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The guy in the white karate gi, his black belt marked with eight level lines, was still trying to catch his breath. He'd already tried jackknifing to his feet, only to slide slowly sideways as his brain realized that his lungs didn't have any oxygen in them.
We stood around waiting, along with the rest of the class, which now stared at us as if we were freaks. Oh, wait—that was because we are.
So far in this class, there had been ten minutes of watching the instructor chop, flip, throw, kick, and punch just about everyone in the room. He'd ignored us until I'd stepped right in front of him, ready to take my turn in line.
"You can just watch for now," he'd said briskly.
I shook my head. "Let's get it over with."
So he'd explained what he was going to do and how I should block it or evade it, but I was already thinking about lunch and didn't really pay attention. Then he'd come at me, and I dodged to one side, under his arm, then kicked his knee out from in back, making him sag.
He started to spin, but I gave him a two-handed chop on the shoulder, trying not to break his collarbone, then jumped and did a spinning back kick, right into his chest. That was when he'd smacked up against the wall and slid down like a raindrop.
He looked a little better now, wheezing slightly and sitting up.
"I told ol' Palmer that we had a pretty good handle on this, but I guess he didn't believe me," I said apologetically.
His eyes narrowed as he slowly stood up, a good six inches taller than me, and I'm five-eight. He probably outweighed me by about a hundred and forty pounds. "That was a fluke," he said. "I was going easy on you because you're a kid. But if you want a fight, I can fight."
I guess this gets filed in the bulging folder of Max's Nongirliness, but my heart gave a little jump. I'd been worried about getting soft, losing my razor-sharp survival instincts. And what do you know, this nice navy guy was volunteering to help me brush up on them.
"Yeah?" I said, trying not to look too excited. Behind me, I heard Fang snort, saw Gazzy and Iggy start to calculate odds and exchange money.
"Don't hurt him too bad, Max," said Angel, smothering a grin as fury crossed the instructor's face. He rolled his shoulders, walked about ten paces away, and cracked his knuckles. The other students looked nervous and backed away from us, edging toward the door.
He stared at me with cold, cut-me-no-slack determination, then got into a fighting stance, holding one hand out, beckoning me.
"I saw that movie too!" I said. "It was like the coolest movie of all—"
He launched himself at me.
That was when his day really went downhill.
It didn't last that long—maybe four minutes. Which can feel like a long time when someone's whaling on you. Not to malign the U.S. Navy or anything, but he didn't land a single blow. Maybe he was having an off day. Finally, we resumed our earlier position: me leaning over him as he gasped on the floor.
"It's not your fault," I said, not even breathing hard. "I'm genetically enhanced. And, you know, ruthless. Plus, of course, meaner than a rabid wolverine. Are you okay?"
After a long pause, he nodded silently.
I jerked a thumb at the rest of the flock. "Do you want to try it against any of them?"
Everyone except Fang failed at not looking hopeful. The guy shook his head no.
"Good choice. Then how about you give us a checkmark saying we passed the self-defense part of the BS? Okay?"
He nodded again.
I looked at the others. "Is it lunchtime yet? I'm starving."
Iggy felt his watch. "It's a little past nine. In the morning," he clarified.
I groaned. "Okay, let's find some vending machines. I need, like, about a million Twinkies."
It looked like we might be finished by four, after all.
35
Q: You're presented with a smooth-faced, eight-foot-high wooden wall. Your objective? Get over it. To, like, save comrades or something. How to accomplish this?
