Chapter 46: Evaluation

Date: Monday, February 21, 2011.

Location: Chikara Dojo, Chinatown, Manhattan, New York

The air inside Chikara Dojo hummed with the rhythmic thud of fists and feet striking training pads. At the center stood Colleen Wing, her instructions crisp and clear, slicing through the air with the same precision she sought to instill in her students' movements. With each command, she demonstrated a technique, her eyes missing nothing as she acknowledged each improvement and corrected every misstep with a nurturing yet firm hand. In contrast to the synchronized group being instructed, Tyson practiced alone in a secluded section of the dojo. His presence was both part of the dojo yet distinctly apart. He wielded a ninjato, a single-edged sword similar to a katana but shorter and with a straight blade instead of curved. Every slash and thrust he executed was crisp, honed to a level that while short of mastery, few could aspire to reach.

Tyson stood at an imposing 6'6", more than a head above everyone else in the dojo. His chiseled features and muscular build cut an intimidating figure even when ignoring the sword in his hand. His brown skin was covered by a full-body black outfit that he had taken to wearing while training and his mismatched blue-green eyes were alight with fierce concentration as he flowed through kata after kata. Around him, the rhythms of the dojo continued unabated. Students grappled, punched, and kicked in disciplined exertion as Colleen Wing moved among them, her firm yet encouraging voice guiding them through complex forms and sparring sessions, shaping them into martial artists. Tyson was a study in solitary self-improvement, challenging himself with every subtle movement of the blade, seeking to surpass his limits. He executed a series of intricate maneuvers, the ninjato arcing through the air with deadly precision.

As the last echoes of the class's disciplined practice faded, Colleen escorted them outside. She opened the door of the Chikara Dojo and her students dispersed into the evening, returning to their mundane lives. But Colleen's observant gaze fell upon a group of people approaching the dojo. Her eyes lit up with recognition and warmth at the sight of the man leading them. Bakuto. The man who had not only recruited and trained her, but gifted her this very dojo.

Bakuto approached with the quiet confidence of a man long accustomed to command. Of medium height and leanly muscular, he moved with a martial artist's easy grace. His hair was trimmed short, the messiness styled rather than careless, and his keen eyes missed nothing as he surveyed his surroundings. His business casual attire and artfully unkempt beard lent him a casual air. As he drew nearer, a small, knowing smile played about his lips. Colleen couldn't help but return it, warmth and familiarity lighting her features. When he reached her, they embraced briefly in a quick hug that spoke of years of trust and shared history.

"I saw your students leaving as we arrived," Bakuto said, stepping back to look her over appraisingly. "You've done well for yourself, Colleen. This place thrives under your care. It's better than I had hoped."

Colleen's eyes shone with quiet pride. "The credit is yours, Bakuto. It is my honor to carry on the work you began."

With an inviting gesture, she led Bakuto and his companions into the dojo. Bakuto's gaze traveled over the meticulously maintained space before resting on Tyson, who continued his solitary practice, heedless of the departed students or the new arrivals. He moved through his kata with a singular focus, the rest of the dojo merely a backdrop as he lost himself in the motions. His form spoke of long hours devoted to honing his skill. Ignoring the scrutiny upon him, he poured his intensity into each step and strike.

Bakuto's gaze lingered appreciatively on the young man. "Who is that?" he asked, head tilting toward the lone student.

"That's Tyson," Colleen replied, pride coloring her voice as she regarded her dedicated student. "He's a high school student who showed up looking for training." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "I considered him for the scholarship, but he preferred to stay in the city. He's been here nearly every day since the summer, training for hours on end. He's committed. Pays five times the normal rate for lessons and usually attends for five times the normal class duration."

Bakuto's eyebrows ticked upward as he studied Tyson. The young man's dedication and skill were evident in his motions. Colleen and Bakuto observed him in silence, Bakuto's shrewd gaze missing nothing. Tyson remained focused on his training, but his enhanced hearing picked up every word exchanged between them. Colleen watched him, her critical eye missing nothing. After long minutes she stepped forward, selecting a blade from the rack that matched his own. Tyson noted her approach, and broke his rhythm, awaiting her instruction.

Colleen began without preamble, "I've noticed a few areas for improvement." Tyson inclined his head in acquiescence. Colleen hefted the ninjato, "First, your grip. It's too tight." She demonstrated, fingers flexing, finding the sword's center of gravity. "Hold it firmly, but not rigidly. Imagine you're holding a bird, your grip must be secure enough that it won't escape, yet gentle enough not to harm it." Tyson adjusted his grip accordingly. Colleen continued. "Your breathing is also erratic. It should flow smoothly, in sync with your movements." She inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, matching the rise and fall of the sword. "Proper breath control enhances efficiency and endurance. And can even make your strikes more powerful."

Brow furrowed, Tyson focused on synchronizing his breathing to the swings and slashes, though the adjustment did not come naturally. Still, his dedication was evident. He would master this in time, just as he had mastered so much else. Bakuto observed it all. His shrewd gaze remained fixed on Tyson, missing not a single detail. What he saw pleased him.

Tyson paused mid-swing as Colleen pointed out one last area for improvement. "Watch the alignment of your blade during strikes," she said, demonstrating a precise cut. Her blade sliced the air in a perfect line. "Your blade alignment is a bit off at times. This can make your strikes less effective. Focus on maintaining the edge alignment throughout your movements, ensuring that each cut is as sharp and accurate as possible."

Studying her intently, Tyson mirrored her motion, concentrating on the alignment of his own blade. The adjustment was subtle, but Bakuto and the other seasoned warriors in the dojo immediately noticed the improvement in Tyson's technique.

Colleen observed Tyson with satisfaction, pleased at his receptiveness to correction. "Good," she said approvingly. "Keep these points in mind, and you'll see significant improvement in your swordsmanship." Respect for his skill mingled with belief in his potential shone in her voice.

