Even Iron Can Be Hammered...

The open-pit was the vilest, wet and pungent arena Garrett had been in, but then again, he wasn't really one to walk into flesh, tooth, and blood-spattered floors like these. Until today. To paraphrase the shaman Sagewalker, Garrett had to get out of his comfort zone and keep moving out of it until not even Victorious could take him to an element he wasn’t already acclimated to, and Garrett was learning about acclimation fast. He wondered whether it was because of his “accident” that gave him abilities, or the fact he hung around assassins, ninjas, and ex-super villains turned cyborgs and quick learning rubbed off on him, otherwise, he was in the ground next to other idiots.

He wasn't paying attention. His first lesson and screwed it up. A steel-like blunt met his head and he was down in grimy dirt as the cackling roar of drunken bandits and businessmen scratched at his ears. They did not discriminate between old men who wanted to scuffle with a young kid or a young teenage boy going up against a thirty-something-year-old brute whose pale knuckles were layered with calluses and earned him the nickname of “Ironhide.” Ironhide roared down at the boy, beating at his chest like a gorilla, while warm red liquid ran down Garrett's face. Behind the adrenaline-induced maze he was in, he felt it. The first lesson learned again. Skip ahead to lesson thirteen: be quick and don't play fair.

Garrett aimed a hard kick to Ironhide’s knee, ending the giant's attack. He was up in time to duck and parry the big giant’s barrage of punches. He noticed with each punch, the brute was getting slower and slower, finally exhausting himself. He never had to fight this long before. His opponents would be down in three hits or less, and it was barely because of the punches. It was because of the fear. Garrett could understand that fear. He didn't let it stop him. He open-palmed the behemoth under his chin and he swore he felt the crack of teeth erupt under his palm. The crowd cheered on.

Garrett didn't let up, as one of his earliest lessons taught him. When you have them on the ropes, keep them there. Garrett would have smiled at Edmund's voice echoing in his head if it wasn't for the rank-smelling fighter in front of him, still pummeling on. Garrett knew it would hurt later, after the hot fire running through his body, after the train-billowing explosion of his heart, and after the flush of anger, he felt as he landed a solid left onto the enemy. It was all in the waist. He knew he did it right, because Ironhide stumbled backward, shaking his head in confusion. His eyes started to daze, giving Garrett the opportunity he needed to ram into him. It took all his strength, but Ironhide was flattened to the ground, and for a moment, Garrett thought the world exploded from the crowd of onlookers. 

Ironhide’s pale face flushed with fury, his scarred face scrunched up in a crimson portrait of murder. He looked like a demon. Garretts’s fought demons before. It would have made other men pee their pants. Garrett wasn't afraid easily. He waited for Ironhide to leap up and charge towards him, oblivious, reckless, fully embarrassed, and flustered with only one thought: to kill. Garrett let himself smile as the echoing of his next lesson dripped into his mind: when in pain or when you really want to piss off your opponent-smile.

At the last second, Garrett ducked, sweeping the man back to the floor. He waited, and stood solid, narrow, hands open and relaxed just how Richard taught him. Salty sweat mixed with grains of dirt and copper liquid as it ran down Garrett's face. He blinked away the poisonous mixture. His sight was the least of his problems. And he knew how to handle that. The two fighters collided with each other in a flurry of punches and kicks that sent the crowd screaming and passing around betting slips. Control the distance, not too close, not too far. That was the plan. His opponent was emotional and that meant Garrett was at a tactile advantage. He didn't reciprocate the feeling, instead of going opposite. He learned that against other fighters back at the monastery.

Before he could realize what was happening, he was caught in a tornado of punches, each one barely missed by inches. His whole body was screaming to get out of Ironhide's way, to escape his animal-like grasp. By instinct, Garrett trapped his hand then sent a hard fist into the men’s chest. Fist meeting hard muscles, mushing against veins and cracking bone. Ironhide tripped backward. Instinctual, reflexive, and effective, and it was time for Garrett to finish this.

