Little Leagues

January 21st, 2022

***

"Hey."

"What?"

Richter was once again in the facility with Clare.

Crisp snaps rang out as he delivered jabs to a punching bag. Clare was bracing it - holding it - from behind; the ceiling was too high to hang it from. 

"Why did Nax get a punishment? Banishment sounds a little serious."

"Suspension would be more accurate," she yawned. "It's her third time. I'm impressed she hasn't been expelled.

She paused to swap out with a heavier, sturdier bag. The new fabric had a rougher texture and didn't deform as much. So essentially - more pain. Clare gave the signal, and he resumed. Each impact now a a little skin off his knuckles.

"Stratelle houses branch locations of almost every major sect. And as it happens, Nax has a high seat in Stratelle's alchemy branch. She's gifted but a loose cannon. Her suspensions were because of some unstable and dangerous potions that uh- well, they caused some incidents. Incidents that could have been swept under the rug... if the students involved were nobodies."

"You mean Nax is in hiding?" he winced.

His blood dripped down the bag onto the floor underneath with each hit. He mixed in jabs with hooks and straights — slowly ramping up the complexity. This was the 'warmup' for the day, and he slightly dreaded what would follow.

Clare shook her head, "It's more like a vacation while the academy mediates. When that's done, Nax will likely be summoned back."

"So who'd she piss off?"

"Pfft, a lot of people." Clare tossed the bag aside and directed him to a balance beam. "Powerful families, professors, her peers, and even some alchemists. Her only saving grace is that no one died or was maimed; everyone will make a full recovery."

She pulled a bandage out of dimensional space and wrapped his hands in the thin layer of gauze. Something he could have done himself, but Richter didn't stop her. The material had some special medicinal coating that Clare swore by — he had his doubts. It did make him feel kind of fuzzy though. The sharp pain dulled little by little.

Along with the gauze came a few other odds and ends including goggles, a helmet, a vest, and earplugs. Last but most concerning was some kind of pitching machine from hell. It was as if someone had taken a toy meant for the little leagues and strapped a V8 engine to it. 

"Welcome to the next stage of training," she smirked. "The past two days should have taught you how dangerous fighting is in an unfamiliar body. Everything gets thrown off, and that impacts mana most of all. So I've gathered some tools to help fix that."

Richter squinted at the clutter of items. "Are the earplugs really necessary?"

Clare took that as a challenge. She pulled out a small rubber ball and flicked it between two fingers at his chest.

It was like getting hit by a cannon.

The ball cracked a rib, knocking him on his ass before bouncing back to her hand.

"Don't question my methods. You'll alternate between training your body with Vincent's data and training your senses with these tools. It's vital to understand that perception affects control. Having any one of your senses inhibited can vastly affect mana flow."

Richter nodded, clutching his abdomen. "Noted."

"Surprisingly, you're already adept at handling the most dangerous inhibitor of all: Pain. Your reactions have no fluctuations or oddities, so we'll skip its training for now."

"You sound beat up about it." 

Clare gave him a side-eye. "There's no justice in this world. I've been waiting a long time to inflict the same pain on others that I went through in training... Oh well. Come here."

She fed the pitching machine a little mana and loaded the reservoir with baseballs. It sputtered, cried, and then reluctantly screeched to life. 

"I'm supposed to catch them, right?"

"You wish. You're supposed to dodge them."

Three pitches shot out to calibrate the settings, making three new dents in the hard walls of the facility. Richter sweated a little at the sight of steam wafting from the impacts. The baseballs had so much spin that their friction generated heat.

"I wouldn't have survived that," he murmured.

So Clare fiddled with the control panel until the pitches went from 'certain death' to 'healable torture'. She waved him over to the balance beam that spanned forty feet; The width was roughly half that of his foot. Trying to center himself meant that his big toe and pinky had nothing underneath.

"We'll do a dry run first so you get a feel for it. It's simple: just walk to the end and back."

It was a surprising turn of mercy. Richter shuffled a couple steps forward. As moronic as it seemed — training was training. He wanted to give this the same dedication and respect as any other. If this was about inhibiting perception, then he wouldn't use his Sixth Sense; it'd defeat the purpose. 

Footstep number three was when he realized Clare had a different definition of a dry run. Three clicks sounded from the pitching machine. Then a switch flipped and the engine roared.

Thoom!

