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Two months later.
The air in the Trikru clearing was warm, thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. Sunlight and bright, cut through the canopy, illuminating the small, circular arena the warriors used for sparring.
Lexa stood on one side, her feet planted in the soft dirt. Her eyes themselves were not cold. They were bright, alive, and fixed on her opponent with a fierce, competitive joy. She held her twin short-swords in a relaxed, ready grip.
"I am going to beat you today, Mikky!" she yelled, her voice echoing in the clearing. A genuine smile played on her lips.
On the other side of the clearing, Mike stood. He wore a simple, sleeveless black shirt and a pair of dark, modern cargo pants he got from his bunker. He held a single, gleaming katana in one hand, its tip resting in the dirt, his posture one of complete, almost lazy, relaxation. His suit was back in his tent; he hadn't needed it for weeks.
A fond, easy smile, one that was becoming more and more common, touched his scarred face.
"This all feels real now," he thought, the hum of a dragonfly nearby pulling him deeper into the moment.
It had been a long, strange, and incredibly difficult two months.
The first few days after arriving at Tonas had been a brutal, jarring reality check. Anya, true to her word, had given him a large, private tent on the edge of the command circle, a gesture that was half-welcome, half-isolation. "Try to blend in," she had ordered. "Do not... cause trouble."
He had failed, spectacularly, at that.
He had treated the entire situation as a game, a simulation to be won. He was an "asset," as Anya had called him, and he'd acted like it, cold, efficient, and utterly arrogant. The Trikru warriors, already wary of the "demon" who had stepped from a metal tomb, were met not with a man, but with a weapon.
The "bad incidents," as he now called them, had piled up. A warrior, drunk on fermented juba juice, had tried to shove him in the mess hall. Mike had dislocated the man's shoulder, broken his wrist, and had a knife to his throat in less than half a second. It had taken a furious shout from Anya herself to make him stand down.
Another time, a group of children, curious and brave, had approached him. He'd simply stared at them, his golden, predatory eyes unblinking, until they fled in terror.
He had strength. He had the brains. But he had no place. He was an alien, a ghost, feared and ostracized. He ate alone, he trained alone, and he sat in his tent alone, the weight of his own power an isolating, crushing burden. Strength, he realized, was useless when it came to bridging the chasm between people.
He'd been sitting at his tent opening one evening, watching the village life from afar, the fires, the laughter, the connection, and the old, familiar ache from his first life, the lonely college kid, had resurfaced. He had been given a second chance, a world he had dreamed of, and he was failing it.
He started to think of a solution. He had to show them that he was also a chill dude.
But how? He needed a bridge. He needed an "in."
And then in a flash of brilliance, he identified the perfect, most difficult target. To win the tribe, he had to win their future. He had to befriend his biggest hater.
Lexa.
She had watched him for two weeks straight, her green eyes like daggers, her hand never far from her blade. She was Anya's shadow, and in her, Mike saw all the tribe's fear and suspicion, concentrated into a single, focused point of hatred. She despised him. She saw him as a monster, an "assassin," an untrustworthy human. She was the perfect place to start.
So, one evening, his new plan in motion, he had waited.
He watched her leave Anya's command tent, her face a mask of weary duty. She was walking back to her own tent, her shoulders tight.
He sneaked behind her and appeared from the shadows beside her, just a few feet away.
"Hey."
The reaction was beautiful, and precisely what he'd expected.
She didn't scream. She acted. In a single, fluid explosion of trained reflex, she spun, her entire body uncoiling into a high, powerful roundhouse kick aimed directly at his head.
Mike, of course, wasn't there. He had already ducked, the air from her boot ruffling his white hair.
"Nice kick," he said, his voice laced with genuine amusement. "A little over-rotated, though. You left your entire left flank open for a counter-strike."
"ARE YOU CRAZY?!" Lexa yelled, landing in a defensive crouch, her twin blades in her hands. Her chest was heaving, not from exertion, but from anger. "I could have killed you!"
He ignored her fury, laughing a low, easy laugh. "I really doubt that." He held up his hands, palms open. "I have a deal for you."
Her eyes narrowed, the green turning to ice. "I don't make deals with... your kind."
"My kind? A guy who's bored?" he countered. He pressed on before she could stab him. "You want to get stronger, don't you? You're good, Lexa. Very good. But you're not... great. Not yet."
He saw the flicker of pride, the spark of insult. He'd hooked her.
"Then how about this?" he said, his voice dropping into the smooth, reasonable tone of a salesman. "I'll train you. Properly. I'll teach you how to really use those blades. I'll teach you how to anticipate, not just react. I'll even teach you how to throw those knives I know you've been eyeing."
Lexa's guard went up, her suspicion palpable. She slowly straightened, though her blades never wavered. "And in return... what?"
He could see her mind working, her world of blood and betrayal offering up all the dark possibilities. His service? His loyalty? Some vile, personal price? Her hand tightened on her hilt, ready to end him if his answer was the wrong one.
"In return," Mike said, his entire demeanor shifting. The assassin's smirk vanished, replaced by a simple, almost... "goofy" smile.
"You teach me your language."
The shock that hit her was more profound than any physical blow. Her swords wavered. Her mouth opened, then closed.
"My... language?" she repeated, her voice small.
"Yeah. Trigedasleng. You guys all chat in it, and honestly, it's rude to leave me out of the loop," he said, shrugging. "And it's... inefficient. I can't be an 'asset' if I can't understand half of what's going on."
He'd expected suspicion. He'd expected a "no." He hadn't expected to see her entire defense system, her entire concept of him, short-circuit and crash.
