The Kabals Headquarters was a shiny building in a very modern sense of the word, that was, shiny steel and glass architecture, surrounded by green parks, trees and shrubs were grown in numbers befitting an orchard, but arranged in mathematically determined patterns as to please the eye not with wild growth and sheer number, but with the restraint of a single line, of green dots and figures arrayed with such precision that it spoke of the ingenuity of the gardeners that had produced such a place and conserved it ever in spotless beauty. Such were the works of the most recent architects, combining the organic growth of nature with open forms of cubes and curves, the never wholly straight lines of trees were arrayed in mathematical order and grouped with buildings that followed an equally mathematical ingenuity, but one inspired by the growth of trees themselves. It guaranteed stability, organic form, was resilient against outside pressures if the right materials were chosen and quite pleasing to the eye indeed.

To the rest of the world this was a pharmaceutical research lab with the befitting title Mondragon Medical.

And according to the dossiers, the ones he had been haded by his new employer in another one of the ever present manilla folders, it was much more then that. The grounds were wide and the sparsely set shrubs did little to obscure the view of any camera that might be hidden in the shadows beyond even his sight. Considering the true nature of this environment he was absolutely certain that those cameras existed, if not even something more sinister or more effective. But he did not want to jump to conclusions. For now it was only the raised hair on his neck that told the onlooker, that the maybe twenty year old boy in everyday clothing, though it was light to movement and impeded little the arts of stealth he was so well acquainted with, they were clothes of browns and greens (olive it was today, a turtleneck shirt and a brown jeans) Dark brown leather gloves were hiding his hands from sight of even the most determined onlooker. Or most persistent guard. The steps of the chronomancer were determined, as was he, to not only reach the front desk, but to go beyond it, to reach into the bowels of the building. He was here to do something he dared not do at the Mansion lest he be exposed for what he was. Just a touch. And all would crumble down. He was a worm in the ripe apple, the ancient sphinx that was watching children play. He was of them. And not of them.

He was here to train. Not only to train his body, but also the workings of what he was. After all he did not get much practice at the school other then watching flowers grow, pass by the days, the students. And soon he was to leave on his first real assignment. Going to Romania. An uncertain situation he rather wanted to enter with a feeling of being prepared then the fear that he would be too weak to escape from tight spots that would surely present themselves to him in due time.

The doors opened. It seemed that he had been expected by the lady behind the entrance desk, for a smile was on her lips, playing like a musical instrument her voice as soon as he passed the crystal doors. “A very good day to you Mr. Stein. How may we help you here at Mondragon Medical?” Her pleasantries were of practiced ease and convincing serenity for a business meeting. False smiles expected. And no offense taken. Martin mirrored her in a official tone that would have done every salesman honor, except maybe for the slightly harsh background that his consonants still held in remembrance of his old home, his accent placing him somewhere in the middle of Europe. “Hello. I'm here to use your training facilities if they are available.” And her smile became even wider in response to his question, hiding her thoughts behind a mask of appearances, as if it was a true pleasure to help a member of a secret organization that was in control of two countries already, dominating them not by force, but by strength of cunning and wisdom. 't was after all an organization of Martins taste. Not that it was very much refined. It was just that he knew what he wanted. Sometimes.

Yes this woman seemed to have had a very good education in doing her job. She might, after all, not know anything of the Kabal, but given the circumstances of his arrival that was rather doubtful, for the temporal manipulator had been let straight onto the grounds without any contact whatsoever by the staff. A hint that made hidden eyes a certainty. “Of course Mr Stein.” And she lifted up her phone and spoke a few quiet words, too small in volume for his ears, just to lift her eyes in response to the voice from the speaker and blink. The first natural movement in this dance had just occurred. It was a small victory for him.“The training rooms are available to you. If you would please follow...” A door opened in perfect choreography to her words, revealing yet again the supernatural precision with which this companies employees fulfilled their assigned duties, not a win, more like a steelmate it seemed, and a man stepped forward. Tall and in his mid 30s he was. His suit was a little bit too small to contain the amount of shoulder he was carrying around with himself. “....your guide? The corridors can be quite confusing to first-time visitors.” And with that the man stepped forward on his side, speaking only a few words in a moderate voice that were bent on directing and complimenting, obviously coming from a man that was not used to such unnecessary flattery. His eyes had already found and judged the fragile figure that was before him, the guise of an almost teenager fooling him like most everyone else his dissapproving glance speaking more then the words of his mouth. Martin cut off his voice with a small movement of his hand, an almost militaristic gesture in its commanding nature. Where the guard had no taste for pleasantries, he had no heart for them at the moment. The soldiers looks changed. More questioning they were. More surprised. He stiffened slightly. Eyes were searching for the woman behind the desk, who blinked at him more disappointedly then angered. He spoke once again, not with words, but with a hand that was raised and then falling. “Come.” And the heir of chronos followed without further words, falling silent, almost brooding.

