The Expatriate-the story of a Prodigy

4. Training

 The Martyr leaped lazily onto some stairs leading to a few stores and a saloon. He looked back and grinned back at Alex, then pointed at a yellow door at the end ot the dirty hallway. Ok, so now what, Alex Mars thought. 

 "My training room," "You're a trainer? For what-the Olympics?" Alec asked, scrutinizing the man once more. Not too fit-but he was tall and the Japanese judo trainer-type. You know, he'd be Japanese if he was in robes and hands pressed together dangerously. 

 The Martyr whooped.

 "Me an Olympic trainer?! s**t, then this building should be gigantic and people lining the doors!" "So you're not," Alex Mars grumbled. He hated peoples who'd burst into laughter for minutes though the man was a bit cool. The Martyr pushed the shuck yellow door open and Alex grimaced. Smells of cheese burgers and pizza and sweat, if separate, are bearable. But if you got the smells all combined and enlargened, if you now what I mean, it would become a helluva-

 "Jesus, you look as if you were dunked in acid! Or smelled in some odor!" Exactly-and you don't know that?! Alex thought. The Martyr didn't even look fazed-actually seeming to like the smell. "Ah, those burgers," He pushed Alex's back no-too-harshly, and walked inside. 

 The interior wasn't as terrible as the nasal first impression. Mats and punching bags hung neatly, with no apparent faults in the fabric, like in a brand new gym. Yup, the boxing gloves were also aligned perfectly on a shelf. But to be honest, I have to tell you, the kitchen was a completely different story.

 Luckily, the door led right away to the training space, so Alex Mars walked over, without having to step on a few dirty underwear, and a dozen cheese-smeared burger wrappers. Gee, how perfect and normal his visit outside after being a month-old recluse was going.

 "There aren't many trainees volunteering to get taught, but mostly, I don't accept'em," "Why not? Don't you want to have a gigantic building?" The Martyr groaned humorously. "I think you are the one, though," He murmured before replying for real. "It'd be a waste of time and a bunch of ethics to fake my skills," "Huh?" Alex Mars was suddenly very serious of the 'skill' the Martyr claimed to have. Maybe not being fat while eanjoying a dozen cheeseburgers and pizzas every day? Couldn't be having extra-exceptionally good ears...

 The Martyr glanced at the boy, then the punching bag close to his head.

 "s**t, so many to explain... Can I ask you something, boy? You answer my quesiton, and I also answer your stupid quesiton after that," Alex considered this for a second. "Fine," he replied.

 The man suddenly became extra-serious and punched the bag near his head with his bare fist. He didn't even cringe, considering the force with which he did the action.

 "Were you or are you Muted?" He asked.

 Jesus on a stick, how did he know that? Alex wondered.

 It took a second for him to finish the tiny jigsaw puzzle in front of him. 

 The guy he said that he was skilled at something, so maybe he was also-

 "You gifted?" He blurted out, which was unlike him.

 "Woah, woah there, boy. This violates the term-answer me first!" He demanded. "I am," Alex Mars said. Jesus. The man grinned, the skin along his eyes crinkling and everything. "Great!" He whooped. Here goes again...Alex thought.

 The man luckily stopped his laughter after 9 seconds, and then decided against his apparent whim to bear-hug the 12-year-old boy in fron of him, which he must be very used to.

 "I finally found another Prod!" He yelled, his arms outstretched toward the 12-year-old. "Gee, Martyr, can you tell me what the hell is a Prod?" Alex Mars creased his forehead. "Sorry. Ok. Prod is short for Prodigy, like me and you. You're a typical one, but still, I've seen so few... Welcome to my School of Prods, boy, what's your name?" The man looked so gleeful. "Alex Mars," "Brilliant name indeed," He said, like a teacher or someone. He chuckled. "So what can you do? Are your parents also Prods?" Gee. He wanted a lot of answers. "I am good at brainy stuff, and I also used to have good hearing-that my own dad and a crazy, illegal doctor Muted. And my parents are definitely not Prodigies," "Jesus. Muted," "Yup," Alex suddenly felt so happy to tell someone or talk with someone so freely about the subject most frequently on his mind, his ears. "Are you?" Alex Mars asked. "No, I'm not," The Martyr, leaning onto a wall. "I changed my title to martyr since I survived the army. Well, they only put the most excellent non-Prod guys in, and I somehow got in un-caught. I never got caught even in the army and rose in status. When I became 30, they let me go with money-and with that, I wiped my records off the board, got this place with the money-" He waved his arm at the dirty space. "And here we are," "But you weren't Muted, somehow-how did got through the tests?" Alex Mars inquired, ears tuning up. Maybe he could get himself un-Muted thanks to this man without his parents knowing and still get through the army safely as his goddam dad hoped he would while being Mu-

 "My ability is to hide itself. I am also brainy and calculating like you, and my obscuring ability just  hides the brain-iness lets me show that I'm a Prod when I want," 

 Goddammit. He had hoped, at least hoped...

 "I see," Alex muttered,  trying his best to conceal his expression, which as I mentioned a long time ago, he was good at.

 Well, not this time. 

 "I see your disappointment and anger at having to be Muted," "You're also a Pro, Martyr. Can't you fix my head?" Alex asked, agitated. The man looked apologetic. They both knew the answer, so he didn't waste his energy and time saying the word "no". 

