AU: The Boy Who Swallowed Fire (Vincent)

[Tanner Larson]

'META KOMBAT: THE ULTIMATE CHALLENGE'

The words were typed in large, bold print on the piece of paper that clung to the telephone poll. How long the flyer had been hanging there, Tanner Larson couldn't say: he had been down this road every day for several months, and this was the first time he'd noticed it. As it was, the competition was still a few months away, so he couldn't imagine it had been there all that long.

This was the route Tanner took every day from his apartment building to La Maison Magnifique, the burlesque house at which he had been performing for a few years now. The club had shuttered a few weeks ago: he hadn't been there that night - Cynthia had called him at the last minute and told him not to come - and he found out the next day that there had been a particularly terrible raid that very evening.

He didn't know the specifics, but he didn't believe in coincidences of that kind.

Several of his friends had died in the attack, and the rest were missing, Cynthia among them. That hurt the most. Madame DeMato had meant everything to Tanner, had seen his diamond in the rough that was Pilot Ridge, had nourished his creative spirit and recognized his potential when nobody else did. It was difficult for him to imagine life without her, or without the House, but he was making his way.

He still took this route - still went to the House every day. Just... to check on things.

Deep down inside, he knew why he went. Was it not obvious?

He would walk among the rubble, the ruins of Pilot Ridge's premiere nightlife destination, and look for signs of change. He never found them, but wouldn't one indicate that someone else had been there, perhaps someone who had survived the raid? He had been hopeful at first, but said hope was leaving him.

And now, without an income - or, for that matter, a real purpose in life - the blonde found himself at a dead end. So when he stumbled into this flyer for Meta Kombat, he looked at it differently than he had in past years.

It was a gruesome exercise, really. Meta humans from all over the country flocked to Pilot Ridge every year to participate in the bracket-style fights to the death. Over one hundred competitors would enter, and ultimately two fighters would engage in the final round: the Meta Kombat Championship. First commissioned by President Nicholas Kells, the competition was a draw for human and meta spectators alike, akin to the olympics. From all over, they would come to bear witness to this perverse display of power, brute strength, and showmanship.

Tanner saw it as a stain on American history, almost as dirty as the President himself.

But this year, things were different. Tanner had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and so very little to lose. And with competitors standing to win a cool million – not to mention the bragging rights and whatever other opportunities that might arise from such a feat – Tanner decided that perhaps it was worth checking out.

And so he took the flyer, folding it in quarters and stuffing it into his jean pocket. Soon after, he was back at the House - as had been his intended destination - and he allowed the door to creak eerily open as he stepped inside. He made his way gingerly down the hallway and into the main hall. It was a wreck; columns had collapsed, as had some of the roof, and the stage was splintered, the wood rotting.

It made Tanner sick.

"Tanner?"

Hearing a familiar voice, the blonde whipped around, coming face to face with Madame Cynthia DeMato herself.

[Cynthia DeMato]

((I'm not going to mention what Cynthia's been doing between the raid and finding Tanner: I want to leave the underground resistance situation up to you, since Vincent is well more deeply involved in that than she is!))

"Tanner??"

The woman could scarcely believe her eyes; in front of her stood a young man she thought she would never see again. Frankly, she was still surprised she was alive to see anyone at all. Kells' army had been stronger than she had anticipated. She had, before the fight, accused the pigs of being cocky, saying their arrogance would be their downfall. The same folly could have been applied to Cynthia, though: it was her fatal flaw that she believed so strongly in herself. So when Kells' army picked off her girls one by one, she considered it not cowardly, but wise to flee the scene. She would have an opportunity to bide her time, rise up again, and fight back - for her girls, and for all metas - but it would be a while before she could reemerge.

"Tanner, I can't believe you're here!" The woman cried, running to embrace the young pyrokinetic in her arms. "I told you not to come..." She took a step back, wondering how much he knew.

When he expressed joy at seeing her, she figured that he didn't know much. He expressed concern, rage, sorrow... it broke Cynthia's heart to know how deeply in the dark he was, and that she couldn't explain what had happened. But the less he knew, the safer he would be.

"I know, Tanner, I know," she said, putting a comforting hand onto his shoulder. "But it's over now, we're okay, aren't we? Hey, we can get outta any scrape." It was in times like this, particularly in front of Tanner, that she dropped her faux-French facade and slipped back into her Italian American, Brooklyn-born roots.

