Lag 6.18b: But Not Too Hard

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“You’re strong, Sparks. Strong, fast and tough,” Greg began, his posture an open book of lazy confidence, hands thrown back behind his head in a way that could have been interpreted as cocky - if you were inclined to read into things like that. With an offbeat rhythm, he began to tap his foot on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor, sending a tattoo of echoes reverberating around the cavernous expanse of the dimly lit warehouse.

Jeez, this place could use some uplighting. His face was a solid mask of inexpressiveness right now, eyes hidden by his nerd glasses and a mouth that lay in a straight, flat line, the sort of line a frustrated artist might draw and then erase in favor of something more dynamic. Need to get Glennn on that. Maybe some LED’s or something. Make this a cool lair, instead of just… this. Behind that line and the glinting lenses of his glasses, his mind was a whirlwind of algorithms and potential paths of action, all cataloged and ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.

“I mean, let’s be honest, you're not exactly a prime example of peak physical performance, at least when compared to, oh, I don't know... little ol’ meeeee,” he drawled, cocking his head to the side in a way that came off as mockingly cutesy. His nonchalant tone didn’t falter in the slightest, even as Sparky rolled his eyes dismissively. The hot-blooded air of the last lesson still hung fresh in the atmosphere over thirty minutes later, but both of them had wordlessly chosen not to address it, leaving it unacknowledged for now.

They’d deal with it… later?

Later.

“But you know, pretty solidly not bad all around,” Greg nodded to himself.

Sparky sucked his teeth dismissively, shooting Greg a tired look as if to say ‘get on with it’.

“You’re alright, I guess. Not bad, really,” Greg said, letting his arms drop loosely at his sides as he shook his head. “And that’s kind of the problem. Your not bad is a regular guy’s ‘oh my god, that’s a fucking monster’. You could turn a mob of mooks into hamburger on your own and that’s if you’re trying not to kill them the way you are now. Hell, you’d probably screw up and send more than half of them six feet under in the process.”

Sparky opened his mouth, head already moving side to side in a clear prelude to arguing against Greg’s words.

A single raised hand from the blond kept him quiet. “Don’t even. Trust me, you can deliver at least five times as much force with just as much effort as the regular guy with almost any hit. That’s… well, that’s kinda deadly, okay?”

His mouth twisted, the grin that had been dancing on the edges of his lips quickly morphing into a frown of introspection.I ’ve already let him use me as a punching bag, let him go all out. He can definitely throw punches, the force behind those fists is a lot, but. He’s got sledgehammers in those fists and that’s saying something. Thing is, if he gets used to going full force… he’s gonna have to get used to dealing with a manslaughter charge. Dude’s got serious anger issues under all that chill. He’ll actually kill someone and pretty easily too. He’s not really gonna be fighting Brutes if he fights anyone. Probably just regular dudes with guns or bats or something. Need to teach him where to hit but also that hitting hard is bad.

Greg studied Sparky, his eyes tracing the bronze contours of the teen's face.The bronze-skinned teenager narrowed his own eyes, expression clearly reading confusion at where Greg seemed to be going with all of this. The silence hung heavy between them, tension building with every second. After nearly a half-minute’s silence, Sparky’s barely restrained frustration splashed over the side of his patience.

He folded his arms over his chest in a clear challenge, the curiosity in his eyes laced with a kind of "are-we-there-yet" impatience. “... So, yeah, I’m strong. We knew this. What’s your point?”

Greg inclined his head in a slow, contemplative nod, his gaze catching and holding Sparky’s challenging stare. His hands flexed at his sides, the knuckles popping like firecrackers in the quiet warehouse. Okay, game on, Sparks. Brace yourself. He stretched out, rolling his neck and stretching out his hands like a concert pianist preparing for a symphony. “Get in position,” Greg commanded, the command ringing out loud. “I’m gonna show you where to hit, and why hitting too hard is a no-no.”

A savage grin crept onto Greg's face as he took in Sparky's hesitance, the boy's face a study in wary anticipation. Sparky was still trying to find his footing, frame taut as he tried to prepare for the next onslaught. Come on, Sparkplug. Let’s speedrun through this one. No pain, no gain. “Lesson Five; But Not Too Hard.”

With the surprise of a pouncing tiger, Greg lunged at Sparky, his movements fluid and controlled. Despite the stark display of power, he was careful to limit his strength, restraining the natural inclination of his muscles to bring about a level of devastation that could be construed as overkill. But with speed, he allowed himself a little bit of indulgence, turning into a blur of quicksilver motion that was not so fast that it left Sparky unable to keep track of him.

Precision, not power. Speed, not strength.

He was even kind enough to announce his strikes, every body part he targeted turned into a painful, impromptu biology lesson. Each punch, each jab, each blow, a painful chapter in the subject.

