Breachers – Path of Steel

2

I

The Old Wolf

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Several days later

Bas

Bas's lips curved upward, his mouth guard clamped between his teeth, revealing a design of painted wolf fangs against the dark protective material. His gaze settled on his two sons standing in a corner of the boxing ring. The eldest, Marcus, stood with an air of certainty, his finger tracing the path of a jab as he guided his younger brother, Martin, who nodded in eager agreement. ‘He’s always so gentle with Martin. Like he’s a different person,’ Bas thought as he looked at his sons for a while longer, enjoying their interaction. ‘He’s a good kid. He just needs to realize it himself.’

Afterwards, Bas's gaze swept across his gym, tracing the faded marks on the floor while inhaling the familiar scent of worn gloves and the lingering tang of old sweat. Two boxing rings dominated the space, each bearing the scars of countless sparring sessions and heated disputes resolved through time-honored combat, or just a good old fashioned brawl. His place also had several mats for wrestling, Jujutsu, or judo. Next to that were boxing bags dangling from sturdy chains, swaying gently as if still reverberating from the force of the punches they'd absorbed mere seconds ago.

“Are you ready, old man?” Marcus shot him an arrogant expression, his lips curling upward in challenge. In response, a smile crept across Bas's face, a mix of pride and nostalgia intertwining as he saw Marcus's bold spirit—the very same fire that had burned within Bas during his younger days. He nodded at his sons and assumed a fighting stance. Martin, the youngest, clapped his MMA gloves together, a determined look in his eyes. Despite his age, the youth managed to look as focused as most professional boxers. His gloves shielded his face as he swiftly closed in, feinting left before swiftly sliding right. Two jabs shot toward Bas’s chest, but he evaded them while launching a few counterattacks of his own.

Despite possessing more mass, power, and reach than Martin, Bas couldn’t help but admire his son’s progress. Clearly, Marcus had imparted some valuable tips, as well as stoked a fire in his younger brother. The father and son clashed once more, Bas testing Martin’s skills with a series of jabs and hooks, gradually increasing the pressure. With a sudden surge of energy, Martin's fists blurred, his blows landing with precision against his father's midsection. Shrugging them off, Bas stepped in and closed the distance, seizing Martin’s arm and neck in a firm hold. Following that, Bas hooked his leg behind Martin’s, leveraging his leg to knock his son off balance. The forceful collision with the canvas echoed throughout the dojo as a resounding thud. Martin’s face lit up with a grin, his hands hanging loosely at his sides as he grasped what had just happened. Rising to his feet, he removed his mouthguard and faced his father. “I landed a few hits!” His once determined fighting expression now transformed into childlike innocence, betraying his age.

“I saw that, buddy,” Bas replied, lowering himself to a kneeling position beside his son, his fingers playfully tousling Martin’s dark hair that was sticking out at the top of the headguard. “But remember, you lost the fight because of it. Was this the trade-off you wanted? A few blows for a loss?” he asked, observing a shift in Martin’s expression, as if contemplating the question further. “You’ve inherited your mother’s intelligence, so make good use of it. Think strategically. Don’t charge recklessly, like a bull... or your brother.”

“Big words, coming from a fossil,” Marcus called out, leaping into the ring and landing on the canvas with a dramatic thud. He then put on his head protector before slowly putting on his own gloves. “Maybe it’s time someone made you eat them.”

Bas felt his body tense up as he watched his son slowly advance toward him, akin to a predator closing in on his kill, gloves now in place. Although it was only a training match, there was something about his oldest son that ignited a competitive fire inside of Bas. It felt reminiscent of his teenage years whenever he sparred with his own brother, Laurens. “Mind your words, arrogant pup,” Bas warned, closing the distance to Marcus with a cocky grin of his own, stopping just shy of their foreheads touching each other. “Or I’ll show you why people call me the Wolf of Utrecht.”

