SAINW - White

The change was sudden, abrupt.  Flicking the switch on the wall to his right filled the blackened basement with white, artificial light and the low hum of Tesla power.  Off came the boots, set on the bare concrete side-by-side.  Off came the white belt and the dark blue fighting gi, meticulously folded and set beside the boots on the edge of the room.  The pale lights cast a lonely wash over the empty grey basement and made the clone's ivory skin appear even paler.

His bare feet made no more noise than a cat's paws as they rolled over the concrete, passing over flecks of dried saline and dark red.  He stopped in the dead center of the room and closed baby-blue eyes against the room's harsh, man-made glow.

One deep breath in.  One deep breath out.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

Mind flickering through images long-burned into the brain.  Stances.  Katas.  Grip-shifts.  Maneuvers.  Acrobatic tricks.  Strategy diagrams.  A visual dictionary archiving the arts of the blade.

And words: words he embraced, words he tried to block out, words that flooded him in the silence of the night.

"Happy Birthday, my little one!  Welcome to your very first day of life!"

"Donny, have you lost your mind?!  What were you THINKING, making a--a--a clone?!"

"Y'stay th'fuck away from my daughter, or I'll rip both yer arms off!!  Y'hear me?!"

"Van...I don't think you realize how talented you are with the sword."

"How would you like to come live with me, Van?  I can teach you."

"Eh.  Don't pay attention t'Dad.  He's just a giant-ass dork."

"It was our father's.  We wanted you to have it...to keep it in the family."

"Always keep your eyes open, Van.  Never stop observing your surroundings--"

"Y'know Van, it's totally normal ta--"

"--otherwise someone could catch you off-guard.  Never forget--"

"--ta take some time t'relax every once inna while."

"--all it takes is one heartbeat, one strike.  Then it's over."

"Tsk.  Tsk.  Tsk.  Poor little thing.  Are you going to finally cry for me?  Go ahead, little baby.  Cry.  Cry out for your fake family; they won't save you now.  How about you just tell me where they are, hmmm?  That way we can make the pain stop."

Baby-blues snapped open, lit with a fell fire smoldering from somewhere deep within.

"Visualize your opponent."

He could see his enemy.  Khan Rossi.  White designer suit, complete with white tie.  Black braid.  Soulless eyes.  

He unsheathed his katana first, followed by his wakazashi.

"See him in your mind?  Good.  Now take that image and transport it into the room with you."

His grip tightened around both swords.  He could see him, all right, clear and present as if the real thing hovered before him.

"Watch the way he moves.  Watch his stance.  Where are his hands?  Are they in his pockets, at his sides?  Open or closed?  Where does he put his feet, and when?"

Khan wasn't a large man.  He only reached about 5'9" and despite his broad shoulders, had a fairly small build.  Small and soft and pampered.  Nothing warriorlike about him.  Kept his hands in his pockets and looked at everything with an easy, condescending smile.  As if nothing was worth getting his hands dirty over.  As if nothing was worth his time.

"Only by visualizing your opponent, by seeing his moves and his nuances in your mind, can you find his weaknesses.  Then, when you see him in person, defeating him will be swift."

No.  He took his hand out of his pocket once.  Once, just long enough to heat up a metal rod in the fire, heat it red-hot.  And turn with it in hand, smirk wider than ever.  Turn and approach with the red-hot branding iron in hand.

"You have to be quick, Van.  Remember, all it takes is one moment.  All that stands between you and either survival or death is a single strike."

Red.  Hot.  Poker.  In.  His.  Hand.

"You have to be quick."

A single flash, a flicker of white light bouncing off of deadly steel; that was all, before the katana sliced through the space were Rossi's spectral image hovered in his mind's eye.  Nothing happened.  No blood.  The wakazashi dove in behind the katana, its hungry point driving into the solar plexus.  No change.  No red.  Just the same unmarred, haughty white.

Van's body moved not as a body, but as an extension of the will of the steel.  The pale ivory of his flesh, the dark grey of his breeches, the deep indigo of his hair--it all swirled together as one, a dizzying whirl of color in the midst of which sparks flashed:  the angry glints of two blades whose hunger had never been satisfied.

He moved effortlessly from once stance to another.  Every single kata he'd ever learned flowed into a deadly dance of blades.  Creativity spun itself into the weave and switched up the stances, pivoting him from one foot to the other, sprinkling the ancient arts with the stain of dirtier moves, improvisation that promised to leave no survivors.

And still, the white, smirking form remained.  Still, the red-hot poker in his hand.

The clone whirled and danced and jabbed and sliced and stabbed relentlessly in his elemental fury, paying no mind to time or stamina.  Breaths sliced needles into him; a burning sensation built up in his chest.  Burning; he could feel the brand burning; burning into his flesh; the sickening smell of charred flesh.

