Chapter 10: Patterns and Pride

  Getting out of bed took everything I had.

  Pain from the previous day had settled into my bones like a second skeleton. Each movement was deliberate. Each breath a fresh jolt from bruised ribs and overused muscle. Some aches don’t fade overnight. This wasn’t soreness, it was damage.

  And still, I rose, forced my legs into motion, and limped through the dim corridors of Deck 7 to the ships ladder. I could use the warmup—to stretch open the tight muscles.

  Gamma shift was still active. The skeleton crew moved with quiet efficiency, eyes hollowed from nights too long and lights too dim.

  A junior ops officer passed me, carrying two reels of electrical conduit under his arms—looking at me with wide eyes of recognition as he did so.

  Two Array-engineers debated gravimetric calibration over weak coffee—they stopped talking as I walked past and looked.

  One of the emergency lighting panels flickered as I passed, throwing long shadows across the bulkhead.

  No one stopped me. No one asked. They probably knew. There was a silence to the ship during night cycle—less like rest, more like a held breath.

  The Resolute never really slept.

  And that night, neither had I.

  S12-CUT 202.3.28037.89

  Resolute 0425 18.03.2244

  Deck 6. Auxiliary gym.

  The lights in the room didn’t hum—they glared. Bright. Clinical. Interrogative. No music. No warmth. Just the sharp hiss of air recycling and the quiet rhythm of my own breath.

  I was crouched barefoot at the edge of the mat, stripped to training gear. Kickboxing style gloves and shin guards. The gear was left unceremoniously on a bench—obviously from Zeth. So, I must be needing it today?

  My ribs bandaged. Leg wrapped. Shoulder still throbbing. I moved like I was carved out of brittle wood.

  The mat beneath my feet felt colder than usual—less like rubber, more like ice. I let that cold sink in, anchor me. I needed grounding. My nerves vibrated like high-voltage wires. Somewhere beneath the fatigue and pain was resolve. I held it tight.

  I hadn’t slept. Not really. I’d spent half the night hunched over the H-interface Eli had slid across the table at Bulkhead Nine. My minds eye fixed on his doggish shit-eating grin:

  “It won’t let you beat her. But it might keep your tiny skull intact.”

  Personal. Handwritten. Razor-sharp. Every sentence stripped of anything nonessential. The header read: 'Field notes on Sonen Kynvari (Drac’kari martial combat)'. The folder was labelled simply: 'Zeth'.

  I read them all at the table in Bulkhead Nine. Then read them again. And again.

  Tail sweeps. Claw feints. Combinations. They stressed mobility over strength. Observation over aggression. One note was underlined three times in red:

  ‘A Drac’kari strength is predictable. Use that. Anticipate the swing, and act before the follow-through!!’

  I thought of Eli. The raw, animalistic power of a Khevarin’s full-bodied claw strike running across the dunes—primal, emotional and vicious.

  But Zeth wasn’t that. Her strength was cold. Calculated. Every blow premeditated. No screams. No buildup. Just inevitability.

  But that came with a cost. Patterns. Predictable rhythms. And for me, an edge.

  Khevarin fought like the stormwinds of Gjallarhull. Zeth fought like chess.

  ‘Never go frontal unless you want your sternum cracked!’

  Damn, he wasn’t wrong... Reading that one made we wince…

  ‘Drac’kari pivot from the hips—full torque. Stay lateral!’

  There was even a warning about the infamous ‘Drac’kari bite’. Eli had scrawled a margin note beside it: ‘Zeth hasn’t used this. Too disciplined. Or maybe she doesn’t need it? Shame really…’

  One final note struck hardest: ‘*She blends styles, as Ashur’na weeps!’

  The list was formidable: Human Muay Thai. Khevarin offense. Vanguard kick boxing. Drac’kari biomechanics, akin to Kung Fu. A hybrid system. Efficient. Deadly. But ultimately highly structured.

  Patterns. Patterns I could learn.

  Brains, not brawn. That had to be my way in…

  I practiced beside my bunk last night, slow repetitions—centre of gravity shifts, sidesteps, grip breaks. It wasn’t elegant. But it was functional. Made for survival.