"Thank you, Colleen, sensei," Tyson replied, "I appreciate the lesson." He continued practicing in the dojo, the rhythmic whoosh of his movements the only sound breaking the quiet observation of the room. He made the subtle adjustments to his technique that Colleen had suggested, his concentration absolute as he sought to improve his skill.

Bakuto observed Tyson briefly before gesturing to Colleen, leading her upstairs and out onto the fire escape of the dojo. The cool afternoon air brushed their faces as they stepped outside, the distant hum of the city providing a backdrop to their conversation. "Do you think he has potential for... more?" Bakuto asked.

Colleen hesitated, weighing her words carefully before she spoke. "Tyson is... independent, very focused on his own path. He's not really someone I'd consider for the Hand. His work ethic, though, is unmatched." She leaned on the railing, her eyes reflecting the city lights. "He's always punctual, pays in advance, in cash. And there's a discipline in him that's hard to ignore and not commonly seen in this generation."

Bakuto's interest deepened at her words, a subtle shift in his expression betraying his thoughts. "I want to test him," he said, his voice low but firm. "See what he's truly capable of."

Colleen thought back to what she knew of Tyson. "He's so focused usually, but enjoys his practice." She recalled moments when she had seen him sparring playfully with Natalie, a skilled red-headed former student. "At times I've even seen him playful... But I don't know how he'd react under real pressure if his life was genuinely at risk."

Bakuto's quiet reply was, "Soon we'll find out."

They returned inside, resuming their discussion about the dojo. As they walked through the training area, their conversation seamlessly shifted to the dojo's finances, Bakuto offering insights and suggestions to boost enrollment. However, this was merely a facade, a cover for their real intention. Observing Tyson complete his practice.

From the corner of his eye, Bakuto noted the sheer effort and duration of Tyson's training. "He's been at it for a while," he remarked quietly to Colleen.

Colleen nodded in agreement. "He can work like this for hours without a break. He's not the most naturally gifted martial artist I've seen, but what Tyson lacks in talent, he more than makes up for in stubbornness and endurance." Their conversation continued, but both were acutely aware of Tyson's presence in the studio. As the evening wore on, the intensity of Tyson's training finally ceased. With a final, precise movement, he sheathed his ninjato, the blade sliding into its scabbard with a soft click. His practice for the day concluded with the same focus and dedication with which it had begun. Tyson carefully placed the sword back in its designated spot among the other weapons.

With a respectful bow to Colleen and a brief glance around the dojo to ensure everything was tidy, Tyson made his way out into the evening.

The streets of Chinatown were alive with light and sound as Tyson made his way from the Chikara Dojo. Neon signs advertising restaurants and shops in a mix of English and Chinese flickered in electric reds and greens, casting colorful shadows on the busy sidewalks. Voices called out in half a dozen dialects while scooters and bicycles wove expertly through the crowd. Tyson navigated it all with familiarity, and he should, he had walked this route many times over the last six months. His motorcycle waited where he had left it, a few blocks from the dojo in a quieter section of Chinatown. As he approached, the sounds of the main thoroughfare faded, leaving only the buzz of the occasional passing car. Reaching for his helmet, Tyson's thoughts drifted back to his training that evening. Colleen had introduced new dynamics into his kata, it had demanded intense focus. It would take more practice with the sword for him to fully implement her suggestions.

"What are you doing here, gaijin?" The sudden rough voice cut through Tyson's reflection. He turned to see a man standing a few feet away, tensed in clear aggression. The man's face was hard, eyes narrowed with hostility at Tyson's presence.

Tyson kept his response measured, aiming to defuse the confrontation. "I've been parking here for months. I attend classes at a local dojo." His tone carried calm confidence, hinting that he could handle himself if pressed.

But the thug was unimpressed. With a menacing smirk, he slid a set of brass knuckles from his pocket onto his hand and stepped closer with clear intentions.

Tyson held up a hand in a placating gesture at the man's aggressive posturing. "I'm sorry if this is your property. I wasn't aware there'd be a problem. I'd be happy to compensate you for using the parking space." His voice was calm but alert, hoping to negotiate rather than escalate. "There isn’t a need for violence here. We can work something out."

The thug's only response was a sudden punch, aimed with precision that betrayed formal training. Tyson recognized the skill behind the attack immediately. This was no ordinary brawler. Taller and with a significant reach advantage, Tyson, instead of attempting to block, stepped back, moving just beyond the reach of the brass knuckles. The thug shifted forward, launching a front kick, but Tyson was ready. He stepped inside the man's guard, making the kick go wide. With a controlled shove, Tyson sent the man stumbling several feet back. The thug landed with a surprised grunt, but unharmed as he scrambled to his feet. Tyson had intended to de-escalate. Shoving instead of striking signaled he could have hurt the man but chose not to. He had hoped to end the confrontation without further violence, but the thug was undeterred.

Raising his hands to his mouth, with a sharp whistle, the man called for reinforcements. More thugs emerged from the nearby buildings, forming a menacing circle around Tyson. The new arrivals were an assorted bunch, armed with an array of weapons. Clubs, chains, brass knuckles, and even a nunchaku and even a wakizashi, a traditional Japanese short sword.

Tyson raised his hands in a calming gesture, seeking to defuse the escalating tension. "You sure we can't talk about this?" he asked evenly, keeping his voice steady despite the growing threat.

The thugs closed in, tightening the circle around him. Their faces were set in hard expressions, their violent intentions clear. Though surrounded and outnumbered, Tyson stood ready, his body coiled. The apparent leader barked something rapidly in Japanese. Tyson was a polyglot but unfortunately didn't understand the language. However, his sharp hearing picked up the faint scuff of a shoe on the pavement behind him. One of the thugs was trying to sneak up while he was seemingly distracted.

Tyson listened intently, sensing the man's approach. Just as the nunchaku sliced through the air where he had been standing a moment before, Tyson sidestepped, evading the blow. The thug, having committed to a strike he thought sure to land, was overextended. Seizing the opportunity, Tyson delivered a punch to his midsection. As the man doubled over in pain, Tyson expertly disarmed him of the nunchaku. He followed up with a powerful kick that sent the winded thug sprawling across the sidewalk to crash against the brick facade of a nearby building.