A fastball flew at his hip from the left; a scorching, screeching pitch. Richter shifted his weight by sliding one foot and thrusting forward. The ball sailed past his back to the opposite wall as two more launched post-haste — One aimed at where he was, and the other a predictive shot at where he would be.

They were heavy. The air pressure from the last nearly batted him aside, and time was running short. 

Richter clenched the beam with his feet for any purchase he could get. And in the peripheral was Clare's smile that sort of ticked him off. 

[Mana Surge - 3%]

The best option was to squeeze between them. Just enough mana flowed down into his calves to push up on his toes and twist out of the way of the volley. All the experience of years spent analyzing weaknesses bubbled up to the surface.

His movements grew smoother with each pitch. The clicks of the machine became his metronome.

...For the most part.

Richter baited a curveball into arcing wide right before a follow-up struck the beam itself.

Was it planned?

The impact compromised his footing, allowing two fastballs to clip the hem of his button-up. The other close call was a changeup that scored one of the belt loops on his jeans.

The slight force threw him off center; he had to flap his arms like a bird to keep his balance.

"Fall! Fall! Fa—"

"Shut up Clare!"

But there was a rhythm to the motion; a pattern for how the machine targeted his body. Now mana flowed naturally to accommodate rattles and shakes from beam hits.

[Chain Cast: Mana Surge (3%) --> Mana Surge (10%)] 

There was nothing else to discover for the 'dry run'. He weaved around pitches, bounding across the second half of the beam. 

[Mana Flow - 20%]

The return walk was a lot easier. Even with a shift in gears for increased speed, the rest didn't change. It was almost a cathartic experience. Once done, Clare used a remote to pause the pitches as he hopped off.

"You know Clare, that wasn't so bad. I guess you have a better eye for teaching than I gave you credit for."

Her face scrunched up. "Don't patronize me you idiot," she spat. "You were supposed to fail. This was going to be a lesson in humility."

Richter was genuine, but Clare was a hard person to get through. Still, her confession was a bit puzzling. He tilted his head curiously.

"If that's the case, then why did you make it so easy?"

"I didn't! That should have been pretty tough for a Beginner." She took a second to calm down and catch her breath. "I expected you to take a few hits or fall at the very least."

"How could I fail when the timing and patterns were so simple?"

Frustratingly, Richter was right. Clare would just have to adjust her parameters for him.

"The patterns and timing were for teaching battle tactics and observation, but you're competent enough."

"Well, as a swordsman, that's like seventy percent of my career."

Clare picked up the earbuds from the pile of tools. "Oh yeah? Were you any good on Earth?"

"You couldn't find anyone better."

She cracked up, then gave him a deadpan expression when she realized he was serious. 

"Come on Richter, that's too much."

"Why is it too much?" 

"Because that's preposterous! You can't just claim to be the best in the world like that. Swordsmanship is too broad, there's too many sword types and techniques. It's arrogance beyond arrogance."

"It was a title given to me, earned in the eyes of others. I just went with it."

Clare threw her hands up, exasperated, "What a stupid title."

Richter had heard it all before.

"There are plenty of people who ridiculed it: It's to be expected. The average person can't conceive what it's like to be the best at something. They lack the confidence to envision themselves as such, and the drive to get there."

She tossed the earbuds to him. "Whatever, just put these in before I pop a vein. I—" 

The earbuds possessed complete noise cancellation. The rest of her words were lost on him. That's what she wanted.

There was a subtle press on the remote control in her hands. The pitching machine spurred back to life.

No sound, no clicks. No metronome. A fastball smacked him between the shoulder blades, propelling him several feet forward along the ground. He couldn't hear it, but Clare's body language made it obvious that she was laughing. Richter took out the earbuds with a sigh. 

There was some forgiveness; she'd used a lower setting.

"That was unnecessary."

"Probably, but I feel a lot better now."

He picked himself up, turning his attention to the stairs as they creaked and groaned. It sounded like a stampede.

"Is that Blake and the gang?"

"Yeah." She tossed him the remote. "They got done earlier than I hoped. Anyway, the tools are self-explanatory. You'll understand once you put them on, just keep training. And don't fiddle with the controls too much. At the highest setting, even I wouldn't want to take a hit from it." 

Clare walked away, zipping up her jacket and ignoring the stares of the crowd shuffling through the door. Her eyes told him to keep at it. So Richter put the earbuds back in and got on the balance beam for round two.

***