Raven Chapter 3 Brawls and Botany 26
Raven
It's a good thing Em barely needs sleep; the nights would be unbearably boring without his documentaries and tinkering.
I could follow Kieran to the club on busy nights, but that always just makes me angry.
He's an absolute flirt, and one of these days, I'm going to feel strongly enough that some poor woman will accidentally-on-purpose end up dead.
Then again... I tuck this new little idea into the folder in my brain labeled Desperate Backup Plans.
You know what? Now that I'm thinking about it, I might just need some anger management classes. Me scheming my way into corporeal existence via human—or supernatural—sacrifice isn’t exactly screaming mentally well .
On that same note, t’s a good thing my men like to put on a show for me first thing in the morning. I cackle, shelving the murder plots as I rub my hands together.
Let the magic begin.
Okay, fine. Technically, it's training, not a magic show—but when it involves them getting hot, sweaty, and shirtless? It might as well be.
"Now this is what I call a nutritious breakfast," I murmur, drinking them in like my own ghostly version of morning coffee. Some routines never get old.
They train almost every day in the giant gymnasium one floor below their apartment.
I’m almost positive they own this entire building, but I can't be sure—it's not like they talk about real estate over family dinners. The only things I’m truly up-to-date on are their missions and business ventures.
Those, at least, are the main topics during their nightly check-ins.
They've finished the boring part of the training session—the part I like to skip.
Weight lifting and running, while I'm sure they're worthwhile pursuits, aren't as enjoyable to watch.
Not to mention, shirts usually stay on for that and only come off for the sparring.
Is this objectification? Oh, absolutely.
To avoid being hypocritical, I've changed into an equally objectifying outfit. It's only fair.
With my tiny shorts probably attempting to crawl up my ass—cannot confirm this fact, as I cannot feel said ass—and my cleavage on display, I watch them get hot and sweaty with each other. And I’m sure, if I had a real flesh body, I’d be hot and sweaty too.
Each man fights so differently from the next that it’s like watching poetry in motion—extremely violent and cutthroat poetry run by a drill sergeant—but poetry nonetheless.
"Kieran—elbow." Anik, aka the drill sergeant, snaps before quickly moving on to his next victim, "Forrest. Think less. Hit harder."
I have no idea why he runs these training sessions and not their collectively appointed leader, Forrest, but it seems to work for them. It definitely wouldn’t work for me. Getting yelled at while doing physical activity? Hard pass—and I don’t even know what physical activity feels like.
Anik tends to run everyone else into the ground—outside of Emerson.
Then, while they're all recovering, he and Em joyfully attempt to kill each other.
Obviously, they're not actually trying to kill each other, but they're both so adept that they can only hope to match each other, even if their styles are like oil and water.
The giant shifter doesn't have an ounce of finesse.
His goal is to dominate—to destroy in as few moves as possible, using primarily his body.
Teeth, claws, fists, knees—any part of him is a weapon.
If he has to (and these are his words) stoop so low as to revert to armed combat, he prefers a tactical tomahawk or, in true Anik fashion, just a giant knife.
Emerson, on the other hand, is all terrifying, sexy finesse. He moves like he’s got the cheat codes to the human body turned on. One second he’s just there, the next he’s poked a spot that makes your leg forget how to leg. It's clinical, terrifying, and I love every minute of it.
He trains with a big quarterstaff—just swings it around like he's solving a really violent math problem. I think he just likes the concept of it. You know, "optimal distance," "leverage," blah blah. The minute things get real, he tosses it like it's offended him by not being personal enough.
Because when Emerson actually wants to solve a problem?
He goes straight for his knives. The man has a relationship with his blades that’s weirder and more committed than most people’s marriages.
They’re his go-to. The garrote is for when he needs a conversation to end really quietly.
But the knives? The knives are for when he wants to have a very pointed, one-sided debate.
Currently, Anik meanders around the room, yelling snappy critiques while Em practices with various weapons in the corner—fresh off putting Dre on his ass within seconds.
Dre is now sharpening his axes, muttering something about unfair tactics and sneaking looks at Em.
One day he'll learn he can't take him, but I guess today isn't that day.
I decide to stop floating aimlessly and walk beside Anik as he attempts to choreograph chaos—Kieran being said chaos, and Forrest attempting to do what Anik has been trying to accomplish for, I'm assuming, decades.
