It was an old warehouse by the docks in Hell's Kitchen. It had been a long ride. 

Elliott didn't have a car. He had a motorcycle. It would have been cooler if he'd run and leaped from car top to car top and traveled through the city that way. Cooler, still, if he'd found some way to travel around the skyscrapers in the air between them, or from rooftop to rooftop. A motorcycle had had to do. Those other things were just to ridiculous to mention, or contemplate. 

Motor vehicles generally leave a paper trail. If you have a vehicle, you have a license plate. Plates require insurance as well as driver's licenses and other forms of ID. Elliott had long since ditched any ties to his past life. If he'd dug out his old social security card, or contacted people, he'd have been tagged as The Runaway, Elliott Thomas. Elliott Thomas had not done anything criminal, other than fleeing a foster home. Maybe getting in trouble at school for selling some stuff. Maybe some juvie? Who knew? He'd simply vanished. And he'd worked really hard keeping that past identity a secret. He'd even started using aliases. October. Ell. Eli. He'd even used his own first name. Elliott. If people asked, he could say he had a different last name. He could even say Elliott was his last name. October Elliott had a nice ring to it. But those were probably needless bits of cloak and dagger to hide a vanished child. Nobody was looking for him. People vanish all the time. But how did any of this help him get the documents required to drive his motorcycle around the city? Simple. 

Here's where we dodge that question by choosing a new topic. He was supposed to meet a guy for some training. Meat-hands had said so, all the way back yesterday. Even though it felt like it had been months since that day. This warehouse was the place. It had been surrounded by rusty old barbed wire fences. He'd had to jump over the top of one. Just kidding. He'd walked through the open gate like a good little sheep. And then he'd approached the big metal doors at the front.

This could be a trap was a passing thought that went stray in his head. Another thought was yeah but if it was, this would be way too elaborate for what could have been a simple bullet to the head while I was unconscious yesterday after failing the job. That thought was far more sensible. 

It really was unlikely that the clandestine meeting was a trap. But weirder things had happened in the world. Things like people lending other people motorcycles with tabs that won't get you pulled over for expired tags, and silly things like lack of insurance or driver's license. And also, people lying about anything related to driving motor vehicles in any state, whatsoever, due to some ridiculous amount of pride. It was a lie. He hadn't driven to the warehouse, dang it. He didn't have a driver's license, because he didn't have a birth certificate, or an ID, and definitely didn't have the license to ride a motorcycle. So he had taken a city bus or ten, and ran. He really needed to invest in some form of transportation that didn't involve public transportation modes like trains, buses, subway trains, and cabs. Luckily, New York didn't really require much beyond those things, what with traffic being a beast, and so--

So he'd taken several buses into the Hell's Kitchen area of Manhattan, to meet a guy in an old warehouse because a woman who was his potential employer had wanted him to come there, in order to start training so as better how to learn to fight. And if that didn't sound like some sort of convoluted comic book tripe given as an excuse for training the main character in some ridiculous form of martial arts so he could become more badass, then he was a mutant. He wasn't. Shut up. Stop looking at him like that. It was an awfully strange coincidence, though, that the whole thing reeked of 'bull' spit and a potential setup. His danger sense was screaming...

He stared at the metal doors for a good long minute, but nothing came screeching out of the darkness of the night to maul him. The moon was high. There was a light breeze coming in off the water. He pulled his jacket in tighter and blew warm breath onto his hands. Rubbed them. Did some mental math.

Did she want to kill him? Possibly. But as per the aforementioned reason of that being so simple beforehand, doing so now would be silly. Had he done anything to anger anyone else who could have set this elaborate ruse up? Sure! Lots of folks. But He didn't think this was that. Karma had a habit of screaming bloody murder at him before it jumped out and said boo! It didn't come out of nowhere, in the night. Except when it does... came the nasty thought.

It wasn't likely it was a trap, but as he pulled open the right side of the double doors, he kept his eyes peeled for trouble.

He stepped into the warehouse. It was dark. There wasn't a visible light switch on the wall by the entrance. The outside had at least had the decency to have some street lamps nearby. All the cloak and dagger of this meeting was funky, when they could have met at some gym in midtown and partied afterwards. Maybe that would have even been more discrete. But noooooooo-- and, what was that?!

There was a sound. There was a very audible metal screeching against metal sound, and the quick rap of feet on something. And then his eyes got a dose of a very sudden punch of bright light.

After the darkness of the warehouse, the sudden light was blinding. Where once there had been shadows and the occasional bar of moonlight, now there was something out of a freaking anime. He didn't even register what it was in his brain before he started stumbling backwards heavily onto his backside in a blind shuffle. It was entirely possible he let out a high-pitched squeak. No, you can't call that 'feminine.' There are plenty of women with high-pitched voices who are far stronger than some men, and calling something girlish simply because it registers in the right octave or pitch is so sexist. But it had been high-pitched, kind of like a squeal a small child might make when they are scared, and shut up.

