(AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN…) TRAINING ARC II

The training room had begun to feel strangely familiar.

Taylor still remembered the first afternoon she had walked through its doors. She had arrived carrying far more confidence than skill, and the distinction had become painfully obvious within the first five minutes. The bruises had come afterward, followed by another session two days later, and then another after that until training simply became part of her week.

Three afternoons out of every week now ended the same way. She reported to PRT Headquarters after school, changed into borrowed training clothes, and spent the next hour working through drills, lectures, and sparring that usually concluded with her discovering yet another mistake she had not realized she was making.

The officer rarely wasted words. He corrected her stance, her balance, the way she shifted her weight, and the habit she had of watching her opponent's hands instead of their shoulders. Whenever she thought she had finally managed something correctly, he found another flaw waiting underneath it.

Eventually, after enough sessions that Taylor had stopped expecting introductions altogether, he held out a hand before they began.

"Reynolds."

Taylor looked at him for a second before accepting the handshake. "You've waited three weeks to tell me that?"

The corners of his mouth shifted just enough to suggest he might have been amused. "I wasn't expecting three weeks."

Taylor frowned slightly, considering his words. "...Fair enough,” she finally said. 

Reynolds had never been much for explanations. He preferred demonstrations, and demonstrations usually ended with Taylor flat on her back before she had fully understood what had happened.

She was beginning to appreciate the approach.

"Again," Reynolds said.

Taylor raised the padded training baton and closed the distance between them.

The first few sessions had taught her an uncomfortable lesson about enthusiasm. Charging forward accomplished very little against someone who understood exactly how to redirect momentum, so she approached more carefully this time, testing the distance before committing herself.

Reynolds moved first, the baton sweeping toward her shoulder in a controlled strike that arrived just quickly enough to punish hesitation without becoming impossible to avoid. Taylor stepped inside the arc instead of away from it, caught his wrist with both hands, and twisted exactly as she had been taught.

For a fraction of a second, she thought she had it. Then Reynolds shifted his weight.

The movement was so small she almost missed it, yet suddenly the hold she had established no longer mattered. Her balance disappeared beneath her, and the next thing she knew she was staring at the ceiling.

She let out a slow breath before saying, "What did I miss?"

Reynolds offered her a hand. "Your hips."

She frowned deeply as she accepted the help up. "My grip was fine."

"It was." He tapped the outside of her leg with the baton. "This wasn't."

She sighed. "I suppose that's why we're here."

"It is."

There was no criticism in his voice, only the matter-of-fact certainty of someone describing the weather.

Taylor rolled one shoulder, settled back into her stance, and attacked again.

The next exchange lasted longer.

She avoided the first strike, slipped around the second, and managed to force Reynolds back a single step before he caught her arm and redirected her into another controlled fall. Even so, she found herself smiling as she climbed back to her feet.

A month ago, she would never have made it that far.

Reynolds seemed to notice the same thing. "Better,” he said. 

Taylor wiped the sweat from her forehead. "I'll take it."

The approval was understated, which suited Reynolds. He had never struck Taylor as someone who expected dramatic leaps in ability, and looking back, she supposed neither had she.

Every session had added something. One afternoon it had been her footing. Another it was learning to keep her elbows tucked instead of letting them drift. Later came timing, spacing, and the uncomfortable realization that most fights were decided long before anyone threw the first punch.

As the weeks passed, Reynolds repeated the same corrections less often. Old mistakes gradually disappeared, only to be replaced by subtler ones that took longer to uncover. Every lesson seemed to settle somewhere in the back of Taylor's mind, refusing to fade the way most memories did.

That probably shouldn't have surprised her. She could still remember every mistake Oni Lee had punished. Compared to that, remembering how Reynolds had exploited an opening in her stance barely required any effort at all.

"You've been practicing."

Taylor looked up from where she was adjusting the straps on one of the training pads. "A bit."

Reynolds nodded once. “Keep doing it."

Taylor gave a nod in return. 

The truth would have sounded ridiculous. She had stumbled through enough life-and-death fights that some movements had become second nature simply through repetition. Reynolds wasn't responsible for those instincts. He was teaching her the discipline they had always lacked.

Instead, she settled for something simpler.

"I don't like making the same mistake twice."

Reynolds regarded her for a moment before crossing his arms. "That's a useful habit."

Taylor almost laughed.

If only he knew.