“Perhaps that was true at one point... but now? You’re more like an aging mutt in need of a kennel and a warm blanket, or be put down behind the shed,” Marcus retorted as he took a few steps backwards, inserting his own mouthguard and offering a smile. His piercing blue eyes remained fixed on his father’s, increasing the tension in the ring to an almost palpable degree. "And don't confuse arrogance with pride, old man."

Father and son locked eyes, a silent challenge passing between. In a heartbeat that hung suspended, time itself seemed to hesitate—until their bodies sprang forth in a synchronized burst. Fists collided with a thunderous thud, the impact jarring their skulls as brutal hooks met the sides of their heads, sending a shockwave through bone and flesh, despite the thick protective padding they had on. They swiftly retreated, their bodies coiled like springs, before launching a barrage of jabs. The tempo quickened as they lunged at each other repeatedly, with Marcus’s youthful agility on full display. Bas’s experience allowed him to outmaneuver his son, predicting many of his moves. The dance continued, punctuated by a symphony of jabs, straights, and grappling attempts. Marcus, relentless and determined, pressed forward, threatening to overpower his father through sheer stubbornness and stamina alone.

Marcus gritted his teeth and powered through a barrage of his father's jabs, disregarding the toll they were taking on his muscles and the sting of each impact. Each blow taken was a testament to his resolve and akin to pointing a middle finger at his father. Instead of backing off, Marcus closed the distance between them, enveloping his father in a tight embrace to prevent further punches. With a swift maneuver, he wrapped his arms around Bas’s neck and arm before contorting his body sideways while accelerating, lifting his father off the ground while executing a hip throw. ‘A Koshi Guruma?’ Bas thought, sensing the imminent lift as his son propelled their motion. Rather than resisting, he seized the opportunity, augmenting the throw’s speed by jumping along with it, forcing the speed to surpass his son’s control. In this risky gamble, Bas countered Marcus’s throw, redirecting the force of the throw and driving them both forcefully into the canvas below them instead of just him.

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Once on the ground, Bas lunged forward like a coiled spring, his hands snaking around his son's arm as he aimed to lock in an armbar, the tension of their struggle coming alive through the pressure on Marcus’s elbow joint. Marcus reacted quickly, rolling along with the movement and managing to free his arm at the last moment. In a fluid motion, the young man surged ahead, his fist forcefully slamming into the ground beside his father’s face, the blow narrowly evaded by Bas. The intense grappling continued, with Bas maneuvering to gain dominance through sheer combat experience, coming dangerously close to securing a leg lock on his young adversary. The mat reverberated with the symphony of their struggle, slick skin slipping and locking as they vied for control. Sweat plastered their bodies, mingling with the effort that made their breaths ragged and labored as they ignored bystanders that said the first round was already over.

As Bas watched his son's movements, a mixture of exhaustion and paternal pride played across his features, etching a weary yet affectionate smile onto his lips. ‘He’s gotten a lot better. No doubt I’m seeing some of his uncle’s hard work here,’ he mused, thwarting Marcus’s attempt to immobilize his wrist. Pride swelled within him for a moment before his competitive nature took over again.

Bas shifted his weight with a sudden twist, as years of experience guided and suddenly turned his son's own momentum against him, pinned Marcus’s back atop of his stomach. Within moments, he ensnared his son’s arm and neck, exerting pressure on the young man’s throat while simultaneously trapping his legs. Bas tightened his hold, gradually increasing the pressure, making it nearly impossible for Marcus to breathe. “Where is that pride now, pup? Come on, show me that you’re my son. Show me those fangs.” The young man struggled, elbowing against his father’s side, yet Bas persisted, his vice grip not letting go while Marcus’s resistance was choked out of him. “Or are you ready to apologize for the aging mutt comment?” Bas taunted.

Marcus strained to speak, his mouth opening, but no words escaping. Still, he refused to tap out. With a grin, his father loosened his grip slightly, granting his son a chance to voice his thoughts. “You’re... not... a good wolf.”

“Oh?” Bas responded, extending his legs to exert pressure on Marcus’s trapped limbs, inflicting just the right amount of discomfort. “And why is that?”

