Chapter 124: 4.20

“For self-defense,” barked the overly upbeat, brawny instructor in the video I was watching, “better use low kicks. These are much harder to block compared to high kicks. And while you’re at it, you can also put your attacker off-balance by sweeping their legs. All of that, and more, coming up in this episode…”

I flinched when the intro music blared out of my earphones. “Fucking hell,” I murmured, my voice muffled by my face mask.

I had time to splurge on random stuff, just hanging out in this rundown pub tucked away in an unassuming side street that branched off Marshall Avenue, about twenty minutes of brisk walking away from the hospital because Deen wanted me to be as safe as possible, waiting for the hero wannabes to wipe Julie’s memories. Instead of watching movies—and it had been a long time since I just sat down and ate pizza while having a movie marathon—I decided to use my time effectively and learn how to fight.

I was excited to check out kicking tutorials after my teensy-weensy experience in punching.

Even for an absolute novice in fighting like me, it was obvious kicks were way more powerful than punches; they have longer range too. And most importantly, they looked cool as fuck, especially those flying kicks in kung fu movies. I know those are just stunts, with wires and stuff, but with my superhuman body, I bet I could do those sick moves if I practiced hard enough.

Erind, your goal is not to do a flying kick, I sternly reminded myself.

After hopping from one random internet video to the next for the last ten minutes—yeah, very reputable source materials, I know—I came to learn that kicks weren’t really advisable in like a serious fight, or I guess street fight was the appropriate term. It was too slow and could easily put me off-balance. Low kicks though seemed to be pretty useful.

This could be the reason the taekwondo varsity members back in high school rarely did those fancy kicks when they sparred. When us cheerleaders practiced at the gym, the taekwondo team was often also there, doing their own thing in an area that was sort of modified into a makeshift dojo with tatami mats laid on the floor.

I sometimes watched them, amazed that they could kick higher than their height. Some of them were more flexible than me, and I was pretty flexible—was; now, I wouldn’t dare try to split. I observed they used mostly low kicks when fighting with each other even though they were more than capable of other types of kicks.

Well, now I know.

The instructor guy was demonstrating a foot sweep. It didn’t need much power but mainly focused on speed to put the enemy off-balance. Hard to guard against because it was unexpected, and a quick way to take down someone. I was warming up to this move. Once my enemy was on the ground, I could make a run for it or…stay around and bash his head in.

Plenty of options.

“Note I’m sweeping at an angle,” Instructor guy said, repeating the, I guess it was a low kick of sorts—an ‘outside sweep’—in slow motion on his demo partner. “I’m hitting the front leg of Dennis—see that my kick is connecting at ankle level—bringing it to the back leg. And there,” he said, executing the move, bringing Dennis down, “swept both feet off the ground. Thank you for the help, Dennis.” He clasped hands with his partner and pulled him off the floor.

“I can probably do that,” I whispered to myself. It was way easier than those over-the-head kicks, and seemed more practical too.

I recalled a move like this when I took judo as my PE class for one semester in college. Too bad I didn’t really pay attention back then because I hated that class. Since I was one of the smallest girls, I was used by the other girls as the test dummy when they wanted to practice a move. They just wanted someone easy to throw without actually doing a technique properly. Fuck those annoying bitches.

“Guys, note it’s not just the feet.” Instructor guy swayed his partner to the left and right like they were dancing. “Both arms and feet work together to take down your opponent. If Dennis here just—Dennis, can you stand straight? See, if he stands straight, and I did this, I end up the one off-balanced. So, you should coordinate pulling your opponent with sweeping their feet.”

I nodded. Makes sense. Or I could also wait for my opponent to move, like step forward or something, then hook his feet.

It all sounded good in theory, but just watching videos wasn’t enough. I should try to practice this on someone; I couldn’t exactly sweep a concrete column off its feet—the lack of actual feet being the hardest obstacle, I thought sarcastically. Perhaps I could convince Myra to spar with me? She told me I should avoid fighting head-on, but this sweep thingy seemed a good defensive move to learn.

