Adapt (I)

TJR Garcia © 2020

SCARLET

“Hands up!” Trent barks.

I groan when his jab nails me in the temple.

“Focus, Scarlet.” Trent’s eyes watch me over his raised red boxing gloves.

I reset my stance and bounce on my heels. Trent and I eye each other, circling in the middle of the homemade boxing ring. His shoulder muscles twitch. Without a moment’s warning Trent strikes.

Being a hunter, I have made a point of being exceptional at self-defence. Trent is my trainer, who is a master of karate, judo and, by extension, kickboxing. Out of all the disciplines, kickboxing is my favourite. It allows me to combine all the techniques without all of the rules. It is more like the real thing.

Fortunately, Trent knows what ‘the real thing’ is, so he pushes me to my threshold, and he never holds back.

That means that his inner thigh kick deadens my entire leg, making me fall to the cushioned ground.

I growl in pain.

Trent kneels beside me on one knee. “What is going on?”

I rub my watering eyes and laugh. “I’ve had a rough week.”

He holds out a hand and I let him pull me up. “Big hunt?”

I shrug. “The hunt wasn’t that bad. It’s the new hunter in town.”

He laughs, a belly laugh. It is times like this that remind me that Trent is kind of old - around forty years old, grey creeping in at the temples and eyes that have squinted at the sun a lot. But, Christ, he can fight. He has been teaching me the ins and outs of self-defence since I was young.

Trent is one of the few humans that believed me when I said that I fought the monsters under the bed. Of course, it helps that I saved him and his family from the teeth of one of the creatures when I was only nine.

“Scarlet, The Competitive-that should be your stage name.”

I shake my head. “That’s not menacing. I prefer RED DEATH or BLOOD DIAMOND.”

“Gee, we are scraping the bottom of the barrel when we have to get stage names from DiCaprio movies.”

I narrow my eyes. “I love that movie.” I mumble as I tighten my gloves. “Anyway, I wouldn’t ever competitively fight. I couldn’t.”

Trent widens his stance. “I don’t know. I think you would go alright.”

I ready myself for the next round setting my feet apart and raising my heels. “I would fight dirty. I’m not used to rules.”

He grins. “That would be what I count on.”

I grind my teeth. “I have this weird feeling that we have had this conversation before.”

“Me too.”

His hook is so fast I barely have time to dodge it. I duck and lay some throws into his abdomen before he starts to knee me, narrowly missing my jaw.

For some reason, I can’t focus. I begin to laugh.

Trent pushes me away. “Alright,” he smiles. “Let’s talk.”

I roll my eyes but sit cross-legged in the middle of the ring. Trent lies beside me, arms spread, allowing his back a moment to stretch. “Okay, what’s this prick’s name?”

“Boe.”

“Boe is not a name. It’s what you tie your laces into.”

I laugh. “Lame, right?” Drop my head. “He is irritating.”

“How long has he been in town?”

I shrug. “Two days.”

“And you haven’t killed him yet?”

I give an exasperated sigh. “It’s a revelation to me, too.”

“Wow.” He pauses for a second. “This kid must be pretty special.”

I stare at him, wondering what he could possibly mean. Narrowing my eyes, I realize that he is giving me the same gooey expression that Caron was giving me when she pressed me about Boe yesterday. I groan. “Not you too!” I throw myself back on the floor, arms spread out like a crucifix.

“Hey, I’m just pointing out the obvious. There is something about the kid that has stopped you from ousting him, like a chicken on the chopping block.”

I fold up into a sitting position again, bring my knees up and rest my forehead on them. “I know.” A recount of what happened last night starts to form in my mouth, but I bite it back. Telling Trent about the hunt would probably aid his case.

I lift my head. “Maybe it’s his phone. He can unlock doors with his phone; disarm alarms with it. It’s amazing.”

The bored look on his face says, ‘really?’

“He is pretty good at fighting. I could learn a few things from him.” It is a statement, but it ends up sounding more like a question.

“No.” Trent says blankly. “You, my sweet, fancy this Boe fellow.”

I shake my head. “Not possible.”

Trent pushes himself up from the floor. “Fine. Don’t believe me. But next time you see him, try to read your emotions, deeper than the hate.”

“Trent, your wrong.”

He walks to his duffle bag. “That’s what you’ll tell me, but you’ll know deep down that I am right, even if you can’t admit it.”

I stare at him for a second, letting it all sink in. The words spin in my head. I stand and grab my stuff as well. I turn to Trent, who is unravelling his hand wraps. “Five again tomorrow?”

“Don’t come if you aren’t focused.”

I nod and leave.