Then he asked why she was there, and for that, she couldn't give an honest answer.

"I just... had to get a few things from the office," she replied. That wasn't entirely false: she was there to retrieve some things, but they weren't papers. They were weapons, blood samples, and a few other items that she would rather not Tanner know about. It was then that she decided that it was best they part ways soon.

"Hey, you take care of yourself, alright?" She asked. "Try to stay away from this place." She looked around, not wanting to draw too much suspicion from the boy. "The roof could cave in."

She was turning to leave when Tanner stopped her, showing her the flyer.

"What is this?" She asked, though she knew what it was, as she took the flyer into her hands. "Meta Kombat? You can't mean... You want to do this??"

She read the flyer carefully. A million dollars. Her eyes widened. A million dollars could do a lot of good.

"Follow me," she said, quickly pulling Tanner by the sleeve down the hallway leading to the backstage area. "And don't say a word!" They left through the side door, ducking into the alleyway and taking a series of backstreets into the heart of the city. Eventually, they came upon an old oak door, which Cynthia knocked on exactly four times.

"We are friends here."

After she spoke these words, the doors opened, allowing Cynthia and a very wide-eyed Tanner inside. It was down a dark staircase that they eventually found themselves in a large underground room, where there were several people standing about. It was obvious that this was not everyone.

"Is Vincent here?" She asked someone, anyone who might know. "I need Vincent."

[Vincent Meian]

For Vincent Meian, the beginning of the Executive Order had been the end of any chance at a peaceful life he may have had.

There simply hadn't been enough time for him and his family to escape Pilot Ridge before the government had come for them. The students needed to be evacuated, and even though he'd objected strongly, Hatsuharu had been forced to take Appoline and Cassiopeia and flee with the rest of the refugees in the wake of the Order. And despite his own objections, Nakia had stayed with the trainer to organize the retreat and help the students and teachers escape, giving people who needed it medical supplies and first aid packs as they had vanished into the night.

It was what had ended up getting her killed. His beautiful, ghostly bride... now only a ghost in his memories and a wound in his heart.

Vincent remembered that day well and had been on the run ever since, using his powers and training them more viciously than he ever had; he appeared at the head of containment caravans and used his powers on every guard and soldier, often giving them visions of worlds so terrifying that they turned their weapons on themselves rather than be captured by the creatures they saw. His control had bettered under the steel resolve he applied, and after these few long years it was to the point where the dimensionalist was gone for mere minutes and could control where and when he relocated in this reality.

But that didn't mean he could go back in time and save her. And that killed him a bit every day.

But he could still save his family. And he could still kill the system if he tried hard enough.

He'd entered the Meta Kombat fight two years ago in order to win the prize money and have a chance at getting close to Kells. To get a chance for revenge. He'd won, but that year Kells had opted out of the closing ceremony and he'd been forced to fight the next year. It was in that combat that the abnormally tall Asian man had lost an eye and two fingers from his right hand from a plant manipulator that had shoved a carnivorous plant seed into his right cheek. He still bore the scars from that, but it was better than dead. He couldn't say the same for his opponent.

Having won the tournament that year as well, Vincent had forgone the prize money and vanished off the face of the Earth. Literally; he'd used his powers to the extreme by focusing on the whole crowd and allowing the threads of reality to snap him out of existence for hours. Days, even - he had chosen to reappear in the middle of nowhere weeks after the end of the tournament and flee back to Pilot Ridge, hoping against all hope that there would be someone there to help him.

He had not been wrong.

When Cynthia finally arrived in the makeshift training arena he and a few industrious terrakinetics had built only days prior, the Japanese man was practicing his iaido in the dirt arena before a small group of students. Each of them watched intently as he slashed straw bodies in half and resheathed his antique katana in a single swift motion with his left hand. His tan, scarred body was glimmering with sweat at this point (the presentation was almost complete), and with the last strike he deflected a blow from an opponent who had teleported directly behind him and shoved the teen into the ground. She teleported away and into the group of students again as the tip of the blade slashed mere centimeters above the ground where her throat had been, and he turned his one golden eye on her as he sheathed the lightly curved blade with a scowl. "Your moves are too blatant, Harmony," he barked. "Do not let your opponent see your intent, or you will fail regardless of your skill in escape."

