The Delaware Valley Defenders' gym is an odd mix of state-of-the-art equipment and grunge that feels like it got pulled out of some 80s workout tape. There's a whole bunch of weights on one side, heavy bags for kicking and punching, and an arena-type space marked with yellow lines for sparring. Kinda like a school gym but way, way cooler. I've heard Liberty Belle has been inviting everyone for personal training this week. Guess it's my turn on the wheel.

Spinelli's been hanging out like a stray cat, crouched on a bleacher in his oversized sweatpants and a hoodie. Witness protection's still figuring out where to stash him, so he's making the D.V.D HQ his temporary cave. Not my problem, thankfully. As for Amira, she's been shipped off to some place for the prison system to take care of until her court stuff gets all sorted out. I've got my own worries.

I'm in my civvies today, a pair of joggers and a loose-fitting tank top. My sneaks tap softly on the mat as I walk in. Liberty Belle is busy at a bench press, finishing her set. She racks the weights with a clank that sounds like a challenge. I square my shoulders, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet. If it's a throwdown she wants, I'm so ready. My shark senses are already tingling with anticipation.

"Whoa there, Tiger Shark," Liberty Belle says, wiping sweat off her forehead with a towel. "I see that gleam in your eye. You're thinking we're gonna spar first thing, aren't you?"

Well, yeah. What else are we doing in a gym? Playing bingo? "Uh, kinda thought that was the plan?" I scratch at my scalp. "Isn't that what the gym's for? Gettin' the blood pumpin', y'know?"

Liberty Belle laughs, that hearty kind of laugh that makes you wanna join in. "Oh, we'll get to that. Don't you worry your sharp little teeth about it. But first, we're going to get dressed down."

Dressed down? Is that some kind of gym lingo I don't know about? My head tilts like a confused dog. I glance down at my clothes. "Am I not dressed right? I mean, I got the email and everything. It said 'athletic wear.' This is athletic wear, isn't it?"

"Not 'dressed down' like that, Bloodhound," Liberty Belle clarifies. She stands up, stretching her arms over her head, the muscles in her back flexing. Wow, she really lives up to that super-strength thing. "I mean we're going to break down what you know, what you don't know, and what you need to know. Consider this your orientation day."

Orientation day? Like school? I mean, I guess I'm still sorta the newbie here, but I thought I'd be past the introduction stage by now. I've got superpowers, for crying out loud. Isn't that like an automatic pass to the cool kids' table? And besides, I've been in enough orientations to last a lifetime. What makes this one so special?

"I've been in like… a dozen life-or-death fights already. What makes this different?" I ask, hand on my hip, body cocked out to the side.

Liberty Belle raises an eyebrow at me, then turns around to grab a clipboard from a table filled with weights and resistance bands. "A dozen life-or-death fights, you say? Well, that's impressive, but how many of those did you walk away from knowing exactly what you did right and what you did wrong?"

Um, none? I scratch my head. Most of the time it's a whirlwind of fists, teeth--because, shark powers, duh--and then either someone's down or running away, and I don't usually stop to think if I could have done something better. "Isn't winning the fight enough?"

She chuckles, but it's not a warm sound. It's more like the teacher's laugh when they're about to show you just how much you don't know. "Winning is surviving, Bloodhound, but the aim is to do more than survive. You have to strive for efficiency, understand your abilities, your strengths and weaknesses, and adapt. Otherwise, one day you'll come up against someone you can't beat by luck or brute force alone."

That… actually makes a lot of sense, even if I don't like admitting it. My teeth grind a bit; they're still sensitive in a way that regular human teeth aren't, and it's like nails on a chalkboard inside my own skull. I stop doing that. "Okay, so, what does this 'orientation' involve, exactly?"

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Liberty Belle's brows furrow, and I can't tell if it's disappointment or contemplation. Maybe it's both. She's still holding that clipboard like it's the Bible or something, and she's about to lay down the gospel according to superheroism. The gym smells like a locker room, but at least the mats are clean. Liberty Belle narrows her eyes as she looks at me, as if she's assessing whether I'm a failed experiment or a work in progress.