Ironhide raised a sluggish hook. Garrett punched him in the throat. Ironhide ignored his coughing fit of blood and raised his predictable left. Garrett trapped it and landed his hard heel into the man’s scrotum. Ironhide yelled, falling to his knees. Garrett slapped his hands against the man’s ears, sending him to the ground as the pit erupted in half applause and half curses and obscenities. Garrett stood still ready, looking down at his foe. Ironhide didn't move. Even iron could be hammered down.

---

As Garrett predicted, his body was in a heap of pain. Not even the numbing water of the frozen earth’s pools could cloak the agony. It was almost an hour later when Garrett was dozing off to sleep, exhausted from the fading pain that Sagewalker appeared. The natural pool’s steam started to take a shape until a wisp-like figure appeared and Sagewalker took a solid form. Garrett lurched up, bloodshot eyes staring up at the mud-brown man strode with ancient Sumerian and white African tattoos across his body, the scent of burning herbs following him... “Not bad.” the shaman commented. 

“Like you could have don't better?”

“No. But you could have. Victorious won't give you a chance to smile and flaunt your training. He’s become an efficient killer. You have to be better.”

“Yeah well, that’s a little hard right now as you can see!” Garrett snapped at him. He caught himself. He took a deep breath, faltering as sharp pain entered his ribs. “Sorry. I’m just...stressed.”

“Understandable.” The shaman walked around the pool then kneeled next to the boy. He put a hard hand on the boy’s shoulder, ignoring Garrett's painful protest. “After all, more is at stake is it not?”

Garrett groaned as he felt his heart flutter at the reminder. Images flashed quickly through his mind. His mother, his father, Veida his sister. They were alive. Well physically at least, somewhere out in the known multiverse. Unknown to Garrett. He couldn't go home if he wanted to: home was gone. Decimated. Obliterated. Exploded in cinder in one of the most ruthless genocides he ever knew. All because of Victorious. The villain was still out there. The Multiversal agency had people across the entire known multiverse and not even they could track him. But Garrett could. One last gift his artificial intelligence, A.D.O.N.N.A gave him was abilities. He could not only learn things faster, heal quicker, but it seemed like with training from Sagewalker, could manually port himself to any earth, known or unknown. There were no jurisdictions with Garrett Thompson, no laws and penalties. Yet the last time he decided to be a hero, it led to a plane blowing up.

Almost as if he was reading his mind, Sagewalker nodded. “You can sharpen your mind. You can mold your body. But the spirit. That is a challenge far more difficult. Victorious will not be defeated using combat alone. The enlightening thing is that the spirit can be armored through pain.” Sage walker lifted his hand and a whirl of ash clouded Garrett’s face. Before he could protest with curses, Garrett’s body lit up in fire. He screamed, air escaping his lungs, faster than Sagewalker could step back and continue. “Pain brings clarity to the mind. Disciplines the body. Through those, you can strengthen your soul. Only through suffering can you understand peace.”

It was like that for weeks. The cold earth of “Valhalla” as Garrett called it, was filled with fights two times a week, each one becoming more exhausting than the last. Each match blurred into each other as each day, the same pain would come back. Some days, Sagewalker wouldn’t even announce himself, just appear in dust, smoke, or steam, then blow that same acrid powder into Garrett’s face amplifying the pain in him. The agony made Garrett reel, rollover, sometimes cry. Eventually, it would end. He remembered the most valuable lesson from old Master Richard from the monastery: breathe. Everything, breathe.