Finally noticing that Cynthia had appeared, the battle-scarred man turned his glower to her and then to Tanner. The gaze was both fire and ice; burning cold and unwelcoming in its intensity. However, after a moment, he ordered the students away, sending them scattering through various means of escape as he turned to face the pair directly. His long arms crossed over his lean chest, and his stance was openly hostile as the two approached.

"Who is this?" he demanded, not even looking at Tanner as the former matron of the raided burlesque came to stand before him. "Why have you brought him to me, DeMato-san?"

[Tanner Larson]

Tanner was every bit as surprised as Cynthia was when he took out the flyer, unfolded it (careful to flatten the creases as best he could without the aid of a flat surface), and presented it to her. Showing it to the older woman really made no sense at all: after all, what could she possibly do to help him in this endeavor, except for trying to dissuade him? Perhaps that was what Tanner wanted: someone to show him how foolish he was being for thinking he could stand a chance in a physical battle against another meta fighter. But he didn’t see any other way for him to continue living in Pilot Ridge, and he had nowhere else to go.

He didn’t think his family, given everything that was going on, would be helped by his showing up at their door.

When Cynthia asked if he was sure he wanted to enter the competition, the blonde didn’t have to think for more than a moment. “I do, I really do,” he professed. “I’m stronger than people think I am.” He paused for a moment, considering what had happened at the House a few weeks back, and adding to that the fact that Cynthia was here, alive, and visibly unscathed. “You must know what that’s like…” he offered.

The brunette didn’t need much convincing, and soon, Tanner felt himself getting pulled out the door and into the streets of Pilot Ridge. He did as he was told, not saying a word as they hurriedly made their way down one alley and another, and another. The blonde knew he would never be able to remember these directions, which he figured was probably the point. He couldn’t imagine where Cynthia was taking him, though, and in such a rush.

Soon, they were walking down a creaky set of stairs, and were it not for the fact that Cynthia was there with him, Tanner probably would have been in fight or flight mode. It was definitely a creepy place, at least before his eyes got used to the dimmer lighting, but soon they were down on the solid floor.

Vincent. Tanner didn’t know anybody by that name, so there weren’t any clues there. But then a large, rather intimidating figure was moving towards them, questioning his former boss. He didn’t like the looks of this man – he looked, frankly, worse for wear, unlike Cynthia, who even in hiding managed to keep herself looking unusually spectacular – and he moved to stand protectively in front of Cynthia.

“I’m Tanner-“ he began, but Cynthia’s hand upon his shoulder halted him mid-sentence. If she actually knew this man, then he supposed it was best to let her do the talking.

[Cynthia DeMato]

Once Cynthia’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw deeper in the bunker that the man she sought was in the middle of a training session. He was a skilled warrior; that much was certain. Cynthia was a fairly adept fighter in her own right – several of Kells’ henchmen would have been able to attest to that, were it not for the fact that they were now dead at her hand – but it was obvious that Vincent was superior in this respect. What’s more, Vincent had the background of a trainer, so if Tanner needed to be taught, then Vincent was the better teacher by default.

Cynthia had shown Tanner how to perform, but the arena he would be finding himself in three months hence was not exactly a concert hall.

Admittedly, the brunette did not know much about Vincent. They had met before, but as she had only been with the group of refugees for a few weeks, and given that Vincent was often busy with training or keeping to himself, they were little more than acquaintances. But his reputation preceded him – as had her own back in the days before the Kells Administration altered her life’s trajectory – and she knew all she needed to.

As he approached, Cynthia stood her ground: she knew Vincent was not attempting to scare either of them, but was more likely worked up from the training session. She imagined he was likely also distrustful of newcomers, and she recalled it had taken him a few conversations to warm up to the Pilot Ridge Madame. She found it cute that Tanner seemed to think she required protection – or that he would be able to do much against Vincent – but she couldn’t blame him for not knowing her abilities in combat. Hearing him speak up, the woman put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. Vincent wanted answers, and she doubted he wanted them from this newcomer.

“Meian-sama,” she greeted, using an honorific to demonstrate that she was approaching him in a respectful manner. She moved around Tanner to stand more closely to Vincent, ensuring that the conversation would be heard by Tanner, but remain between herself and the trainer. She curtseyed, the long, puffy trenchcoat she wore pooling briefly at her feet before rising up once more. “I come to you…” She took a step to the side, gesturing with a long arm towards Tanner. “…with a challenge.”

