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Pananagutan -- A Limited-Ongoing Tale

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The Wyrm Ouroboros:
Seattle, 2073.
Three Weeks Ago.

          The bokken froze precisely as it touched her throat; she and her opponent held in place for one heartbeat, then another, before separating and straightening up.  She bowed, low from the waist, a bow which he returned precisely.  He being Nanadan, it being his dojo, the bow drew a deep sussuration of amazement from the twinned rows of students, swiftly stifled as the two straightened up.  With self-effacing quietude, Suki took a step backwards, then three to her right, turning precisely before moving back enough to be over the line of the practice area -- what western-style olympic fencers might call ‘the lane’ -- before settling into seiza, bokken held by her hip within her left hand.
          Her opponent turned to his assembled students, some sixty individuals of various gender, metatype, and most important, skill.  “What,” he asked generally, “did she do wrong?”  Holding his own bokken very much like his recent opponent (though less precisely), he pointed to the newest of his advanced students.
          “She blocked too low,” came the reply.
          “Correct..”  The sensei pointed to the next.
          “Her right foot was too wide.”
          “Her hips were too far forward.”
          “Her timing was growing erratic,” came the response of a student several correct answers later; a more advanced student, he knew that sensei wanted analysis of the entire encounter, not just the last moments.
          “Her grip on her bokken was wrong.”
          “Her blocks were too vigorous.”
          “She was not direct enough in her paces.”
          “She did not have enough zanshin,” the late-twenties Japanese male human stated emphatically a dozen more answers afterwards; several of his fellow students on either side were unable to control at least a minimal roll of their eyes; clearly, ‘not enough intent’ was the go-to phrase for the man.  Even the sensei paused for a moment before giving a brusque nod and pointing at the next in line.
          Suki’s lips twitched.
          “All correct,” stated the master of the dojo after the last of his advanced students had spoken of an error in her form, walking slowly back up along the line.  “The rest of you -- any thoughts?”
          Towards the end at which the master had begun, a girl’s hand lifted tentatively.  “Kira. Yes?”
          The girl looked the dozen yards over towards Suki.  Her voice giving the same uncertainty showing on her face, she offered diffidently, “She was distracted.  And she was holding back.”
          This pair of suggestions caused more unrest among the assembled students as the bow and the zanshin comment combined.  The sensei, however, lifted his eyebrows, then turned to regard Suki.
          “Suki.”
          Suki bowed, this time all the way to the mat.  “Isamu-sensei.”
          “Were you holding back?”
          Suki’s lips twitched again.  “Yes, Isamu-sensei.”
          “And were you distracted?”
          “Yes, Isamu-sensei.”
          “Did I not tell you to leave your commlink in your locker?”
          “I cannot remove the implant, Isamu-sensei, and certain calls I cannot refuse.”  More uneasy shifting among the students; Isamu-sensei was quite firm about distractions in the dojo.  Besides, an implanted commlink cost a pretty sizeable chunk of cash, and though half the students were corporate, the simple fact was that only one or two might have had the means to implant a commlink -- or that they were important enough that their corporation would have retained control over its activation.
          Isamu regarded her for several long seconds, long enough for her to bow herself to the mat again.  He appeared to consider that a suitable apology, and stated, “Again.  Do not be distracted.”
          She rose, assuming position opposite him, and settled once again into low guard, both hands upon the hilt of the bokken as he assumed high guard.
          With a shouted kiai, he sprang forward, sword sweeping down from jodan no kame in a fierce cut to the head; with a huff of breath, she deflected it with a flicking snap of her own blade, drifting a half step backwards.

          ---

          As before, she committed herself to the very low block.  As before, Isamu-sensei’s wrists flexed, sliding his blade over the block and sweeping it upwards with speed and power, straight for her throat, where it froze precisely upon touching it.  Suki and Isamu held in place for one heartbeat, then another, before separating and straightening up.  Again she bowed low from the waist, a bow which he returned precisely before straightening and turning to his students as she returned to her resting position.  “Again -- what did she do wrong?”
          This time he did not select any specific individual; almost all of the students were staring at Suki as she settled primly back into place.  Each of her movements had been precisely the same as the previous; Isamu had picked up on it almost immediately, and had done the same.
          “She did not have enough zanshin,” the same Japanese male asserted vociferously, a certain belligerence on his face.  The look in his eye as not only his fellow students but his sensei looked at him suggested that he was becoming aware that that answer was not going to be tolerated for much longer -- but this wasn’t going to stop him from putting this young Japanese woman in her place.
          But once more, Isamu simply gave him a long look, long enough for the rest of the students to turn their attention back to him, then ordered, “Hibiki, you will be permitted to be her next opponent, so that you may illustrate the point of today’s lesson.  Get armored up.  Nash, Bug, help him.”
          The lips of the late-twenties human tightened slightly; Suki could see the corners of his mouth turn upwards just a touch as he bowed.  “Yes, sensei!”  Surging to his feet, he stepped back out of his line and headed towards the alcove where the bogu were kept, even as the two other students named bowed, rose, and followed to help.
          She made a mental point to ensure he would regret that arrogant enthusiasm tomorrow.
          “Anyone else?”  Isamu looked at the rest of the students, waiting for a moment as nobody volunteered a thought before singling out the girl who had spoken before.  “Kira.  What do you think?  Was she distracted?  Holding back?”
          The girl hesitated, then gave a credible bow.  “Holding back, sensei.  I don’t think she was distracted, this time.”  She eyed Suki warily; the Japanese woman’s lips flowed into a full smile, and she gave the girl a respectful bow of her head in reward and recognition for her perceptiveness.
          “Very good.  Suki!”
          She bowed again, though not so low this time.  “Yes, Isamu-sensei.”
          “Were you holding back?”
          “Yes, Isamu-sensei.”
          “And were you distracted?”
          “Not as such, Isamu-sensei.”
          Isamu gave a snort of amusement, then turned back to his students.  “Distraction is death.  Within these walls, where we pursue the philosophy and pure art of the sword, distraction is death to the growth of learning and comprehension, to the growth of your art with the blade.  Outside the walls, distraction may well be death to you.  Remaining aware even while you are distracted is something to be assiduously studied.  A point in favor of this: Suki.”
          “Yes, Isamu-sensei.”
          “Again.  Cleanly, this time.”
          “Yes, Isamu-sensei.”
          She rose, assuming position opposite him, and settled for the third time into low guard.  This time both her hands gripped the hilt of her bokken with the slight differences that made right from wrong; Isamu again assumed high guard.
          With a shouted kiai, he sprang forward, sword sweeping down from jodan no kame in a fierce cut to the head; this time, her deflection was accompanied by a bare puff of breath, a light tap of her blade guiding his to the side as she paced backwards, the legs of her hakama rippling, ready for his follow-up -- which this time came at speed much faster than the first two.