 "But, the thing is," The man looked from the floor to Alex. "As I told you before, you are acceptable as my apprentice," "Why do you train people, I mean Prods?" Mars inquired once more. "I want them to have the best chance at survival. The gov kills us, Mars. I saw the cruelty, and you are never gonna forget the scene once you see it, even if I warn and prepare you. I just wanted them to survive-like me, and move on. Maybe, it's just my impossible Utopia-but I hoped and still hope the Prods would stick all together, than knock down the gov's terrible policy," " I think it's logical," Alex said, nodding thoughtfully. "So you point is-?" He added, staring at the man.

 "I want you to let me train you. You have the potent," Answered the Martyr.

 "Sure, sure. I think it's great, your Utopia and name and everything,"Alex answered. 

 They bumped fists and the Martyr chuckled.

 "Deal?"

 The answer was needless again, but they both felt the logical need to say it aloud.

"Deal indeed," Alex Mars agreed.

 The first day, the day when they first met, went smooth and easy. Alex showed all the kicks he had learned online, and after that, they shared more of their experiences to get fully acquainted to each other. 

 "Ok, here starts-my turn. How long did it take you to walk?" 

 "2 weeks,"

 "What event led to your Mut-ation?"

"My mom destroyed her ancient Potmerion, and my ears screamed,"

 "Who insisted the Mut-ation?"

 "Dad and his crazy friend, a doc as I told you before. Ok, not his friend. Just on the same, evil side,"

 "When did it happen?"

 "When I was 4,"

 "After that?"

 "Huh?"

 "How did your ears feel?"

 "Crappy. Deaf, useless while its thing felt... hidden deep inside."

 "When are you planning to make it come back to you?"

 "As soon as possible, when I'm out of the army,"

 "So you're confident you'd go there,"

 "I don't want it-and I'm not too sure. Just tried to put it on my lips."

 "And your survival?"

 "I don't know," 

 It killed Alex to say 'I don't know,' but it was the only choice here. 

 "It's tough there,"

 "And that wasn't exactly an inquisition,"

 "I know, Alex. I am just glad that I have a person to finally share my life with. We Prods are so unfortunate,"

 "My turn,"

 Alex raised his hand, and the Martyr nodded, then closed his eyes. 

 "Why do you call us Prods in particular? Where did it come from?"

 "Actually, I didn't tell you this part yet. The Prods, or we, are just as notorious and feared for our strangest capabilities, though none of them unfortunately in tails flying or not needing oxygen forever. IN the army, they talked, debated, and joked about Prods-some actually believe we can do those comic books-stuff. The subject was so popular that I got used to not feeling accused after hearing the word for long and the shortened word stuck,"

 "Gee, I see. Good thing that they also fear and hate us, just as much as we do,"

 "And that was also not a question, Mars,"

 "Ok. So what do they train you for in the military? There are no villains or aliens, except those born on Mars or something,"

 The Martyr didn't laugh-not that Alex expected him to.

 "They train you to deal with civilian revolts, crimes, and, as you might have guessed easily, Prods. Yup, like the police in the old days,"

 "How exactly old are you?"

 "32,"

 "2 years from getting out safely. How many did you train since you got this place?"

 "None,"

 "Expected that,"

 "You're my first-I think the town is very trivial and boring for Prods to come or get born in. You were one of the tiny percentage," 

 "What if I'm the only here?" 

 "How do I know?"

 "Whatever,"

 "Are you done?" 

 "One last thing-what's your real name?"

 "Michael Chris, whatever-names don't matter usually," 

 Alex knew that. Of course.

 He got up from the bare floor of the room and stretched his limbs. He calculated the time, and was surprised-6 o'clock? He turned to some tinted windows for confirmation. Jesus on a stick, it was 6 in the afternoon.

 "I've gotta go, they're gonna kill me," "Your parents?" The Martyr or Michael Chris asked. "Who else would it be? Though I'm not too scared of them," HE started walking off the to the yellow door. "When's our next meeting?" "Whenever you want, Mars, Alex. Good luck with your parents, and don't forget that I'm sponsoring you," Alex stopped at he door, his hand holding it open. "Wait-you don't need any money?" "No. I always survived till you came, with little money. I'll be alive when you come next time, just come before you're my age," Alex grinned at that. 

 He stepped out of the smell of the cheeseburgers, pizza, and sweat, and raced like hell back home, hoping he'd survive the night.

 He did survive the night.

 Thankfully, Steph and Eric weren't paranoid parents, and didn't scream when Alex touched the door knob and went into the house fully. But Steph still pushed him into the bathroom and forced him to take an hour-long shower and get himself tested with the new inside-the-house-capable confirmation test that the gov had provided for free named CoronaTracker. He was obviously negative as he had thought-the young generation, especially Prods, were immune or something like that. His dad seemed to hesitate whether or not to ask him Q and A about where he'd been to, but pretended to busy himself to the attention-craving fence-the asshole who had ruined it hadn't been caught. He was deciding whether to just save time and just fix the thing himself with his own money. Alex watched the people outside the door, still lined. The end of the line was near his house-it made sense since it was now 7:30. Then the Martyr popped into his mind, and he raced to his room to meditate about him. 

 He felt as if he'd found his real ally after 8 years.