“Your stance is unbalanced,” Forrest snaps at the chaotic blur, even as he stands in perfect form. “Gods, will you stand still and fight properly!"
This pairing truly is a nightmare mashup, but it is, at the very least, incredibly entertaining.
Everything about fighting for Forrest is about form, and he excels at using his opponent’s energy against them.
He never fights angry, only correctly—or whatever he says to sound all morally superior while beating your ass with impeccable discipline.
I hear the words in my head in his exact, solemn tone even.
Kieran, on the other hand, is chaos incarnate. He never stops moving, using acrobatic flips, sweeps, and strange angles no one ever expects. To me, it's almost like he's playing rather than fighting, and when he does this with Forrest, it pushes all his buttons in a way I aspire to.
"Will you cease that infernal bouncing?" I can practically see a button get pushed as Forrest angrily grits it out. "It's a waste of energy and it's distracting."
Kieran simply grins, not stopping. "Gotta keep the engine running, Saint! Ye might be a statue, but some of us have a pulse!"
"A pulse is irrelevant. Form is everything." He motions to Kieran's feet. "Your stance is atrociously wide. A child could knock you over."
"Yeah, but it does fantastic things for his thighs. Just saying," I provide helpfully. Then add, in a baffled tone. “Also, I feel like a pulse is pretty relevant.”
"Aww, ye do care about my well-being! But see, the thing is…" He suddenly flicks a knife I didn't even see him draw. It isn't aimed at Forrest, but behind him, thunking into a dummy's shoulder. "…they cannae knock me over if they're distracted by a shiny thing."
"Oh, Ro-ro!" I cackle in glee as I watch Kieran use the split second Forrest's eyes instinctively flick toward the sound to close the distance. "He totally got you!"
Blocking his sweep with a grunt, Forrest snaps, "A cheap trick! Predictable and crass!"
Kieran laughs again as he disengages, flipping backward. “A fun trick! And it worked, did it not? Got ye out of your perfect little stance.” Stars, the way his abs flex with every twist… It's like a six-pack playing piano. A distracting, delicious piano.
Forrest actually rolls his eyes—Gods, I could use some popcorn right now. "It 'worked' to prove your fundamental lack of discipline! Fight with purpose, not pizzazz!"
Kieran shrugs. "Why not both? Come on, Saint, live a little! Try a cartwheel! I promise I willnae tell a soul!"
I chuckle to myself. "Too late. Come on, Ro-ro! Cartwheel! Cartwheel!" I chant gleefully.
"I would rather be disemboweled. Now, for the love of all that is orderly, plant your feet and engage properly!"
"Proper is just another word for borin'!" He cackles as he continues pressing buttons.
I finally turn to look at Anik. He's just standing there, head in his hands, looking like he's trying to fight off a migraine.
I leave the nightmare duo with him and drift toward the edge of the mats, where the sounds of Kieran's laughter and Forrest's exasperated corrections fade into a distant backdrop.
There, Emerson sits with a small, leather-bound notebook open, a pen poised and ready.
Dre leans against the wall, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watches Forrest try to impose order on Kieran's particular brand of chaos. Em, on the other hand, watches Dre.
"Your assessment of the Selkie's respiratory efficiency during their transformation was… adequately detailed," Em says as I reach them. "However, your notes lacked specificity on dermal permeability."
Dre doesn't look away from the fight. "I was focused on stopping them from bleeding out.. I didn't stop to measure their pore size."
"A significant oversight," Emerson nods. "The transition from hydrophobic to hydrophilic integument must involve a catastrophic restructuring of the lipid bi-layer. The pain alone would be incapacitating." He says that last bit with far too much joy, and I side-eye him.
"Once again, Em, I'm suggesting therapy." For some reason, he doesn't take my suggestion to heart.
"It is," Dre confirms, his voice flat. "First few times, anyway. They learn to route around it eventually. Body adapts."
Emerson makes a quick note. "Observational experience is not empirical data. Now. The Leshy. Their musculoskeletal structure."
Dre finally turns his head, his brow raised. "Planning a deforestation, are we?"
Em waves him off. "Planning for efficiency. Their composition is phytoplasmic, not purely biological. Standard pressure points are irrelevant. I need to know where their core consciousness is anchored. Is it centralized, like a heartwood? Or distributed, like a mycorrhizal network?"