Tyson bent and retrieved the fallen nunchaku. Unlike the wooden training weapons he was used to, these were made of steel, the bars connected by a nylon rope. He gave them an experimental swing, listening to the distinctive whistling as they sliced through the air. Even if he hadn't heard the thug's approach, that unique sound would have given him enough warning to respond to the attack.

The remaining thugs hesitated, their confidence faltering as they watched Tyson handle the exotic weapon with easy skill. In competent hands, the nunchaku could strike with the force of a baseball bat but required far less effort from its wielder. The tradeoff was that it was such an unusual weapon, that it needed practice and training to use effectively in a fight, while anyone could swing a bat.

The thugs paused, uncertainty flickering through them at their opponent's unexpected skill. Tyson took a defiant stance, readying the nunchaku for their next move. "Well, come on then," he challenged, his voice steady and confident.

The standoff broke when two thugs charged without warning, one with a chain and the other brandishing brass knuckles. Tyson reacted instantly. He whipped the nunchaku out, intercepting the chain and redirecting its momentum to send its wielder stumbling. At the same time, he ducked beneath the punch of the other, delivering an uppercut with his free hand that drove the brass-knuckled thug back.

Another thug, armed with a club, charged at Tyson from the side. Tyson spun, bringing the nunchaku down to strike the hand wielding the club. The sharp cracking sound indicated the thug's fingers were broken and could no longer maintain their hold on the club. The weapon dropped from suddenly limp fingers as Tyson followed through with a roundhouse kick that connected solidly with the thug's chest, sending him crashing heavily to the ground.

The remaining thugs quickly regrouped and attacked as one. Tyson moved like a whirlwind, his body a blur of motion as he parried, dodged, and struck with a fluidity that was almost dance-like. He wielded the nunchaku not just as a weapon, but as an extension of his own body, manipulating it with masterful skill. The thugs could not have known, but Tyson had spent far too many hours practicing with nunchaku. Michelangelo was his favorite ninja turtle as a child, and sessions swinging the weapon indulged his longing for its hypnotic fluidity and cool factor. The fact that the thugs had conveniently provided him with one now allowed him to test the nunchaku in live combat for the first time.

Tyson spun the nunchaku in a lazy figure-eight as he eyed the two thugs stalking him. One clutched an identical nunchaku while the other brandished a wakizashi, the short sword glinting dully under the streetlights. The thugs moved to flank him, coordinated in their approach despite the differences in their weapons.

Tyson, not keen on being flanked, struck first. He lunged, channeling a small amount of superhuman speed and using the extra reach afforded by the nunchaku to crack the thug on the head. The blow landed true, sending him to the ground, immediately unconscious. With the first thug incapacitated, Tyson turned to deal with the wakizashi. The swordsman slashed and stabbed relentlessly, seeking to overwhelm Tyson's defenses through sheer ferocity. But Tyson's movements were honed through months of disciplined practice. He deflected or dodged each attack, watching for an opening. It came on an overextended thrust. Tyson slapped the blade aside and followed through with a brutal strike to the thug's wrist. More bones snapped under the unforgiving steel of the nunchaku. The wakizashi clattered to the pavement as the man staggered back, clutching his ruined hand. Tyson pressed the advantage, lashing out with a spinning kick that lifted the disarmed thug clear off his feet. The man hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, his head cracking against the concrete with an ugly thud.

The remaining thug hesitated after Tyson's easy dismantling of his companions. But he didn't relent, diving forward with a knife gleaming in his hand. Tyson flowed inside the clumsy stab and seized the man's arm, holding it immobile. Tyson's fists slammed into the thug's ribs, three punishing blows dropping the man to the ground.

Tyson surveyed the fallen thugs dispassionately. Though he was victorious, he mentally cataloged all the errors in his form, reminding himself of the weaknesses in his technique that he needed to address. There was always room for improvement. He collected the matching nunchaku and the wakizashi, trophies of a hard-won battle… Finally, some loot, he thought to himself with a satisfied smile.

— Rogue Replacement —

From their vantage point high above the street, Colleen Wing and Bakuto, along with his entourage watched the scene unfold below. They observed as Tyson dispatched the first thug and methodically took apart the group surrounding him.

"Remember the last initiate who took down ten armed attackers?" Bakuto asked, his gaze fixed on Tyson.

Colleen's response held a hint of pride. "Should I not? It was me." But her expression turned thoughtful. "It wasn't nearly this easy when I did it. He's barely been touched."

Bakuto nodded. "You've been watching him for months. What's his weakness?"

Colleen hesitated, reluctant to see Tyson come to harm yet curious about his potential. "There was another skilled student he regularly practiced with. She stopped coming about a month ago. She challenged him, but I could tell he held back. He was clearly captivated by her beauty."

"A weakness for a pretty girl, eh?" Bakuto chuckled. "We can use that."

He gestured to one of his group. The woman swiftly left the room, heading for the street...and Tyson.

Tyson had just finished collecting his loot from the defeated thugs when a new figure approached him on the street below. She spoke in Japanese, and yet again Tyson was faced with a language that he didn't understand. With a roll of his eyes, Tyson bent down and touched one of the defeated thugs for just a second, absorbing enough of the man's knowledge to understand the woman's words. He straightened up and addressed her in fluent Japanese, "My apologies, could you repeat that?"

The woman shed her heavy cloak, revealing her striking appearance. She looked to be about seventeen years old, similar to Tyson's age, but with vivid features that made her stand out. Her heritage was distinctly Asian, and her short, vibrant pink hair just barely reached her shoulders. She wore a fitted white shirt, unadorned except for a prominent red circle positioned between her breasts in an unmistakable nod to the Japanese flag. The shirt was tucked into a sharply pointed, pleated black skirt that swayed slightly as she moved. The skirt was cinched at the waist with a heavy black belt, holding it securely above her hips in a blend of traditional and modern flair. Her legs were clad in bold, black, and purple striped thigh-high socks, adding a rebellious touch to the ensemble. The socks disappeared into padded samurai boots, a modern take on traditional footwear. Most strikingly, she wore large white headphones, incongruous with her otherwise combat-ready appearance. The headphones, combined with the katana she now unsheathed, lent her an aura more reminiscent of an anime character than a serious threat. Yet the ease with which she handled the sword and her confident stance suggested that underestimating her would be a mistake.

