The training session ended in heavy silence; Brock returned to his cell. Lying on his thin mattress, he replayed the conversation with 100 like a broken record.
She knows about the corruption, he mused, staring at the ceiling. But from the way she said she thinks it's something to be expected as result of the experimentation." That's good.
But nothing is free. Helping a "fellow survivor"? No, she wants something. The suspicion gnawed at him. What if Stone sent her? What if this is a test? By the time the lights dimmed, his mind was set, he would refuse the offer.
The next morning, Brock went to the training hall as usual. Stone's gaze no longer just showed disappointment. It now had a tinge of indifference. He gestured toward a table not too far away, and on it lay two pairs of daggers.
"From now onwards you will be sparring against each other," Stone commanded. "Fight"
The fight began,
Brock moved first, his kickboxing training kicking in with a snap. He lunged forward with a lead-leg tape kick aimed at 100's midsection to create distance. She swiveled her hips with feline grace, the kick whistling past her ribs as she brought her right dagger up in a reverse grip.
Clang!!
The sound of steel meeting steel echoed through the hall as Brock parried her counterthrust. He rolled his shoulder, leaning into a heavy cross-punch that forced 100 back. For a moment, Brock had the upper hand; he used his superior reach to rain down a series of calculated jabs and low-line cuts. He was faster than he'd been a month ago, his movements fluid, driven by the desperation of a man who didn't want to be called "trash" no longer.
He feinted a high slash, then dropped levels, sweeping his leg across the floor to take her base. 100 leapt over the sweep, but Brock was already rising, driving a knee toward her solar plexus. It connected with a muffled thud.
She used the momentum of his strike to spin, her daggers becoming a silver whirlwind. Brock felt the wind of a blade graze his cheek. He threw a desperate roundhouse kick to reset the distance, but 100 caught his shin against her hip, trapped his leg, and drove her shoulder into his chest.
Brock hit the mat hard, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. He rolled instantly, slashing blindly to keep her away, but 100 was already "in the pocket." She moved with a terrifying ferocious flexibility.
Brock managed to catch her wrist, twisting his body to throw her over his hip, but as she went airborne, she planted a hand on his shoulder and flipped, landing behind him wrapping her arm around his neck. Before he could even spin around, a cold, blunt edge pressed firmly against the side of his neck.
Brock froze. He could feel the pulse in his throat thrumming against the training dagger. 100 stood behind him, her breathing perfectly rhythmic, her eyes staring at nothing.
Stone watched from the shadows, his face unreadable as he struck his palm once with his bat. "Again," he barked.
Brock had learned his lesson in the previous fight when he lost the upper hand, he lost his cool and was only thinking about how to get it back.
They circled each other like wolves. Brock kept his center of gravity low, his daggers held in a neutral grip, blades angled slightly inward. He wasn't rushing in anymore.
100 lunged first. She didn't just strike but rather she flowed into a mid-level roundhouse kick. Brock didn't try to catch it this time. He stepped deep into her guard, letting the force of her shin collide with the meat of his shoulder to dull the impact, then used that very momentum to pivot. As she spun from the missed contact, Brock drove a sharp, short elbow toward her temple while simultaneously slashing his dagger in a low arc toward her ribs.
100 dropped her weight instantly. She hit the floor with one hand, spinning her body in a low sweep that forced Brock to hop backward. As he landed, she was already springing up, her daggers blurred into a "figure-eight" pattern that forced Brock into a desperate defensive retreat.
"Clang!! Clank!! Skree!!"
The sound of the dull metal grinding together set Brock's teeth on edge. 100 stepped in with a stiff lead jab, but Brock slipped his head to the outside, the blade whistling past his ear. He countered by grabbing her forearm and pulling her forward, using her own charging speed against her. He threw a heavy knee toward her midsection, but 100 blocked it with her shin, creating a "shield" with her leg.
They were locked in a stalemate, chest-to-chest, straining against each other's strength. Brock could see the sweat beading on 100's forehead.
He suddenly gave way, dropping his resistance. As 100 stumbled forward from the lack of pressure, Brock spun in a complete circle executing a spinning back-fist motion, but with the butt of his dagger. 100 ducked, the wind of the strike ruffling her hair, and she came up with a twin thrust aimed at his chest.
Brock swiped both his blades downward, catching her wrists and pinning them to his waist. At the same moment, 100 brought her forehead forward in a sharp snap, and Brock met her halfway. Their heads collided with a sickening thwack.
