, they've got a point," Frank said, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not saying you cannot be taught, but they've got to be wondering what Lupa saw in you. If swordplay doesn't come naturally to you, that's a problem."
No shit, Sherlock.
"We're going to try some offensive maneuvers now," the black-haired boy told me. "After all, the Ancient Romans, as well as modern Romans, have always believed that offense is the best defense. You just have to keep your opponents in enough pain so that they don't attack you back."
That's a strategy I employed against the wolf, even though I was using a steak knife. A steak knife, by the way, that just won't leave me alone!
"Now, how much do you know about offense, Brandon?" Frank asked me.
I frowned, trying to concentrate (which was difficult over the Fifth Cohort's amusement.) Eventually, I said the following: "I'm better at flat-out stabbing than using finesse. I know that winning a fight isn't all about strength, though; you have to know how to use it."
"A rather cliché answer, but correct in essentials. Now, the challenge is this: You must redeem yourself in the eyes of your cohort-mates. Are you ready?"
The sun overhead wasn't as blazing as it could have been; Los Angeles was often hotter. But I was sweating bullets, and not just because of the heavy suit of armor.
Still, I nodded. "I am ready."