          ---

          The block she committed the third time was still low; it remained the block necessary to conclude the exercise pattern.  Again, Isamu’s wrists flexed, sliding his blade over the block and bringing it to touch her throat, freezing into the tableau once more before the two separated, straightened, and exchanged bows.  The entire sequence had taken half the time of the others.
          “Thank you, Suki.  For the benefit of my students; the first time, were your errors intentional?”
          She smiled.  “Yes, Isamu-sensei.  If I may?” she added, with a slight sideways nod of her head towards the two rows of students; he gestured for her to speak, stepping back in his turn into waiting in seiza.  Turning to face the threescore, she let her gaze draw over the assembled students, knowing that Isamu’s most advanced ones were not among their company.  “Isamu-sensei and I agreed that I would commit errors, many of which were seen by the advanced students here.  The two errors that were the basis for the others, however, were discovered by this young woman.”
          “Kira.”  She again gave a head-bow to the girl, who was starting to be nervous about being singled out so frequently.  “Was I holding back this time?”
          After a long moment’s hesitation, she replied in a subdued voice, “I think so …”
          Suki nodded.  “Very good.  I was.”
          This admission caused a widespread murmur of disbelief, which Suki waited through.  “Yes,” she again stated, “I was.  And this time Hibiki-sama would still have been correct; I did not have enough zanshin.  However, this lesson is on practical swordsmanship; here Mr. Hibiki comes to help me demonstrate that what does not have enough zanshin can still kill you.”  She turned towards the alcove, stepping back to take Isamu’s place while Hibiki bowed at the edge of the mat, then at the edge of the court before stepping forward and lifting his shinai into middle guard.
          “Bug,” said Isamu in a firm voice.  The student, a short ork, bowed his respect.  “Exchange their weapons.”
          His eyes wide, the ork took the bamboo sword from his fellow student and brought it to Suki, exchanging it for her wooden one and bringing the bokken back to Hibiki.  Then he and Nash settled at the prescribed safe distance from the edge.
          Hibiki, clad in full bogu armor, lifted the wooden blade above his head.  Suki readjusted her obi, having thrust the shinai through the belt, then settled her hands to either side of its knot, her hakama covering but not concealing the casual ease of her stance.
          From the side came the voice of Isamu-sensei, giving final instructions.  “This lesson is on street rules and practicalities; the foremost rule on the street is survival.  All rules of the dojo are suspended, except that you will not step outside the court line, nor push your opponent into doing so.  This match is blood and bone; it will not end until blood is drawn or bone is broken.  There will be no yield accepted.  Do you understand?”
          “Hai!!”  Hibiki, vigorous, stern, determined to give this girl a thorough thrashing, armed with the superior blade, armored.
          “Sure.”  Suki, quiet, casual, throwing her attitude down like a gauntlet, her practice weapon not even out, at her ease in her gi.
          A moment of silence.  The students watch, tense with uncertain anticipation.
          “Hajime!!”

A few notes on language:

* Nidan: 2nd dan black belt in Kendo.
* Nanadan: 7th dan black belt in Kendo.
* bokken: wooden practice sword, used usually in solo form practice (katas) or with very trained (or sadistic) practitioners.
* shinai: bamboo practice sword, used full-speed and -strength, often when armored.
* bogu: Kendo armor, covering most of the front of the body.
* hakama: loose black pants, covering gi bottoms.  If you don't know what a gi is ...
* zanshin: 'intent', which includes situational awareness.
* seiza: traditional Japanese martial art 'rest' position; kneeling, hands across (not down) your thighs, sitting on your heels.
* jodan no kame: a high guard in Kendo.
* Hajime: contest command: 'Begin!'
Edited for clarity and story issues.

The Wyrm Ouroboros:
Philippines, 2052.
2 Weeks Earlier.