The long clean corridors were without sign or signal. No point of orientation was given except for the occasional window, if the walkway lay on the outside of the building. But soon even the small green spots disappeared, leaving the two men to walk alone down hallways, where the only people they met were white-clad, well glassed people that did not look up, neither stopped in their tracks, but went on without sharing even a smile with the guard, who in turn did his best at ignoring them. Martin suspected that it was because of him. The guard did not really know what to make of him. Soon he would see anyways, or rather he would allow him to see.

They arrived at a steel door that had a computer panel at its side. Martin eyed at it with some interest. When the guard finally raised his deep voice again it echoes almost sacrilegiously through the empty corridor. “So whats what you wanna do Mister?” His words were chipped and short, spoken in a way that reminded him of his own military time so long ago. In response he adopted a slightly different stance, a different mask, dropping the child, finally, some of the pretense was gone, legs stood wider, hands behind his back, shoulders straightening, that had been him a little while ago, a few hundred years maybe. It was more honest. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A heavy weight, the mask he could still feel in the back of his mind. His tone was harsh and chipped as well. The other soldier blinked.“ I need a half-dozen non-lethal weapons in there, all self-aiming at a marked space of 15x15 meters. Can you do that?” “Yes, Sir.” The response came immediately, even as he spoke his fingers began to work the panel. He could tell that the soldier still found the command quite odd. But he didn't question. Probably never had. Not since he had joined some military force, was broken and remade and then discarded into some form of mercenary business. Martin had no doubt either. He was broken too. No doubt that this man was one of the best that could be hired. Wow odd it was to be on this side of the command chain, to be able to direct this force of human with a mere few words or gestures. Mere seconds later it was finished and the steel doors opened, to reveal what he had asked for. A square, 15x15 meters, bordered by a red line in a wide hall that seemed to have walls of steel. Surrounding it were 6 guns on tripods with camera eyes. How had it gotten there? He looked at the soldier. “Holographic technology.” He answered. He didn't even have to ask a question.

He stepped into the huge room with a slight shudder. What were the implications of such technology? One could build a wood to practice hiding, a desert for survival training. And his own little setup for training with his muataion.

He discarded his overgarments, revealing a t-shirt underneath, his arms showing the white color of flesh that was never exposed to sunlight. His muscles were small, almost nonexistent. The veins underneath were visible as blue snakes crawling under his skin with every movement. His strength lay in other areas, areas he did not usually expose. The feeling of fresh air on his skin was almost never this intense. He shuddered again, this time... it was fear. How easily that man would fall.... Hoe long until he would be gone? The gloves stayed in place. He proceeded to undo the laces of his shoes while talking, fighting fear with ordinarity. “ If you want to help me you can correct my stances from the side of the door. But whatever happens. Do not touch me. Do you understand?” The result was fabulous. “Yes, Sir.” The soldier had almost saluted under his cold gaze, his arm lifted up, just stopped shortly before reaching the door. Was he asking himself, how weak his charge really was? What his charge really was? Betcha. His eyes were following Martins every move.

Then it was time. The preparations were complete. With a last glance at the red line, discarding every semblance of normality, he stepped into the square, the altar that he had have prepared for himself lightly, the foot barely touching the ground. Behind him the mouth of the soldier now was a tight line of white. Non-lethal didn't mean non-painful. Just not killing. And barely more then that. And the hounds of hell were let loose. The mouths of the guns were greedily taking aim, aiming to swallow him whole, just stopped by what little force he possessed, just stopped in his mind. A gift for him. From him. Wrapped in red cloth. The first ones to have risen to assault were the ones directly at his side, the guns that were standing at the corners of the side he had just entered on. Their way to aim was shortest.

To the soldier it looked probably like a strange way to train gymnastics, a training of agility and speed. And indeed Martin had to use every last bit of them in trying to escape the many rubber bullets that were fired at him from every direction, though the true aim was, to keep going as long as possible, to find the weaknesses, make plans that reached out into the future milliseconds. Anticipating the path of bullets, anticipate the movement of the guns that were not in his field of vision, all in the space of a blink, then jump, roll, fall to the ground, jump up again in near-perfect harmony. With his first salto he managed to neatly escape the two bullets fired at his feet. But then the other guns entered the game, spitting laughingly their load of fun at him. The room was filled with the clamor of their anger, as they failed to hit him with the third and fourth volley, Martin spinning, jumping, like a ball of rubber, every turn done in such a way that he got the most out of it, the bullets sometimes missing him by fractions of an inch, sometimes even crossing paths. And he was unhurt, unhit. No matter how they did it, the fire of the guns would not touch him.