The young woman strode towards Tyson with a confident gait, "I am the Cherry Blossom," she announced, her eyes fixed on him with a piercing gaze. Though her voice held a tinge of disdain, her stance and the ease with which she handled the katana spoke of competency. Tyson remained wary but calm, keeping his focus on the self-proclaimed Cherry Blossom. He didn't speak, content to let her say her peace. The girl's glance towards the incapacitated thugs was dismissive. "These men, they are under my protection. You've made a grave mistake, gaijin."

Tyson weighed his words carefully. "I didn't start this. They attacked me. I defended myself."

Cherry Blossom's lip curled slightly. "Words of a trespasser," she retorted sharply. Her grip shifted on the katana, moonlight glinting off the honed edge of the blade. "Now, you will pay for what you've done." Sensing imminent confrontation, Tyson positioned himself defensively as she commanded, "Prepare yourself." Though he preferred to avoid further violence, the woman's demeanor indicated she would not be deterred.

As Cherry Blossom assumed an expert combat stance, Tyson unsheathed the wakizashi in a smooth motion. Tossing the sheath aside, he kept the short blade low and ready. "I'm not looking for more trouble," he stated, hoping to stall her attack. "But I will defend myself if I have to."

Cherry Blossom let out a small, mocking laugh. "Defend? Against me?" Her tone dripped arrogance as she approached Tyson, the razor-sharp katana held out steadily before her. "You will find that a more challenging task than dealing with my 'petals'."

Tyson stood facing Cherry Blossom, assessing the situation. Her confident movements indicated expertise with the katana. In contrast, he held a wakizashi, considerably shorter than her longer blade. This presented a significant reach disadvantage that he was acutely aware of. Typically, this would give Cherry Blossom an edge. However, Tyson had advantages. Unless Cherry Blossom was enhanced, he likely had superior speed. His mutant abilities provided agility and reflexes that would easily offset the reach difference. Moreover, his physical prowess was formidable. His strength and endurance could overcome any gaps in skill. If he closed the distance, neutralized her reach, and leveraged his speed and strength, he could gain the upper hand.

However, Tyson didn't want to simply overwhelm the girl. Like with the thugs, her 'petals', this was an opportunity to test himself and how far he'd come with his training. With this in mind, Tyson prepared to engage, shifting his grip on the wakizashi and wielding it in his off-hand. He reached out and grabbed the nearby nunchaku with his right. Dual wielding rarely worked well, especially with such different weapons, but it would be easier to discard one rather than try to retrieve it mid-battle. Weeks earlier, practicing with Natasha, he had wielded a sword in his off-hand as a joke. But doing so had allowed him to see the benefits of partial ambidexterity. He had actively worked since then to make his weaker hand proficient.

Cherry Blossom stood poised, katana ready, as Tyson faced her while dual wielding the wakizashi and steel nunchaku.

Tyson tensed as Cherry Blossom exploded into motion, her katana hissing through the air in a testing arc aimed at his defenses. He responded by bringing up the wakizashi to parry. Steel rang against steel at their first contact. His right hand held the nunchaku at the ready, waiting for an opening. They broke apart, reassessing. Cherry Blossom's dark eyes were sharp and analytical as she took in Tyson's response. Tyson returned her gaze steadily, gauging the speed and skill his opponent possessed. Making the next move, he feinted with the wakizashi and followed with a swift swing of the nunchaku. Cherry Blossom slid backward, evading the blow. She replied with a series of quick, precise slashes, each strike seeking to force Tyson onto the defensive and test his agility. Tyson ducked and wove, the wakizashi and nunchaku moving in smooth concert as he turned aside her attacks. Cherry Blossom exhibited consummate mastery, every cut and parry executed with lethal elegance. She probed at Tyson with a succession of increasingly elaborate combinations, intent on finding a flaw in his defense.

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The exchange became a high-speed clash where Tyson's adaptability and athleticism met Cherry Blossom's skill and precision in a whirling storm of attacks and counterattacks.

Tyson and Cherry Blossom broke apart once more, circling each other warily. It was clear from the set of Cherry Blossom's shoulders and the calculating look in Tyson's eyes that neither had gained the upper hand in the fight. They were still probing, testing each other's capabilities. In the brief respite, Tyson reassessed his strategy. Holding the nunchaku in one hand and the wakizashi in the other wasn't giving him any advantage against Cherry Blossom's superior skill. He wound back his arm and threw the nunchaku at Cherry Blossom, shifting the wakizashi to his dominant hand to allow for greater control and precision.

Cherry Blossom watched Tyson's actions closely, her dark eyes sharp. It was evident to Tyson that she was a highly disciplined and dangerous opponent. His throwing the nunchaku didn't phase her in the slightest as she easily sidestepped the projectile. Clearly, he was only ensuring she didn't capitalize on his momentarily open defenses as he shifted his wakizashi into his primary hand.

They moved toward each other again, even faster this time, with increased ferocity. Cherry Blossom's strikes were more deliberate now, each slash and thrust of her katana aimed to maim or kill. Tyson met her attacks with a blend of defensive parries and evasive maneuvers, narrowly avoiding the razor-sharp blade again and again.

The fight took on a rapid rhythm of its own, a blurring exchange of offense and defense between the two skilled combatants. With only one weapon to focus on wielding, Tyson's use of the wakizashi was more effective, his parries sharper and counterattacks quicker. He found a way to flow with Cherry Blossom's attacks, looking for any opportunity to strike back. While Cherry Blossom seemed to relish the challenge Tyson presented. Her attacks became a series of complex combinations designed to overwhelm and outmaneuver. Her katana flashed silver as it moved with lethal speed and elegance, forcing Tyson to narrowly avoid being cut down time and again.