          I sat uncomfortably in the midst of the rest of the team.  Have you ever been there?  The only person who doesn’t fit in?  And it isn’t like it was just that I was Japanese, and I was surrounded by Filipinos and kawaru sent to Lagu-Lagu and who’d escaped.  It wasn’t that I was human, because I wasn’t, but maybe that was a part of it; I looked it, and that lack of appearing kawaru kept me     that hellhole they sent Japanese ... metahumans ... to.
          Metahumans; I have to get used to calling them that instead of kawaru -- changed.  These days, those who get sent aren’t usually changed, they’re born that way.
          But still, I didn’t fit in.  I know you don’t know me, but think of yourself in my place -- Japanese, so human-looking for an elf that my parents were allowed to keep me and raise me and even enter me into the usual corporate school.  Shiawase, Shiawase, our family, our home ... I still sing it under my breath when I brush my teeth.  It was my life until only months before, when … well.
          Anyhow.
          Best not to dwell on the past, right?
          Where was I?  Oh yes -- Mahirap’s team.  Mahirap, dwarf, hard and stolid, patient as the stones, with ruthless violence in every fiber of his being.  Lawin, his spotter, flying his trucks and bikes and drones just like the hawk the ork was named after.  Pating, so quiet, never saying anything but what is to the point, and smiling, always smiling, ever more viciously in the middle of a fight.  Palakol, almost the Shark shaman’s polar opposite, a Japanese troll as kind and gentle as you could believe of any born healer -- but you didn’t want her irate at you, otherwise the Shinto non-priestess mage would unlimber the naginata they named her for, calling it an axe.
          Suno and Yelo, fire and ice, ork and human, sister and brother -- twins.  She a decker and the team’s demolition girl, liable to go off about the Japanese, the corporations, rape of the countryside, toxic shamans, or the elven conspiracy; he an experimental subject of the corporations, detached, twitchy, by need extraordinarily self-controlled and fulfilling the ‘street samurai’ archetype by always limiting approaches to himself.  Aswang ... ork, adept, powerful, magnetic.  A predator as much as Pating, he had a quiet intensity that frightened me.  For many reasons.  And me ...
          Well, you know me.
          But do you see what I mean?  I’d gotten Riian back from her babysitter -- Suno and Yelo’s sister -- and was feeding her, and, well, that wasn’t going over well with anyone but Lawin and Aswang.  (Should have expected that.)  Mahirap was, I don’t know, still ... simmering.  You know how people are when they’re sitting there getting upset at you, just watching you, and you’re waiting for them to go off?  Maybe for you it’s your boss.  Or your boyfriend.  Or your husband, or parent, somebody who has an enormous influence on your life.  And he’s just staring at me, hard, just like his name.  And Riian’s nursing, and ... I’ve never been comfortable at interviews, on either side.  And this one was ... well, hostile.  So finally he speaks, and it's like an earthquake, shaking up my world.  Again.
          "Take your pick, Talim.  Gun or guy."  It wasn't like that in Tagalog, but it's as close as I can come in English, and my Tagalog is -- well, was at the time -- very academic.
          I couldn't make up my mind, but I guess my body decided for me, because I pulled out one of my pistols out of my shoulder holsters and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.  "It's a Springfield design," I said quietly after staring at the gun for a minute, just like the rest of the team was.  "All of it.  Most of the weapon itself is what they called a squashed composite, a carbon-fiber weave fused into an aluminoceramic, invisible to MAD detectors, incredibly durable, usable in extreme combat conditions -- as a hand-to-hand weapon, too.  Slim profile, silenced -- virtually no recoil, even with the special rounds.  Rangefinding smartlink, but it was upgraded ... a couple months before I left, with a lockout function.  Eighteen plus one rounds of ten millimeter caseless.
          "The bullets I have for it are made of the same stuff as the weapon -- excellent armor penetration, even vehicular.  They're very good at, um, what we called 'pest removal' -- killing drones."  I glanced at Lawin a little guiltily.  "Sorry."
          He waved it away, looking amused at my discomfort.  "As long as we're on the same side, Talim, you don't have to worry about that, right?"
          I didn't miss his use of the word 'you'.  I shifted a little, still nervous, looking back at Mahirap.  "I don't like using them, though.  They have too much penetration, and the shoot-through danger is very high.  I tend to use, er, chemical rounds.  DMSO and, um, a fast-acting paralytic." 
          Lawin started to laugh, while Suno groaned her contempt.  "Come on, little girl, we're not going out to play patty-cake with people.  If we sneak, oh, that's dandy, but when it comes down to the knife's edge, you have to hit fast and you have to hit hard."
          "Oh, now, that's not true, Suno --"
          "Don't you start on me, Palakol --"
          "Hey, at least she has options --"  (That was Lawin.)
          "Shut up."  Mahirap stared at me for a long minute that felt like a year while I calmed Riian down, then he glanced at smiling Pating.  He gestured with his chin towards the shaman.  Of course; Pating, even more than Aswang or Yelo or even Mahirap himself, was all about efficiency in a fight.
          "How fast is this chemical?"
          I hesitated, trying to remember the specs.  "Two, two and a half seconds?" I said, uncertainty in my voice.  (I'm still ashamed of that.)  "Sometimes a little faster, rarely a little slower.  I've heard of some people that are immune, but ..."  I gave a little shrug.  "I've never met any.  And ..."  I inhaled slowly, not wanting to disturb Riian and said, "It doesn't exactly shoot through armor, but at firearm speeds the liquid will go right through ballistic cloth and make contact with the skin.  Impact-resistant shells are a little better, but the smartlink helps to shoot for their edges; even a quarter-dose is enough to take down, well ..." I gestured at Palakol's massive size, big even for a troll.