"Physical prowess is important, but it's not the only skill set required in our line of work," she states. Her voice has that note of authority that always makes me feel like I'm standing in the principal's office. "You might be strong, but are you smart in your approach?"

She has a point, but it doesn't mean I have to like hearing it. "I can think on my feet. I've had to adapt pretty quick, haven't I?"

Probably some psychological profile stuff that's way over my head. Or maybe she's just doodling to mess with me. "Adapting quickly and fighting smart are two different things. You've been learning techniques that require finesse, not just brute strength. Yet, you still fall back on throwing punches when it gets down to it. You need to fight smarter."

That kinda stings. I've been training like crazy, so hearing that isn't what I want. But then, what did I expect? A gold star and a pat on the back?

"I get that," I try to defend myself. "But when something's coming at me, my first instinct is to come back at it twice as hard. To think, 'Oh I should use a wrist lock here' when all my brain is screaming is 'hit it until it stops moving.'"

Liberty Belle sighs, placing her clipboard on a nearby bench. She starts pacing around me as if she's circling the problem itself. "Instincts are a good thing, but they're not the end-all, be-all. You're essentially a hammer seeing every problem as a nail. Fighting is about control. Control over your actions, your reactions, your environment. What you're doing is reacting, not controlling."

I wince at the analogy. It's not like I'm trying to be stubborn; it's just hard to switch off the 'fight' mode. "But isn't that what we're supposed to do? Stop the bad guys?"

She stops pacing and stands directly in front of me. "That's an oversimplification, Bloodhound, and you know it. We're not just enforcers; we're protectors, mediators, and sometimes, even counselors. Your powers give you a unique set of tools, but if you limit yourself to brute force, you're no better than a blunt instrument."

Ouch. That hits a little too close to home. She picks up the clipboard again and looks at it, maybe comparing the person she sees in the notes to the one standing in front of her. "Your bone density has improved, your muscle strength is off the charts for someone your age, but what about finesse? What about maneuverability?"

I shrug, and it's kinda petulant but I can't help it. "I mean, I can dodge pretty well. And I'm fast, so there's that."

She scribbles something on the clipboard, and I really, really wanna know what it is but I also really, really don't. "Speed is good, agility is good, but what's the point if your first and only tactic is to use your fists? What happens when you go up against someone you can't just punch into submission? What then?"

She has a point, but it's not like I haven't thought of that. It's just easier to revert to what I know. "I'm working on it, okay? It's just not… clicking yet."

She locks eyes with me, and for a second I feel like she's peering into my soul. It's disconcerting. "Well, you better make it click, and soon. Because there are plenty of things out there that won't wait for you to catch up. We'll need to work on getting you to internalize those combat forms, and not just treat them as some chore you're obliged to perform."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She nods to herself, her eyes not quite meeting mine as they sweep across the clipboard again. "You have someone who's been helping you fill in the gaps of your… tradecraft." Her tone makes it clear that she isn't thrilled to even say the word, as if the syllables themselves are somewhat unpalatable.

"I guess?" The word hangs in the air because I honestly have no idea what 'tradecraft' is supposed to mean. I have this sinking feeling that it's important, something I should already know about.

"It's the skillset spies and undercover operatives use. Fieldcraft, surveillance, evasion--things that don't just rely on the muscles you've been flexing or the powers you've got." She sets the clipboard down with a finality that makes me wince.

I feel my cheeks heat up. I knew I was bad at some things, but hearing it laid out like this stings. "I didn't know I was supposed to be James Bond too."

She lets out a sigh that's loaded with something I can't quite put my finger on--disappointment? frustration? "Don't be snide. This is serious. Your friend has been covering for you, according to Crossroads and some other reports. But what happens when they're not there? What will you do then?" Belle continues. "You're a brilliant kid, you know that? You absorb information like a sponge. But let's be clear--you can't just be a library of facts and formulas. You need to understand people, how they move, how they think, how they hide. Do you even know what to look for if you think you're being followed?"