Tyson's breaths came in controlled bursts as he tried to channel the instructions given by Colleen earlier into his techniques. His focus was entirely on the blade before him, his breathing, and the angle of his own sword's edge. Their movements were a blur, Tyson's defensive style against Cherry Blossom's aggressive flurry.

As they momentarily disengaged from their intense sword fight yet again, Tyson keenly observed Cherry Blossom. Despite her controlled, economical movements, she was breathing heavily, the physical toll of the high-intensity battle becoming evident. Tyson hadn't wanted to utilize his enhanced speed and strength to simply overwhelm the girl, instead desiring to test his skills. But as he watched his opponent, he realized his path to victory could be his endurance. While she might have been the more skilled swordsman, she was already tiring, while he could fight like this all day.

Seizing the opportunity, Tyson raised the intensity and frequency of his strikes, switching from defensive to being on the offensive. His wakizashi became a blur, attacking from multiple angles, each strike designed to force Cherry Blossom to constantly shift her guard and expend more energy. She met his barrage with remarkable skill, her katana moving in swift, precise arcs.

Cherry Blossom anticipated Tyson's barrage to be a short-lived tactic, expecting him to tire as she had seen many opponents do in the past. A last desperate flaring of the candle's flame before it went out. However, Tyson's stamina was far beyond that of any ordinary human. His relentless assault did not waver; if anything, it intensified with each passing moment.

Tyson's strategy was clear, keep Cherry Blossom on the defensive, and force her to use her katana in ways that would drain her energy faster. He was relentless, his attacks a continuous flow of motion, leaving no room for her to launch a counterattack. His continuous barrage kept her katana occupied parrying and blocking. Concern flickered in her eyes as realization dawned. Her breath grew labored and her movements, though still precise, lacked their initial sharpness.

As the battle raged, Cherry Blossom's tenacity waned against the relentless tide of Tyson's blows. In desperation, she gambled on a risky maneuver, locking blades with him to halt his assault. But the move proved to be her undoing.

Their katanas crashed together and Tyson seized the moment, shoving forward. For all her skill, Cherry Blossom was a normal-sized teenage girl. Even without using his superhuman strength, the force hurled her backward, shattering her guard.

Tyson pressed his advantage ruthlessly. Before Cherry Blossom could recover, he closed the gap between them, driving his fist into her stomach. She doubled over with a gasp as her breath exploded from her lungs. Capitalizing on her vulnerability, Tyson followed with a crushing cross to her face. The decisive blow knocked Cherry Blossom unconscious instantly. She collapsed, her katana clattering to the ground beside her limp form.

Silence fell on the street as the tension of combat evaporated. Tyson stood over his fallen foe, victorious but slightly disappointed. It had not been his skill that won the day, but abusing his remarkable endurance. However, his disappointment was short-lived as he looked down on the defeated Cherry Blossom, and her weapon. The prospect of having scored more loot overrode his sense of failure.

— Rogue Replacement —

High above, Bakuto watched the conclusion of the duel with keen interest. He'd seen the shift in momentum as Tyson weathered Cherry Blossom's attacks before unleashing his own overwhelming offensive. Bakuto knew how this would end long before the final blow landed. With an almost bored nonchalance, he snapped his fingers three times. One of the other women in his coterie silently withdrew from the room to carry out his unspoken command.

Beside Bakuto, Colleen watched the scene unfold below with growing dread. Comprehension dawned, and her eyes went wide when she realized which woman he'd sent after Tyson. Colleen turned to Bakuto, distress evident on her face, "Not her, please," she implored, though she already suspected it was futile. "She'll kill him."

Bakuto didn't bother looking at her, his gaze still fixed on the fight. "Perhaps," he said, his voice neutral. "Or perhaps not."

Colleen wrestled with indecision, torn between her loyalty to the man who had given her so much, and her duty to protect her student down below. Should she speak out, try to prevent the threat Bakuto had just unleashed? Or trust in Tyson's training, and have faith he could overcome whatever came next? In the end, her uncertainty kept her silent.

Below, Tyson stood over the unconscious form of Cherry Blossom, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest to ensure she still drew breath. Satisfied that she would live, he turned his attention to reclaiming his weapons. He gathered up the pair of nunchaku, including the one he'd thrown earlier during their fight, then slid the wakizashi into its sheath before securing them and the girl's katana to his motorcycle.

He had just swung a leg over the bike, mounting up, ready to head out, when the distinctive hiss of a thrown blade split the air. Tyson twisted aside, but the dagger still found its mark, slicing into the thick muscle of his hamstring. Pain lanced through the leg as he stumbled, barely catching himself. He was forced off the motorcycle, crouching behind it for cover. The wound would be a crippling one for most men, but Tyson was far from normal. He wrenched the dagger from his leg with a grimace, grinding his teeth against the pain. Blood flowed freely from the wound, but only for a moment before it closed.

Leanly muscular and clad neck to toe in a skintight white outfit that was decorated with circular black lines, the woman cut an intimidating figure. Her face was obscured by a small black mask, and a bullseye emblem adorned her forehead. Tyson's meta-knowledge screamed a warning at the sight. He recognized the symbol at once, though he would have expected to see it on a man's head, not a woman's. Her sleek jet-black hair was pulled tightly back, and in one hand, she held a dagger identical to the one just embedded in Tyson's leg, gripped with casual readiness. She might have been striking, if she wasn't trying to kill him.

But then, Tyson corrected his mental assessment, he had to admit, regardless of her lethal intent, she was still attractive.

Tyson looked up at her and asked through gritted teeth, "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"

The woman tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving Tyson's. "I'm the one who ends your little rampage," she replied, her voice cold and confident. "You've caused quite a stir, and Lady Bullseye is here to put an end to it."