          Pating kept staring at me for a moment, then turned his even-wider grin on Mahirap.  "I like.  Where can I get some?"
          The dwarf snorted, still watching me and my infant.  (I sure hope adrenaline doesn't get into breast milk.)  "Did you bring enough for everyone?" he asked, then waved away what I was going to say even as I opened up my mouth.  I'm glad he did; I, um, I wasn't sure what ... I hope he was talking about bullets.
          I'm blushing just thinking about that.
          "The Seco?" Mahirap asked.
          "Decoy, sir.  Nobody would walk around unarmed, so ..."
          "Where'd they come from?"  Yelo, clinically curious.
          "I used to work for Shiawase," I said, trying to stay vague.
          "Oh, the 'let the power plant nuke the countryside until it glows, then use the radiation-poisoned everything to power the plant' people?"  I can't say I didn't flinch just a little from Suno's vituperation.  "Or is it the 'build a mobile underwater mining platform and dump the heavy-metal spoil behind us so that it kills all the fish' people?  Or maybe the --"  She shut up with a 'bah!' and a spit to the side when Yelo reached out to touch his twin's arm.
          "What part?" asked Yelo, cool.
          Again I hesitated, glancing around at the rest of the people; Mahirap sitting in judgement, Palakol carefully winding up a gauze bandaging roll, Pating watching me with a grin like he'd eat me if I gave the wrong answer.  Aswang glanced away from the alley down the hall to look over at me, and the look in his expression was ... I don't know if I can explain it right.  Neutral supportive?  He looked interested in the answer, but not like whatever I'd say would cause him to tear out my throat right then and there, you know?  Like it mattered, but it didn't matter.  It was just a point of information.
          "Personnel protective services," I told him, even though he was back to keeping watch, looking down the hall and out at the rag-football game two dozen grimy kids were playing.  "So far as I know, they're the only ones the gun is given to; Springfield is a wholly-owned subsidiary, and all the parts and techniques were developed in-house.  I was assigned to Hitomi Shiawase.  For two years.  She's a good little girl," I added, looking over at Suno with, I guess, a certain amount of defiance, "no matter what Sadato-san or Tadeshi-san or the rest of her family do.  She's only eight."
          "You don't strike me as a bodyguard," Palakol mused, tucking the end of the bandage into the wrap, then carefully inserting it into its place in her medkit.
          "Tend to be big and bulky," Lawin agreed.
          "Bullet magnets," noted Pating.
          "Sniper bait," suggested Lawin.
          "Target practice," offered Pating.
          "Trolls.  No offense, Pala," added Lawin.
          "None taken," the healer replied with equanimity.  "Many of them are.  Well?"  She looked at me over the woefully tiny glasses she had to use for close work; far-sighted, which is okay for a mage, bad for a healer, and fixable anywhere but in the middle of this sort of poverty.
          "Sadato-san wanted someone who blended in," I admitted.  "And someone who could get her away from trouble, not wipe trouble out."
          "Which is where you saw this bodyguard of Ginoo Salaysay's?" asked Mahirap, moving me to the next point.
I couldn't help it; I bowed, or as much as you can when you're nursing a three-month-old.  "No, sir."  (A snort from Suno.)  "I recognize him from before my training."  Mahirap made the universal finger-rolling-forward gesture for 'keep it rolling, keep it moving, keep talking', so I did.
          "I was in the Shiawase Junior Athletic Championships when I was fourteen -- kendo.  All the sports had guest star judges for the final rounds; usually they did some sort of exhibition before the final contests.  Mine was Senior Lieutenant Hattori Takezo -- he'd been four-time Inter-Corporate Junior Athletic kendo champion, went into Tsunami's OCS right out of secondary school.  I was amazed at his skill when he performed his katas; every one of us in the competition was.
          "That was him, at the meet.  The bodyguard.  By his shoulder flash, he's made Major.  He's probably commander of the mercenary team we've been hired to assist."
          After a thoughtful silence, Aswang asked, "Do you think he recognized you?"
          "I don't know," I admitted.  "I came in third that year.  He wasn't a judge the year after, and then I was assigned to personnel protective services, which made me ineligible to participate.  It's been almost a decade."
          "Must have made quite the impression on you, then," suggested Palakol.
          "Yes, ma'am."  I blushed.  "He was handsome and very skilled, I was young and impressionable and wanting to get that good."
          "How good are you then, huh, swooner?"  Suno never gave anyone a break, I swear.
          "I was awarded my second-degree black belt, Nidan, before I entered PPS.  It was indicated by my instructors upon graduation that though I might want to continue, my technique may have suffered due to my other training -- that I wouldn't be able to restrain myself to pure kendo form.  So I never tested for a higher degree."
          "Doesn't answer the question, girlie."
          I looked up at her with fire in my heart and ice in my eyes.  "Right now, the only reason you are not unconscious or dead for your kawalang-hiyaan is because I respect Mahirap for taking me on.  Only your brother is faster than I am, and surprise counts for much."
          Silence reigned throughout the room, during which I carefully buttoned myself up, shifting Riian to lay on top of the blanket and over my shoulder while I started to gently pat her back.  I didn't want to dry up on Riian, but I also didn't have time to find the medication that would make me do so. I was going to have to leave her here, which meant my breasts were going to fill up ... the next weeks were going to be intensely painful for me.
          I wasn't looking forward to it.