She was staring at him as if he'd just grown a second head. This "evil" man, this "monster"... had just made the most normal, most... human... request imaginable. He wasn't asking for power. He was asking for... inclusion.
"You... you're serious," she stated.
"Deadly," he'd said. "So, is it a deal, future 'Heda'?"
She had just stared at him for a long, silent minute, her green eyes searching his golden ones. Then, with a curt, stiff nod, sheathed her blades. "Tomorrow. At dawn. In the sparring circle."
And so it began.
Every morning at dawn, he trained her. He was a ruthless instructor. He broke down her entire style and rebuilt it from the ground up. Her natural, fluid, two-blade style was a perfect base, but he sharpened it. He taught her economy of motion, how to make every thrust a killing blow, how to use her speed not just to attack, but to create openings. He taught her how to throw a knife, not with her arm, but with her entire body.
And every night, by the fire over dinner, she taught him. She drilled him on vocabulary, on grammar, on the harsh, guttural sounds.
To her utter shock, he had absorbed the entire language in one week.
His enhanced brain, a sponge for data, had downloaded, compiled, and integrated it. By the eighth day, he was speaking it fluently, complete with the correct regional Trikru accent.
She had stared at him, dumbfounded. "How...?"
"I'm a fast learner," he'd said with a wink.
But the funny thing was... the lessons didn't stop. The language lessons were over, but the dinner lessons continued. What had begun as a transactional arrangement for him, and a surveillance opportunity for her, had... changed.
She'd kept showing up, at first, to "keep an eye on him." He'd kept showing up because... well, he was hungry, and it was better than eating alone.
And they... talked.
He told her about his (newly minted) past. About the "soft" world, about cities that touched the sky, about oceans so big you couldn't see the other side. She told him about her childhood, about the Konklave, about Anya, about the forest. She taught him about Trikru, about honor, about jus drein jus daun. (Blood must have blood thing)
They became... friends.
The nicknames had started as a joke. She'd called him "Mikky" one day, just to see him scowl. He'd immediately dubbed her "Lexi," which she loathed, as it sounded soft and childish. But the names had stuck, morphing from insults to private, special terms of endearment.
(Back to present)
"Sure, Lexi," Mike said, pulling himself from the memory, his fond smile widening.
She giggled. It was a sound he was coming to cherish, a rare, bright thing in a dark world.
Then she launched herself at him.
She was a blur of motion. Her style, which had once been aggressive but predictable, was now a razor-sharp, intelligent dance. Her left blade feinting high, her right blade slashing low, forcing him to move. She was faster, her footwork now precise, her center of gravity always protected.
He, in turn, was a mountain. He didn't move. He reacted. His katana, held in one hand, was a silver flash, parrying her left, then her right, with a simple, economical clack-clack.
"Better," he called out, easily sidestepping a spinning lunge. "But you're still dropping your shoulder."
She growled, a low, frustrated sound, and came at him again. This was her new record. She had never lasted more than thirty seconds. This... this felt different. She was faster, she was smarter, she was better.
She was also, as always, outmatched.
She tried a complex, over-the-head strike with her right, while her left darted for his ribs, a move he had taught her.
It was, of course, the exact wrong thing to do.
Mike sighed, his smile never leaving. "Too slow, Lexi."
He didn't just block. He moved inside her attack. In a single, fluid motion that seemed to defy physics, his katana slapped her right-hand blade wide. His left hand, moving just as fast, caught her left wrist in a vice-like grip. He used her own momentum to spin her, pulling her off balance.
Before she could even register what had happened, she was spun 180 degrees, her back slammed hard against his chest. Her arm was twisted, her blades now useless.
And his katana, the one he had just used to disarm her, was now held in his right hand, the flat, cold side of the blade resting gently against her throat.
The clearing was silent again, save for Lexa's heavy, ragged breathing.
"Thirty... four seconds," he murmured near her ear. "A new record. I'm impressed."
She let out a thrilled laugh and sagged against him, all the fight gone. "I hate you."
"I know," he laughed, a deep, easy rumble in his chest that she could feel against her back. He released her, spinning her around to face him.
"You're getting there. You're still relying on aggression to cover your mistakes. You need to anticipate, not just..."
He stopped. She wasn't pouting. She wasn't angry. She was just... looking at him. Her face was flushed from the fight, her eyes bright, her lips parted as she caught her breath.
He started to walk away, to retrieve his katana's sheath. "Same time tomor-"
"Mike."
Her voice was quiet. He stopped, turning back. "What? Forget your...?"
Before his superhuman brain could analyze the shift in her tone, before his enhanced reflexes could register her movement as anything other than "non-threatening," she was in his space.
She moved fast, closing the two feet between them, rising up on her toes.
And she kissed him.
It wasn't a warrior's kiss. It wasn't a passionate embrace. It was simple, soft, and terrifyingly brief. Her lips pressed against the rough, scarred skin of his cheek.
And then she was gone.
She turned and ran, scrambling out of the clearing and disappearing down the path toward the village, a high, nervous laugh trailing behind her.
Mike was left alone.
The superhuman assassin, the man with a 90% brain capacity, the living weapon who could calculate the trajectory of a bullet in a windstorm... was just standing there, braindead.
His mind had blue-screened and crashed.
He stood there, frozen, for a full ten seconds. His mouth was slightly open.
Slowly, his hand rose, his fingers gently, almost curiously, touching the spot on his cheek where she had kissed him.
"Huh," he said, his voice a dumb, hollow sound.
A single, idiotic thought, the first one his rebooted brain could muster, floated to the surface.
'That's new.'
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