Chapter Text
“Again.”
The two combatants stepped to the center of the training ring and faced each other: tall, strong Selkis, with her sharp pincers and fearsome tail, and short, quick Octavia, four long tentacles extending out from her back. The clone considered each of them as they assumed their ready stances. Selkis had demonstrated skill when he first encountered her in Arachnis over a year ago, and since then, his training molded her raw talent to make as formidable a fighter as any of the warriors in the Fright Zone. Octavia, a new recruit to the Etherian Horde, was an unknown variable. She had dominated her first few rounds of training, but, as far as he could tell, only because she was so fast and relentless in her attacks that her opponents did not have time to defend themselves. She had not come off the better in any of her matches with Selkis so far, but she did not give up; an admirable quality. Her skill could not be denied, but these were the tactics of a brawler, not a soldier. She would have to learn to pace herself if she were to enter battle.
Selkis raised her pincers, and Octavia her fists. Both young women looked at the clone, standing outside the circle and slightly apart from the assembled crowd of Horde and Fright Zone soldiers. The clone nodded his indication that they should begin. Octavia, predictably, struck first, lunging at Selkis first with fists, then whipping her tentacles at her. Selkis stepped back and began to circle her opponent, deflecting the strikes with practiced efficiency. It was the same tactic Octavia had used before, and the clone had not been impressed with it then, either. “Octavia!” he barked. “You have six arms, she has two. Use them to your advantage.”
Octavia barred her teeth and rushed at Selkis again, but this time, reached out with one of her tentacles to seize the scorpion girl’s ankle. Selkis saw the move in time and was able to dodge it, but the clone still nodded approvingly. It was something she hadn’t done yet, and probably would have worked if she hadn’t betrayed her intentions by looking at Selkis’s feet first. Even better, the unexpected movement had left Selkis with her entire left side wide open. All Octavia had to do was strike just there, and she could land a critical blow. The clone waited for it. Octavia raised her hands and tentacles, but before she moved, looked up and down the exposed side as if to decide where exactly she wanted to strike. The delay was more than enough for Selkis to recover her balance, and when Octavia finally launched her attack, Selkis blocked it with ease.
The clone growled in frustration, and barked an order before this farce could continue. “Stop!”
The combatants froze, and the clone strode onto the combat zone. “Selkis, your left side was entirely unguarded. A single strike could have brought you down!”
Selkis nodded in acceptance of the scolding. Someone must have cured her of risky back-talk before they met, because she had never displayed insubordination toward him. “Yes, Horde Commander.”
“And you , Octavia!” The clone turned his full attention and disappointment to the new recruit. “Twice you communicated your next move by looking right at where you intended to strike. How do you expect to win a fight when your opponent knows exactly what you are about to do?”
“What am I supposed to do, then?” Octavia argued. “Fight blindfolded?”
“It would be more effective than this pathetic display,” the clone snapped back. “Selkis, explain why she failed to land a blow on you.”
Selkis looked surprised and somewhat pleased by the order. “Okay! So, Octavia, when you tried to get my leg, that was a really good idea, but you looked right at it just before you went for it. And you do that a lot - I’ve been watching you fight, and because you’re so fast, you can usually get away with it. You’ve been fighting people who can’t keep up with you. I’ve been training with the Horde commander for more than a year, and I already had pretty quick reflexes before that, so you’re going to have a hard time beating someone like me if you just count on your speed.”
The crowd around the ring seemed to have grown, the clone noticed. Sparring on the training grounds was always a draw, especially when Selkis fought. He spotted a silver-white head among the assembly that might have belonged to Princess Ishara, but there were too many in front of it for him to be sure. Meanwhile, Octavia, who had looked angry and defensive when the clone first ordered Selkis to critique her methods, was growing less hostile by the second and seemed genuinely interested in what Selkis had to say. It was not how the clone would have approached it, but if it was effective, that was all that mattered.
“So, what are you supposed to do?” Selkis went on. “Well, you don’t really defend, so we’re going to work on that first. Let your opponent attack you long enough for you to get an idea of what they like to do and where they leave themselves open. Pay attention to what they do with their eyes, but watch what they’re doing with the rest of their body. The eyes can lie, but the body can’t.” She looked at the clone. “Should we go again, Horde Commander?”
“No,” the clone replied. “Octavia, stand aside. Selkis, you will fight me.”
An undercurrent of muttering ran through the assembled crowd. The clone rarely participated in the sparring himself, though not for the reasons any of them suspected. It would have been impossible to hide his defect if he were to suffer an attack, and all he had worked so hard to accomplish in the last year would be lost. Taking over the military operations of the Fright Zone, however, gave him access to resources to develop new armor for himself. Aside from reinforcing his frail limbs, it sent an electric pulse through his body to regulate his heartbeat. He had tested it in the privacy of his chambers, finding it highly effective; as long as he wore his armor, he could function normally. It was necessary to maintain his credibility by proving he could fight, and he was confident in his work. He was created to fight. When the time came to reunite with Prime, the clone would show him that he could still fulfill his purpose.
Octavia stepped out of the ring. Someone pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and Princess Ishara stepped out from between two of her ilk. Close behind her was Captain Memmon, his displeasure at being there evidenced by the grimace on his face. The clone scowled. He knew Memmon was jealous of the standing he had with the king, and on a more fundamental level, how the captain resented that the clone had been allowed to live at all after being captured in Arachnis. He did not care one way or another what Memmon’s opinion of him was, but if he came here to make trouble or cause a scene, the clone would not hesitate to put him in his place.