The sixth volley way an unlucky one. He saw it coming when he stepped out of a wheel he had done to escape three bullets fired at him. Stepped out cornered. Behind him a gun found pleasure in spitting its load at him, before him stood his chosen five enemies, grinning at him with their black mouths. He knew he had lost the second he stepped on the red tape. The sixth volley hit him in unison. And Martin made the discovery that holographic bullets hurt quite as much as real ones.

The soldier stared.

When Martin woke up he found that wonderful red spots had miraculously blossomed all over his body. Accompanying the sudden growth of spots of pain in his mind that coincided with the location of the spots on his skin. “Sir?” It was the voice of his soldering companion, that was calling him back into the realms of the consciously living. “ohhhhh” The word most amiably well described what he was feeling. Not really professional but very accurate. Accurate was good. Who could ask for more? The soldier still stared at him unblinking. “Are you alright?” Well no, naturally I'm not, I was just...What had happened again? Oh yes, the rubber bullets. Six guns might have been a few too many. “I am, I am.” And with these words (despite his body differing in opinion on the matter) Martin managed to get up to his feet. He was just little tipsy, that was all, but the swaying got less once he straightened up. It was not him spinning after all. It was the room. But good Mr Muscles remembered his words and did not touch him, though his hands came quite close. Martin felt the imminent urge to reaffirm his previous statements, lest someone got really hurt... Ain't I already? “What did I tell you?” The fact that his words were a sharp hiss did not make his watcher more comfortable, but he shot tightly upright again, hands at his side. His eyes looked at a spot on the wall. “You told me not to touch you, Sir.” “Indeed.” Martin affirmed feeling further chiding to be unnecessary. And there still was something he needed to do. Train some more. But not with those evil guns. Not when he had such a willing subject right here that posed no risk of further diminishing his physical capabilities (read: kick his butt)

Are you out of your mind? He might get hurt! … It was a soldiers job to get hurt… He was feeling better about it. A little.

“How good are you in close combat?” He therefore asked the soldier, who still was quite adamant about not standing still. But his legs, they were so firmly planted on the ground...

Back to professional. With a firm shake of his head he decided on ignoring the spinning for a while. He simply decreed it wasn't there. He'd manage. Ignoring pain was something he was suspiciously good at. Weeeeel. Lets just so other things for now. Good soldier was, of course, quite skilled at providing distraction. “Sir, Ive been trained in hand to hand combat as well as knife and stick fighting, Sir.” The voice was loud and clear. The eyes still focused on the back wall. Was there something wrong about being hit by rubber bullets and then standing up again to get a further beating? Apparently there was. But hand to hand combat... Urrgs. “Did you find anything wrong about my stances?” He could have informed himself about the mans qualifications beforehand, but he had simply assumed, he knew his way around. And the long list of fighting skills sure made it seem so. The soldiers eyes were fixed on the wall, but he could see the mouth working the answer. “No, Sir.” Rise of eyebrow part one. “Why is that soldier?” He had...expected more. Training. And it was to be heard in his voice. “Sir, I don't know how you did what you did.” Did I mention that Martin was disappointed? He really was. Supposed elite. Pfff. Rise of eyebrow part two. “But Sir, I could help you with close combat.” Martin sighed. Tempting. Not really. Rise of the Eyebrow: The return. Finale.“Thank you soldier, but I think Ill stick with the guns.” Now he looked even more bewildered, even forgetting to stare at the wall. Bad soldier. As in: bad puppy. “Remove two of the guns.” No please. Note: No please. No thank you either. “Yes, Sir.” It was sufficient. Working with good personal had one big benefit. They were efficient. A few seconds and a command to the holographic processor later, two of the guns simply vanished into thin air. And Martin made himself ready for the second beating of the day.

It took 6 rounds by four guns this time. Considering that he was hurt already, that was probably not bad. A dervish dancing. It was not his speed that rescued him from the approaching bullets. It was the fact that he could see the guns moving to fire. He had enough time to use what little skill he had to get out of the line of fire. A dervish dancing, spinning, turning. It was moving with artistic grace. And the bullets were nowhere to be found in his path. It looked like magic in a way. In a way it really was. The magic of blue eyes that pierced the veil of time. The magic that came with a life of fighting. His moves were sparser this time, bent on conserving energy and momentum where it could be done, could be needed. Waltzing with guns. It was an interesting experience.

And then it all went black again.

And the soldier was staring at the small limbs moving. Dancing. He stared. He could not help it. Again.