  By the third hour, I could visualise her movements in my minds-eye, repeating every move back at me. I even imagined what she’d say:

  "You think reading will save you? "

  Maybe not.

  But I wasn’t walking into this fucking gym blind again.

  Never again.

  I stood straighter that morning. Still hurting. Still raw.

  But no longer helpless.

  Back on the mat, I ran through the angles in my head. Eli’s suggested footwork. The fast-paced rhythm beneath it all. It pulsed beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

  Then the door hissed open...

  Zeth entered like a shadow slipping through steel.

  No fanfare. Just the sound of her footfalls against the mat and the weight of her stare—the mass of a star.

  She stopped at the edge of the mat—that golden gaze boring into me. Today, she wore the same sleeveless combat suit with black kickboxing gloves, but her posture was looser. Less military, more animal.

  Relaxed only in the way a predator is relaxed. Unnervingly, more like how she was in the Tesserreactor…

  Our eyes met. Hers narrowed—not with hostility, but focus.

  "Ready Varr?" she asked.

  My throat was dry. "As ready as I’ll ever be, sir."

  Something subtle shifted in her face. Not a smile, but maybe the ghost of one. She liked the answer. But she would punish me for it. I knew that much.

  She stepped forward, every motion precise and deliberate as she towered over me. The space between us tightened—not physically, but in gravity.

  The room seemed to shrink around her, drawn inward by her presence as I locked in.

  She stopped just short of the mat’s center. Her arms were loose and wide, but her whole posture radiated primal readiness.

  Every muscle coiled with focus, eyes flicking down to assess my stance before her gaze locked back onto my face.

  "Today is about technique," she said, her voice edged with something between boredom and disdain.

  "Prediction. Timing. Not strength. Strength will get you only so far for a human. We’ll keep it simple for you today—basic Muay Thai counters and Vanguard kickboxing forms. Familiar enough you won’t embarrass yourself... Well, too much…"

  The sarcasm was thick, deliberate. She knew exactly what she was doing.

  That sneering grin came over her face once again, just baring the row of sharp teeth between her green lips. Her eyes beckoned me to lash out—dangerous, mocking. Like a bully testing the waters, waiting for the break.

  The glint in her eyes wasn’t just confidence; it was hunger. She wanted resistance. Dared me to fight back.

  And I hated that I would...

  Even that I might try to win…

  Heat flared in my chest. I clenched my jaw. I could feel the heat crawl up my spine, a low boil of frustration and adrenaline threading together. Her smirk was bait, and every muscle in my body tensed with the urge to take it.

  So that’s how it would be. She was daring me to prove her wrong, to lash out and keep failing—or maybe, just maybe, to surprise her.

  I gave a single nod. Short. Controlled.

  "Begin," she said.

  Her voice like the crack of a gauntlet across the face.

  I dropped into a grounded Kickboxing stance—low, centered, chin tucked, foot angled for a fast pivot. It was reactive, designed to absorb pressure and redirect force.

  But it wasn’t standard Vanguard form. I was already adjusting it: subtle tweaks borrowed from Khevarin warriors—wider footing for stability, sharper pivots for unpredictability yet staying snappy. The kind of changes that made strikes harder to read. More chaotic.

  It wasn’t elegant. But maybe that was the point. It might just throw her...

  She didn’t speak. Just advanced like a leviathan.

  But slower today. Measured. She was watching carefully.

  Her first movement came fast—a left jab, followed immediately by a right hook, her leg snapping out in a forward front kick. Toes pointed—a Mae geri.

  I managed to deflect the jab and roll with the hook, my guard barely holding. The kick came hard, aiming for my ribs, but I pivoted away, off-axis.

  Then came the real danger: a spin, her tail sweeping low, just like in Eli’s notes.

  But she said Muay Thai and kickboxing only today! That cold bitch was trying to throw me!

  She grinned knowingly as she rotated on her tucked-in foot.

  But not this time: I jumped—not high, not theatrically, but just enough to clear. The arc starling-wing-colored muscle and bone missed my shin by centimeters.

  I landed light, springing back a step like a sand-wolf on hot sand. Grinning.

  She stopped. No comment. No nod.

  But I saw it: the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

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  I’d seen the pattern.