"Lady Bullseye… Wait what rampage?" Tyson echoed in confusion, "I was just trying to go home."

Lady Bullseye's response was calculating and frigid. "I'm not sure the police will see it the same way. An outsider comes to Chinatown armed to the teeth." She gestured at his motorcycle, laden with the collected weapons. Her gaze swept over the unconscious thugs scattered around. "He assaults a group of locals," she continued, her voice dripping with accusation. "Until he takes his own life with one of his blades." She held up the dagger in her hand, its sinister glint mirroring the sharp edge, her words unveiling her deadly intent.

In response, Tyson's expression shifted to one of fear and desperation. "No, please... I'm too young to die," he pleaded.

Lady Bullseye laughed, a hollow sound devoid of warmth. "Too young? Ha! Too pathetic is more like," she sneered, disdain evident in her tone.

She hurled the dagger, aiming directly at Tyson's heart.

Tyson's pleading expression vanished as the dagger spun through the air toward him, replaced in an instant by a sharp, cunning smile. With a display of superhuman dexterity, he snatched the blade from the air, catching it a mere foot from his chest.

The desperation he had feigned just moments before was gone, replaced by a feral grin as he looked directly at Lady Bullseye, her own thrown dagger now clutched in his hand.

"I hope you have more of these daggers," he taunted, confidence and challenge clear in his voice.

Gripping the pilfered dagger in a reverse hold with his left hand to match the one he'd ripped from his own leg, Tyson turned to face Lady Bullseye, once again dual-wielding and ready for her next move.

She observed his sudden shift in demeanor, head tilting slightly in amusement as her lips formed a puckered smile. "Very cute," she remarked. "Let's see you try to catch this." In a swift motion, she produced a pistol from behind her back, the weapon seeming to appear from nowhere.

Tyson's mind raced as Lady Bullseye produced the pistol from behind her back. Surprise jolted through him first. He wondered at where had she been hiding that gun in such a tight outfit. But the surprise faded quickly, replaced by pragmatism. He really shouldn't have bantered with her. It was time to stop playing around.

Without hesitation, Tyson hurled the dagger in his right hand toward Lady Bullseye. His aim was poor; he had little skill for throwing weapons. But the dagger was never meant to harm her. It was merely a distraction. As anticipated, Lady Bullseye didn't sight the weapon on Tyson, abandoning her shot to dodge the incoming blade.

Tyson seized the moment, diving toward the nearest of the downed thugs. He plunged a hand into the man's jacket pocket, fishing urgently for anything that might aid his escape. His fingers closed on a small metal cylinder. He recognized it immediately and pulled it from the thug's pocket.

Lady Bullseye had already recovered her composure. The pistol was rising to track Tyson once more.

Tyson pitched the metal cylinder to the ground between himself and his attacker. There was a metallic clink as it struck the concrete. Then, with a soft whump, a mist erupted from the cylinder, rapidly enveloping the area in a concealing fog.

The mist billowed out, obscuring Tyson's movements and giving him a tactical advantage. Lady Bullseye's aim was compromised as the disorienting haze obscured her line of sight. Tyson became little more than a ghostly silhouette, moving through the concealing fog.

Tyson deftly employed his illusion abilities. To any onlooker, including Lady Bullseye herself, it appeared as though he had thrown the dagger and procured a smoke bomb from the downed thug. However, the reality was much different. Under the veil of his illusion, Tyson remained calm and collected as he walked in Lady Bullseye's direction. He maintained the illusion, making it seem as though he was still shrouded in the mist.

Tyson started his motorcycle. The distinct sound signaled his location. Lady Bullseye aimed her pistol toward the sound, and in the direction where she remembered the motorcycle being. However, she found herself forced to dodge a barrage of weapons thrown from within the obscuring mist. Chains, clubs, and even a discarded nunchaku flew at her, each throw carefully timed to interrupt her aim, giving Tyson time to mount his motorcycle.

As Tyson peeled off, riding away from the scene, the engine roared as he accelerated away. Lady Bullseye struggled to get a clear shot. She had not pulled the trigger a single time as Tyson turned the corner, removing any chance of her hitting him. The sound of his motorcycle faded into the distance, leaving Lady Bullseye to return to Bakuto.

Relief washed through Colleen as she watched Tyson peel away on his motorcycle, disappearing into the night. He had survived the ambush, showcasing not just his fighting prowess but his intelligence and adaptability as well. Lady Bullseye reentered the room, her silent return an acknowledgment of her failure to eliminate the target.

Bakuto turned to Colleen, curiosity and expectation in his voice. "What did you notice?"

Colleen kept her eyes on the now empty street below as she answered thoughtfully, "He analyzed his opponent and used his superior physical abilities to overcome their gap in technique. He utilized his surroundings and the available resources to his advantage."

Bakuto nodded. "Further, he executed a diving roll and retreat despite his injury, focusing through the pain to throw with reasonable accuracy while formulating an escape. He survived two of our finest, even after passing his test and hours of difficult training."

"Keep a close eye on him." He instructed. Then Bakuto addressed the room, his voice carrying an undertone of significance. "I'll notify the other Fingers of The Hand. We may have found a Black Sky candidate."

— Rogue Replacement —

Tyson stood in the corner of the room, observing the group who had been watching him. He listened as the man, Bakuto, described Tyson as a Black Sky candidate. Tyson vaguely remembered the title from his meta-knowledge but had no idea what it meant. One thing Tyson had recalled was the man, Bakuto. He was a high-ranking member of the Hand. His memories of the Iron Fist television show were hazy, but he believed the guy might be immortal, or ageless from snuffing dragon bones… or something. Iron Fist wasn't good enough for Tyson to have paid close attention.

The remaining members of the Hand listened with rapt attention as Bakuto described his years-long search for a new Black Sky, and how Tyson now seemed a perfect candidate. After some muttered discussion, the group dispersed to attend to various tasks. Colleen returned to Chikara Dojo while the other women accompanied Bakuto to retrieve Cherry Blossom.