I scrolled through the comments section of the video to see if I could learn helpful inputs.

I didn’t…figures. It was just full of people bragging they could do better moves, or pointing this or that as the mistake of the instructor guy. Everyone’s an expert on the internet, I guess.

“Just kick him in the balls,” I read one comment, snorting through my mask. Well, that was unironically good advice compared to the other comments. What if I did kick a guy’s junk? I vaguely recalled hearing that a man died due to a kick in the balls. Whether that was true or just an urban legend, I positively could kill someone with a super strength kick to the nuts.

Scrambled eggs, I mused, giggling. Okay, I knew I was being immature, but I just couldn’t help myself. The image of a super powered groin kick got stuck in my head.

I looked around for anything that would distract me from my stupid juvenile humor, and noticed my untouched drink—a cucumber lemon mocktail.

When I ordered this drink, the bartender gave me a weirded out, almost condescending look. From his appearance, and that of this little bar, I wasn’t even sure if he has made a non-alcoholic drink in the last decade. I was half-expecting him not to know what a mocktail was.

I turned to the window and pulled my mask up just a bit so that I can sip from the straw.

Wow! This actually tasted great.

I fixed my mask and turned to the counter, spotting the bartender glancing in my direction, checking my reaction. I gave him a thumbs up and he nodded at me in return with a smug smile on his face. There were only two other customers beside me: a guy passed out drunk in one booth, his head hidden by empty bottles; and another guy at the counter chatting with the bartender.

The TV above the right side of the wine cabinet had its volume turned up, perhaps to make the place livelier than it was. I bet this bar was packed if there weren't stupid stuff going on lately.

I turned away from the three of them, facing the window again so I could enjoy my mocktail without revealing my face. The windows were covered by thick, dusty curtains, so no one could see me from the outside too.

All in all, an unexpectedly cozy spot to pass the time. I hadn’t been to a place like this before. Another new experience; I had plenty of those the past three weeks.

Deen, on the other hand, didn’t like this bar and was reluctant leaving me here. But we had no choice because we couldn’t find any other shop or store where I could stay while waiting for them. Most of the establishments along Marshall Avenue and the surrounding streets had closed down because of the violence of the protests, with riots and looting wrecking many businesses in this area. We were actually surprised to find a bar open here.

My guess was the owner thought tonight was going to be relatively peaceful, most of the protesters stirring up shit at the memorial instead, and tried to keep his business going. Poor guy. Someday, when everything was calm, I planned to come back here and try more drinks.

I pulled back the curtains to check the street outside. It was dark, most of the streetlights had been smashed. With the dim light coming from the bar, I could pick out silhouettes of people passing by. This area wasn’t as empty as we expected it to be.

Should I go out and have a look?

I was supposed to be a lookout after all, observing the movements of the protesters and the police, updating Emcee, who was guarding Oberon, if there was anything dangerous going on. But no one actually expected me to snoop around.

Nonetheless, I was kinda itching to go out, already bored with watching videos. I enjoyed people-watching just like I was entertained by nature documentaries, learning how they behaved, picking up habits and reactions that could help me build faces. The city was undergoing a once-in-a-lifetime crisis, and this might be my only opportunity to study how people beh—

“And now we have an exclusive interview with the leader of the Protectors of the City Movement,” the news reporter boomed on TV. I heard it because I paused the video I was watching while wandering my thoughts.

I took off my earphones and turned to the TV upon hearing the interesting topic. From what I gathered watching tidbits of news these past few days, the Protectors of the City Movement, or PCM, were the biggest group among the protesters. I also saw flyers and posters about them scattered everywhere.

“Get a load of this guy,” the customer sitting by the counter said, pointing at the TV with his mug. He and the bartender stopped their conversation to listen to the news.

