Stone Remembers

3. Assigned Partners

New Saint Louis, 2089

Our first training session was held at dawn. Not for my benefit—I do not turn to stone with the sun—but because Michaella had requested it. The cooler morning hours, she argued, would allow for more intensive physical training. The request was granted.

I suspected she had another reason. She had seen the other Gargoyles locked in their daytime poses and assumed I would be similarly weakened at the edges of light.

She did not know yet that I move through all hours, unbound by the sun's tyranny. That my alertness at dawn was no different than my alertness at midnight.

I did not correct her assumption. Let her think she had an advantage. It would make her more confident, and confidence would make her a better training partner.

The training yard was a cleared space at the settlement's edge, ringed by packed earth and observation platforms. Sandbags and practice dummies lined one wall. Weapon racks held everything from wooden practice swords to weighted staffs. The yard was empty this early—just Michaella, myself, and the training supervisor, a grizzled woman named Sergeant Cynthia who watched us both with evident skepticism.

"Right," Cynthia said. "You two are supposed to learn how to fight together. Not against each other—together. Coordinated. The way we hope our alliance will work in actual combat." She looked between us, clearly noting Michaella's rigid posture and my carefully neutral expression. "Any questions?"

"No, Sergeant," Michaella said.

"No," I agreed.

"Good. Then let us see what we are working with. Jones, you are on offense. Obsidian, defense. I want to see how you two move." Okoye stepped back, arms crossed. "Begin."

Michaella moved immediately.

She was fast—very fast for a human. Her first strike came from the left, a feint that shifted into a spinning kick aimed at my midsection. I let it connect. The impact of her heel against my stone-flesh barely registered; it was like being struck by an enthusiastic child.

But I understood her mistake. She had not hit me to hurt me. She would hit me to gauge my response time.

"You're holding back," she said, not even breathing hard. "Don't."

"If I do not hold back, I will hurt you."

"Let me worry about that."

She came at me again. This time her attacks were more complex—a combination of strikes designed to probe my defenses, find my blind spots, test my range of motion. She was good. Better than I would expected. She fought with her whole body, every movement economical and precise.

I continued to hold back.

It went on like this for twenty minutes. Michaella attacking with increasing intensity, me defending with decreasing effort, both of us growing frustrated for different reasons. Finally, Cynthia called a halt.

"This isn't working," the Sergeant said bluntly. "Jones, you're fighting like you're trying to hurt her. Obsidian, you're defending like she's made of glass." She shook her head. "This is supposed to be coordination training. You're supposed to be learning how to work together. Instead, you're barely acknowledging each other exists."

"With respect, Sergeant," Michaella said, "it's hard to learn coordination when my partner won't actually engage."

"With respect," I replied, "engagement at my full capacity would result in serious injury."

"Then find a middle ground." Cynthia's patience was clearly fraying. "Figure it out. I don't care how. But by the end of this week, I want to see actual partnership or I'm reporting to the Mayor that this integration is a failure." She turned and walked toward the observation platform. "You have ten minutes. Sort it out."

Silence.

Michaella was breathing hard now, sweat beading on her forehead. Dawn light painted her skin in shades of bronze and gold. She looked at me with something that was not quite hostility—something more complicated.

"Why won't you fight me?" she asked.

"I am fighting you."

"No. You're letting me bounce off you. That's not fighting. That's tolerating."

I considered my response carefully. "Among my people, the Black coloring indicates certain... expectations. We are supposed to be leaders. Strategists. We are not supposed to harm those we are meant to protect."

"I don't need your protection."

"No. You do not." I tilted my head, regarding her. "But I do not know how to be anything else. I was raised to be careful. To be controlled. To never, ever let my strength harm someone who did not deserve it."

"And you think I do not deserve it?"

"I think you are angry at something that has nothing to do with me, and I do not want to give you a target for that anger that might actually hurt you."

She went very still.

"What do you know about my anger?"

"I know you lost someone. I know you did not want this partnership. I know you look at me and see something you hate, and it is not actually me you are seeing." I paused. "I have very good hearing, Michaella Jones. Better than you probably realize."

She stared at me. I watched emotions flicker across her face—surprise, anger, something that might have been embarrassment. Then, slowly, something shifted. The rigid line of her shoulders eased slightly.

"You heard my conversation with my father."

"Yes."

"And you didn’t say anything."

"It was not my conversation to acknowledge." I folded my wings more tightly against my back. "I know you do not want to be here. I know this partnership was not your choice. I know you see me as a symbol of everything that came too late to save someone you loved." I met her eyes. "I am all of those things. But I am also just a Gargoyle, standing in a training yard at dawn, trying to figure out how to work with a human who fights better than anyone I have ever seen."

Michaella was quiet for a long moment. Then,

"You think I’m a good fighter?"

"I think you are an excellent fighter. Technically skilled, physically capable, with good instincts and better training." I allowed myself a small, careful smile. "I also think you are wasted on me. You should be fighting something that actually challenges you."

"Nothing challenges me." She said it flatly, without pride. "That's the problem. I've trained since I was six years old. I can beat anyone in this settlement. Anyone human, anyway." Her eyes met mine. "I've never fought a Gargoyle before."

"And you want to?"

"I want to know if I can."

Something shifted in my chest. Not my heart—Gargoyles do not have hearts in the human sense—but something deeper. A recognition.

"You cannot," I said. "Not yet. Maybe not ever, if we are being honest. I am faster than you, stronger than you, and my body does not experience pain the way yours does." I held up a hand before she could respond. "But that does not mean you cannot learn to fight with me. To use my strengths instead of fighting against them."

"Is that what you want? For me to use you?"

"I want this partnership to work. For your sake, if not for mine." I took a step toward her—slowly, carefully. "I know what I am. I know what I represent. But I am going to be here for a long time, Michaella. Centuries, probably. And I would rather spend those centuries having earned your respect than having been merely tolerated."

She studied me. I let her look, keeping my face open, my posture non-threatening. This was a test, I realized. Not the physical combat—this. This moment of honesty.

"I'm not going to like you," she said finally.

"I am not asking you to."

"And I'm not going to pretend everything's fine just because our peoples signed some papers."

"I would not expect you to."

"But—" She stopped, seemed to gather herself. "I'll try. Three months. That's what my father asked for. I'll try for three months."

"That's all I am asking."

She nodded once, sharp and decisive. Then she turned toward the weapon racks. "Fine. Let's actually train then. And this time—" She grabbed a practice staff, testing its weight. "—don't hold back quite so much."

I watched her move, this human girl with her grief and her fury and her stubborn, impossible pride.

Three months, she promised.

I found myself hoping it would be enough.