Cynthia didn’t know many warriors, but those she knew usually appreciated having a difficult task to overcome.

“Tanner Larson,” she continued, “is a graduate of the Hammel Institute, and a former employee of mine. He would like to participate in this year’s Meta Kombat. He is large in spirit, but lacks skill.” A smile tugged at her lips: she knew Tanner would not appreciate that statement. “And that, watashi no tomodachi, is where you come in.”

[Vincent Meian]

Despite the fact that the former trainer operated out of Cynthia's headquarters, his trust in the woman was relatively thin. It was enough for him to train those she brought to him, yes; however, he was still quite uncertain when it came to the madame herself.

Then again, he had been told the brunette was trustworthy. To that effect, he would protect and train her and her students to best of his capabilities. Especially if it meant...

Despite the boy's movement between the two adults, Vincent did not glance to him; his gaze remained fixated on Cynthia as if Tanner didn't even exist. Indeed, until the patron introduced them, that was about the feel of such things. Still, the fact that he was willing to shield the woman of their group in the face of unknown hostility was respectable. Stupid, given the fact that he didn't know his adversary's capabilities, but respectable nonetheless.

Cynthia's honorific also proved that she'd been paying attention to the situation very closely. If she had referred to the Japanese man in a more familiar manner in front of not only his students but a newcomer, he would have dismissed her immediately. Disrespect was something this rebellion could not afford; oftentimes, it cost lives. Still, her reference of a challenge almost made him scoff. Who spoke that way in this country anyway? Regardless, it was obvious that she was putting on a show for the boy to prove that while he was the master of the dojo, she was the lady of the House. He supposed there was good enough reasoning in that.

Her introduction allowed Vincent's one remaining eye to flicker to the boy's and hold the gaze steady. He said not a word through her entire performance (or "pitch", as she may have called it), but even a man who only read plays knew a cue when he heard one. "What would you have me do with him, DeMato-dono?" he asked sharply, changing honorifics to reflect her position in the House. "The tournament if meant for experienced fighters alone, and it costs each warrior who enters is dearly. Even one such as myself does not exit unscathed."

Though the trainer did not gesture to what he meant, his right hand with its missing middle fingers gripped the sheathed blade in its grasp ever more tightly, the remaining scarred knuckles turning white with the force. It was subtle, however it was a warning regardless; do not follow this path if you are not willing to be scarred by it. "What compels you to believe that he will succeed with only spirit as an ally? I cannot train those who will not learn."

[Cynthia DeMato]

Vincent's interpretation of the situation was quite astute: Cynthia saw this as a performance of sorts, and in fact that was very much the manner in which she approached most social exchanges. She was an actress - the protagonist in the show of her life - but, more than that, the director as well: all other characters were subject to her whim and whimsy. She could suggest to them, manipulate them, force them to change direction entirely, or - and she had proven as much a few weeks ago - eliminate their rolls entirely.

As the trainer spoke, Cynthia gripped her long black cane in both hands, the bottom coming to rest gently on the wooden floor under her feet. The Pilot Ridge Madame did not carry this accessory for medical reasons; rather, the cane was a weapon itself. The tall, black piece of wood was actually just a sheath for a long, thin sword; when sheathed, it was tall enough to function as a walking stick. This disguise allowed her to ensure she was always armed, but that her enemies were not aware of this.

The sparkling silver handle, she found very pretty.

She kept her face even as Vincent asked what his role was to be, adding that competing in the annual tournament was a dangerous feat even for a warrior most skilled in combat: he had a valid point, and she would not want to dismiss his concerns if she and Tanner were to be taken seriously. "Yes, I understand that Meian-san has won the competition himself... not once, but twice." The pair had not spoken so much about his experiences in Meta Kombat, but she knew enough to be convinced that he would make the best trainer around. If anyone could prepare Tanner for such a grueling match, it was Vincent. Besides, a bit of flattery never hurt anyone's cause.

"I have no delusions," she went on, a bit more firmly than before to denote that she was ready to get down to business, "as to the nature of this competition. I would not doubt that Tanner is currently unprepared for such a challenge - vastly so - and please trust that I make no decision regarding his well-being lightly."

She was about to answer his next question, but it seemed Tanner had decided to answer it himself, and this time, she made no move to stop him. Perhaps it was time another character stepped into the spotlight.