  She knew. And she didn’t like it.

  Her next strike came with unsettling speed—a feint, one I barely recognized in time. Her right shoulder twitched, telegraphing a high strike, and my guard shot up instinctively.

  But the real blow—a devastating hook into my ribs—snuck in beneath it, tight and efficient. Her eyes flashed like starlight, just slightly, with the satisfaction of impact—a gleam of recognition at the precision of her strike, like a predator pleased with the accuracy of its kill.

  The impact was surgical. Pain lanced through my side like a spear, white-hot and unrelenting.

  I stumbled, nearly losing my footing, but I stayed upright. Firm.

  I dropped my weight, circling wide to stay from her centre, trying to keep my breath steady, hands at guard. Gritting my teeth with a growl.

  Each breath scraped against the newly bruised ribs, each step around her a conversation between pain and persistence.

  I fought to recall the stances, the footwork, the rhythm—not to match hers, but to disrupt it entirely.

  Zeth tracked me like a hawk. Every twitch, every shift in my balance, she clocked it. Her eyes never left me, slicing through any illusion of control I thought I had.

  She didn’t just watch—she dissected. An autopsy of my defense before I’d even fallen.

  I remembered the notes again:

  ‘Never go frontal. Drac’kari pivot from the hips—full-bodied torque behind strikes. Head-on is foolish. Stay lateral!’

  Her stance shifted again. Loose. Patient. Like a predator letting the prey exhaust itself. She moved closer, the mat creaking slightly under her feet. But her weight never telegraphed. Her intention never leaked.

  She jabbed—a quick probe low—then another higher, aimed toward my collarbone.

  I blocked both, barely with gritted teeth, elbows groaning under the force.

  Then came the trick: She feinted with a tail sweep—textbook, almost lazy.

  My eyes dropped, my body tensed. I jumped—just enough to avoid what I thought was coming.

  But the tail never hit. It was bait.

  She was already moving forward, already closing the gap before I’d left the ground.

  A palm thrust arced forwards, launched into my chest like a blast-wave. Bone met momentum, and all thought ceased.

  I flew.

  Not metaphorically. Literally across the room.

  My body left the ground, hung in the air like an unfinished sentence, and slammed into the mat, every nerve sparking.

  I rolled uncontrolled, ribs howling, and hit the far wall in a heap.

  I gasped. Air came—and with it, blood. I rolled over, coughed and spat it out onto the mat, dark and thick.

  It left a smear across the surface like a signature. A testament to her skill.

  Zeth hadn’t moved from the spot she struck. Her expression was blank. Not proud. Not cruel. Just clinical. Like this was always how it would end.

  “New style,” she said, voice flat.

  “Been studying,” I managed through clenched teeth.

  There was a pause—barely a breath’s worth—but in that space, I saw something flicker in her expression. She didn’t smile. But she saw me.

  “Show me,” she ordered.

  I pushed off the mat hard and lunged fast, body screaming.

  I dropped low, feinted left, and swept right, all in a fluid movement leaping forward—just like a Khevarin warrior.

  Zeth’s notes weren’t the only ones I read last night—Eli left some on his own style… I was beyond determined. And beyond playing.

  Her eyes followed me wildly, but it worked: my clenched fist caught her across the ribs—not hard, but clean. It landed.

  Not a scrape. Not a lucky brush. A full, clean strike across her side. And for the briefest second, it felt like I had just tilted the axis of a planet.

  She blinked. A heartbeat passed.

  Then she came at me again, fast—repeating a now recognizable combo. A low feint with her right arm, followed by the subtle twist of her hips that had always telegraphed a tail strike.

  But this time, I saw it... Anticipated it...

  The note from Eli’s packet snapped into focus: ‘Tail follows the hips. Predictable as sunrise.’

  I sidestepped her tail with ease, pivoted hard on my back foot, and for the first time ever—I was ahead of her. She was in my sights.

  I didn’t hesitate: my fist slammed upwards just under her ribcage nearly lifting her off the ground.

  My hips and chest torqued in a violent snapping arc, a full-bodied hook driven by every ounce of fury and frustration I’d bottled up since the moment I stepped on this goddamn ship!