Even still, for all his skill, the spectre remained.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs behind him, and soon after, a startled gasp.  "Van!"

His Sensei's voice.  The warrior did not turn to acknowledge it, but only let out a sound that ripped horribly through his burning chest:  an enraged snarl.  He pressed the attack.

"Van, stop!"  The footsteps drew closer.

This time, he turned.  With the serrated fangs of a Faekin, the clouded eyes of a mage-born, the coiled reflexes of a master, the steel blades of a warrior, and the feral snarl of an animal, Donovan Nakano whirled and faced his master.

Van wasn't the only one carrying steel.  Lysander's katana whipped so fast out of its sheath that not even a reflective gleam signaled its passing.  With a simple one-two attack, a downward swipe on each side predicated with a twist, his student's weapons went flying.

The swords hissed angrily as the metal skittered over the concrete floor.  With a desperate yell, Van flew at his attacker with bare fists.

He was met by strong hands seizing thin shoulders and a swift knee into his stomach.

The next things to come to Van's awareness were the sights of bright white lights and an uneven ceiling above him.  He felt the cool expanse of sweat-and-blood-flecked concrete under his back.  He was breathing easier now, but he could still feel the burning in his chest.  Dizzied and confused, he tried to push himself up to his elbows.

"Take it easy."  Lysander's voice issued cool and soothing from above him just before a pair of navy-blue eyes and a face framed with navy bangs swam into view.  Worry clouded the Fae's voice even through his calm, reprimanding tone.  "Van, I came back from the store to find your bed empty and your swords gone.  I've told you three nights in a row now to get some sleep, and you do this instead?  What were you thinking?  Van...how many times have you snuck out to come here?"

The burning in his chest took on a different kind of heat, one he recognized too late, one he tried to fight--but before he could stop it, a sob ripped from him.  Tears pooled in the baby-blues.  "I'm sorry, Sensei," he whispered, ragged.  "I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to...I didn't mean..."

"Shhh."  All traces of reprimand bled out of the navy blues the instant the tears gathered in his son's eyes.  He ran a hand over Van's forehead, smoothing his bangs back.  "It was an accident.  I know you didn't mean to attack."

"But I still did."  A raw, miserable sob echoed around the boy's chest.  "Just like I didn't mean to get kidnapped, but I still did.  I'm so weak, Sensei."  The tears spilled out of his eyes and ran across his cheekbones to drop quietly on the floor.  "You must be so ashamed of me."

"No."  Lysander shook his head, offering his charge a warm and reassuring, but infinitely sad, smile.  "No, Van.  I could never be ashamed of you.  Upset with you, yes."  The smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure worry.  "Especially with you not sleeping much, and now finding out that instead of staying in bed, you sneak out at night to train.  Van, you already train all day.  You don't need to train at night like this, in secret.  You need to sleep."

"I can't," the clone insisted desperately.  "I close my eyes and I can only see my enemy.  I'm still too weak.  I have to train to get stronger, Sensei, whatever it takes.  I can't let him win--I can't let Rossi win--"

"Van, that's enough."  His tone, far from stern, carried simple finality.  The towering Fae slid his arms under the skinny boy's frame and easily picked him up, cradling the limp, exhausted form to his chest.  "We're going home now, and you're going to bed.  You need to promise me to take that chamommile tea I keep giving you.  It'll help you sleep; I promise."

"Sensei, please," the boy moaned miserably.  "Not without my swords...please let me take them..."

"Shhh."  Pain flashed over Lysander's face, but he cradled Van's form close, so the boy wouldn't see it.  "I'll get Antigone to come by in the morning to get them for you.  Okay?  Right now you need to focus on resting."

"But Sensei, I--"

"Promise me, Van."

"...Please, Sensei, just let me--!"

"Van.  Promise me you'll take the tea and get some sleep."

Tears poured openly from the boy's eyes, followed by soft, weakened sobs.  "I can't bear it, Sensei.  I can't bear the shame.  I've brought shame to you and your teachings with my weakness.  I've brought shame to our whole family.  I can't sit idle and do nothing; I just...I just can't..."

For a moment, only the soft sound of Lysander's boots on the staircase answered him.  "But that's what family is, Van."  The clone could barely make out his master's tender smile through the fog of tears.  "When one falls, we catch them, and help them to stand again.  When one bears a burden, we share the load so it's no longer so terrible to carry.  We do this because we love each other, and because that is blood's call to blood."

The little clone's incredulous look only lingered on the Fae's smile for a moment.  Then, he turned his head and buried his face in Lysander's yukata, fleeing from the glaring white and into blessed, blessed darkness.  "Sensei..."

"...promise me you'll take the tea, Van."

"...I promise."