I don't like that apparently my professional relationship with Jordan has been trickling up into the Delaware Valley Defenders proper, but that information is out of my hands now. I accept the things I can't control… this once.

A shrug escapes me. Honestly, I'd probably be the idiot who realizes someone's tailing me after they've already got a knife to my throat. "No clue," I confess, and it feels like I'm back in math class admitting that, no, I didn't do last night's homework. Except this is way more life-and-death than algebra.

Belle sighs and it's laden with the fatigue of ten thousand strategy meetings. "You see, that's exactly what we need to work on. You have the raw talent, Bloodhound, but it's not refined. Your friend may have been patching up the holes in your skillset, but what happens when they're not there? You can't always rely on someone else to be your eyes or to cover your back all the time. Not even in a superhero team."

I tap my fingers nervously on my thigh. I've been trying to learn, really I have. I've been practicing dodging, striking, even did some reading on criminal psychology. But this? This cloak and dagger stuff? It's just… not me.

"Do you know how to tell a convincing lie, even a small one? How to control your body language? If you're staking out a place, do you know the best vantage points, or how to blend into a crowd? Or even how to run a basic background check on a suspicious person without alerting them?"

Her questions hang heavy in the air. I can feel the weight of each one piling onto me and it's suffocating. "I… don't know how to do any of those things."

She leans in, her eyes softening. "Then that's where we start, Bloodhound. You've got the physicality down. You're as fit as a 14-year-old can be, and your power gives you an edge. But the streets don't just require muscle and superpowers; they demand wit, cunning, and knowledge. And that's what I'm going to drill into you."

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I'm in the gym again, real early, like before-the-sun-is-up early. Only other people here are some night owls clocking out, like Fury Forge, who is finishing up on the obstacle course, and Spinelli, folded up like a cat on a small pile of couch cushions, literally shoving himself in the corner to sleep. And Liberty Belle, of course. She's not someone you'd expect to be a morning person, but I guess that's superheroes for you. "Ready, Bloodhound?" she asks, standing on the blue mat at the center of the room.

I pull my gloves tighter, flex my knuckles, and nod. My heart's already doing a drum solo, so let's go.

We circle each other, first. I know I'm supposed to be watching her feet, but it's hard, y'know? Because you're also supposed to be watching their shoulders, and their eyes, and honestly at this point it's like a Where's Waldo of body parts. I decide to wing it and aim for her midsection.

Big mistake.

Her fist flashes up, blocks mine and it's like hitting a wall, but the wall hits back. She swings and I duck under it. "Again," she says.

Alright, no room for sulking. I shake out my hand--it's tingling, stupid nerves--and try to focus. I try a feint this time, lashing toward her face but switching last-second to go for her legs. It's slick, it's smart, it's--

Blocked. Again.

"You're throwing punches in panic, Bloodhound," Liberty Belle sighs, pulling back to give me a moment. "You have to get that under control."

"I'm not panicking," I protest. I'm not panicking, I'm fighting. Or, trying to. Isn't this what they call 'fight or flight'? My teeth ache to join the party, to sink into something, tear it to pieces, but I know I can't, shouldn't, do that here. Not to her. Ideally, never. "I'm fighting."

"You're panicking," she repeats, matter-of-factly, ending the conversation with an invisible period. When I throw those punches, I'm not thinking strategy or combos or anything else that sounds smart. I'm thinking please hit, please hit, please hit like my life depends on each swing. My muscles go from zero to sixty.

"Let's go again," I say, squaring my stance, trying to project 'calm' instead of 'nervous wreck.' It's not easy. "This time I got it."

Liberty Belle grins, and something tells me she's heard that one before. But she nods, takes her stance, and we're back at it.