Talim says Suno's treatment is 'kawalang-hiyaan'.  This translates to 'hooliganism', which is the sort of thing you'd expect from someone who learned a translation program  ... and just exactly what I got when I tried to translate 'invective'.

The Wyrm Ouroboros:
Seattle, 2073.
Three Weeks Ago.


          Hello again.
          Every once in a while I wonder who you are, watching me, listening to me, being me.  Not later on, when this gets fed through somebody and turned into a recording and released six or twelve or eighteen months down the road; now.  Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, I've heard the rumors.  Right now, right now, someone -- maybe a few someones, maybe several, maybe many someones -- is hooked up to ego-submersion drugs, receiving the feed coming from my implant.  For the tech-heads among you, let me access ...
          Commlink Evo Tesla 7.216.delta, running Xiao Technologies Bù Shào OS v. 7.12.13 beta.  Simsense recording interface gear Yamatetsu Productions/Xiao Technologies YouRThere 2.62 delta, transmitting raw ASIST wet record to node *******-******.*****.
          There.  Sorry about that last; classified.  I don't even know where this goes.
          I guess it goes to you.
          Sometimes I imagine there being hundreds of you, each of you resting in custom-made recliner-beds and living vicariously through me, all of you fabulously wealthy and paying hand over fist for the privilege of being me, live and in person and in real-time -- or at least live, in-person, and real-time as it's technologically possible to be.  Sometimes I think maybe there's only two or five, an intense ad agent along with a crazed screen writer or three, and when I'm asleep for my three hours you come suddenly awake, yammering at each other in an orgy of crazy-hair-tearing creativity until spikes in my alpha waves trigger the receiving system into sending you back unconscious, to go back to receiving my transmissions..
          ...
          Sometimes I wish there wasn't anybody at all, because I know that when I receive that call, it means there's no privacy any more.
          ...
          ...
          ...
          Odd, the things you remember when you're waiting for someone to attack you.  Aswang once mentioned that I was as much of a combat monster as Pating, that when I got into it, I was into it until I was down, or all of them were.  I suppose I was.  I suppose I still am.  I think that maybe it comes from what Musashi-sensei called 'resolute acceptance of death' -- that as one enters battle, one accepts that the result may be, will be, your own death or the death of your opponent.  Killing a stranger is not a natural or easy thing for a human to do; like the man said, nations and megacorporations spend weeks upon weeks training perfectly normal human beings to learn how to do this without first getting angry or frightened. 
          Maybe it's just competitiveness.
          I speak, half to Hibiki, half to the other students, half to you out there.  "In a street fight, there are no judges to decide whether your opponent does not get a point because he did not have enough zanshin.  The street's rules are direct and brutal, and there is no appeal.  You win, or you are lying in the gutter.  Dead, dying, surviving if you're lucky."
          But anyhow.  You can see him, can't you?  You should be able to, you who can see what I'm seeing.  That little shift in his attention, even though we can't see his face beneath the kendo mask, the adjustment from 'she should attack' to 'I'm going to kick her ass.'  Time for the first lesson for Hibiki-bō.  And for the rest of the class.
          Hibiki is starting to move, coming down at me from that ridiculous jodan no kame stance.  For his sake, for Isamu's sake, I hope he never assumes that in a street fight.  He seems to be moving so slowly, but I know it's just the power flowing through my veins, through my nerves.  Yes, my nerves; belly a little weak, my heart rate is up.  Breath rate, too.  Fear, that's what that is, fear and adrenaline.
          I'm almost always scared during combat.
          Does that surprise you?  It shouldn't.  Any human being, every human being, should be scared when their life is on the line.  Even with all my training, all my meditation, the times I am calm during combat are very, very specific.  Whether unarmed or with a firearm in my hands, my heart rate goes up as the adrenaline and the 'fight or flight' (or fornicate, but nobody mentions that around the kids) instinct makes every one of my muscles quiver ever-so-slightly.  In most circumstances, for me it never really goes away.
          My right forearm comes up and across to catch his in a block, because my feet have taken a quick pair of steps, left-right.  It's harder to do this against a long blade than against a knife; to strike with a knife, you're already inside arm's reach.  I move faster than he suspected, maybe because he was busy when Isamu and I went at our own workout speed.  I'm even faster than this, but for his sake I rein myself in.
          Forearms press before he's gone more than five inches, before his movement really has any amount of momentum, and the movement stops him in his tracks for a fraction of a second, too short for him to think about doing anything, because the next thing that happens is that my left palm ascends into his elbow at the same time that my right arm slides to my right.  My right catches the back of his wrist and pulls downward, while my left continues to push up on his elbow.
          The way the metahuman arm is built, and the way its muscles are connected, means that he can't strength his way out of this maneuver; all of my upper body is behind this, and unfortunately for him, what momentum he has in the rest of his body wants this to happen too.  With his wrist now all but locked in my right hand -- he still has both his hands on his bokken, that's good, let's see if he keeps it -- I step in with my left foot and pivot upon it, sweeping the mat with the bottom of my right foot.  His wrist comes with me, and because of the way my left hand is locking his elbow, his entire body's momentum comes around with me, left hand releasing the bokken in an instinctive attempt to keep his balance.  Good; it'd get messy otherwise.
          Aikido in motion (lowering my arms to bring Hibiki down to the mat, as gentle as I can) is all about circular movement.  Even its straight lines (bending my left knee, Hibiki thumping not-so-gently onto his belly, left arm slapping at the mat to rob the movement of its energy) have circular-ness about them, curving out of the way and then continuing the curve with the opponent drawn into its embrace.  I don't know if Hibiki (my thumb sliding onto the back of his hand, the bone that leads to his smallest finger now controlling his hand, arm, entire body) has studied O-Sensei's teachings; I doubt it.
          I take the bokken from him with my left hand, my thumb's pressure on his right hand opening up his fingers.  A bit more twist, his palm now virtually parallel to the floor; he cannot move without popping something painfully out of joint, and he knows it.
          I turn to my audience.  Not you, whomever you are; Isamu's students.  Kira in particular, but all of them as well.  "Never underestimate your opponent.  You may surprise him," Hibiki pats the mat twice, tapping out, and I release him, taking several smooth steps away (I love how fluid I can move; sometimes it's a joy just to walk and feel my limbs move) while I talk, because this is street rules, and what I know and Hibiki might eventually appreciate is that on the street, the only rule is 'Survive', "but you cannot count on that, or on being better, or on not being surprised in your turn."  I keep Hibiki in the corner of my eye as he climbs to his feet and turns towards me.  "As much attention as you can spare should be for your opponent."  I throw the bokken towards my faceless opponent, who reaches out to catch it.