Both recoiled, blood trickling from their brows. They didn't stop. They surged back in, a chaotic symphony of kicks, slashes, and parries. Brock managed to land a clean "push-kick" to her chest, sending her back three steps, but as he moved to capitalize his advantage, 100 threw her dagger with aim of not hitting, but to distract.
Brock batted the flying metal away, but in that split second, 100 was on him, her remaining blade at his ribs. Simultaneously, Brock's blade was pressed firmly against her collarbone.
They stood frozen, panting, eyes locked. Neither had the advantage. Neither had the kill.
Stone watched the thin lines of blood on both their faces. He didn't smile, but he didn't praise them either. He simply tapped his bat against the floor
"Draw," he muttered. "Again!"
After four more duels, no one had was able to up the other. They were a perfect mirror of one another, every strike was met by a parry, every lunge countered by a calculated retreat. The rhythmic clashing of their daggers had become the only heartbeat in the room.
Stone watched them with a terrifying stillness. Finally, he stepped forward, discarding his bat and rolling his shoulders. "Enough," he rumbled. "Both of you. Against me."
The shift in atmosphere was instantaneous. Stone took a stance hulking over them like a mountain. Brock and 100 traded a single, silent glance, an unspoken pact forming in the heat of the moment. They moved together, flanking him.
Brock led with a low, chopping kick toward Stone's lead leg, while 100 surged high, her daggers flashing toward his collarbone. Stone didn't move until the last microsecond. With the explosive grace of a Taekwondo master, he shifted his weight, his back leg whipped upward in a lightning-fast "question mark" kick. His foot bypassed Brock's guard entirely, slamming into the side of Brock's head with the force of a sledgehammer.
Brock spun away, his vision blurring as he hit the floor.
100 didn't hesitate. She transitioned from her high strike into a spinning back-kick, aiming for Stone's chest. Stone simply leaned back, the sole of her boot missing his chest by an inch and caught her mid-air. He grabbed her ankle, swung her like a weight, and launched her directly into the recovering Brock.
The two collided with a tangle of limbs. Before they could untangle, Stone was on them.
He didn't use weapons instead his limbs were the weapons. He rained down "hammer-fists", vertical punches using the bottom of his closed hand, shattering their attempts to block. When Brock tried to push up, Stone delivered a "teep" kick, a straight thrust with the ball of his foot that sent Brock sliding across the polished floor like a puck on ice.
100 managed to scramble to her feet, her face a mask of crimson from a split eyebrow. She drove her daggers in a desperate, cross-patterned slash. Stone performed a 360-degree jumping roundhouse kick. His body rotated in the air, his shin connecting with 100's ribs with a sickening crack that echoed through the hall. She was folded in half by the impact, hitting the ground and sliding until she hit the base of a training puppet.
Brock, coughing up a spray of red, forced himself up. His left eye was swelling shut, and his breath came in burning stabs. He charged, throwing a desperate "superman punch", leaping forward and throwing his weight behind a straight right hand. Stone didn't even flinch. He slipped the punch to the inside, grabbed Brock's neck, and delivered a devastating knee strike directly into his chest.
The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of ragged, wet breathing.
Stone stood in the center of the room, his uniform barely ruffled, his knuckles the only part of him stained with blood that's not his. Brock lay on his side, his fingers twitching toward a dropped dagger he could no longer reach. His chest felt like it had been crushed by a hydraulic press, and a dark bruise was already blossoming across his ribs.
A few feet away, 100 was slumped against the wall. Her lip was torn, and she clutched her side, her face pale as she struggled to pull air into her lungs. Her hair was matted with sweat and dust from the floor.
Stone's voice was like grinding stones as he looked at the two broken figures on the floor. He didn't offer a hand to help them up; he only offered a threat.
"Tomorrow," Stone said, his shadow stretching over them, "during your next duel, you either draw the blood of your opponent, or you go against me and end up in this state again. Or worse."
With that, he turned on his heel and left the hall, the heavy metallic door hissing shut behind him.
Day after day, the training hall floor was stained with fresh layers of red with Brock and 100 going against each other until one is bloodied pulp and if they failed to draw enough blood from each other, Stone would step in like an unstoppable force of nature, leaving them both broken and gasping for air.
Yet, through this brutal attrition, Brock's body began to transform. The constant trauma forced his nervous system to adapt and his resilience to pain skyrocketed. Strikes that once would have made him flinch now felt like dull thuds. His mind began to detach from the physical sensation of injury, allowing him to stay focused even when his skin was split or his vision was swimming.
