The Expatriate-the story of a Prodigy

5. Silent as the Air

The second traing wasn't when  Alex Mars was the Mrtyr's age-only one week later. 

 His parents were at the door, leaving in their car to visit an old relative-not to wish for well being, but to see her for the last time possible, since she was 148 or something. Old enough. 

 Alex made his scheme as soon as he heard their schedule and raced to his room to meditate. His parents called him to get up and get in the car. He didn't reply. Steph checked his temperature. "Ok, Alex. Come on, your body can't lie," "Just leave him there-this won't be too fun for also him," Eric said, which surprised Mars a tiny bit. His dad was a child for once, looking distressed and bored himself to go see a dying relative. "Ok, just make sure the fence isn't crushed, we just fixed it," Steph said.

 So they left.

 The instant he heard their engine roar away, Alex jumped up and out the back door. He reached the Mrtyr's in a matter of minutes since the bus came fast today. He raced up the biulding's steps and saw the yellow door. This time, it was a welcoming sight. He crashed in.

 "Perfect! Alex Mars!" The Martyr grinned from the training space. His face was all flushed up and boxing gloves on. A punching bag swayed in front of him. He gave it another mighty punch, then threw himself onto the boy. "Jesus, let me-" He was choking. "Sorry. Anyway, let's start-hope the odds are for you in your family," The man backed off from the hug. "I left as soon as mom and dad left to visit some relative," "That's fortunate. I prepared a bit lately for you-you're my first student, afterall," The Martyr-Michael Chris-threw his gloves off and they hit the far corner. "We start today with some less aggressive stuff," His eyes went to his feet. "Uh-huh, those shoes might not be the best," "Hrmm?" Alex stared down at his pair of Nikes. Sporty-weren't they fit for-

 "Yes, they aren't fit for one of today's lessons," "What do you mean?" The Martyr scratched his head. "They're too soundless. We need burly shoes. I guess you know this lesson in life-to get better, put yourself to the harshest possible situations, and then practice. As they say, the easier you gain something, the more easier you lose it. Yup, I'm gonna make you silent as the air," Alex looked at Chris, and suddenly, he respected him. He seemed to be the kind of coach who was always there for you, etc. 

 "And, fortunately, I have the type," The Martyr ran to the hall leading to the door, and rummaged some compartment there. It took some time. Alex retrieved the smelly gloves from the corner the martyr had thrown at and gave a few punches in the air.

  "A-ha!" A victorious cry came, and in a flash, the man stood in front of him, then dropped some old(to be exact, some ancient) pair of sneakers in front of him. As one fell, the left one, the rubber sole separated and flapped a bit at the front, and when it touched the floor, it made a sound very similar to a woman slapping a man's cheek in some stupid movie. 

 "That's perfect. I used to wear it when I was 15-the bigger my feet were then than yours, the more sound you'll have to try to hide. Get in my shoes for once," Chris kicked the shoes at him and they slid to touch Mars' feet with the sound when you slide your shoes on a sandy surface. 

 "Gee," was what Alex Mars said as he slipped the mind on-whatever his man wanted. 

 He was 'fortunate' with the shoes since they were oversized for his small feet, the rubber sole-front flapped like a dog's ears, and they were too old-and Chris adored the scene. 

 "Hehe. Ok, let's start-I'm gonna test how much you're good at this-then I teach you," He dragged Mars to the farthest corner possible with his sneakers making sliding noises, then turned his body around to the other corner. 

 "I'm gonna close my eyes, and you call me to wake me up-let's see," His eyes closed and Alex groaned. "If I was some gov guard, you must be already caught before you tried the real thing," He mumbled. Alex groaned again-no, before it, reconsidered it in his brain. 

 He finally made his left feet rise as slowly as possible, then watched the dog ears quiver in the air. Then he carefully put it down. The ears didn't make much sound, and his feet relaxed a tiny bit inside. This was insane-it was gonna take a millennium-his trainer's eyes had closed for the last time in his life, that would mean...

 He made his fortunately-sane right sneaker rise and fall onto the cement, and he shifted his weight then made the left rise again. He didn't look back at the Martyr. 

 It did take him what seemed like a millennium-god's grace that it wasn't a real millennium.

 He gave himself a Tiny grin, and stomped down his left feet-the dog on his shoe barked with a sandy voice. 

 "Good job," He turned to see that the Martyr had been staring at his back all the while.

 Mars narrowed his eyes.

"You didn't close your eyes," He accused his trainer.  

 "Every human is capable at that-I just acted out the parent role in making the son or daughter ride his or her first bike-they lie and make'em believe they're pushing. Sometimes making them crash headfirst into a thorn bush. Well, you believed yourself and me and made it. Congrats, and thank you," Alex let his explanation sink in. It didn't feel like betrayal like from his dad-it felt like trying to help him for real. 

 "Uh-huh," He said after silence. 

 The Martyr shook the rest of his body(his eyelids were already alive) to life and walked over. "But it took you like some 13 minutes and 16 seconds or something. And that, as we Prods all realize, is a waste of time. And I got a few guidelines in my head to save that," The man cursed when his eyes darted around his place to look for some other damned pair of shoes that were ancient enough and found none. "Anyway, I'll just stick to these," He said, looking at his own feet and anyway, let me tell you, they also did look ancient enough. 

 The Martyr didn't try it out in the shoes, however. He jumped out of them and his sock-ed feet landed on the cement. "Lesson one-use your front joint of the feet, not the feet as a whole or the heel part-yup, tiptoe. The heels are silent, but they carry all the weight of you-and they make those thump thump noises, especially on a wooden floor," Gee, he was like Wikipedia, Alex thought. The man made the movement as an example , and for an instance, he was a mouse, a butterfly, the air. 

 Alex Mars tried-sand that seemed impossible in his doggy sneakers. "Come on," the Martyr said. Alex tried again. The doggy ears shivered and touched the cement with a wheeze. "Ok, let's start with socks," his trainer amended at last. Alex sighed and pulled off the goddam shoes. "That's much better," He said and threw the shoes away and stepped on the cement.

 It was cold, but so much easier. 

 He used his joints as little as possible and his feet were starting to ache and get chilly when he reached his mentor. 

 "Much better. Guess we'll do the shoes later," The Martyr said, a bit satisfied. "Uh huh," Alex Mars replied, hungry for more training. 

 As he learnt other stuff that day like analyzing others' feelings without having to be Edward Cullen by checking their posture and eyes, martial arts, how to lessen the impact of a fall(that was impossible to do in the space, so the Martyr just demonstrated with his mouth), etc, Alex Mars felt a pleasure unprecedented to him. He felt ad if his lacking, empty space by the Muted ears were being alleviated or filled a bit by enjoying and leaning g what he must have been born to. He respected the Mrtyur, understanding the name without joking-he had survived the government's eyes and was here, living like 'normal'-and that was going to be a huge feat for himself, but also his dream in his rough future world. 

 He came every week and exercised his own body when alone. He never told his parents about the Martyr directly, but always said that it was a friend he wanted to visit. And they believed him.

 Years passed once more (covid 65 retreated back into the shadows, in case you were curious), and Alex Mars was making positive progress as a 'Prod' for once.

 Then, all of a sudden, he was the age to get into the military-the one that the Martyr himself had gotten famed for surviving barely as a Prod.