The PCM leader came on screen. His appearance was far from what I imagined; he had a meek posture, almost making him invisible from the backdrop of the massive crowd before the reporter interviewed him. There wasn’t an air of charisma around him that I expected from someone controlling a more radical group. He actually looked like an overworked scientist in a movie, figuring out how to save the world from some sci-fi disaster, his brown hair disheveled, pronounced bags under his eyes, looking five years older than he probably was. Managing a large group of people took its toll on him.

“I’m not a leader,” he said. The name ‘Auron Cohenn’ appeared on screen. “I am but a guide to everyone wanting the safety of La Esperanza. The PCM doesn’t have a leader for everyone has a voice, and that voice is united.”

I raised a brow when he spoke. Again, unexpected. This Auron guy had a Southern accent, but with super clear pronunciation, the stress in every word perfect. I wasn’t sure how he did it because Southern and clarity didn’t go hand in hand; my grandmother on my father’s side lived in the deep South and I couldn’t understand anything she said.

“Our united voice gathered here to speak to the mayor, to let him know of the dangers our city is facing, to let him know that the people will not sit down in their homes and do nothing, to let him know that the people will act if he does not.”

His voice was strong and powerful, peppered with a large smattering charisma. This was how he was able to lead his organization.

“What a fucking pile of steaming shit,” drawled the guy on the counter. “Go back to your homes, you fuckwits!” He tried to throw his mug at the TV but the bartender caught it.

“Keep it down Larry,” said the bartender, consolingly patting his shoulder. “The people are scared. Scared people band together. And—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. And scared people in a large group do stupid things. Things like burning my food truck.”

The news reporter asked Auron, “Mr. Cohenn, what about the allegations that the PCM is vandalizing public property, especially the buildings donated by the McHunters, like the hospital for ex—”

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“As I've said,” Auron interjected, “I am only a humble guide that serves the united voice of the people. While united, there are some who have more extreme views in achieving the goal, perhaps misguided views. Defacing public property built by the accursed McHunters, the family who brought the Adumbrae curse to La Esperanza, is but an outlet to the feelings of anger by the people—”

“What a fucking roundabout way to say you can’t control your people!” bellowed Larry. He then spotted me. “Hey, boy! What do you think about these clowns?”

Boy? I was wearing a hoodie and face mask to hide my identity so it was easy to mistake my frame as a teenage boy. Fine, I wasn’t going to get offended by this. I looked to the bartender with questioning eyes. Best not to engage the drunk dude.

The bartender mouthed an apology to me. He turned his friend away from me. “Don’t bother the other customers, Larry. Let the poor girl enjoy her drink.”

Poor girl? Where the hell did this come from? The bartender might’ve assumed I was a runaway or something.

“But what about your ultimatum to the mayor,” the news reporter pressed on. “That you will attack the EFU Medical Center if the casualties of the two major Adumbrae attacks are not—”

“Attack is such a strong word,” Auron said, once again not letting the reporter finish. “The will of the people is the safety of La Esperanza. It is but logical that we take the dangerous elements out of the city. ‘Peaceful relocation’ is the term that I will use. If the police do not stop us, everything will be peaceful and orderly as we relocate these patients to institutions outside the city and away from the population.”

“What a load of bullcrap!” yelled Larry.

I couldn’t help but grin. That was some intense mental gymnastics there to justify a riot. This Auron guy would make a fine lawyer. Maybe he was? He had really good public speaking and bullshitting skills.

“Mr. Cohen, any message to the mayor?"

“Mr. Mayor, we, the people—”

Ringing bells made me, the bartender, and Larry look towards the entrance. It was the wind chimes singing as a group of people opened the door and entered the bar.

I know I shouldn’t judge people by their appearance, but these four men looked like they weren’t going to be customers but came here to stir up shit. The symbol on the bandanas they tied to their upper arms was enough to identify them as members of the PCM, just like what I’d just seen on the news.

“What can I get you, gentlemen?” The bartender asked.