  This wasn’t theory. This was a declaration. I was here. I was fighting back.

  It wasn’t glancing. It was deep. Deliberate. Methodical. The kind of strike you remember landing. Remember feeling—just how she did to me.

  She gasped eyes flashing—a harsh, involuntary sound—and staggered half a step.

  Then came the snarl—low, sharp, restrained. Not the guttural cry of rage from a cornered beast, but something far more calculated.

  A flinch of fury honed to a needlepoint.

  Her eyes flared like fire, focused entirely on me—not in shock, but in something colder.

  I saw it, unmistakable. Pain.

  A flicker. Buried deep. But there all the same.

  I’d hurt her. Not just grazed her. Not lucked into it. I had landed something substantial.

  For the first time, I’d done damage she couldn’t shrug off or counter!

  And that’s when it happened.

  The surge of excitement.

  Pride. That sweet, stupid rush. It filled my chest before I could stop it, and she saw it—immediately.

  The minute change in my breathing, the unconscious and lazy tilt of my weight. Eyes dropping. Stupid grin. Getting lax.

  I’d let myself feel good about it. Let the hit mean something. Like it proved I could win. Like I’d earned ground in a war she had never agreed was fair.

  And that—that—was the mistake.

  Because what flickered in her next wasn’t pain. It was clarity.

  She didn’t see me as an equal. She didn’t even see me as a challenger.

  She wasn’t even annoyed that I landed that hit…

  She saw a petulant arrogant child who thought he had landed a blow in a game he didn’t fully understand.

  And then she moved. Just as before in the Tessereactor.

  So fast, it was like gravity inverted.

  Her body became a blur of fury and bone.

  Once again, the space between us evaporated.

  Her left-jab snapped forward, catching the side of my head just above the temple. I gasped in shock.

  The world fractured—like a mirror cracking under stress, spiderwebs spun across my eyes. Light and sound disconnected. My ears rang like a bell.

  The mat tilted under me, then righted itself in one sickening motion, but I was already spiraling sideways.

  This wasn’t just a retaliation. This was a lesson.

  A warning. A reckoning, coming with the full breadth of her skill.

  Then, she exploded with a sense of violence I hadn’t seen that session.

  No patterns. No rhythm.

  Unbound Khevarin style—wild and unpredictable. It was desert-blood-honed fury sharpened into her Drac’kari precision. A lethal combination, and near-impossible to block.

  She wasn’t assessing me anymore. She wanted to dismantle me.

  You got cocky, her movements said. Let me show you the cost of insolence.

  The next series of strikes came like an Irukathen sandstorm but with surgical precision—calculated chaos designed to break will.

  A left jab flowed into a right undercut—then a front-kick slammed forward.

  I blocked one of them. The kick landed, launching me backward into the wall with a crack.

  I surged forward—ducked under her right uppercut—only to trip over her crooked tail and hit the floor in a graceless sprawl.

  I scrambled up, turned—just in time to duck a low switch-kick that whipped past my head like a whip-crack.

  She didn’t stop. Her tail followed through in the same motion, sweeping my legs out and slamming me flat sideways. My head cracked the deck.

  Thinking fast, I rolled backward, legs arcing over my body onto my feet—barely dodging her heel strike. It landed with a crunch where my chest had just been.

  Gasping, I staggered back three large paces—wide-eyed, lungs burning, panic rising. Trying to maintain control.

  Somewhere in the spinning haze, Eli’s voice echoed in my skull:

  ‘She blends styles’.

  He wasn’t kidding… But it was too late.

  I had invited this punishment with open arms.

  I’d believed the hit meant something. That I was becoming her equal.

  I was wrong.

  She was teaching me that equality wasn’t earned with a half-earned punch—it was bled for.

  She launched forwards again. Her next strike was a wrecking ball disguised as a jab—my forearm took it as I struggled to block, and every nerve in my hand blinked out, nerves exploding into static.

  Then came the heel kick. Vicious. Anatomical. It slammed into my inner thigh, just above the knee, and my leg folded beneath me like dried paper.

  I crashed down hard, vision wobbling, my hands catching just in time to keep my face from meeting the mat.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  She flowed forward in one continuous motion—reaching down, grabbing my collar with one clawed hand, hauling me up like dead weight.

