Taskmaster

Scott and Taskmaster lunged at each other simultaneously, their bodies moving with practiced efficiency. Neither hesitated, neither wasted a movement. Both understood that hesitation meant death.

Scott kept his knife poised in a modified saber grip, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet as he moved to close the distance. Taskmaster mirrored his movements almost perfectly, his own knife held in an identical grip, making it clear he had already begun adapting. Scott had no doubts that his opponent had memorized every minuscule detail of his stance, breathing patterns, and micro-adjustments.

But Scott had planned for that.

The moment Taskmaster's blade flicked forward, Scott twisted to the side, avoiding the thrust by a fraction of an inch. The blade carved through the empty space where his ribs had been just moments prior, but before Taskmaster could pull back and reset, Scott launched his counterattack.

A sharp, precise stab aimed at Taskmaster's stomach.

Taskmaster reacted instantly.

Instead of blocking, he rotated his body slightly, letting the tip of Scott's blade pass harmlessly through his loose cloak. In the same motion, he retaliated with a sharp upward slice aimed at Scott's exposed throat.

Scott was already moving.

He ducked low, the cold steel of Taskmaster's knife cutting through the air just above his head. The wind of the passing blade sent a sharp chill down Scott's spine, a visceral reminder of just how close he had come to dying.

Scott immediately pushed forward, attempting to close the distance even further—too close for Taskmaster to effectively wield his knife—but the mercenary anticipated the move. With a sharp snap of his wrist, Taskmaster flicked his cloak outward, sending it whipping toward Scott's face.

A classic distraction technique.

Scott ignored it.

His foot lashed out instead, kicking low toward Taskmaster's knee. Taskmaster reacted instantly, snapping his own leg up to intercept. Their shins clashed, sending a sharp jolt up both their legs, but neither relented.

Instead of recoiling, Taskmaster used the force of the impact to pivot, shifting into a spinning slash aimed at Scott's ribs. Scott barely had enough time to twist his torso, avoiding the deadly edge by inches.

But Taskmaster wasn't finished.

The mercenary used the momentum from his spin to launch a follow-up thrust, targeting Scott's exposed side.

Scott redirected it with a parry using his free hand, his palm grazing the back of Taskmaster's wrist. He didn't try to block outright—that would have been suicide—instead, he subtly shifted the mercenary's arm just enough for the blade to glide harmlessly past his ribs rather than sink into them.

Scott retaliated immediately.

His knife lashed forward in a precise, measured thrust aimed at Taskmaster's shoulder. If he could land a deep enough hit, it would restrict Taskmaster's arm movement, forcing the mercenary to rely more on kicks and evasive techniques.

But Taskmaster was a step ahead.

Instead of dodging, he leaned into the attack, bringing his own knife up at the last possible moment in a mirrored counter-thrust.

Scott saw the play.

A mutual kill.

If he didn't react, his knife would bury itself into Taskmaster's shoulder—but Taskmaster's blade would do the same to Scott's throat.

Scott aborted his attack instantly, jerking his arm back and shifting to the side just in time to let Taskmaster's knife sail past his neck. But that split-second hesitation cost him—Taskmaster pressed forward aggressively, launching another barrage of rapid knife thrusts and swipes.

Scott's world narrowed to the movements of the blade, the gleam of steel under the flickering car park lights, the sharp intake of Taskmaster's measured breaths. He weaved between strikes, his body bending and twisting as he dodged by impossibly small margins.

A thrust toward his sternum—he rotated his shoulders back, letting it miss by a hair's breadth.

A slash toward his thigh—he stepped back, letting the blade carve through the air just inches away.

Taskmaster never stopped.

His knife never stopped moving, a ceaseless wave of calculated aggression. But Scott remained just out of reach, his footwork keeping him in the exact position where he could see, react, and evade. It was a deadly dance, one wrong move away from turning into a bloodbath.

Scott knew the longer this continued, the worse it would get for him.

Taskmaster was getting faster.

Scott could see it—feel it.

At first, Taskmaster's strikes had been predictable—not in the sense that they were easy to read, but in that they followed standard techniques and patterns. Now, they were changing becoming sharper, more efficient and most importantly; tailored to Scott specifically.

Taskmaster was learning.

Memorizing.

Every motion, every reaction—Taskmaster was absorbing it all and refining his attacks in real-time.

Scott exhaled sharply through his nose.

He had minutes, at best, before Taskmaster adapted completely.

He needed to create an opening.