He couldn't see. The fist of brightness had smashed down in the air in front of him, then suddenly been extinguished again, and He. Couldn't. See. His heart beat with a sense of urgency reflecting that. His eyes, on the other hand, saw plenty of spots. Spots, spots, and more spots. Nothing else. Nothing useful. So to sum up, he was momentarily blind. Recurring darkness did not help.

Maybe if he hadn't been sprung back into blinding darkness, he wouldn't have been so blind? That's madness talking.

The fact was, he didn't know what had tried to attack him, and just as fast, the light had been snuffed out. He didn't have the training to focus on his other senses entirely with his heart racing and his eyes dotty. But even if he had, he wouldn't have heard much stealthy padding going down. In fact, the mystery figure was standing right where he'd left it. But all he could do to handle the problem he was encountering was stutter out "Who are you!?"

A feminine voice said "Hmph," condescendingly. Now, for actual women, you can say feminine. It isn't sexy. Er, sexist. But she was definitely that. What?

His mind reeled as the light came on again, dimmer this time. Underneath a cupped hand. It was like ball lightning in her fist.

In the piddling light coming out between her fingers, she was a stunner. Brown hair, cut shortish, in a bob, below ear lobe level, but not down to the shoulders. All the right curves in all the right places, but with muscle tone akin to a Ronda Rousey. Her legs below the shorts were almost invisible in the darkness. Black leggings, no doubt. Short tight cargo shorts, almost chocolate brown. And a tan high necked exercise crop top, like a woman might use for yoga. She had an angular face shape, where the forehead and chin lengths were almost equal. The chin was pointed. It was a simple face. Not much makeup. Nothing weird. Looked like dark brown eyes one could lose themselves in if they weren't on the defensive after being blinded in a dark warehouse. Oh, and most of this was obscured by the still-present spots. In other words, super sexy from what. He. Could. See. But not sexy was the position they were in.

"Ffff--," He started.

She shushed him, and raised him a terse "Shut up." The lights went out again.

"God dammit." He cursed.

He heard footsteps rushing on his right, and turned to raise his arms in a block just in time. The blow sent him sliding across the warehouse floor a few inches, but he kept from flying several feet, which seemed a fair trade to him. He tried grabbing at the arm that he had blocked, but failed as its owner faded away.

This was no guy. That much was clear. As he scanned the darkness and prayed that the spots went away, he definitely decided he was clear on that fact. Not a man. Definitely not a man. A girl. A cute cute girl. Like 'Daisy Ridley' cute. And she was trying to hurt him.

Now, it wasn't clear just yet if she was trying to kill him, or simply testing his reflexes. He could have been training at that second, and not even know it. Or she could simply have been playing with her food. Either way, it didn't matter to him, because HE WASN'T GETTING PUSHED AROUND.

It was time to go on the offensive. And so, Elliott closed his eyes.

Darkness was real and full this time. The back of his eyelids, and his eyelids' eyelids. He focused on every other sense, and willed them to go up in Stereo. It didn't work, but he willed it all the same. When next she came at him, hopefully he'd hear her coming and be ready.

He was.

She came at him, and this time, he kicked out before she got close enough. He felt a meaty point of contact, and the target faded back. It came at him again from a different angle. The second time, it was accompanied by something that made a sound that crackled. Now, THAT, he hadn't mentally prepared for. He sprang backwards ten feet and reevaluated his situation.

"Easy. Easy. Calm down. I don't know why you're attacking me, but--"

"Shhhhh," came the whispered reply. It was shortly followed by more crackling that definitely wasn't 'shushed', and a punch in the gut that felt like he'd been sacked by a freight train linebacker weighing a couple million volts.

... Yeah. The description didn't make sense. It was the only thing he had been able to think when the punch floored him and left him twitching like a taser victim. Bzzt. Ugh. Guh.

"You know, when you talk in a dark room," the woman's voice admonished him. "You give yourself away..." She almost sounded disappointed. But for a woman trying to kill him, that made ZERO sense. So--

"Oh, f me. Are you the guy?!" Elliott spat at the ceiling. He was on his back, still. It was a nice concrete floor. Very cold. Spots were still there. He'd miss them when they were gone. For now, the cold concrete was very comfortable and he wasn't quite ready to get back up and deal with things.

"The guy who is whooping your butt?" She paused thoughtfully, and he just imagined her checking something. "No," she concluded. "Definitely not 'the guy'." A touch of sarcasm was in her voice, so long as you considered a touch 'way too much'.