  Her other knee came driving up into my ribs before I could twist. The strike didn’t land clean—but it landed hard enough.

  My lungs seized, air bursting from them in one strangled exhale. Pain exploding on impact. I crumpled again, body folding awkwardly beneath her momentum to the ground.

  But she didn’t let go. She pinned me.

  Knee in my ribs on the ground. Claws curled into my collar cutting into the fabric. Towering over me.

  Her face hovered inches from mine—too close, too deliberate. Her breath was hot, her teeth bared—not bestial, but surgical. Precise.

  The fury in her eyes wasn’t wild or uncontrolled. It was worse. It was calculated.

  I’d survived her first test.

  And I’d failed the third the moment I started to believe I could stand beside her.

  She’d let me glimpse the illusion of progress. A hint of approval. A strike that landed. The idea that—right now—I belonged beside her.

  Eli was right. I couldn’t beat her. And now she was punishing me for it.

  “You think knowledge replaces instinct?” she hissed. Her voice was low, razored. Her breath seared my skin. Her golden eyes narrowed, glowing with mad sunfire.

  “You think reading can teach you to beat me?”

  I coughed. The taste of blood spread across my tongue like iron and shame. Her words echoing like distant Déjà vu.

  “N… No, Commander.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “But you’re trying.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a dare.

  Because she stood up. Not with ceremony. No dramatic flourish.

  Just motion—fluid and final. And took two steps back. Arms slowly folding over her chest.

  She didn’t offer a hand. She didn’t look away.

  She simply watched me.

  I stayed down. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. Everything hurt.

  She could have broken me. A real strike—unrestrained—would’ve shattered bone. Collapsed my chest. Maybe worse.

  But she didn’t. That restraint wasn’t kindness. Not exactly. But it was something close...

  She held back.

  And that—really pissed me off...

  Then her voice cut through the silence.

  Quiet. Measured. Final.

  “Get up, Ensign.”

  I blinked.

  Our eyes locked. I didn’t know what she wanted.

  But I knew what I needed to do.

  It came like heat after drowning—slow, searing, furious.

  Not today, I thought. You won’t fucking bury me today.

  I planted one hand on the mat. Then the other.

  Every muscle protested. Every breath came jagged.

  My arms shook. My legs buckled, daring to fail.

  But I didn’t fall again.

  I rose.

  Shaking. Swaying.

  Barely standing.

  But standing, nonetheless.

  I raised my guard.

  Not in defiance. Not in pride.

  In refusal.

  I’m not done yet.

  “Okay, sir,” I said, voice low and steady. “Let’s do this.”

  It came from someplace deep. A place I hadn’t touched until now.

  My eyes met hers—flashing, unflinching.

  Her expression didn’t change. Not outwardly.

  But something shifted behind her eyes—sharp, fleeting.

  Not surprise. Not approval.

  Recognition.

  The kind a wolf gives another just before it lets them walk away.

  The kind that says: you’re still standing. So maybe… you belong.

  Then she turned.

  No nod. No word of praise.

  Just the sound of her feet across the mat.

  “Same time tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder. “Bring a mouthguard.”

  And then she was gone.

  .....

  The silence returned—louder than before. Ears ringing.

  My hands were still raised. Eyes blinking.

  My legs still shaking. My heart pounding like it hadn’t slowed in hours.

  And that’s when I noticed the blood—

  A slow, steady line dripping from my mouth and nose to the mat.

  Breathe your death down (death down)

  'Cause you will not see

  Let it drip down (drip down)

  Let it soak your feet

  Yesterday I watched her breakdown

  Split in two, she's quite appealing

  Subtle ways I could have hurt her

  Rack my brain when I am sleeping

  Breathe your death down (death down)

  'Cause you will not see

  Let it drip down (drip down)

  Let it soak your feet

  Breathe your death down (death down)

  'Cause you will not see

  Let it drip down (drip down)

  Let it soak your feet

  Breathe your death down (death down)

  'Cause you will not see

  Let it drip down (drip down)

  Let it soak your feet

  Breathe your death down (death down)

  'Cause you will not see

  Let it drip down (drip down)

  Let it soak your feet