The next few days blurred together in a haze of gym sessions, medical checkups, and awkward small talk. The same lady who had shown up with Mr. B was always by her side, handling her checkups. She still didn't know her name—everyone just called her "Doctor," so she followed suit. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, but it worked.
She met a few of the other recruits. Thanks to her dry humor and snark, making friends wasn't difficult, though not everyone seemed thrilled with her presence. She noticed a few cold stares, the occasional glare from across the room, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. Typical. She ignored it, just like she had learned to do with most things in her life.
Two months of this monotonous routine passed—weights, running, more chicken than she ever wanted to see again in her life—and then, out of nowhere, Mr. B reappeared. As casual as always, like he'd been hiding in the shadows for dramatic effect.
"Your training starts now," he said, his trench coat billowing slightly like some action movie cliché.
"Training? What the hell have I been doing so far? I've been living on boiled chicken, lifting weights, and running like my life depends on it. I mean, it does, but I don't need that kind of existential reminder every day." She rolled her eyes, half-expecting some long-winded explanation.
He didn't flinch. "From today, you'll train in martial arts. Several of them, actually."
She squinted at him, wondering if this was just another one of his vague, cryptic statements meant to mess with her. "Several? Why not throw in a sword and call me a ninja? Really make the whole deal worthwhile." Her sarcasm was in full force now, but something—maybe her barely-there survival instincts—told her to keep her mouth in check. After all, she was in a lair full of people who could probably break her in half if they wanted to.
She sighed, giving in. "Okay. When do we start?"
Mr. B smirked. "Now."
"Of course," she muttered under her breath. Nothing like diving in headfirst without warning.
She braced herself for what was coming next, though something told her all that boiled chicken and treadmill time hadn't been nearly enough preparation.
She followed Mr. B down a series of dimly lit hallways, each turn feeling like it led deeper into the belly of the beast. Eventually, they arrived at a wide, open space that looked like something out of a combat training montage in a cheesy action movie. Mats covered the floor, weapons of all kinds lined the walls, and a few dummies hung limply in the corners, looking like they'd seen better days—or worse, depending on your perspective.
In the center of it all stood a man who could only be described as terrifyingly calm. He was tall, lean, and moved with a fluidity that made her instantly uneasy. His face was blank, not a single emotion breaking through. He was the kind of guy who could probably rip your arm off without blinking and then go have a sandwich.
"This is Darius," Mr. B said with a dramatic pause, as if expecting her to gasp in awe. "He'll be your trainer."
She stared at Darius, then back at Mr. B. "Finally a name! But do you people just not believe in last names? Or is that another mystery for me to solve later?"
Darius didn't respond, just gave her a nod that somehow felt more like a warning than a greeting. Great. This was going to be fun.
"Alright," she said, crossing her arms. "So what's the plan? Do I learn to punch people really hard, or are we doing some kind of 'wax on, wax off' situation?"
Darius finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "You will learn to fight with your body and mind. We start with Krav Maga. It's practical, direct, and efficient. Just like you'll need to be."
Her stomach sank a little. She had watched enough fight scenes in movies to know Krav Maga was no joke. "Great, practical and efficient. Sounds like a party."
Without another word, Darius stepped forward and launched a punch straight at her face. She barely had time to flinch, and before she knew it, she was on her back, the wind knocked out of her.
"Lesson one," he said, towering over her. "Always be ready."
She wheezed, trying to gather what little breath she had left. "You could've started with 'hello.'"
He raised an eyebrow. "This is your hello."
She groaned, pulling herself to her feet thinking of all those movies she saw this exact same scene. It was going to be a long, painful road, but if this was the path to survival, she'd better get used to it. Or at least, she thought, learn how to stay on her feet for more than two seconds.
Day in, day out, she was tossed around like a rag doll, slamming into the mat so many times she was on a first-name basis with it. Every session with Darius felt like a sadistic game of "How Many Ways Can We Break Her Today?" She fainted most days, waking up in the doctor's care with a fresh dose of "Well, I survived... again."
The strangest part? No matter how much she got pummeled, nothing stuck. Broken ribs? Fixed. Cracked skull? No problem. Once, Darius bent her arm in a way it definitely wasn't supposed to go, and by the next morning, it was like it never happened. She had to give it to them: their healthcare plan was top-tier. "Sign up for the life-threatening mercenary job and get free healthcare," she muttered. "Honestly, that might convince more people than you'd think."
It didn't take long for her to notice that this place was basically Hogwarts for medical miracles. She found herself wondering, "Is this some kind of secret, high-tech spa where the rich and elite come to get their wrinkles ironed out?" Because if it wasn't, it should've been. The world could use some of this miracle healing, but no, regular folks had to deal with long hospital stays and rehab, while here she was, getting her limbs bent backwards and fixed up by lunch.
"Hey, Doc," she said once, staring at her freshly healed leg. "You ever think about taking this show on the road? You know, curing people who didn't sign up for the 'Get Beaten Up and Healed' package?"
The doctor just gave her the same blank stare. No response. Not even a chuckle. Tough crowd.
The unfairness gnawed at her, though. How come regular people didn't get this level of healthcare? They had to suffer through weeks of hospital food and nurses giving them the side-eye when they asked for extra Jell-O, while she got to walk off a broken nose like it was a paper cut. "All this science," she thought, rubbing her jaw (which, by the way, had been dislocated the day before), "and I have to get beat up every day to enjoy it. Seems like a weird trade-off, but okay."
But still, the worst part wasn't the pain—it was the constant cycle of fainting, waking up, and having the doctor hover over her like a bored ghost. "I swear," she said to the doctor one day, "if you don't start making small talk with me, I'm going to start talking to the IV drip for companionship."
Nothing. Just the cold, detached efficiency of someone who probably knew how to fix broken bones better than most people knew how to microwave popcorn.
"Well," she sighed, rolling her freshly healed shoulder, "at least my health insurance co-pay is zero. That's something, right?"