Ugh. Elliott was so done with warehouses and darkness. He rolled into his side and curled his body in on itself for a moment, biding his time. Letting his eyes recover and adjust. He made small talk.

"So, not trying to kill. Got it. One thing less to worry about..."

"Why kill? That's a bad way to train... Pain, now. There's a motivator!" She seemed way too enthused and cutesy about that.

"Cybele knows the weirdest people..." Elliott grimaced.

The woman agreed. "Yeah. As a sister, she really leaves a lot to be desired." She stopped talking. Elliott digested that comment with an adequate level of stunned silence.

The stunned silence didn't last long. She broke it first. Pain. Yeah. He needed to learn that and she was a damned good teacher. His eyes were closed, so he didn't see the fist of electricity coming down at him where he was curled up. What he did see was brightness lighting up the area beyond his closed eyelids. It was a red brightness that told him something was coming. It gave him time to react.

Rolling away on his side, Elliott moved away from the attack. He stopped after two rotations, and then scurried on his hands and knees. He didn't want to get hit again. His teeth still rang from the aftershock from the last buzzing punch. He tasted copper. He climbed to his feet. Nothing immediately came at him, so he took that as an attack coming soon. He got his arms up and readied himself defensively.

What was to be gained here? He felt like he needed to prove something. He had landed a strike but he needed to prove himself. It felt like they were measuring each other's talents, and he was not coming up equal. He needed to change that. What he needed... Was a really big stick.

If he had a staff, he could keep her back from him. He could protect himself and gain some range. He had no training with staves. A staff wasn't really his big weapon of choice. He preferred to kick. Maybe even punch. But mainly kick. And blind kicking was not good, here. If he wanted anything, however, he would have to look for it.

His eyes were adjusting. It was still dark. He kept quiet as he scanned the area for something he could use.

It didn't come to him at first, but the second the light lit the area like a thunder clap, he can't the glint out of the corner of his eye. He rushed towards it, diving into a roll at the last second, and came back up with the metal pipe. It was old, and dusty, but there was a minimum of rust and the weight felt reassuring in his hands. He turned back toward the woman and her lightning fist, and readied the big stick.

She tilted her head at him where he stood bathed in moonlight. Then, she rushed him, fingers grazing the ground as he came it him with her fist low, crackling.

Up, he sprang, ten feet into the air. Down came the pipe. She saw it coming, and turned to grab at it with her electric fist. He realized what was happening a second before it did, and that second saved him. He let go. She caught the pipe. He landed a few feet away, and turned to rush at her back. He drove a fist into the small of her back, then turned to follow it up with a spin kick. She ok the punch, and turned with the pipe in her hands to try and swipe at him with it. The pipe jarred away from her as the kick hit it. It spun through the air, flickering lightly as the electricity up and down e metal dispersed. Shoe rubber saved the day.

Crouching, he sprang at her again. He aimed an elbow jab at her throat. She swept it away, and caught the front of his shirt with her free hand. A knee came up to strike at her and caught her in the arm. He followed it up with gut kick, then launched himself away as her grip came loose. He landed several feet away, on his hands and knees. One hand brushed up against something old and wooden. And what luck. The other did, too. He rose with a pair of wooden sticks in his hands. He held the clubs aloft, waiting for her next move. Wood would insulate better against electricity. He had gotten lucky. What were the odds?

The odds were pretty good, actually. Unbeknownst to him, she had scattered things to use against her all over the warehouse. Her goal had never been to kill him, or to hurt him. It had been to see what kind of fighter he was. He thought on his feet. That was good. And he liked staffs and sticks, it seemed. She was surprised he hadn't found the sword by the back wall of the warehouse, or e knife hidden under some newspapers. There was a pair of nunchucks hanging off a pipe sticking from the wall, and some sais stuck into the top of a wooden box. A gigantic hammer was actually sixteen feet behind her, balanced on its head and Lea I g against a big sack of concrete. There was a katana in the ports potty outside, if they had taken the battle there. More, too numerous to count, and he hadn't found them. He had found sticks.

Kineta ran at him, aiming that classic thunde punch right down the middle. He swatted at her fist with one stick, and turned it aside with the other Ina sweeping motion, like a fencer. It stung so good! She hopped back a few steps, rubbing her hand. The electricity had died down. She thought he would wait her out. She was wrong.

A running start flowed into a jump kick that she narrowly avoided. It hit a wooden crate the size of a fat man, and sent it scraping loudly across the warehouse floor, straight into a wall. It hit it with a crash of breaking wood.

Elliott landed, turning back toward her. He held up the sticks.

"Escrima," Kineta said loudly, in a 'shut up and stop hitting me' sort of way. Like 'I yield', but with less giving up.

"What?" Was all Elliott could say.

"I can teach you that, if you want." She replied huskily. "Seems like you have an aptitude."

And so he did.