          Even planning to do this, my heart triphammers in adrenaline panic.  See how everything slows down for us?  Adept reflexes, moving us faster than the bokken flies through the air.  I don't often commit myself to ki shouts, but digging my left foot in behind the line of his feet so that I can bring my left hand behind the level of his shoulders and twist my torso -- "Hhaa!!" -- while striking his do over his belly requires the exclamation, just to twist all my body's momentum together and channel it into the palm strike.  I am not much stronger than many men, but momentum counts for much, and technique for more.
          The way his unbalanced body lets his hips kick backwards and upwards in reaction to the palm strike, my momentum becoming his, is exceedingly gratifying.  My Arnis instructor would have grunted and said something about my form, but Hibiki is practically flying back into my left hand, which I keep as solid as I can, deflecting his upper body downwards while his hips and legs keep going.  He again lands on his belly on the mat, this time sliding several feet while the bokken slaps into my left hand.
          "Never give your opponent a moment's rest."  I glance sideways at Hibiki who, though armored, has had the wind punched out of him; he's recovering his breath.  "Take advantage of every break, no matter how temporary," I add to the class as I walk over Hibiki, letting the hands-smoothed wood of the bokken slide into position in my palm.  You -- not the class, not Isamu over there, but you, you whomever you are, hearing me think, feeling me breathe and move and calm down -- you can feel my heart slow down as the practice blade eases into my hand.
          I love the sword.  Everything becomes so simple.  There is the edge, and there is everything else.
          Stepping next to Hibiki, I lay the last several inches against the back of his neck; he knows, and I know, and everyone in the class knows that he's dead.  "Never give him a break.."  I smile, and lay the bokken next to him, turn my back on him, and walk away.  "Never turn your back upon your opponent."
          I speak, but all my attention is on the momentarily-humiliated young man behind me.  I can hear his hands and his sandals against the mat.  "Never take your attention away from him," I counsel the students, looking directly at Kira, feeling my heart rate more than double in those few seconds.
          Hibiki lunges, committing himself to follow the point of his weapon; I side-step, turn, grab the back of his hand as he's lunging past.  Pressure against his thumb rolls the sensitive part of its joint against the hard wood of the bokken, and in an instinctive attempt to escape the excruciating pain, he collapses to the floor.
          Doesn't that feel great?  This guy has been irritating me since I walked in...
          But I'm playing with him.  Like his 'death', everyone knows it -- now, anyhow.  It's ... well, my Hyōhō Niten Ichi-ryū kenjutsu sensei would be very disappointed in me right now.  I can easily imagine that Isamu is.  As for me, well -- I'm sure you can feel that, too.
          Sometimes I hate this thing in my head.
          My thoughts should be my own.
          So should my shame.
          I help Hibiki up, and hand him the bokken, taking half a dozen steps back.  "Most important of all, respect your opponent."  I bow, keeping my eyes upon him.
          "Respect his skills."  The shinai slides out of my sash, lifted in middle guard, tip pointed at his face; my left foot moves backwards to test one position; you and I both feel my uneasiness with it, so I adjust it several millimeters forward, tightening the angle.
          "Do him the honor of taking him seriously."  My breathing slows with the feel of a blade in my hands, even this bamboo-strap imitation.
          "Do not play with him."  Hibiki mirrors my stance, then shifts warily into high stance.
          "Finish him as quickly as possible."  I take a sliding half-step back, shinai easing down into an underhand low retiring guard.  I can feel his gaze shift over me to try to figure out what I'm doing, and to be honest, I'm playing out my favorite scene from my favorite movie, and from the blockbuster simsense version that helped launch Nicky Saitoh to stardom.  If you've seen it, you know what I'm doing; I know Isamu recognizes it.
          Besides, Kyūzō was always my favorite of the Seven Samurai.
          With a shout, Hibiki surges forward, sweeping his sword down hard and fast; unlike the movie, Hibiki's goal is to crack my collarbone, so my stroke needs to be perfect.
          It is.  Time slows down, the blade is in my hand, everything is clear and precise, my opponent and I a unity of intention and movement.
          There's an underground document out there -- I got it from the friend of a friend, never mind how -- in which a man claims that in a fight between an adept who focuses with the intentions of a warrior, and one who focuses with the intentions of an athlete, the warrior adept will be the one walking away.  That may be true in his experience, and to a certain extent, it's true in mine; most athletes compete, they do not make war.
          This is not true of me, nor of any athlete within the schools in which I studied.
          Acceptance of death, your own or your opponent's, does not make you a Warrior, any more than running in a footrace makes you an Athlete.  A Warrior seeks to triumph over his opponent; an Athlete seeks to triumph over herself.  The Warrior seeks vindication of his skills outside himself; an Athlete seeks purification of them within herself.  As an Athlete, I am a harsher taskmaster by far than any Warrior who seeks my blood.
          As my bamboo blade describes an arc, my left foot retreats from lead to rear; the point of Hibiki's aim is now two feet further back, stealing the power from his blow. My stroke requires a fillip, and here you can feel how my wrists and arms snap to the side as the bokken comes to rest on my shoulder as Hibiki reaches full extension.  The snap creates a wave in the flexible shinai,a wave that the bokken could not duplicate; however, you and I watch how this flexiblity causes the tip to slide under the shoulder-protecting flaps of the men, tracing the gap between that helmet and the body-protecting do, to impact with precise force against my opponent's clavicle.  The leather saki-gawa applies in the strike well over the five percent of his weight of directed force necessary to break the bone, clean and precise.  I've had that bone broken myself, so what's going to come next may be a surprise to you at home, but it's none to me.
          Hibiki screams in pain.
          I catch him and his bokken before either hit the ground, easing both gently down to the mat.  Looking at the class, marking each face and their reaction to the speed of the strike, the debilitating break, the painful lesson inflicted upon one of their number of which they will be reminded every time Hibiki comes to class, I offer one last piece of advice.
          "Show mercy if you can."
          A Warrior could walk away.  An Athlete would not.
          Isamu claps twice, ending the bout.  "Bug.  Nash.  Help him to the benches.  Suki ..."
          "Already dialed."
          "911, what is your emergency?"