Lady Bullseye was the exception. She pulled on her heavy coat again, disguising her features, and headed north, peeling off her domino mask and wiping away the bullseye makeup as she went. Descending into the East Broadway subway station near Seaward Park, she was unaware of Tyson following her under the veil of his illusions.

Tyson sat in the subway car, keeping a watchful eye on Lady Bullseye. She sat hunched, scowling at the floor, seemingly more upset than angry about her failure. He considered his options. He could end her now, removing one of the Hand assassins from the world. But he would not act rashly. Better to learn what he could from her first.

The train slowed, and Lady Bullseye rose heading for the doors. Tyson followed, his illusions cloaking him from view. They emerged into a Monday night lacking the usual bustle, though small groups laughed and chattered on the sidewalks. Vendors hawked their wares, competing with the muffled thump of hip-hop leaking from open doorways. Graffiti sprawled across aging brick, splashes of vivid color.

A homeless man ranted on the corner, his voice carrying clearly. "There's more than the Lizard crawling about under our streets. I've seen other monsters down there!"

Lady Bullseye paid him no mind, her boots clicking against the pavement as she stalked away. Tyson followed, keeping to the shadows, his senses alert for any potential ambush.

Oblivious, Lady Bullseye strode onward.

She made for a less-gentrified building, the sign labeling it, Marchand Pharmaceuticals. The name nagged faintly at Tyson's memory but he could not place it. Lady Bullseye went inside, and Tyson followed.

She was admitted past security and Tyson moved in her shadow, still using his illusions to avoid any scrutiny. He wracked his brain trying to remember why the name Marchand Pharmaceuticals was so familiar. He couldn't remember it from any of his meta-knowledge. Was it something from his time here, had he seen an advertisement or commercial and was mistaking it for something significant?

Lady Bullseye made her way to the top floor, unaware Tyson was only feet away, within the same elevator car. She entered an executive office. Tyson read the name on the door…

Edgar Lascombe.

Tyson's brow furrowed as he slipped through the door behind Lady Bullseye, the name on the office plaque nagging at him. It joined the litany of half-remembered details crowding his thoughts, whispers from the past that should have meant something if he could only grasp their significance.

His feet carried him forward on instinct, gliding across the plush carpet as his eyes roved the opulent surroundings. The furniture, the leather chairs, all screamed money and power. The kind of place where decisions got made, and fortunes rose and fell on the whims of the elite.

Lady Bullseye strode toward the broad desk without a sideways glance, seemingly oblivious to her silent shadow. Tyson hung back, merging with the dimness of a corner, his mind still wrestling with those persistent names. Marchand Pharmaceuticals. Edgar Lascombe. They twisted through his thoughts like smoke, maddeningly familiar yet ever-elusive. Pieces of a puzzle scattered by time, he could only hope their importance would become clear.

A man, Tyson assumed was Lascombe, greeted her condescendingly, "Ah you're back. Done playing ninja?"

She replied tersely, "I don't play." Her severe expression softened as she neared Lascombe. Lady Bullseye leaned in, and Tyson heard her whisper, "Hail, Hydra."

Tyson slowly pieced together the puzzle laid before him as Lady Bullseye and Lascombe spoke. The mention of Hydra by Lady Bullseye sent a chill down his spine. Then it struck him.

Edgar Lascombe.

CEO of a pharmaceutical company.

This man had been mentioned months ago…

By Cindy Moon's mother under Tyson's interrogation.

Tyson's search for Cindy had stalled after speaking with her mom. That piece of information had seemed minor at the time, but now, as he stood listening to Lady Bullseye, it was the missing link he had been searching for. Lascombe wasn't just a high-profile CEO, but a Hydra operative, tied to the sinister web surrounding the fate of Cindy Moon.

As Tyson stood in the shadows, his thoughts drifted back to that day at Oscorp. The day of the spider bite. He hadn't known Cindy, not really. He had only spoken with her that one time. If he hadn't seen her bitten by the same spider that gave Peter his powers, Tyson likely would have never noticed the girl.

The realization that Hydra was involved deepened the mystery surrounding Cindy's disappearance. If Hydra had Cindy he needed to do something about it.

Tyson knew he needed a plan, and his mastery of illusion would provide the perfect springboard.

Concealed in the shadows of the dimly lit office, Tyson watched silently as Lady Bullseye took her leave, her footsteps echoing down the hallway until the door clicked shut behind her. Edgar Lascombe was now alone, seated at his desk, oblivious to the predator lurking unseen in his midst.

Tyson's understanding of the dynamics at play here grew during the conversation between the CEO and the assassin. Lascombe was clearly the architect, the mastermind wielding power through cunning and influence rather than brute force. Lady Bullseye seemed to be the muscle, either a lower-ranking Hydra member or a hired mercenary. Realizing that Lascombe held authority over Lady Bullseye, Tyson had remained in the office while allowing her to depart.

Studying Lascombe intently, Tyson considered his approach. A direct confrontation would be foolish. Killing one man who was a Hydra operative, even if he was one of the leaders, wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't bring Tyson any closer to finding Cindy Moon, and he could end up revealing himself prematurely when stealth and subterfuge were his greatest assets. Instead, he would need to exploit what Lascombe and Hydra prided themselves on; information and influence. Tyson would craft an intricate illusion, a scenario designed to manipulate the manipulator, drawing Lascombe out and leading him to divulge more about Cindy's whereabouts or Hydra's plans. Tyson's powers gave him the unique ability to weave convincing worlds, turning Lascombe's reality into a stage under Tyson's direction.

As Lascombe resumed his paperwork, unaware of the hidden threat, Tyson soundlessly approached the desk and took the chair recently occupied by Lady Bullseye. When Lascombe glanced up, all he saw were two eyes fixed upon him. One blue, one green. Mesmerized by their pull, Lascombe's will was worn away, falling before the mercy of the illusionist.