[Tanner Larson]

Tanner watched in awe as Cynthia interacted with this Vincent character. She seemed to know exactly what to say to remain in his good graces and pique his curiosity. This perhaps shouldn't have been surprising to him, given the fact that Cynthia, in her 'past life,' had been quite the adroit social butterfly. Still, seeing her in action was quite a sight. Of course, he had no idea that the trainer saw this as 'putting on a show' in a less complimentary fashion; the blonde would have assumed the man was just as enamored as he was.

As the two adults in the room (at least, it certainly seemed that way given the fact that he was now standing a little bit apart from their discussion) spoke, the young blonde relaxed some. Vincent had seemed imposing before - mostly in the way he had commanded his students as they were approaching him - but now that the two were talking, the pyrokinetic realized that this first impression was not necessarily the most accurate. Was not every meta a bit on his or her guard? Did they not deserve to be distrusting?

Admittedly, Tanner was somewhat insulted that he was being left out of a conversation entirely about him. But evidently Cynthia believed herself to be the better spokesperson, and the young male wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to approach Vincent himself. And so he watched as the two conversed, bravely (in his own words) returning Vincent's seemingly judgmental gaze. At the other man's words, though, his own eyes flickered down to Vincent's right hand, noting quite clearly that not all of his fingers were present. The blonde's heart skipped a beat, but he attempted not to let his shock show.

Finally, though, Tanner found an opportunity to prove his own courage; Vincent had said he wasn't willing to learn, and that was untrue. "I will learn!" He called out, taking a step forward. He knew that wasn't in Cynthia's script, but he couldn't stand idly by any longer while his destiny was decided by outside sources. "I'll do what I must. Give me a challenge, anything; I'll prove myself." His hands tightened into fists by his side. "I know I can do this." He had no real fighting skill whatsoever, but he had learned long ago that he could do anything he set his mind do, and for him, this was just another way of proving his own worth. Hell, three years ago he never would have thought he would be able to sing on a stage: the human spirit was a powerful thing.

[Vincent Meian]

Vincent scowled at the boy for the interruption, but he had to admit that he liked the boy's resolve. Given that the madame was willingly vouching for him and that the youth himself seemed to understand the nature of the competition and still was willing to go forth with this... he either had something very dear to gain or absolutely nothing to lose. Both were equally dangerous for his opponents.

Still, the boy was untried and unskilled with the tournament only a few months away. There was much work to be done, even if he chose to accept the blonde as a pupil. His other students would not be set aside; he would have to train thrice as hard as any of them to be anywhere close to prepared enough. Even then, spirit and training alone couldn't protect him from death. But, if this was what they both expected...

"...Very well," Vincent answered, returning his amber gaze to Cynthia. "But know this; should he fail, his blood is not on my hands. It is on yours."


-----


((Six Days Later))


"Ground your stances, Tanner!" the trainer barked, circling the edge of the area as the pyrokinetic practiced his flame wielding. "The force of your flame is useless if it does not have something to push against."

Over the past few days, Vincent had learned a good amount about the blonde's abilities, strengths, and weaknesses. As a meta-human, Tanner had one of the most violent and destructive powers available; the ability to produce, manipulate, and control flames. Once mastered, these abilities would be hard-pressed to overcome and could do major damage to even the most hardy of opponents. However...

Vincent stopped behind his student and studied his stance for a moment before shoving the boy in the shoulder, effectively toppling him onto the dirt floor. "Your stances are weak," he stated, no emotion presiding in his low voice as he looked down to the younger male. "You must be grounded and firm in your stances, lest your own power strike you down."

This would take some time, but at least the room was now warm enough to cause discomfort to almost anyone; a side-effect of using flame in such a room. Much of the oxygen was gone as well, meaning that should Tanner use his powers in the next step of their combat training, the fire would be extinguished quickly and both of them would be struggling to breathe. Not that the intake of air wasn't labored now - however, this was tolerable.

"On your feet," he commanded, stepping back to the edge of the small arena. "It is time for combat practice."

[Tanner Larson]

Tanner was not entirely sure how his declaration would be received, by Vincent seemed to be pleased with his boldness. That was a good thing, because other than his convictions, the pyrokinetic really had very little going for him. He was aware of his shortcomings but, at the same time, confident that this was the man who could turn those weaknesses to strengths.