Finally, it was left with two more days before their first mission arrived. A week ago, the facility's had protocols shifted, the mandatory bald shave were replaced by a period of grooming in which they were allowed to grow their hair back, a small luxury that felt alien.
.........….
The elevator hissed as it descended past the standard levels, stopping only when Stone pressed a hidden sequence on the panel. The doors slid open to the Fourth Floor, a place not marked on any map of the facility.
Stone stepped into a dimly lit boardroom. At the center stood a circular table seated around it was the Head Researcher, and Wilson, who sat with his arms crossed, looking weary but there was also an unknown third person with them.
The unknown figure sat at the head of the table. If Brock had been standing there, his tlent combat sense would have rang alarm bells in his head showing him a thick, pulsating red fog swirled around the figure, so dense it looked like wet ink. It was the physical manifestation of a killing intent so massive it felt like it could suffocate everyone in the room.
The Head Researcher broke the silence, his voice trembling with a mix of excitement and greed.
"Let me experiment on the boy," he pleaded, gesturing toward the monitors displaying Brock's vital signs. "He is useless as a combatant. Stone can testify to that." He looked toward Stone, who had just found a seat and was leaning back with a neutral expression.
Wilson scoffed, his voice sharp. "You've been running these 'experiments' for years. You dissect the survivors, peel back their brains, and you always end up with the same result: a pile of meat and zero data. I won't allow you to waste another one. What about you, Stone? What do you think?"
Stone placed his hand on his chin, his eyes unreadable as he stared at the tabletop. "I have no suggestion," he said calmly, then shifted his gaze toward the shadows. "I think we should let the Head decide for us."
The unknown figure sat up, the red fog around them swirling violently for a moment before settling. A voice, cold and devoid of any human inflection, echoed through the room.
"Aren't they being sent on a mission? Let them prove their worth."
The Head Researcher bit his lip, clearly unsatisfied. "Fine. No touching the boy for now. But what about Subject 100? Stone, you said it yourself she is putting on an act and hiding something. Aren't you afraid she will try something? That she'll escape?"
Stone's lips thinned into a hard line. "Do you think we don't know that. I have made contingency plans"
Wilson, who had gone quiet, leaned forward. "So, what mission are they actually being sent on?"
A slow, predatory smile spread across Stone's face.
"One that will reveal their true colors.," Stone replied. He narrowed his eyes, thinking of the way Brock had started to move in the ring lately. "And I believe that boy, 088, is also hiding something."
.........….
When Brock stepped into the training hall for his final day, the atmosphere was different. Stone wasn't alone. Wilson stood beside him, flanked by an aide-de-camp in a crisp, dark uniform. They were huddled in a low-toned, serious discussion, their eyes occasionally darting toward the entrance.
Brock didn't linger. He kept his head down and walked toward the row of training puppets. He began a series of warm ups.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw 100 approaching. She didn't slow down, stopping just a few feet away as she mimicked his warm-up routine.
"Have you considered my offer?" Her voice rang out in the quiet of his mind.
Brock didn't even look at her. He simply drove a palm strike into the chest of the puppet, the mechanical parts groaning under the force. He met her question with absolute, cold silence.
A flash of genuine irritation sparked across 100's face. "I see, then," she projected, her mental tone cooling into something detached and dangerous.
They spent the next hour in an uneasy truce, both working through their drills in silence. The only sounds were the thud of their strikes and the distant, muffled voices of the men across the hall. Finally, the aide-de-camp saluted and departed, leaving Wilson and Stone alone.
Wilson looked up from a tablet and gestured toward them with a sharp flick of his wrist.
"088. 100," Wilson called out, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Come here."
The training time was officially over.
Wilson and Stone led Brock and 100 to a massive hangar on the 2nd level, where an elite troop was meticulously preparing for deployment. A burly man with piercing, sharp eyes approached, offering a respectful greeting to the superiors before eyeing the two newcomers and asking if these were the "test subjects" joining the operation. After Wilson gave a curt nod of affirmation, the man pointed toward the gearing station, prompting Brock and 100 to move off and equip themselves for the coming battle. Once they were fully geared and had joined the neat, silent formation of soldiers, the burly man announced their immediate departure. However, as the words left his mouth, Brock felt a sudden slip in his consciousness. As he collapsed into unconsciousness, he used the last of his fading strength to look around, catching a final glimpse of the other soldiers also falling into the same state, leaving only the burly leader standing unaffected.