MF1.0 - 38 - The Other Love Story

Magnolia spat blood onto the gym floor and waited for the next blow. There was always another blow when she fell. Kick them when they’re down was something Taylor drilled into every one of his recruits. Kick them when they’re down, and kick them hard. Kick them so hard they won’t want to get back up.

There was a sharp pain in her back, then she pushed herself up. The black and white gingham on her bodice was already stained with blood – usually he didn’t draw blood until at least twenty minutes into a training session. Something was bothering him.

He was angry.

The though amused her, though she didn’t let it show on her face. Taylor was always angry. There was always cause for him to be upset about something, even if it was just he persistent existence of recruits.

He was very much against the idea of recruits.

Today however, he was that special kind of angry that usually got someone thrown through a window. Most of the time they were all right.

She managed to duck a blow, only to step into another one. She took a deep breath and screeched in his face – her mother’s side came into handy sometimes. The agent stepped back, dazed for a moment, and she hit him.

Hitting him was an exercise in masochism – it felt like punching a brick wall, and he always hit back twice as hard.

It didn’t matter though, their whole relationship – if it could be called such – was an exercise in masochism.

One day, he was going to kill her. He told that her every day.

‘Sir, something wrong, sir?’ she asked as he landed a solid punch.

‘You’re here to train, not talk,’ he snapped.

No, I’m here because your other punching bag doesn’t bleed. ‘Yes sir,’ she said as she jumped back from his next blow.

Training was the last thing she needed. Her mother had abandoned her before she’d hatched, her father not long after that. She’d needed to learn how to protect herself a long time before the other kids had even learned the meaning of “grievous bodily harm”.

Grievous bodily harm was now an every day occurrence, whether she was inflicting it, or dealing with it.

She felt a rib snap.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">They had no signal for a time out, even if she stopped, he would keep going until he knew she wasn’t going to get back up. He pushed her hard, and it made her good.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">She got to go the best missions, black ops missions so dark the other recruits didn’t even know they existed. She’d single-handedly killed entire groups of cultists, assassinated some prominent figures and been asked to advise on missions at other Agencies.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">She fell to the floor, enjoying the cool of the polished wood on her face.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">He kicked her.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">One day, he was going to kill her. He told her that every day. That’s why she loved him.