It was hard at first. Even his nostrils felt like he was sucking in acid, but as time passed, the pain lessened. Bruises, cuts, sprains, even small fractures healed faster, and with it, the pain amplifying effects of Sagewalker’s concoction disappeared. Behind the pain, behind the shivering of Garrett’s heart and behind even that was a focus.  Lingering thoughts of failure, nightmares of Victorious, of his family, Raizen, C.O.D.Y, Sasha, all faded. Behind that pain brought clarity. That clarity made Garrett notice some things. Such as lighting incense and watching it rise in the air, then suddenly blow in different directions, indicating that Sagewalker was close by, waiting. The invading smell of sage came after.

A shift in the air and the shaman would be there, ready to blow the concoction in his face. Garrett wouldn't be ready before, either too slow, blocking his face too early, or too predictably prepared to realize the smoke that he thought was from the fireplace was actually the concoction. That all changed. Garrett sat cross-legged waiting. He could feel it. The rumbling in his gut, the same feeling he had whenever he’d open a door and he’d cross over to another parallel earth. Then the smell. He quickly turned and with a gust of air, blew the powder back in the shaman’s face. Sagewalker stood motionless. His eyes lit up in surprise, then faded into pride. He stood and put his hands behind his back, a sign he was satisfied and with the results.

------

It started in the darkness. An image-ful void, unlike the actual void Garrett was stuck in long ago. Then the world lit up in a warm yellow light. That light formed the strands of lush greens, of coils of giant trees, and the sounds of children and a little stream no too far from the park. Garrett was on a bench, overlooking a family of ducks congregating under a tree. A little duckling strayed from the pack, defiant in his mother’s quacking. The little duckling crossed the human-paved road to Garrett who looked down on it with glee.

It wasn't a dream. It was a memory. He remembered the smells of the wet grass, the waves of heat from the sun, and the presence of someone…

He turned. Veida looked at him, a bright smile on her face. Her long braided hair was in a ponytail, showing hazelnut skin that glimmered in the sunlight.  Her brown eyes turned amber in glee, whether it was from the sunlight or from the appearance of a little animal, Garrett didn't know. Garrett was close to picking up the duckling when Veida smacked his hand away.

“Ow.”

“Don't touch her.” his sister commanded.

“Who said it was a she?”

“Mama duck did.” Veida nodded to the quacking mother across the trail. Garrett rolled his eyes then watched as the duckling satiated its curiosity and walked back across the way to his siblings and mother, who Garrett guessed was lecturing the young bird. “See? If you touched it, its mother would have left it behind. Human scents ruin them.”

“You’re saying that like it's a bad thing.” Garrett protested.

“Gar’. Listen to your Harvard educated sister.” she grinned. Garrett groaned. “Here we go again. And I’m the cocky one in the family?”

“Oh please, Dad thinks his ice cream rolls are the best in the universe while Mom thinks her garden is just as good as the conservatories. Everyone's a little cocky at something they’re good at. You love your comics. And I just love to rub it in that I got accepted into my school.”

“Congrats again sis’. You know if the whole 'grad' party, social media posts from friends, and Mom and Dad’s cheers weren't enough.” he grinned. Veida pushed him close to the edge of the bench. “As I was saying. The little duckling. Sometimes things just have to find their way home by themselves. The little duckling had to go when it felt it was ready.  When it grows up, it’ll have the strength to migrate away from here. But when it's ready, when the weather is warm again, it’ll come home. It always comes home.”

Garrett awoke to a rising emerald sun outside the little shack he housed himself in. His body was almost fully healed, his journey on Earth Valhalla almost over. Yet it wasn't the fading pain in his chest that made him feel a lurching sink in his stomach. He wanted to hug her, kiss her, give her a noogie, anything to express that he was back and that he wasn't going to leave them again. He held back tears as he arose out of his bed and met a handheld mirror in his duffel bag. Even though he slept for a solid seven hours-oversleeping- he still looked exhausted. Not from combat, but of longing. Longing for home. It didn't take a magical shaman to realize he wasn't ready yet.  Even as he stepped outside and met the front of a tree, dead from winter, cratered in its center holes from where he punched it, he knew he wasn't ready. I have to wait...I have to wait...