"Nose," he announced, his jab quick and calculated as it connected with Sparky's face. The punch landed with a satisfying thud, making Sparky's head snap back, his golden eyes watering. "Super sensitive, tends to bleed, and snaps like a dry twig."

Sparky, his eyes squinting through the shock of pain and the sheen of unshed tears, didn't have time to respond before Greg was on him again. This time, his hand shot up, his fingers rigid as they delivered a harsh chop right to the center of Sparky's upper lip. "Philtrum. Bundle of nerves. Doesn't feel too good, does it? Next up is…"

His eyes shifted, slow enough that even the disoriented Sparky was able to notice. The teenager’s own eyes widened as he tried to dodge, but it was too late.

In an almost lazy move, Greg spun on his heels, catching Sparky with a powerful slap to his left ear. "Ears," he taunted, watching the boy wobble on his feet in a way that let Greg knew his head was buzzing like an overworked beehive, equilibrium shot as he reeled and tried to keep himself upright. "Disorients you, knocks you off balance. Easy way to put a person down. Most people don't need much. Just one good hit," he added, a twisted smile tugging at his lips.

And then, before Sparky could fully regain his bearings, Greg was on the offensive again, his next word punctuated by a single ruthless strike. "Throat," he stated with a casualness that was at odds with the suddenness of the motion. His hand flew forward, striking Sparky's windpipe. The darker-skinned boy recoiled, choking, his hands instinctively reaching up to protect his throat. "Slightest hit to the throat stuns anyone. Painful as all heck and people immediately hold their throat when it's hit, letting you get all sorts of hits in. Like to the..."

Greg sidestepped a blind, furious lunge from Sparky, the other boy desperately fighting through the pain to regain his footing as he attempted a tackle. In a whirlwind of movement, Greg didn’t let his momentum go to waste as he spun around to deliver a swift kick to the-.

"Knee," he stated with a chuckle as Sparky stumbled from the blow and went flying. "Knees are a joint. Joints can be dislocated. Just a little pain, and any fight's over."

His body hit the concrete floor of the warehouse with a hard grunt, but he didn’t stay down for long. With a growl that brought a smile to Greg’s face, the teen burst to his feet in an instant with a powerful handspring, landing on his feet with tense muscles and gritted teeth.

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He charged forward, fast.

The blond was faster, though.

"Temples," Greg's voice carried like a teacher’s in a class, if a teacher could make “2+2” sound like a veiled threat. Shifting into a literal blur of motion, his hands moved with the speed of a striking snake, fingers curled into an on-the-spot invention of a new martial arts technique, delivering twin strikes on either side of Sparky's forehead, each blow carrying just enough force to get his point across.

The impact felt like tiny hammers pounding against Sparky's skull, each strike echoed, reverberating with a dull, throbbing pain that twisted his face into a grimace.

Even so, Greg didn't pause.

"Base of the skull," he announced again, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His lightning-quick hands targeted the back of Sparky's head. As the strike landed, Sparky's knees buckled momentarily, his balance disrupted, and he stumbled forward, eyes wide from the unexpected blow.

Greg was already moving on, his voice smug as he said, "Jaw." His deft fingers jabbed Sparky's jaw from beneath, a point so vulnerable that the sharp sting raced up to his face, forcing his mouth to clamp shut with an audible click of his teeth.

Greg continued the dance, his hand sliding to Sparky's throat, fingers tracing the delicate skin there, and he said, "Side of the neck", delivering a tickling threat rather than a pointed jab.

"Are you finished yet?" Sparky interrupted, his words sharp with feigned disinterest. His hands darted forward in that moment, seeking an opening, his fingers striking towards Greg's exposed midsection.

But Greg merely chuckled, sidestepping the blow with a grace that seemed effortless, making Sparky's attack swat only air. "Just getting started," Greg replied with a wry grin, before tapping the tender flesh behind Sparky's ear, causing the other boy to flinch.

Sparky growled, a low rumble in his chest, "I don't nee—" But his words were cut off as Greg shut him up with another jab to the throat. The strike was delivered with just enough force to make his voice hitch and the other boy’s words dissolve into an uncomfortable cough.

"Trust me, you do," Greg responded, his voice echoing around the vastness of the warehouse as he continued the brutal lesson, striking Sparky's shoulder with a flick of his wrist.

"Clavicle," Greg tapped his knuckle against the curve of Sparky's shoulder even harder a second time, the point where bone met flesh, pulling back as the boy let a pained hiss slip from his mouth. A small bit of pain for a spot that could have — and had — brought a grown man to tears and to his knees with the right amount of force.

"Ribs," His fingers prodded at Sparky's chest, not hard enough to break anything, but a stern reminder nonetheless.