A few notes on language:

* Bù Shào: Mandarin for 'Sentinel'.
* -bō: Masculine diminuitive, like calling a man named Thomas 'Tommy' or 'Tommy-Boy'.

The Wyrm Ouroboros:
Sorry -- had to edit something.

The Wyrm Ouroboros:
Philippines, 2052.


          For a moment, he stared hard at the magazine of half-inch-thick bullets, willing them to react as though he'd banged it on a hard surface.  Normally he would have, the floor or the parapet or the Picatinny rail if nothing else presented itself, but in the middle of the jungle, while in position to do bad things to good people (or at least good enough people), he couldn't bang it on anything.  It'd disturb the wildlife.  Disturbing the wildlife would alert the good-enough people he was about to put .50 Browning Machine Gun rounds through.  For him, at least, that would be bad.  He fought against his natural inclination, willed the springs internal to the thing to be working properly, and snapped the ten-round box magazine into its receiver.  He'd already chambered an individual round from the rucksack of reloads laying between him and his spotter, so the urge to rack the bolt to chamber a round had to be fought, too.
          Successful at both, Mahirap eased back off the sight-line to the camp, drawing the ghillie shroud away from his face as he waited for the main team to call for their readiness.  Taking a sip from the tube leading to the electrolyte-rich sport-drink-filled Hump, he settled a bit more comfortably, watching Lawin visually scout out the village / camp on the other side of the hump.  "So.  The new girl.".
          There was silence from Lawin for a long moment before the ork eased back down as well, bringing his binoculars with him.  "Talim?  Good kid.  Intense but controlled.  Ready to learn; you can tell she'll do what she has to in order to survive."  He closely inspected his eyepieces for a moment, then glanced up at Mahirap.  "You're going to have to tell Suno to cut her some slack."
          Mahirap let his head settle back against the thin jungle duff, looking up at the leaves and brances fifty feet above him.  "Suno's never cut anyone any slack in her life, maybe excluding her brother.  I've never told her to, and I'm not about to start."
          "You've told her to back off before."
          "I've told her to shut up before; completely different.  Only person who can get her to stop when she starts going off is Yelo, and you know it."
          Lawin gave a noncommital 'mmm' and, after looking slowly around, went back to looking down into the camp.  After several minutes of silence, he volunteered, "You should teach her."
          "Teach who her?  Suno?"
          "Talim."
          "Teach her what?"  The dwarf craned his neck back, trying to see the ork's face. "Sniping?"
          "That too, but ... planning.  Thinking about the entire thing, the way you do.  Everyone's abilities, everyone's positions, how things work together and play off each other."  He leaned back, adjusted the after-market polarization caps, then went back to watching.  "Thinking as far ahead as possible, planning on what to do at every step if you can, thinking of what can go wrong, what can go weird, what can go psycho on us, even if you don't tell us."
          Mahirap looked around at their hide, then went back to looking at the canopy above him.  "She's afraid of me."
          "She'll get over it."
          "She thinks I hate her."
          "She'll get over that, too."
          "I'd have to be twice as hard on her."
          "You remember Balitang?"
          Frowning, the dwarf rolled his head, to find Lawin looking at him and waiting.  Sometimes that was the problem with Lawin, he could be so goddamn patient.  Returning his attention to the leaves above, he hunted through his memory.  Balitang, Balitang ... "Ork, maybe sixteen, spoke with a lisp?"
          "No, that was Talino.  Named himself that, stupidest thing I ever heard and I told him so."
          "Whatever happened to him?"
          "'Bout six months ago, he got mouthy with one of the Kapunín."
          "Oh, shit.  Did he survive?"
          "What do you think?"
          "I think if you enrage an always-pissed-off troll, they're gonna be playing football with your head."
          "Got it in one.  I helped with the grave.  Balitang."  Lawin had a way of letting things go only so far off-point; one of the reasons for his nickname was the focus he brought to the team.
          Mahirap growled, but dove back into his memory.  A few long moments later, he had to abort a move to sit upright.  "Balitang.  Dwarf.  Intense little bastard, twisted around when he walked.  Had to use crutches most of the time.  Too charming for his own damn good, twice as smart as he was charming.  He'd talk to anyone, and anyone would talk to him."
          Lawin went back to observing the 'firebase'.  "Two tries, not bad.  Scoliosis, it's called."
          "What are you, studying to be a doctor, now?"
          "I got curious after you took him under your wing, asked Palakol.  You remember how you were with him?"  Mahirap frowned, doing just that.  Lawin gave him only a moment, and didn't let up.  "You drilled that poor kid into the ground.  Didn't mean a thing to you that the furthest he could walk without grabbing on to something to keep from falling over was three steps, did it?  You drove that kid harder than anybody I've ever seen."
          The sniper pressed his lips into a tight line.  "He was good.  He saw all the angles."
          "He had to see all the angles, all the time.  It was that or curl up and die.  But he didn't get all of that on his own, and you know it."  The rigger eased back once again, taking a sip from his own Hump.  "He had potential, and you saw it.  He was a dwarf, and you wanted to make sure he'd have a chance.  So you nurtured that potential.  What did he do, every time you hammered on him for missing something?"
          Mahirap grunted.  "Hunted for more angles."
          Lawin knew when to let the rabbit struggle itself the rest of the way dead; he remained silent, instead reaching for the AK-86 carbine he'd lent to his team leader on the night of the meet, removing its magazine and checking it over yet again.
          "You think she has Balitang's potential?"
          "No."
          "No??"
          "I think she could be twice as good as Balitang will ever be."
          "Explain the logic behind that conclusion, please.  That's a ballsy claim."
          Carefully pulling the AK's charging handle back and letting the loose round drop into his lap, he slowly worked the action several times, making sure the old weapon moved smoothly.  "Because she's already almost where he was when he went underground with the Huk.  I watched her at the planning meetings; she doesn't have as much control over her face as she'd probably like to admit.  You could watch her thinking, wondering why you were making this suggestion or that to that bastard Takezo.  She'd get it, after a little bit, maybe eighty percent of the time."
          Mahirap watched him as he put the loose round back into the magazine, then locked it up and charged the weapon -- again, as quiet as possible.  "You want me to train my competition.  Or my replacement."
          "I want you to try to bring the best out of your team, Omar.  The way you always have."
          He sighed.  "I don't like her, Raffi."
          Lawin started laughing, very quietly, as he rolled onto his belly and returned to watching the firebase.  "You don't like the fact that a nursing mother is on your team.  Bet you're wondering about what she's like in bed."
          "Not my type.  And don't lay on my doorstep what keeps getting you hard.  You and Aswang, I swear.  Can't let a good pair of tits go by without staring."
          "Comes from having competition for your mother's milk.  Haven't met an ork that didn't get fixated on breasts, one way or another."  He paused, then with a sly grin, added, "Suno's been looking, too."
          "Oh, you gotta be kidding me."  Mahirap joined in with his friend's almost silent laughter.  "I gotta kick all you ork assholes out, just so downtime doesn't turn into an orgy."
          "Hey, have you ever seen Suno get so pissy with someone so fast?  Repressed lust."  That brought a new wave of laughter from both of them, virtually silent but no less tension-relieving for it.