We circle, again. I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to be looking at, but now I'm thinking about what I'm doing wrong and trying not to do that, and--oh wow, I just landed a hit. Not a solid one. Not a hurt-her-one. But a hit, and it's like I just scored a goal in the final seconds of the game.

Only, there's no cheering crowd, just Liberty Belle nodding like she expected this all along, catching my fist against her arms. I shuffle on my feet, adrenaline humming in my ears like the soundtrack of a cheesy action movie. Liberty Belle shifts her weight, sizing me up.

"Bloodhound, you're making good progress, but remember what Rampart taught you. Mix in some aikido, some judo. It's not all about brute force. Fight smarter. Breathe."

Judo. Aikido. The words kinda just spin in my head for a second. It's like remembering you have homework due the next morning, except the homework can help you not get your ass kicked. I can almost hear Rampart's voice droning on about 'leverage' and 'movement' and 'pinning'. I remember compromising positions, and try to fight the feeling down in my chest as extremely unhelpful.

Liberty Belle raises an eyebrow like she knows I'm flipping through a mental Rolodex of all the stuff I half-remember. A split-second decision, and then I'm moving, not towards her face, but lunging low. Instead of baring my teeth like a street-fighting Bloodhound, I aim for her wrist, fingers curling around it as I pivot my hips, just like Rampart showed me that one time. She blocks low, and I swing again towards her sternum with the other hand.

And then, well, she's flying. Okay, more like tumbling. But she hits the mat with a thud that sounds like victory to my ears, rolling backwards. For a split second, I feel like I've just unlocked some secret level in the world's weirdest video game.

"See? Not bad," she says, climbing back to her feet with a nod that's almost approving. My chest swells a bit; I've been living off tiny crumbs of approval like it's the food of the gods. "Good trick. I let you hit me, of course."

"Sure," I reply. We both smirk at each other.

So, we go again. This time I try a foot sweep, something out of the aikido toolkit. She sidesteps, but it's a close thing, closer than before. My heart's pounding, but not out of panic this time. At least, it doesn't feel like panic to me.

The lesson keeps going, blending punches and kicks with dodges and throws until I can't tell where boxing ends and martial arts begin. I'm breathing hard, drenched in sweat, but there's a glint in Liberty Belle's eye that says I'm getting it. I'm not just wildly swinging hoping to land a punch; I'm thinking, strategizing. Slowly.

"Better," she finally says, and I know she means it. "Your instincts are to charge in, fists swinging, but remember -- those are panic moves. Combat's about control, not just fury. Understand?"

"I think so," I say, though my mind's still buzzing, replaying every move we've made. Trying to reel the video file back in my head.

She looks at me for a moment, like she's peeling apart the layers of my teenage confusion, and nods. "You're learning, that's what matters. Progress is progress, no matter how small. You have to remember how to apply this in an actual fight, where there's not a teacher willing to be nice to you about it."

I nod, mostly to stop my head from spinning. I want to impress her, sure, but it's more than that. I want to be good at this, really good, not just kinda stumbling through hero life by the skin of my sharp, pointy teeth. And it's frustrating that there's so much I don't know, but at least now I know I'm capable of learning it.

So we keep going. Again and again and again. My hits land more often than not, now. Sure, she's probably going easy on me, but let me have this, okay? I'm making progress. It's not like my fists are rockets or my kicks are jackhammers, but they're mine, and they're getting better.

Then it happens. I'm in the middle of what feels like a pretty sick combo, yeah? And I see an opening. An actual opening. I go for it--no thinking, no panicking, just action. My fist sails through the air, fueled by this newfound zen or whatever, and it connects. Solidly. I feel it, bone against padding against padding against bone, solidly in her sternum.

Liberty Belle stumbles back, just a step, but it's enough, letting out a loud shout, forcing the air from her lungs. Enough for me to know I did that, and not because she let me.

"Good hit," she says, and her grin isn't a teacher's grin anymore. It's the grin of a fighter acknowledging another fighter.