A small smile grew across his features as Vincent assented to training him. That smile was wiped right off his face, though, by what the taller man said immediately thereafter. He turned towards Cynthia, unable to help himself, and saw a very blank expression on her face. He would have died to know what was going on in her mind, whether those famous cogwheels of hers were turning; he knew himself that that one sentence had basically put the fear of God in him. But he was as determined as ever, and nothing - particularly his own emotions - was going to get in his way.

---

Tanner winced; nearly a week in, the boy still wasn't quite used to his trainer's sudden shouts. He was quite mild-mannered himself and not used to hearing people yell at all, much less suddenly and at him. His brow furrowed deeply, resolving to do better: he knew the man's yelling was only to help, though it was still jarring. He hunkered down, bending his knees slightly so that his legs wouldn't be locked. Both fists were at his side, and both fists were aflame: he had already been able to generate standing fire on his hands, and over the past few days, Vincent had helped him learn to keep it ignited as he moved about the room and threw punches. He never thought he would have been able to do that in a million years, so the fact that it was just the beginning of his training was both amazing and exciting.

Tanner closed his eyes tightly, teeth gritted, as he felt the man's eyes on him from behind - studying him, assessing him, finding his flaws with a mere glance. The sweat was running down his forehead, but he didn't move a muscle to wipe it away: it was hot as Hell in that room, but he had to be able to withstand these temperatures if he was going to be able to use his abilities over a longer period of time. His shirt had long since been discarded and was now sitting with Cynthia over to one side of the room; as a pyro, his internal temperature was higher than normal humans', and iwthout the cool air around him to keep it low, he was sweating profusely and starting to feel a bit overheated. He pushed through.

Tanner hit the ground with a thud,, extinguishing the flames on his fists quickly enough to allow him to break his fall with his hands. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly; it was clear he was becoming frustrated with this process. He though his stances were firm, but he would not date talk back to Vincent at a time like this: he simply nodded his head, rising to a stance as instructed and turning to face his trainer.

"I am ready," he said in response to Vincent's assertion that they would commence combat training. He stood opposite the older male, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, ready to be taught. His chest was still puffing in and out deeply, as though trying to catch his breath, but he wasn't about to ask for a water break.

[Cynthia DeMato]

Cynthia made no nonverbal reaction to Vincent's assertion. Like she had already said, she did not make the decision to bring Tanner to him lightly. She knew - all too well - what it was like to put someone into a dangerous situation and have it backfire. She had the lives of several of her girls on her conscience, but if she blamed herself, then she would never be able to move on.

Besides, she hadn't been able to recover all of the bodies; perhaps one or two others had escaped.

She knew that was wishful thinking.

Less than a week later, Cynthia found herself observing another one of Tanner's training sessions. This was a common occurrence: in fact, the Madame had insisted that training only take place in her presence, a request she herself did not quite understand. Perhaps she really was feeling guilty about past losses and wanted to ensure Tanner was in the safest, most skilled of hands. Perhaps she had a special place in her heart that Tanner occupied, and this was simply the way in which her maternal instincts were presenting themselves.

Regardless, she was just thankful she was far enough away that the heat wasn't affecting her too much.

She watched the session behind dark-tinted sunglasses - the same pair, it occurred to her, that she had been wearing when she had last addressed the girls before the fateful raid a month or so ago. She didn't react when Tanner was pushed to the ground, but she noticed her heart jumped a bit, protectively. She ignored this, though: emotions had no place in battle, and Tanner needed to learn.

Speaking of Tanner, his shirt - extremely wet and incredibly odorous - was seated most regrettably just a few feet away from her, and unlike the heat, the article of clothing simply couldn't be ignored. She gave it a disdainful look before letting her eyes move back towards the two men.

[Vincent Meian]

Vincent looked the boy over, making sure that his stance was correct. For the kickboxing style and non-traditional sparring that the trainer had learned (and continued to teach), it was decent; Tanner's foot positions could have been better, and his back could be straightened more. However, with how much time they had, minor details could wait until basics were complete. Only when they were dealing with the blonde's powers did the little details matter - pyromancy was not something to be trifled with or allowed to be used uncontrolled.

Settling into his own stance, the taller man faced his pupil with his right side forward; uncommon for most martial arts, and reversed from what he taught his students. Partially, this was because of the missing digits on his right hand - another part was due to something that not many people knew.

