INTERLUDE: LEARNING TO FIGHT

Taylor sat on the edge of the motel bed, replaying the fight in her head.

Stormtiger couldn’t touch her. That much was obvious. His air blades stopped before reaching her, his fists never made contact, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t land a single hit.

And yet, she hadn’t won.

She had thrown punches, tried to land a hit, but he was too fast, too experienced. Even when he couldn’t hurt her, he had been in control of the fight. She had been flailing, reacting, struggling to keep up while he dictated the pace.

If he had been able to touch her, she would’ve lost. Badly.

The realization sat heavy in her chest.

Being untouchable wasn’t enough.

Taylor exhaled, stretching out her fingers. She needed to be better. Needed to know how to fight, how to move, how to actually use her advantage instead of just surviving off of it.

Fighting wasn’t just swinging fists and hoping something landed. It was movement, positioning, knowing when to strike and when to hold back. She had felt it in the way Stormtiger moved—fluid, practiced. Every step he took had been with an attack in mind. Every attack had been backed by experience.

She had nothing like that.

She’d never been in a real fight before all of this. Before triggering. Her only experience with violence had been running from her bullies in school. Her fights with the Merchants, the patrols, Stormtiger—those weren’t skill. They were instinct and desperation. And that wasn’t going to cut it.

Not if she wanted to survive.

Her first thought was to look up fighting techniques online. But she didn’t have a phone, and even if she did, she doubted she could learn much just by watching. She needed practice.

Her mind flickered to the streets. Brockton Bay had no shortage of people willing to pick fights. She could start small—find low-level thugs, practice, learn what worked and what didn’t. It was reckless, but she didn’t have many options.

Another thought crept in. One she wasn’t sure she liked.

She could find someone to teach her.

It was risky. She didn’t have connections here, no one she could trust. But there were fighters in this city—ones that didn’t work for the gangs. Gym owners, trainers, maybe some independent vigilantes, ex-military types. Even the underground fight clubs had people who knew how to handle themselves.

She just had to figure out where to start.

Taylor pushed herself to her feet, rolling her shoulders. Her body still ached from exhaustion, but she could maintain her barrier indefinitely—especially now she knew what not to do. It would make training harder—she wouldn’t feel impact, wouldn’t get the feedback normal fighters relied on—but she would find a way.

She had to.

For now, she would rest a little longer, eat, and then head out.

If Brockton Bay was going to make her fight, she’d make sure it was on her terms.