Selkis and the clone faced each other and assumed their ready stances: she with pincers raised and tail twitching, he with his feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. The murmurs in the crowd grew louder. It was so rare that the clone directly engaged in combat in front of others that no one on the sidelines had ever seen him spar, not even Ishara or Memmon. They knew him as a brilliant tactician, not a capable fighter in his own right. Selkis alone was the one he honored with his personal instruction, but she was not privy to all his secrets; she did not know of the defect which kept him to the sidelines in everyday training. Should he experience an attack, the clone could always feign that he’d let her win, but he had the feeling he would not need to resort to such deceptions today.
Her eyes moved first. The clone held his position for a split second longer, then took a step back. Selkis’s tail struck the ground exactly where he had been standing. She lunged at him next. A simple pivot sent her sailing harmlessly past him. Had he been fighting any other opponent, he could have struck at their exposed back and ended the bout right then and there, but he had taught Selkis better than that. She would recover.
As soon as she realized she’d missed, Selkis twisted on the ball of her leading foot and brought her body around in a semicircle. The movement brought her tail to within a hand’s width of the clone’s face, missing him only because he’d anticipated the move and stepped back. Selkis had the advantage for the briefest of moments and struck with her rear arm, but the clone was faster. He shifted to the side, hooked his arm over the girl’s, and took a step forward. The action redirected her momentum toward him, and just before they collided, he planted the leg nearest to her firmly in the ground and leaned his weight into it. The clone released her, and Selkis tripped over his leg, executing a flawless tuck-and-roll which brought her back to her feet, but well outside striking distance.
By the time she recovered, the clone had resumed his initial ready stance. They made eye contact, and once Selkis caught her breath, the clone nodded. She charged at him, and then did something he did not expect: she dropped to the ground, and while sliding, struck at him with a sweeping motion of her tail. The clone was forced to jump aside to avoid the blow, landing on his shoulder and rolling in a motion nearly identical to the one Selkis had just performed. A collective gasp issued from the crowd. The girl recovered only a moment before the clone did, but in battle, moments mattered. It was long enough to gain the upper hand.
The clone had only just managed to stand all the way before the need came to defend himself from Selkis and her sharp pincers, and had not quite regained his balance. He dropped to his knee after the first strike, and was forced to bring both his arms up to block the second. The move left his sides completely exposed. The clone saw Selkis’s eyes flick back and forth, and in response to the movement, he lowered his arms. His face was left unguarded, but as he’d expected, Selkis tried to strike at his ribs. Her pincers struck his metal-plated arm instead. The clone pushed hard against the ground with his back foot and launched himself forward, tackling Selkis. When they came out of the roll, she was on the ground, and his hand was around her neck. She tried to grab at his forearm, but her pincers could not pierce his armor; in a last-ditch effort, she struck with her tail, but the clone followed her line of sight, and with his free hand, caught her by the stinger inches from his neck. “Yield.”
Selkis looked down, then up. Upon seeing she was pinned, she nodded as far as the clone’s grip on her neck would allow her. “I yield.”
The clone released her and stood up. They made eye contact again; he nodded, and held out his arm, the lower portion dented from her pincers. Selkis grasped his arm, and the clone hoisted her up. “That is enough for today,” the clone said once his first and finest soldier was back on her feet. “Well fought, Selkis.”
When it became apparent that the fight was not going to continue, several members of the audience rushed forward, largely crowding around Selkis. First among them was Princess Ishara. “You were amazing ,” she said, pincers clasped before her and eyes shining with admiration. “When you did that slide move, I was sure you had him…”
The clone tried to walk away from the training area unaccosted - he wanted to return to his workshop and hammer out the dents in his armor - but his way was blocked by a sneering Captain Memmon. “Congratulations,” said the commander of the king’s Sting Squad. “You defeated a teenage girl who has been fighting all day. You must be so pleased with yourself.”
The clone was no fool, and he would not be made to appear as such before his troops. “Cadet Selkis has defeated every opponent she faced in today’s training save for me,” he said. “The purpose of training is not to win, but to face an opponent of superior skill so that one might learn from one’s opportunities. If I merely wished for her to emerge victorious in another bout of sparring, I would have had her face you .”
A frown crossed Memmon’s face as he attempted to work out the meaning of this; Princess Ishara understood right away, as evidenced by the snort of amusement she managed to stop before it turned into a full-blown laugh. Memmon caught on a moment later, and cast his usual hate-filled glare at the clone. He was used to it; Memmon seldom looked at him in any other way. The clone had no desire to dignify Memmon’s reaction with a response. He had more important things on his mind; the dents in his armor needed to be hammered out, and he still needed to prepare his daily report for the king. He strode past Memmon, thinking about the progress his Horde troops had shown and how much longer it might take before they could be deployed into battle on their own rather than intermingled with the Fright Zone’s soldiers. The sooner he had the absolute loyalty of those under his command, the better.
His thoughts and steps came to an abrupt halt when Memmon’s pincers closed around his upper arm. “You dare speak to me like this?”
The clone whirled around and seized Memmon by the throat. None of the restraint he’d shown when holding Selkis in the same move a few minutes ago was to be found. “The next time you touch me,” the clone snarled, “it will mean your end.”
He held on a moment longer to ensure Memmon understood how serious he was, then released his hold. Memmon stumbled back, gasping; Selkis caught his arm to keep him from falling, but he quickly jerked it away and glared at her with almost as much hatred in his eyes as he usually reserved for the clone. The clone resumed his walk away from the training ground, but this time, his thoughts were not on his troops. He was aware of the eyes on him, especially Memmon’s. It was not the first time the captain had attempted to make trouble for him, and despite his warning, he doubted it would be the last. Sooner or later, he would have to be eliminated.