The PulseTeam, Book Two: Evolution

Chapter Sixteen: Training Princess Alurathia

Part One: "Show Me What'cha Got, Princess..."

The StealthOps House | Sylvanoria, Elf Territory
Monday, July 10, 2034 | 09:00 EST

Four days pass rather quickly, and soon enough, Monday arrives. Yesterday morning, I sent some workout clothes for Alura and a letter to the king telling him to bring her shoeless and three hours after the break of dawn which translates to o-nine hundred hours, or nine o'clock in the morning.

And they are very punctual.

But when they arrive, Alura asks, "This outfit is... rather tight... and revealing, David. Would you, perhaps, be able to spare another?"

"Nope," I say. "If it's not too tight that you can't breathe, it's not really that tight, and if you're worried about it being too revealing, then take a good look at we're wearing. Besides, this material is super stretchy, and it'll be just us, here. You'll be fine."

She looks at all of us, and says, "But--"

And I cut her off, saying, "Alura, your father personally asked us to train you in our fighting style. And since you're here, you obviously want to learn, as well, right?

"Well, yes, but--"

"Well then, you've got to let us do that. Step one is dressing for the occasion. The clothes you're wearing are not to show off your assets (although they can easily be used for that, sometimes), but they serve to help your body regulate its temperature during strenuous physical activity. They also keep out of the way and pose no risk of tearing. If you came in your normal, everyday garb, and started doing what we're about to do, you'd be extremely hot, number one, number two, your clothes would get in your way, movement-wise, and number three, you'd risk ripping your beautiful clothing. Remember, for everything I instruct you to do, there is a purpose behind it."

"Okay," she concedes, sighing.

"Good," I say. "Now, did you stretch before coming here?"

"Yes," she replies.

"Alright, then. Show me what'cha got, princess. You have three minutes."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to fight."

"Who?"

"Me."

"N-no, David, y-you're a friend," she stammers. "I-I couldn't possibly--"

"You can... and you will," I cut her off. "I'm not your friend during these training sessions. I am your instructor. And to better instruct you, I need to know what all you can do. So... fight me. Now. And hold nothing back."

"R-right," she says, sounding very unsure of herself.

I lead her to the sparring ring (which is simply a 25'× 25' field of softened soil covered with a clear, thin film of the same supercloth our suits are made of), and I say, "Whenever you're ready."

She squares off rather pathetically. I stand and cross my arms. I motion for her to come at me. Then, she runs at me and swings. I easily dodge, avoid, and evade all of her attacks... with my hands behind my back. We have a lot of work to do with this one.

Then she launches a roundhouse kick to my head and misses, and since it was improperly performed, the weight of her leg spins her around so that her back is to me. White belt mistake. When her kicking foot touches the ground, I blow out sharply and briefly, shooting out a blunt-but-forceful gust of wind that slams into her back and knocks her to the ground.

Then she scrambles back to her feet and tries to run at me again, and I calculate that, based on how she's positioned as she's running at me, and that none of her muscles are twitching--even slightly--in anticipation of any imminent maneuvers, she's about to attempt a tackle-and-mount.