Edgar Lascombe found himself standing before the shadowy visages of the HYDRA council, their faces obscured to anonymity behind dark silhouettes. Though only the vaguest impressions of gender and hairstyle could be gleaned, their authority rang clear.

"How are things in New York?" one of the faceless heads intoned, the voice distorted beyond recognition.

With practiced composure, Lascombe launched into an update on HYDRA operations within the city. "The Green Goblin's imprisonment has opened avenues previously beyond our reach," he explained, hands clasped behind his back. "However, with the Stark Expo coming in three months, many eyes have been drawn to the city, the most bothersome being Tony Stark himself. His meddling has proven exceptionally disruptive thus far." Murmurs of agreement echoed from the shadowy figures, their obscured heads nodding in unison. "Oscorp teeters in the wake of Osborn's reveal, and sentencing," Lascombe continued. "Public trust has been shaken. We must stoke these embers of doubt, drawing the disillusioned to our cause. The time is ripe to recruit among Oscorp's disenchanted employees."

"And what of the new players?" one council member interjected, their distorted voice betraying no identifiable traits. "The illusionist, Mirage, and other emerging threats?"

Lascombe's expression remained impassive. "Mirage poses an unknown danger. His abilities suggest that he could be a potential asset or a formidable adversary. We monitor his movements, but his powers make him difficult to pin down."

"We've received intelligence that Mirage will be setting up a permanent location somewhere in Manhattan soon," said one of the shadowed figures in their distorted voice, "We recommend you double down, try to recruit him, but place assets in his retinue in case recruitment fails and he needs to be eliminated."

Lascombe nodded slowly, considering the counsel. "A prudent suggestion," he acknowledged.

His analytical mind was already sifting through his vast network of operatives to select the perfect candidate for this delicate mission.

An image came to him then, of the lithe, dark-haired woman who had left his office just a few minutes earlier.

Yes, she would serve perfectly, he mused, the ghost of a smile playing at his thin lips. She could woo Mirage into the Hydra fold with her charms, while also closely watching the illusionist should he prove resistant… or a threat. Recruitment was always preferable, bringing new talents into Hydra's embrace, but should Mirage not see the light, he would need to be neutralized. And she was a master assassin, her skills honed by the Hand. She might actually be able to take down the illusionist before he could bring his powers to bear.

"I have just the asset in mind," Lascombe affirmed to the gathering, satisfied that he had found the solution to dealing with the wildcard that was Mirage.

A vaguely female figure spoke, "And what of the other? The Spider-Man?" Though her words held a hint of curiosity, her tone remained flat.

Lascombe shifted as he answered, "Spider-Man focuses on petty crimes like drug rings and robberies, but nothing beyond the level of human trafficking. The incident at Oscorp was an anomaly driven by the Green Goblin, not due to any interest or vendetta against the corporation itself." He paused, steepling his fingers. "His interests are mundane. In terms of threat level, he's negligible. As for recruitment..." Lascombe shook his head. "Highly unlikely. His moral compass does not align with our objectives."

The woman pressed on. "And the girl? Remind me of her story."

A frown flickered across Lascombe's face. He'd thought that matter resolved. "An associate brought her to me thinking that I could cure her. She presented as a prime opportunity for studying enhanced individuals. Her powers seemingly stemmed from an unidentified illness and mimicked Spider-Man's almost exactly." Lascombe sighed. " She could have aided our research, but it was deemed too risky to leave her in the same city as Spider-Man. Others on this council feared there might be some link between them that he could capitalize on, exposing us. She was relocated to a facility, though I'm unaware of her status. Either an Eastern Europe or Asia cell. Her blood samples remain secured in my office. Any details on her current status would fall to whichever cell now oversees her."

Silence engulfed the room as the council members absorbed this information. No further questions came regarding the girl. With the meeting at its end, the shadowy figures receded into the darkness.

Lascombe sat alone contemplating the discussions that had just taken place regarding the girl, Cindy Moon. Unease gnawed at him as he recalled the council's pointed inquiries about her.

He rose from his seat, a growing disquiet prodding him to take action. With brisk steps, Lascombe made his way to the secure vault secreted within his private office.

At the vault door, Lascombe keyed in the code to disengage the lock. The heavy metallic door swung open with a soft hiss, granting him access to the secrets secured within. Lascombe's eyes quickly found the refrigerated storage unit harboring Cindy Moon's precious blood samples.

Lascombe released a small sigh of relief at the sight of the storage unit, undisturbed and intact. The potential knowledge locked away in Cindy's blood, the possibility it held could be the key to unlocking new understandings of genetic mutations or abilities. It was beyond valuable to Hydra. To understand and control such assets was everything.

Reassured of the samples' security, Lascombe closed the vault door firmly. The locking mechanism re-engaged with a definitive click, sealing away the secrets once more.

With the vault again secured, Lascombe turned on his heel, mind already returning to his work.

Tyson slipped out of Lascombe's office, the container of Cindy Moon's blood clutched securely in his hands. A storm of emotions roiled within as the realization that Cindy was under Hydra's control settled. That brief window after her transformative spider bite, when his intervention could have spared the girl her fate, haunted Tyson. If only he had known. Though it was fruitless to dwell on past mistakes, the bitter sting of regret needled him. He could only move forward, aware that each choice he made carried consequences.

In putting himself, or rather Mirage, on Hydra's radar, Tyson had taken a calculated risk. Yet he believed the old adage held true. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't. Tyson viewed his illusionary manipulations as a gambit, a way to control the narrative on his terms. Lascombe was more than just an opponent to be thwarted; Tyson saw the potential to manipulate the man into an asset.

So when Hydra's tendrils reached for Mirage, Tyson would appear receptive, welcoming their goals and promises. He understood the dangers of engaging such a ruthless, far-reaching entity as Hydra. But opportunity dwelled alongside the risk.

And in stealing Cindy's blood, Tyson claimed a prize, while depriving Hydra of their asset. A satisfying first strike against the looming foe. Now he just needed to clear their security footage and get back to his motorcycle to reclaim the rest of his loot.