Scott lunged forward abruptly, feinting a thrust toward Taskmaster's ribs. The mercenary reacted immediately, parrying and going to strike, but Scott was already gone. Instead of completing the attack, he used the forward momentum to duck under Taskmaster's arm, rolling past him and putting distance between them.

By the time Taskmaster turned, Scott was standing a few feet away, knife still at the ready, breathing controlled and measured.

Taskmaster tilted his head, his skull-like mask unreadable. A slow chuckle left his lips. "Haven't used your powers once," he mused, tapping his blade against his gloved fingers. "That mean you think you can win without 'em?"

Scott remained silent.

Taskmaster took a step forward, rolling his shoulders lazily. "Big mistake."

The fight wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

The tension between them stretched as Scott and Taskmaster stood motionless, their breathing steady, their bodies poised to strike at the first sign of movement. The only sounds in the dimly lit parking garage were the occasional distant hum of an engine outside and the flickering overhead lights.

Scott's fingers curled around the grip of his knife, his mind racing.

Taskmaster had stopped attacking.

That meant one thing.

He had copied Scott's style.

The realization settled over Scott like a weight. Taskmaster was now fighting exactly like him. A master of defensive and counter-offensive combat. Someone who let their opponents make the first move and punished them for it.

Scott cursed internally.

This was the worst possible scenario.

His style, ingrained into him through Cyclops' instincts, was predominantly defensive—the art of surviving, countering, and controlling the flow of combat through superior positioning and timing. It was something he had perfected, but it wasn't without its weaknesses.

Scott wasn't an aggressive close-quarters combatant—not yet.

That was something he and Logan had been working on. But compared to his defensive skill set, his ability to take the initiative in a fight was still lagging behind. Cyclops had built himself into an unshakable wall in close combat. Scott had inherited that foundation, but his offensive game was still being constructed.

It wasn't that he couldn't attack.

It was that doing so wasn't second nature to him yet.

But he had no choice.

If Taskmaster was going to copy him, then Scott would have to fight against his own instincts.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and charged. Taskmaster braced, his stance shifting into a textbook defensive posture—Scott's own stance. The moment Scott stepped into range, he thrust his knife forward in a rapid stab aimed at Taskmaster's chest.

Taskmaster leaned to the side—barely an inch—but it was enough. Scott's knife whiffed past him, striking nothing but air.

A perfect dodge, with no wasted movement.

Taskmaster countered immediately, swiping at Scott's exposed ribs.

Scott twisted away, mirroring the very evasive techniques he had used earlier.

He pressed forward again, forcing Taskmaster to react.

A rapid thrust at the throat—deflected with the slightest turn of the head.

A sweeping slash aimed at the midsection—dodged with a subtle backward lean.

A feint toward the ribs before snapping into a real strike at the shoulder—Taskmaster twisted his body at the last possible second, evading it flawlessly.

It was like fighting a mirror.

Scott gritted his teeth. Taskmaster wasn't just copying his defensive capabilities—he was improving on them. His reactions were smoother, his movements even more refined.

This wasn't a battle of equals.

Scott was fighting against a more advanced version of himself.

Taskmaster was always a step ahead, countering before Scott even fully committed to his attacks.

Scott knew exactly why.

Because Taskmaster didn't have to think.

Scott had trained his instincts to react at a high level, but Taskmaster was a photographic mimic, someone who could absorb and replicate movement instantly. While Scott was still processing and adapting, Taskmaster was simply executing.

Scott had no margin for error.

Which meant he had to create one.

Scott continued attacking, knowing he wasn't going to land a strike—not yet. But he was building up the rhythm, giving Taskmaster a flow to follow.

Then—he broke it.

Scott's eyes flashed red.

He turned his head sharply—firing a sudden optic blast.

The crimson beam lanced forward.

Taskmaster reacted instantly, jerking his head back—just barely dodging the blast.

But Scott was already moving.

Using the momentum of his attack, Scott spun into a low sweeping kick. Caught off guard, Taskmaster lost his footing for the first time in the fight, stumbling backward. Scott pressed the attack—only to suddenly have to dive to the side as gunfire rang out.

Taskmaster had drawn a pistol.

Scott hit the pavement hard, rolling behind a parked car as bullets shredded the concrete where he had been standing.

From behind cover, Scott's jaw clenched as he tried to steady his breathing. That was his opening and Taskmaster had taken it away by escalating the fight.

Scott had planned for a battle of skill.

Taskmaster had just reminded him that there were no rules.

Scott exhaled sharply, gripping his knife tighter.

He had no intention of dying tonight.

Taskmaster in his eyes was just another wall.

A wall Scott Summers had every intention of breaking through.