          ---

          "T minus five.  Main ops on final approach.  Support ops confirm.  Over."
          "Nip bastard."  Lawin lowered his head slightly, moving the hand-held corded to his support unit upwards towards his lips.  "Support op one in place, awaiting engagement.  Over."  The unit gave a little chuckle as it spat its package off.
          "Support op two.  In place, awaiting engagement.  Over."  Talim and Aswang, watching the back door, not quite opposite Lawin and Mahirap's over-watching position.  On the grid-reference they'd overlaid onto the map of the village, Talim and Aswang were watching the small gate at A-1, with Lawin and Mahirap another hundred fifty, two hundred meters off from I-7.  The ridgelines linked up maybe three hundred meters beyond I-1.
          "Support op three.  In place, awaiting engagement.  Over."  Suno and Yelo, closer off of I-2, , watching a well-used trail Lawin had spotted off the satellite recce.  The road entered the firebase -  camp - village at C-7 and D-7.  Though Lawin couldn't see it from where he was, the coordination technology and the sounds rising through the jungle gave him enough information for him to imagine it pretty well -- the trucks snorting up the road, the one dying, the other two growling ahead at full speed.
          With the surplus military binoculars all but glued to his face, he had a box-seats show to the destruction of the gate.  Already, though, he was scouting through the responders, hunting for targets for Mahirap to service.
          "B-5, male human, no weapon."  They'd practiced in Alfonso Castañeda and in camp at night on a large-scale map, and most of the day on the actual base until the dwarf was shifting his weapon towards the sector before even getting complete target information.
          The thunder of the Barret M82A3 was unmistakable, WHAM, but down in the village it was probably lost in the storm of gunfire.  The smack of the air coming from the muzzle brake was like a firm slap in the face, but Lawin was used to it; a third of a second later, the man -- mage, from what he had figured, what he had seen -- went tumbling, backwards into the ground, as the .50 BMG round violently dumped its energy into his body.  Lawin only watched long enough to see the start of that particular movement, and went scanning for more mages.
          "F-4, female ork, no weapon."
          WHAM.
          "D-1, female human, pistol."
          WHAM.
          "C -- holy shit, is that --"
          Mahirap triggered his mike with a twitch of his head.  "Talim, what the hell are you doing?!? Over!!"
          WHAM.
          "Lawin, do your fucking job!!"
          "Ah, shit, uh -- G-5, male human, AK!"
          WHAM.
          "Taking the opposition from behind, sir.  And prisoners.  Over."
          "F-6, male troll, machine gun!"
          WHAM.
          "Get your ass back behind that gate!!  Over!!"
          "C-3, female elf, staff!!"
          WHAM.
          "Negative, sir, over."
          "B-5, male human, no weapon!"
          WHAM.
          "Shit!!  Shit shit -- Suno, Yelo, get your asses in there, back that crazy-ass bitch up!!  Over!!"
          "D-1, female human, no weapon!!"
          WHAM.
          "Wait, did you --"
          "On our way, over!!"
          "What the -- fuck it!!"
          WHAM.
          "See if she gets up from two!! Reload!!"
          "You shot her once already!!"
          "I know, what the fuck?!?"
          "Ops teams, be advised shapeshifters are present!! Comm, relay all sets to broadcast in the clear!! Over!!"
          "No shit!!"
          "Fuck, where did it --"
          "All units, Zetsumetsu Protocol is in effect!!"
          "My leg, it tore up my leg --"
          "Jiro's hit!!"
          "D-4, leopard!"
          WHAM.  WHAM.
          "I don't want to die, I don't want --"
          "Asahi, punch through that gap!!"
          "Bet that keeps the bastard down!!"
          "Seiji!!  Stay with me!!"
          "Mahirap!!  Mahirap, Pating is losing it!!"
          "H-3, leopard!"
          WHAM.  WHAM.
          "Whack him on the head if you have to, Palakol!!"
          "I don't want to --"
          "He's faced off with one of their mages, and I can't get to him!!"
          "Man your post, you troll bitch!!"
          "Kagi, pull back!!"
          "Seijiiiiii!!!"
          "Lawin, find me that --"
          "E-5, male human, unarmed!!"
          WHAM.  WHAM.
          "Regenerate from that!!"
          "Mahirap, that wasn't him!!  I don't --"
          "NooaAAAAGGGGHH!!!"
          "WHAT THE FU --"
          "GRENADES!!"
          A cataclysm from the village as the reactions of a dozen and more trained mercenaries reached, pulled, and threw, all in the space of a second and a half.
          WHAM.  WHAM.  WHAM.  WHAM.
          "Reload!!  Find that fucking mage!!"
          "No damage!!"
          "Regenerate THIS you -- die!  Die!  Die!  Die!"
          "I know, goddammit!!  Find the mage controlling that thing!!"
          "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!"
          "Yamato, lay fire on that blockhouse!!"
          "Pating!!  Pating, no, you're burning yourself --"
          "--  Die!  Die!  Die!! DIE!!! DIE!!! DIE!!!"
          "Kill it, oh please Kannon have mercy --"
          "Yoshi, can you --"
          "G-2, male ork!!  Fuck, he's shifting!!"
          WHAM.
          "Shit!!"
          WHAM.
          "Shitfuck!!  Where'd he go??  Did I get him?!?"
          "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!"
          "I have him!"
          "Talim?!?"
          "Yoshi, get on that spirit --"
          "Fast-acting paralytic, sir!"
          "Mahirap, look at her wake!!"
          "PATING, NO!!!"
          "It's toxic, Major, I can't --"
          "Palakol!!  G-1, sniper!!  Palakol, is Pating --"
          WHAM.
          "He's dead, Lawin!!  He burned himself out!! He kept overcasting --"
          "Shit!!  Suno, Yelo, you're on Palakol!!"
          "On it!!"
          "Roast the fucking thing, Yoshi, or I swear --"
          "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!"
          "Tōkyō, displace right!!"
          "Wha -- where'd it go?!?"
          "A-3, leopard!!"
          WHAM.
          "Fuck!!  Where does that --"
          "Yoshi, good job!!"
          "Major, I didn't --"
          "A-1!!  Back gate!!"
          "Palakol, Kagi team needs you now!!"
          "Talim, Aswang, get that fucker!!"
          "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH IT BURNS IT BURNS!!!"
          "I'm coming, I'm coming!!"
          "Holy shit, that girl can move!"
          "Lawin, find me --"
          "Asahi, covering fire!!"
          "Watch it!!"
          "H-1, gunner in good shot Aswang! G-1, doorway shotgun!!"
          WHAM.
          "Mahirap, there's nobody here!!"
          "Lawin, you didn't --"
          "Hey, where'd they --"
          "Yamato, cease fire, cease fire!!"
          "I wasn't -- wait a minute."
          "All units, cease fire!!"
          "Cease fire, cease fire!!"
          Silence, falling nervously.
          "Where'd they all go?!?"


A few notes on language:


* Balitang - 'intelligence', as in tidings or news.
* Talino - 'intelligence', as in military intelligence.
* Kapunín -- castrated.
* Asahi, Tōkyō, Kagi, Yamato -- Japanese phonetic alphabet, similar in purpose and use to the NATO phonetic alphabet (Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, etc.) used by many militaries, airlines, etc.
* Everything else odd has meaning, but -- like Pananagutan itself -- is better if you look it up yourself.

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