Mistrunner - Chapter 20 - A Well-Rounded Education

I am not and have never been a hero. I have saved people. I live in a brutal world, and in turn, I’ve been forced to become a ruthless killer. Channeling that into saving people doesn’t make me one of the good guys. It just means I’ve managed to balance the scales a little.

Jeremiah Braddock III

“You nearly killed her,” came a raspy, yet feminine voice, cutting through my unconsciousness like a knife. “She had exhausted her every reserve, and her body was feeding on its own energy. She is lucky to have survived.”

My uncle’s voice echoed in my ears as he said, “That was the point, Kimiko. You know better than most what that can do for a person. If all it did was –”

I groaned, trying to sit up. The muscles in my stomach tightened, and I attempted to flick my eyes open, but my body didn’t seem terribly eager to obey my commands. Even when I tried to clench my fists in frustration, all I managed was a slight tremble.

I felt a soft, yet firm hand on my arm, followed by Kimiko saying, “Relax. You were completely drained. We are replenishing your reserves. Try to rest.”

I could practically hear the glare in her tone, her ire obviously directed at my uncle. He had put me in danger; that much was clear. But I was still far too out of it to remember quite why I was incapable of movement. It was probably lucky, then, that I soon succumbed to my lack of energy and drifted back into unconsciousness.

Over the next few days, I only spent short spans awake, and even then, it was to varying degrees of consciousness. Sometimes, I just lay there, listening to whatever was happening around me – which was usually nothing – but other times, I was able to open my eyes. The first time I managed to force my eyes open, I saw that I was back in the doctor’s office where I was lying on a cot. I had tubes hooked to my arms, and there was some sort of machine on my chest. I had no idea what any of it was, but, after a few seconds of panic, I calmed down enough to remember that I had nothing to fear from my uncle or Kimiko. If they’d hooked me up to a machine, then it was because I needed it.

Still, it was uncomfortable. And anxiety-inducing. But by that point, I’d become an old hand at subverting my negative mindset. Perhaps that was the whole point of the hell month in the first place – to teach me how to endure. Maybe it wasn’t a test. Instead, it was possible that it was just another phase of my training.

That made me feel a bit better.

Or maybe it was the fact that soon after that revelation, I drifted back to sleep and promptly forgot it for the next few days. Either way, right?

My full recovery came as a shock when, at last, I finally opened my eyes and felt no lingering weakness. The tubes were gone. So was the machine. My uncle stood over me, and at his shoulder was the diminutive Kimiko, her face impassive. By contrast, Jeremiah’s expression was filled with pride.

“Forty-two days,” he said. “That’s how long you were out there. I’m proud of you.”

“W-what?” I muttered. “I…I don’t understand.”

That’s when he explained that my hell month was a lot more open-ended than I’d been led to believe. The amigos – the men I’d dubbed Stupid Hat, Potbelly, and Slim – had been instructed to work me until my breaking point. With minimal sleep or food, my uncle had never expected me to last the entire month, much less almost half-again as long. But I had, not stopping until my body literally gave out.

“That means you have a strong will,” he said, sitting on the edge of my cot. The flimsy thing felt like it was going to collapse under me, but it held strong. He patted my leg, adding, “Attributes are great. They let us do wondrous things. But without a strong will, they are entirely meaningless. Remember that. When things get hard, when you don’t think you can go on, or when you’re woefully overmatched – and all of that will almost assuredly happen – think back to what you just went through. It’ll see you through to the other side, because I can almost guarantee that, no matter what else you face, it won’t be as difficult as what you just accomplished.”

I told him that I still didn’t quite get it, and he explained that most people couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of weeks; I had exceeded that by a long shot. Then, Jeremiah told me to open my status, which I did, and I was surprised at what I found:

Name: Mirabelle Lisa Braddock

Class: N/A (Requirements Not Met)

Level: 3 (71%)

Constitution: 13/31

Mind: 15/31

Mist: 7/31

Skills: 7/7

· Cybernetic Interface (Tier 2) – 10%

o Bonuses Applied: None

o Slots Unlocked: 3

· Firearms (Tier 1) – 91%

o Bonuses Applied:

§ 5% Firearms Damage

§ 2% Reload Speed

§ 2% Firearms Accuracy

· Close-Quarters Combat (Tier 1) – 4%

o Bonuses Applied:

§ 5% Melee Damage

§ 2% Melee Accuracy

§ 2% Melee Speed

· Stealth Operations (Tier 1) – 0%

o Abilities:

§ Camouflage (F)

· Combat Utility (Tier 2) – 34%

o Abilities:

§ Triage (F)

§ Basic Explosives Handling (F)

§ Combat Focus (E)

§ Pain Tolerance (E)

§ Resistance (F)

§ Foraging (F)

§ Improvisation (F)

§ Regeneration (E)

· Mistwalking (Tier 1) – 27%

o Bonuses Applied:

§ 5% Misthack Speed

§ 5% Mistwalk Speed

o Abilities:

§ Mistwalk (F)

§ Misthack (F)

§ Mistwall (F)

· Spycraft (Tier 1) – 31%

o Abilities

§ Disguise

§ Deception

I gasped in surprise. The first thing I saw was that I’d gained four points in both the Constitution and Mind attributes, putting me thoroughly into superhuman territory. In addition, I’d gained one point in Mist, which didn’t seem like much until I realized that I hadn’t really been working on anything that would affect it. But my attributes were just the beginning of my gains.

First, I’d finally reached Tier-2 in [Cybernetic Interface] and [Combat Utility], with the former resulting in an additional cyberware slot and the latter increasing the grade of a few of my abilities. Combat Focus, Regeneration, and Pain Tolerance had all reached E-Grade, which boded well for my future prospects, I thought. It was never a bad idea to heal more quickly or be less affected by pain. And Combat Focus sort of spoke for itself. In all, though the experience wasn’t one I wished to repeat, I couldn’t deny that it had been effective training.

But it was only the beginning, as my uncle soon revealed his plans for the rest of my training, would take up the next eighteen months of my life. When I asked him what happened after that, he was predictably closed-lipped.

Either way, it gave me something to think about as I completed my recovery. After two more days, Kimiko released me, telling me in no uncertain terms that she very much disagreed with my uncle’s methods. Further, she cautioned me to “get away from that cursed man” as quickly as possible. I wanted to argue with her, but she ushered me out of the building too quickly for that.

The next few days were allocated for rest and relaxation, which meant I spent a bit more time with Jo, who continued to show me all the town’s sights. She even took me to a concert, and even though the music wasn’t really to my taste – it was way too twangy and not nearly loud enough – I had a great time with her and her friends. For the first time in my life, I started to feel like I actually belonged.

Of course, my miniature vacation soon came to an end, and three days after I was released by Kimiko, Jeremiah told me that I’d begin the next phase of my training the next morning. To my surprise, I was actually looking forward to it. After everything I’d already been through, I didn’t think any training could really faze me anymore. So, when the day finally came, it was with anticipation – as opposed to anxiety – twisting my stomach into knots, that I let my uncle escort me to an open area on the other side of the town. When we arrived, I was extremely disappointed to find Potbelly waiting for us near a sizable field.

The field itself was around a hundred yards long, with patches of knee-high grass and a variety of targets scattered throughout. Potbelly was predictably dressed in his camouflage fatigues and a matching cap. Covering his eyes were dark sunglasses that looked almost like goggles.

During my few days off, Jo had given me some background information on the so-called Amigos and the town’s leader, Milo. According to her, Milo had been a teenager at the time of the Initialization, and his family had owned a farm north of the city. There, his family had employed a group of immigrant workers. When the Initialization began, they’d all banded together and, somehow, managed to survive – chiefly due to Milo learning to work with his family’s former employees, which they’d always called their “amigos” – a label they’d worn with pride.

The rest of Milo’s family, including his twin brother, were long dead, and he only had his Amigos to remind him of his past life. The three men were all that was left, and they were incredibly competent, immensely loyal, and very well respected within the community.

It was almost enough to make me rethink the derogatory nicknames I’d given them. But then I thought about how mercilessly they’d pushed me, and I decided that a couple of less-than-flattering monikers weren’t going to hurt anyone.

Whatever the case, I followed my uncle toward Potbelly, and when I arrived, my uncle told me, “Listen to him. He knows what he’s talking about.”

With that, he left me alone, and when he was finally gone, Potbelly said, “Let’s see your rifle.” I took it out and handed it to him. He inspected for a few seconds before announcing that it was acceptable. Then, he said, “Your uncle is a sniper, so he’s been teaching you how to shoot from a stationary position. I’m here to show you how about real combat.”

