“No, it’s not. And your problem isn’t size or strength either, even if the Viking has you beat in those two areas.” I frowned. After three weeks training together, my roommate hadn’t improved at all. Teaching wasn’t my strong suit, but the extra practice should have been helping. “So how is it that I’m still kicking your ass?”
“The dampeners are on, and I can’t use my powers,” he rumbled. “Pretty sure it’s going to be different when we face each other in class.”
As if on cue, my injured hand twitched. If I’d cracked a knuckle—and broken at least one finger—hitting Jeremiah while he was flesh and bone, I didn’t even want to think about what it would feel like trying to take him down when he was stone.
Even so, his answer rang false. “You’ve got six inches on me, at least that much of a reach advantage, and fifty-plus pounds. Even with the dampeners on, that should be enough.”
“Except I suck. I know that already. Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“You don’t suck. You do as well in training as the rest of us. It’s just the actual fighting where you fall apart.”
“Great. That’s going to look fantastic on my Cape resume.”
“At first, I thought it was just a question of experience. Some people freeze up when the adrenaline starts to flow. Hell, I did the same in my first few fights.”
Jeremiah gave me an odd look. “You didn’t freeze at all when you were fighting Paladin. Even after you were unconscious.”
“I’m not talking about at the Academy.” I sighed and leaned back against the curved wall of the pit. “How many fights did you get in growing up?”
“I have a sister and three brothers, all but one of them older—”
“Real fights. Where you were worried the other guy was going to put you in the hospital or the ground.”
“Uhm… none? I was big before my powers hit, and my brothers are even bigger. Besides, this is the Free States, not the Badlands.” He frowned. “You think that’s my problem? I had too nice a childhood?”
“Paladin’s been training since he could walk. Orca’s never seen a fight she’d walk away from. Erik doesn’t have enough brain to get in the way of instinct. And Alan…” I shrugged, feeling something pop in one shoulder. “Well, he’s a fucking monster.”
“And you? When was your first fight?”
“I was six.”
“You were getting punched when you were six?”
“No, I was getting punched when I was five. I started punching back when I was six.”
“Fucking hell, man.”
“Put two dozen kids in a small space, most of them angry, all of them alone, and shit happens.” I shook my head. “Didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, of course, but at that age, aggression goes a long way.”
“I don’t think aggression is my problem. After three weeks of this, I’d be more than happy to tear your arm off.”
Something in his words struck me.
“Okay… maybe I wouldn’t tear your arm off,” he relented, as my silence grew, “but I’d be happy to send you to Gladys for a change.”
“I’m sure she’d love that,” I murmured, still lost in thought. “Old woman has a major thing for baby Crow.”
“What?”
“Actually, I think maybe aggression is your problem.”
“I just told you—”
“Shut up and listen. In Mobility class last week—”
“Why are you in Mobility?”
“I haven’t been able to use my power, and nobody knows what good it will be in a fight,” I pointed out. “Least they can do is teach me how to run away. Now do you want to go another round, or do you want to listen to what I’m trying to say?”
Stonewall waved a large hand. “Yes sir, teacher sir.”
I let the sarcasm slide, more because my hand hurt like a motherfucker than because of any generosity or patience on my part. If the rest of the first-years were anything like Jeremiah, it was a wonder our teachers hadn’t murdered us in our sleep.
“In Mobility class last week, Macy was talking about flow. We all move differently, based on our body types, our powers, and even who we are as individuals.” I paused expectantly, but my roommate stayed blessedly silent. “So Winter, Supersonic, and Erin Pearson—”
“Cyclone.”
“Say what?”
“Erin goes by Cyclone now.”
“I don’t care. Point is, they all fly, but the way they fly—not just the mechanics, but the motion of it—is different. Supersonic is a bullet. Winter goes straight up in the air then mostly hovers, so she can rain down shit and attitude on everyone, and Erin—sorry, Cyclone—kind of flits around like a butterfly.”
“And?”
“And it just occurred to me that that’s true for Combat class too. We all have our flow. Orca moves like water. Paladin’s a robot programmed with a thousand ways to kill you. Erik’s a big-ass tank rolling forward, and Alan and I…”
“Yeah?”
“We’re full-on aggression. Only he’s way better at it than I am.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“Trying too damn hard to be like Alan. Or me, for that matter.” I shook my head, annoyed that it had taken me so long to see it. “I thought you were just inexperienced, but that’s not the problem. You’re going against your own flow.”
Jeremiah’s sigh was impossibly loud in the confines of the pit. “Either I have a concussion or you’re talking pure bullshit. Maybe both.”
“It goes back to my original question. Why do I keep kicking your ass? And don’t blame the dampeners this time.”
He paused, visibly swallowing the words. After a moment’s consideration, he shrugged. “You’re too fast. Speed kills.”
“Paladin’s fast. Orca’s fucking magic.” I shook my head. “I’m a bit faster than you, but it’s not enough to make up for the difference in reach. At least it shouldn’t be.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“I told you; you’re trying to be someone you’re not. You’re trying to be Alan Jackson, but you aren’t him. Offense like an avalanche isn’t who you are,