The large guy in the lead wearing a maroon beanie said, “We are looking for members of the Silent Vigil Society.” My ears pricked up. “The SVS. I assume you’ve heard of them?”

“Those cuckoos thinking Adumbrae are good?” Larry said.

“No, we haven’t,” the bartender said. “Haven’t heard of them. Haven’t seen them."

“SVS, PCM,” drunken Larry droned on, “fucking alphabet clowns can kiss my A-S-S.”

“What did you say?” The scrawny man behind Beanie guy grabbed Larry by the collar. “See this, old man?” He showed the bandana on his arm. “We’re protecting this city while you old farts just sit here and drink the remainder of your life away.”

“Get your hands off me, you disrespectful brat!”

Uh-oh, trouble. It was easy to see what these idiots wanted with the SVS. They were angry at Adumbrae. The SVS were pushing the narrative that there could be good Adumbrae—ehem, moi. That was probably the wrong use of moi.

“Harper, let him go,” Beanie guy said. He was larger and stronger than the twig Harper and easily pulled him away from Larry.

“This is a business,” the bartender said indignantly, puffing his chest to make himself look bigger, but he was still dwarfed by Beanie guy. “If you’re not going to order anything, you can leave instead of causing trouble.”

“Just have some business with the SVS, sir,” he replied, adopting a more respectful tone. “They were spotted nearby earlier. We’ll leave after we make sure none of their members are hiding here.”

I could take these guys on. Don’t forget about guns, Myra’s reminders floated in my head. Yeah, whatever.

Beat these guys up, and then what? Draw attention to myself? Very suspicious if a tiny woman clobbered four grown men.

“Not this one,” another PCM member said, pulling up the head of the passed-out guy to check his face.

“I told you, they’re not here.” The bartender came around the counter with a bat in his hand.

“Not so fast, old man,” Harper said, patting the bulge on the side of his hip covered by his sweatshirt. “We packin’.”

“For our own safety,” Beanie guy clarified, pushing Harper behind him. He held up his hands as a sign of peace. “We’ll just check that boy over there and we’ll be on our way.”

Again with the boy? I stood up and moved towards the door. It wasn’t good to expose myself here—expose myself as an Adumbrae, not as a girl. I was just going to force myself past these guys and run away.

“Leave that harmless girl alone,” the bartender said.

“He's a gir—?"

“The SVS have female members too,” Harper said as he approached me, pulling up his sweatshirt to reveal his gun. “Take off your mask or I’ll take it off for you.”

Oh, I don’t think I should. I ignored them and went to grab the door knob. Harper cursed and lunged at me, but the bartender grabbed him.

“You old fart, let go of my gun!”

“Harper! Don’t do something stupid here!”

“Go! Run away!” shouted the bartender.

“Thank you,” I hurriedly said as I exited and made my escape. I heard Harper scream in rage. I looked back, seeing Harper disentangle himself from the bartender to go after me. But Larry jumped on him and bashed his head with a bottle. The rest of the PCM members joined the fray.

Their leader, Beanie guy, took one last look at me, our eyes meeting. My mind was already whirring, planning what to do if he chased me. I could try the foot sweep thingy on him. But he probably decided I wasn’t one of the people they were looking for, diving instead into the mass of fighting men, trying to break it up.

Mental note, visit the bartender next time and buy more drinks. Such a nice person, helping me without even knowing who I was.

Did he assume I was a member of the SVS, and that I was hiding away from those protester fucks? That would be hilarious if that was what actually happened. It did explain his desperate behavior to help me escape. To his mind, those guys might do something bad to me, a poor, helpless girl.

Hmmm…a genuinely good and selfless person. Would you look at that, I already found something interesting tonight. Since I was already out here, might as well find other interesting stuff. And if those guys decided to follow me, I was going to kick their balls!

I giggled like an idiot as I strolled along the dark street, a funny thought wiggling back in my head.

Scrambled eggs...hehehe...

Ugh...I should grow up.

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