After that, he began my instruction into close-quarters battle, which, as far as I could tell, was a fancy way of saying gunfighting. He told me how to move – heel-to-toe, so I kept a stable upper body, how to align my sights while moving, and, lastly, he stressed all the things I shouldn’t do. It was a cascade of information, but thanks to my increased mind attribute, I took it all in without any issue.

Next came the practical instruction, which saw me completing something of an obstacle course with my gun. The goal was to shoot the targets while moving from place to place, which after I got used to it, wasn’t so difficult. Until the targets started moving. But I persisted for almost two hours until he had me switch to my hand cannon and repeat the process. Two hours later, I ended the session with my scattergun. In those six hours, I fired more rounds than I had in any one week of my entire life.

But my day wasn’t finished.

With my firearms training completed, I took fifteen minutes for a meal before receiving instruction in close-quarters, melee combat as taught by Stupid Hat, who was predictably wearing his stupid, floppy hat. This was a lot more difficult than the firearms training because I had no real background in melee combat. Still, I enjoyed the change of pace, soaking up the instruction as well as I could.

The next segment of my day was dedicated to explosives handling. I didn’t get much hands-on instruction, but I did learn about the various ways I would be able to blow someone or something up. From grenades to thermo-mist detonators, I learned about their composition and expected yield. My instructor, a short, dumpy woman named Anna, who was missing one of her hands and wore a toolbelt around her waist, told me that we’d get more practical experience as I demonstrated mastery of the theorical side of explosives handling. And I had to admit that I kind of liked the idea of creating massive explosions. But then again, who doesn’t?

Finally, my day ended with an unassuming man teaching me about [Spycraft]. As I sat across from him, my eyes kept trying to slip away – the result of one of his abilities, he said. While it was active, he would be virtually unnoticed by anyone with a lower Mind attribute than him. And even people whose attributes were higher would need to pay close attention in order to notice him.

I liked the sound of that, so I paid close attention as he explained the ins and outs of disguise. According to him, disguises didn’t need to be elaborate – not like in the shows on the entertainment feeds back home in Nova City. Simple ones were better. A simple wig and a coat could do wonders for escaping detection. However, when those failed, there were plenty of abilities available to people with higher-tiered [Spycraft]skills.

To end my day, I was put through two hours of rigorous physical training, the likes of which had occupied the first two months of my time in Mobile. At first, it was laughably easy, but I challenged myself to push harder and faster, ensuring that I always got the most out of the training.

By the time I’d finished, I was well and truly exhausted – at least from a physical standpoint. My mind, though, was still incredibly fresh, so, after eating, I put myself through the same mental training as before, cycling through one number puzzle after another until, at last, I felt my eyelids start to droop, and I went to bed.

So began that phase of my training, which lasted for a full three months. It was difficult, but I had to admit that I enjoyed learning all my new skills. Plus, I found the constant uptick of my attributes and skills to be somewhat addictive; according to my uncle, who was increasingly absent as he tended to his affairs back in Nova City, that wasn’t uncommon, and he’d heard rumors that that tendency for addiction was one of the reasons the system was used in the first place.

My firearms training progressed very well, and after only a month, I graduated to a virtual simulation that pitted me against mist constructs that resembled faceless, featureless people. After I’d mastered that, Potbelly taught me how to fight indoors, which was a lot more difficult – largely because I had a habit of hesitating in doorways, which he kept referring to as the “fatal funnel.” He broke me of that habit by shooting me with non-lethal bullets that left huge welts all over my body. By the time I finally learned that lesson, my entire body felt like a giant, collective bruise. But I hit all the marks he set for me, so I decided to count it as a win, if a painful one.

Everything else went just as well, with the highlight of the three-month training period being when I finally got to go wild with the explosives I’d been learning about. That day, I had way too much fun chucking grenades and setting bombs outside the town.

The day I finished everything, my uncle returned, and after speaking to my various instructors, congratulated me on a job well done. I grinned in satisfaction and pride as I basked in his approval.

“You’ve got two days off,” he said. “Then, we’re going to have a little test.”

“W-what? Like the hell month?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that,” he said. “It’s just a mission that needs doing. I remember my first mission, way back when I was fresh out of training. It was a simple rescue op, limited resistance. But I learned more about myself in those few hours than I ever learned in training. It’ll probably be the same for you.”

“Okay,” I said. “What should I do until then?”

“Live,” he said. “Hang out with your friends.  Watch those ridiculous programs you used to love. I don’t know, and I don’t care. But no training. I want you fresh, got it?”

I nodded. “I’ll be ready,” I vowed.

“Good,” was his response.