Chương 18: Control or Eliminate

"Can you give me a ride, Tom?" Alex's voice cut through the nighttime silence of the parking lot, lacking any trace of combat readiness, almost pleading. I looked around. The other club members had long since left, some on roaring motorcycles, others in solid SUVs. The parking lot was nearly empty, and only the dim streetlights pulled our silhouettes out of the darkness.

"Why're you without wheels?" I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my eyes.

"How'd you even get here if you live downtown?" Alex hesitated slightly and pointed at a foldable electric scooter leaning against a pole.

"Well, I figured I'd catch some wind… But look at the sky now. It's going to pour soon, and I'm in shorts. I'll catch a cold and won't be able to go to the gym." I lifted my gaze. The sky was only lightly covered with clouds, and the chance of rain was extremely low. The excuse was clearly far-fetched. Alex simply wanted a reason to stay alone with me and dig for the truth. A thought flashed through my mind: just tell him to get lost.

I was currently playing the role of a cool operative, and real professionals do not give rides to talkative beach boys. But reason quickly followed. Alex was part of this closed community. I had been damn lucky to get into their circle when a spot opened up, and ruining relationships over something as trivial as refusing a ride was a stupid risk.

"Throw your ride into the trunk," I nodded toward my Audi.

"Thanks, man! You're saving me!" he lit up instantly, his tone shifting to excitement.

"Coffee's on me next time, I swear!" I only grunted. The whole scene felt surreal: a beach boy dropped into the interior of my not-so-fresh Audi, with its worn upholstery. His unnaturally bronze tan, the kind that clearly washes off in the shower, and his bleached white hair clashed with the harsh atmosphere of the paintball club. I pulled away and merged onto a half-empty road, pressing the radio button. Slow, strained blues guitar filled the car. Rain, sadness, loneliness, exactly what was needed.

"You seriously listen to this?" Alex turned to me, raising an eyebrow.

"Got a problem with that?"

"No, it's fine," he quickly corrected himself.

"I just thought you were into heavy metal or something like that. It fits your style." I left that without a response. I did not care about his stereotypes. Though, to be fair, with his beach style he should have been listening to some surfing pop, but I wisely kept that to myself. Minutes stretched along with the blues, broken only by the hum of the tires. Alex was clearly nervous, fidgeting in his seat.

"About the steroids…" he finally forced out.

"I mean…"

"There weren't any steroids," I cut him off without taking my eyes off the road. My voice came out cold and firm.

"You made that up yourself."

"Yeah, that's what I meant," he stumbled over his words.

"I didn't know you were one of the serious guys. I thought you were messing with street chemicals for definition. Anyway, sorry, I was wrong."

"Forget it," I decided to shut the topic down for good.

"It's settled." Silence fell again, but this time it carried tension. Alex clearly was not the type who could keep his mouth shut for long.

"Still… what was that?" he leaned forward, curiosity burning in his eyes.

"Back at the gym. You looked like a zombie! You didn't notice anything around you, just the target. It was scary."

"Self-hypnosis," I said shortly.

"What?"

"Self-hypnosis. It's a deep immersion technique. You program your mind for a specific task, cutting off any external stimuli. The world stops existing for you, only the action algorithm remains." Alex sat there with his mouth slightly open. He was clearly trying to process it, comparing it with what he had seen in action movies. Why did I feed him this story? Because he had already noticed my abnormal productivity, and pretending to be an ordinary accountant no longer made sense.

"So you can hypnotize yourself into anything?" his eyes widened.

"Can you learn to fly?"

"Only within human limits," I maintained an icy calm.

"Oh… I see," he exhaled in disappointment, then suddenly lit up again.

"Hey, Tom! Teach me!" I shot him a quick glance.

"You don't have clearance, Alex."

"What do you mean?" he shifted in his seat.

"This skill's only passed within special units. I've got no right to disclose it." He nodded as if I had just revealed a secret of the universe. Now I was, in his eyes, a walking legend from some secret agency.

"By the way," I decided to take the initiative, "what do you do for a living? Which department are you in?" Alex straightened up, squaring his shoulders.

"Beach police!" he said it with the pride of an FBI director. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Beach?" I muttered under my breath, barely holding back a laugh.

"You mean the guys in shorts who patrol the sand and catch beach towel thieves?" His enthusiasm noticeably faded.

"Well… yeah," he deflated.

"Maybe we're not storming drug cartels like Rachel, but the job's responsible. We save drowning people, keep order. I've even got a first aid certificate!" I listened, feeling something sink inside me. My expectations collided with harsh reality. It turned out Alex was at the very bottom of the police hierarchy. And there was a high chance the rest of the club were not elite operatives either, just enthusiastic amateurs. I had not expected to be surrounded by generals, but still… beach police.

Well, at least they were fun to play paintball with. And who knows, maybe one day someone would steal my towel at the beach.

"Thanks for the ride," Alex jumped out near a shopping center as soon as I slowed down.

"See you in two weeks?"

"Sure," I replied without even looking at him. I hit the gas, hoping that this would be the end of our interactions outside the paintball arena.

A few days later, I arrived at the jiu-jitsu gym.

"Mr. Ross, are you ready for the final exam?" My mentor's voice, Mr. Santiago, cut through the silence of the training hall like a scalpel. We stood facing each other. Hard mats under our feet. The air conditioner was running, but despite the cool air, a line of sweat ran down my back.

"Yes, Mr. Santiago," I nodded briefly. We were both tense to the limit. The scene resembled a duel, only instead of revolvers, there were grips and submission holds.