"You have learned how to strike with your hands and move your body accordingly," he stated, watching the boy carefully with his one remaining eye. "However, there is more to striking than with fists, and there is more to combat than an offensive. While your powers will be most useful in an attack, you must learn to defend yourself lest your opponent overpower you."

He could feel Cynthia's eyes on them despite the fact that his blind eye was to her. The matron of the House had outright demanded that she be present in all of Tanner's training, and from the tone of her insistence the Japanese man had understood that he could not refuse. He supposed it came from some sort of maternal affection for the boy, but such a thought made all of this seem less wise. If she cared for him, she wouldn't allow him to participate in such a deadly game.

"Show me what you have learned," Vincent stated, gesturing with his left hand. "Strike at me, and I will show you how your strength can be manipulated against you."

[Tanner Larson]

Tanner took everything Vincent said very seriously: when told his stance was incorrect, he moved immediately to fix it; when told he was throwing his punches too wildly, he worked on making them more calculated; when told his flames were burning out too fast, he focused on making them stronger. He knew this man, as intimidating as he may have been, was generally interested (for whatever reason) in helping him become a better fighter, so he trusted the man's judgment and heeded his every piece of advice.

He made a mental note to ask - either him directly or through Cynthia - what exactly had compelled him to help at all.

The blonde nodded as the tall trainer began speaking; the pyro understood that he would need to be able to defend himself, as there was no question that whoever he was fighting would make every attempt to get on the offensive, and he would need to be able to defend himself from a wide variety of attacks.

When instructed to level an attack against Vincent, Tanner hesitated for a moment; he knew the older male would be able to deflect and retaliate against anything he threw at him, so he was a bit nervous as to how much pain he would be feeling in another few seconds. He nodded, though: he had to get used to experiencing pain if he was going to stand a chance against any of his competitors. The past few days had been Hell, really, and he knew they were just getting started.

Deciding to use the element of surprise, he suddenly bolted towards the trainer, grounding himself inches away from the other man and throwing a fist towards the Asian's face. As he did so, he was aware it would be blocked - if it didn't, then he'd have to find a better trainer - but he put all of his strength into it nonetheless.

[Vincent Meian]

Normally, two or three steps wasn't enough for someone to identify and respond to an attack from an enemy, even when that enemy had been previously standing still. Even someone with standard martial arts training would have been hard-pressed to see an attack coming from that close and respond in time. There was too little space in ten feet, and barely enough time in three to five seconds to react.

Fortunately enough, Vincent could read a telegraphed intent easily. It's one of the things that made him so lethal.

By the time Tanner's right fist had swung out in a strong (and surprisingly well-grounded) right hook, the dimensionalist was already moving. His good left hand latched around Tanner's wrist as he stepped into the strike, putting him directly in the younger man's face. His right leg had re-positioned behind the boy's, and he locked it straight as his open right palm struck the meat of Tanner's dominant shoulder.

All in all, this maneuver took less a second to complete. But its use was effective, and its ability to incapacitate clear; no matter how good a strike, there was always a counter given proper training.

"Do you understand what happened just now?" he asked coolly, still holding his student up by his right arm. Had he wished, he could have let the boy fall or have followed up with an arm bar. Or, most likely in the tournament, a throat pin. "How I used your own force against you?"

[Tanner Larson]

It was as though the two men were moving in slow motion.

Tanner knew something was coming, and though he didn't know exactly what that would be, he remained vigilant in watching Vincent's every move. Perhaps his ability to remain watchful even as he leveled an attack would be of use to him in battle. The problem, really, was that while he was certainly perceptive, he just couldn't change his own momentum halfway into a punch; a far more skilled fighter could not only see his competitor's reaction, but also reassess his own action to account for what he had observed.

Tanner had a lot to learn.

Ultimately finding himself in a compromising position, he looked down to see the floor just a few feet below his head: Vincent had essentially blocked his punch, pushed him backwards, and tripped him over his own leg. At least the trainer was strong enough to hold him up, or he would have landed on his ass.

The blonde just knew he would have a bruise on his shoulder. But that was okay: he needed to learn how to deal with pain and the lingering effects of battle. Vincent obviously had, and he was all the stronger for having done so.

The younger male nodded his head firmly to Vincent's question. "I understand," he stated, though in truth, he was having trouble figuring out how he could possibly have countered the man's response. "How do I prevent this?" He asked, ultimately deciding to get to the point, lest he be thrown about more.