“Because...” Marcus struggled to articulate his words. “Wolves... work together... in packs, right... Martin?” Marcus’s gaze shifted towards his younger brother, silently pleading for assistance. In an instant, Martin leaped forward, joining the fray as he slammed into his father with all the fury his eleven-year-old frame could produce. It didn’t take long until the two brothers gained the upper hand, overpowering their father’s arms. Marcus attempted an armlock, while Martin mischievously slid a wet finger into his father’s ear.

At the same time, the door to the gym swung open, and the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the space, slowly approaching the three Smits that were fighting. Liane's voice sliced through the charged atmosphere, her words an amused scolding breeze that swept over the gym. “Now, boys,” she admonished, “What did I tell you about trying to murder your father?” She made her way toward the ring, her daughter in tow. At seeing their mother, the young men released their father, with Martin playfully prodding him one last time before getting up and joining his brother.

“That we should kill him when he’s asleep and make sure that we have a solid alibi?” Marcus suggested softly, chuckling at his own joke and ignoring the face his sister was giving him.

“I managed to land a hit on Dad. Twice!” Marcus exclaimed, a wide grin illuminating his face.

“I’m proud of you.” Liane smiled and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Go and take a shower, Martin. You have piano practice in two hours,” his mother instructed before shifting her gaze to her eldest. “The same goes for you.”

“Piano practice?” Marcus sarcastically remarked, only to receive a warning jab from his father’s finger in his ribs.

“Your tech-event-thingy is in forty minutes, or did you forget? Come on, I’ll give you a ride,” Liane offered, her eyebrow raised as she sensed resistance brewing in her son. “Isn’t that thoughtful of your sweet mother?” Her tone conveyed both affection and a veiled threat.

Bas breathed a sigh of relief when Marcus nodded and joined his brother in climbing out of the ring. He glanced at Marcus, noticing how his broad shoulders were filling out even more, as muscles adorned his frame. “He’s almost as big as I am,” he muttered to himself.

“Was,” his wife corrected him with a smile, leaning closer. “You’re not the spring chicken you once were. And if he had applied himself to his education as much as he does in your gym, I wouldn’t have to worry as a mother.”

“Maybe you guys dropped him on his head as a child or used lead-based paint in his nursery. That would explain why he dropped out... thrice,” Joline, their daughter, chimed in, raising up three fingers, briefly tearing her attention away from her cellphone to take a playful jab at her brother before returning to texting her friends.

“Joline, remind me again, what grade did you get on your last test?” Liane asked, her green eyes narrowing at her daughter momentarily before softening again. “Husband, you’re on Martin and Joline duty today. Piano lessons for the former, while the latter needs help with her French homework.” Bas let out a fake groan, his lips curving into an affectionate half-smile as his wife's finger traced a teasing path up his damp arm before her whisper danced across his ear that tickled his senses. “Why did you think I volunteered to chauffeur Marcus?”

“You’re pure evil,” Bas said, shifting his focus back to his daughter, who was still engrossed in texting. He vividly remembered their last attempt at tackling French together, stumbling over words he didn’t understand, with him nearly contemplating a petition to ban the French language from the world.

"But you love it," Liane said, planting a tender kiss on her husband's lips, effortlessly preventing any potential protest. With a swift motion, she snatched the cellphone from their daughter's grasp before handing it, along with a ring attached to a chain she retrieved from her purse, to her husband for safekeeping. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t let me catch you without your ring again," she playfully added, before making her way to the locker room, rapping lightly on the door to get Marcus to hurry up.

A rueful shake of his head accompanied Bas's action of peeling off his gloves and headgear, his gaze shifting to his daughter with a blend of bemusement and fatigue. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to turn out just like that crazy mother of yours?” he asked, returning her phone.

Joline's shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug, her attention turned to her cellphone again as she resumed her texting with an air of casual indifference. “Who knows... Probably worse,” she halfheartedly replied to her father with all the enthusiasm a sixteen-year-old could muster for a parent. Shaking his head, Bas made his way to his office to gather his belongings as he placed the chain and the attached ring around his neck.

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Copyright: OsiriumWrites