"Bladder," his tap was lower this time, aimed for the center of Sparky's lower torso. Sparky winced, pulling back, but Greg was unyielding, only giving him a second before he continued his 'demonstration'.

"Shins," He moved lower, delivering a sting to Sparky's exposed bone with a swift kick that made Sparky suck in a sharp breath.

As Greg moved lower, striking Sparky's shin with his foot a second time, Sparky attempted a roundhouse kick in return. It was a move of beautiful desperation, his body twisting and foot arcing high.

But like before, Greg was already a step ahead, dodging with a step back and a mocking shake of his head.

"Thigh Nerve," Greg's fingers burrowed into the meat of Sparky's thigh, pinpointing the hidden pressure point with unerring accuracy.

As Greg's fingers found the pressure point on Sparky's thigh, Sparky let out a hiss.

"Fuck y—" his fist rocketed towards Greg's face. But Greg deflected it effortlessly, swiping Sparky's hand aside like an annoying fly.

"Kidneys. Spine. Tailbone." Greg’s fingers moved to Sparky's back, tapping a path down his spine, each touch precise and firm, illustrating just how many points of vulnerability a body held.

His fingers continued their dance on Sparky's back, tracing a path of potential pain until— "Achilles Tendon," He finished, bending down to tap the back of Sparky's ankle, the touch just enough to make the other boy shift his weight uneasily.

“Goddda—!” Sparky tried to shove him back, his palm pushing towards Greg's chest. But with his balance off, he lacked both the speed and force.

Greg evaded with a smirk, and Sparky's hand found only empty air.

“And finally…”

Greg's hand hovered over Sparky's torso, the air between them charged with anticipation. Then, like a viper, he struck a brutal punch contained in a span of barely an inch. "Solar Plexus."

His last strike sent Sparky flying, the boy sprawling down to the floor once more, leaving him winded and sprawled out beneath Greg. He looked up, dazed and panting, the ceiling above him spinning. “...ow. What the fuck was that?”

With a satisfied smirk, Greg stepped forward, looking down at Sparky. "Apparently, it's called Jeet Kun Do. I picked it up from a book, but honestly, I think I was getting it down on my own already. Either way, it's just the way I learned to fight without my swords."

Dropping down to a crouch, he reached out his hand to Sparky, using the other to adjust his glasses with a quick flick as they slid down his nose. "Get up, sparkplug. We’ve got a city to save."

Sparky stared up at Greg, his breath coming in slightly heavy pants, but nothing more than a light sheen of moisture on his forehead was there to show that he was at all winded. More importantly, his golden eyes blazed with understanding. Greg, for his part, kept his grin in place as Sparky took his hand and he pulled his friend back up to his feet. "These, Sparks, are where you aim if you want to put someone down without killing them. A smart hit’s better than a wild swing. Remember that.”

This time, Sparky didn’t interrupt. He simply stared back at Greg, jaw clenched tightly, eyes glinting with something like… respect?

He was quiet for a moment, a long, heavy pause as he seemed to take a moment to digest the information, until he finally nodded. Smart and a good listener, the blond’s smile widened. Good for him.

“Let's go again,” Greg ordered, stepping back to give Sparky room. “And this time, I’ll slow down to no better than a regular dude. You get to hit back and remember, no wild punches. Controlled and precise. You hit too hard, I’ll knock you on your ass. Got it?”

Sparky rolled his shoulders, his jaw set with determination. His hand flew forward, striking at Greg’s face with a careful amount of force. Greg ducked out of the way with a bit more effort than normal, quickly reversing on his heels with his eyes firmly on his sparring partner, eagerness dancing in his eyes.

The fight turned into something like a dance, the two boys moving around each other, each punch, each jab, each blow carefully measured and controlled. Their movements filled the empty warehouse with a rhythm, a symphony of motion and action.

It was a step in the right direction. There was something undeniably satisfying about watching the other boy learn, watching the knowledge click into place as if he was finally getting it.

Man, teaching is kinda fun. Greg thought, blocking a jab aimed at his clavicle. The smirk never left his face.

“So, no more sledgehammer punches? You promise?” Greg drawled, keeping his tone light and teasing, even as he narrowly avoided a blow aimed at his nose.

“Yeah,” Sparky gritted out through clenched teeth, his face hard with focus. “Yeah, I get it. I promise.”

"Good boy," Greg shot back, swatting away a hand that aimed for his ribs. "There's hope for you yet, Sparks."

The training continued, the rhythm never breaking. It was a start, a small step towards a larger goal. But as Greg bobbed and weaved, a satisfied smile curled around the corners of his mouth.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was making a difference.

Baby steps, sure. But steps nonetheless.

“That’s the spirit, Sparks!” Greg grinned, patting Sparky on the shoulder. “Now let’s go over all those pressure points again, ‘cause I bet my left kidney you can’t remember where half of them are.”