"The rules are simple," Santiago looked me in the eyes.

"Three sparring matches. To pass the exam, you must win at least two. No leniency." He took a fighting stance, and in his eyes I saw not just a teacher, but a predator preparing to destroy me.

"I accept," I exhaled. I did not even finish my sentence before Santiago launched forward. He came at me with the fury and grace of a tiger, aiming to crush me instantly by exploiting my momentary hesitation. My body reacted on its own. No Tactical Mode. This time I had deliberately burned through the entire limit before the sparring session. It was critical for me to test what my muscles and reflexes were truly worth in a fair fight, without digital crutches or any kind of psychotronic acceleration.

I felt his momentum, intercepted the motion, and, smoothly shifting my center of gravity, threw the master over myself. Santiago hit the mat on his back with a dull thud, but I did not give him a single second to recover. While he was only beginning to regroup for a counter, I was already on top of him, locking him into the most advantageous and rigid position. He tried to break free, twisting under my weight, but I remained above him like an unshakable rock, pressing him into the mats.

I held the grip with a dead lock until Santiago's palm struck the mat three sharp times.

"Not bad at all, Mr. Ross," he got up, brushing off his T-shirt, and his gaze grew even more focused. He motioned me forward with his hand, inviting me to continue.

"Round two." Now the initiative was mine. I burst forward in a short, powerful sprint, closing the distance. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Santiago subtly shifting his body. He was preparing a counter throw, planning to use my own speed against me. But I was no longer the rookie who could be caught by a cheap trick. Increasing my pressure at the very last moment, I slammed into him like a battering ram, denying him the chance to execute the move, and immediately transitioned into a chokehold.

One second, two, and Santiago tapped the mat again.

"Excellent, Mr. Ross. Now I'm confident you can neutralize an opponent cleanly without causing severe injury," he smiled warmly and handed me a thick sheet of paper. It was a certificate with a unique number, a document that, in military and police circles, carried more weight than many diplomas. I pressed it to my chest, feeling my face spread into a wide, almost childlike smile.

"I'll admit honestly," Santiago added, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel, "you're my most unusual and progressive student in recent years. Teaching you's been… a very specific experience."

"Thanks for everything, Master. This's been more than just lessons for me too," I bowed to him sincerely.

"Mr. Ross, tell me… you're planning to move further into Krav Maga, aren't you?" I froze, not hiding my surprise.

"Yeah, that's right. But how'd you know?"

"Los Angeles is a huge city, but the martial arts world here's as tight as an old locker room. I heard you applied to the central branch. Interesting choice. Well, if you meet Goodman, give him my regards."

The very next morning, an empty slot appeared in my schedule, and I immediately filled it. My path led me to the central Krav Maga branch. Los Angeles, in this regard, is a true forge of elite specialists. The density of top-tier masters per square mile is off the charts. This center belonged to the expensive and prestigious category, exactly the kind of place military bureaucracy prefers. The enlistment office does not care how flashy your spinning kicks are or how many bricks you can break with your forehead.

They need official paperwork with stamps confirming you completed a certified course. The new gym greeted me with sterile cleanliness and harsh minimalism. The same mats, the same atmosphere of individual training, but the aura here was different, more rigid, more practical. Master Goodman turned out to be a man only slightly older than me, with a face carved from granite and cold, evaluating eyes.

"Mr. Ross, you've booked a rather specific course through the website," he clasped his hands behind his back, studying me as if I were a new piece of equipment.

"This isn't civilian self-defense in the style of kick and run. This's a suppression program, striking until the opponent's fully neutralized. We only teach this to special services personnel with a letter of recommendation. You've got it with you?" I nodded silently, feeling for the folded sheet in my pocket. When I registered on the website, the recommendation requirement had been highlighted in bold red. I had to bother my handler Danny again. When he heard about my plans, he only grunted, but agreed to help.

In the end, the magic number worked. I received an official document with all the necessary holograms. Naturally, to avoid alarming civilians, the letter did not mention the Awakened, only a dry statement about the interests of the Ministry of Defense.

"Ministry of Defense, huh…" Goodman skimmed the text and placed the letter into a folder.

"Tell me, Mr. Ross, do you understand the fundamental essence of Krav Maga?"

"Survival at any cost," I answered without hesitation. I had watched hundreds of training videos and knew the theory perfectly.

"No rules, no fair fights. Strikes to the eyes, the groin, the use of improvised tools like a stone or keys. Only my life matters."

"Good," he gave a short but respectful nod.

"I can see you've got the basics. I'd only replace your 'can use' with 'must use.' In Krav Maga, you must instantly take any advantage your environment gives you."

"I'll remember that, sir."

"Santiago warned me about your… unique learning pace. We won't waste time on formalities. First, we'll run through the basic course, drilling techniques on each other until your reflexes become automatic." I nodded, mentally thanking Santiago. It was good that I did not have to explain my unusual abilities all over again. I wondered what exactly the old master had told the new one.

"And when we're done with the standard…" Goodman walked to the table, opened a drawer, and took out a knife. In one fluid motion, he switched to a reverse grip, and the steel flashed predatorily under the lights.

"We'll move on to the special sections you paid for. Working against weapons and with weapons." At that moment, I felt the difference in my skin. In jiu-jitsu, I had been taught how to control and restrain carefully. In Krav Maga, I was being taught how to eliminate a threat completely. Now my skill set contained two polar approaches to solving any problem, and the choice was always mine.