Core Aikido

SKILL

by
Gadiel Shorr

download Acrobat version here

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

Max

The Dojo

An Introduction to the Skill

Building the Foundations

Stomach Aches

Locks and Throws

A Bitter Day of Nikkyo

The Quest

The Day before the Test

The Search for the Lost Book

Senseless Aggression

PART TWO

The Second Level of Techniques

Recollection

Misogi

Misogi No Jo

The Search for the Book Part Two

String Theory

Ki Katana Blue

Shaking Up the Su

The Mirror of Amaterasu

PART THREE

Third Level of Techniques

Aikilibrium

A World of Shadows and Sounds

The Eight Powers

Windows of Opportunities

The Thirst for Detachment

The Ring Fighter

Second Shaking of the Su

The Demonstration

22 August 1871	Onisaburo Deguchi is born
14 December 1883	Morihei Ueshiba is born in Tanabe
March 1912	Ueshiba moves to Hokaido, Shirataki
Winter 1915	Ueshiba meets Master Sokaku Takeda
December 1919	Ueshiba meets Deguchi in Ayabe
2 January 1920	Ueshiba's father, Yoroku, dies aged 76
1920 - 1928	Ueshiba lives in Ayabe
August 1920	Ueshiba's son, Takemori, dies aged 3
September 1920	Ueshiba's son, Kuniharu, dies aged 1
13 February 1924	Deguchi & Ueshiba begin their journey to Mongolia
21 June 1924	Deguchi & Ueshiba are arrested in Tongliao
25 July 1924	Deguchi & Ueshiba return to Japan
Spring 1925	Ueshiba reaches enlightenment
8 December 1935	Second Omoto incident, Deguchi is arrested
7 August 1942	Deguchi is released from prison
19 January 1948	Deguchi dies
26 April 1969	Ueshiba dies
15 May 2016	Jacques Patye performs his demonstration
20 December 2157	Jerome is born
2172	Jerome is kidnapped and begins life at the School of Aikilibrium

Master Onisaburo Deguchi sat one evening at the headquarters in Ayabe, deeply consumed in meditation. It was a time of visions; he knew it, a time to call upon his powers to foresee the future. The early winter of November 1919 had a chill air that penetrated the colourful robes of the master, who was forever dressed like a peacock. His eyes were closed, meaty lips quietly chanting the holy scripts, his body shaking. There was a role for him to play, the conclusion far into the future, long after his ashes scattered away in the wind, and he was eager to get started.

A vision came to mind of a man, a single man soon to arrive in Ayabe, the Omoto Kyo religion headquarters. A man to bring about the next step in the evolution of human kind, a man who would bind the knowledge that had been collected all through history and add his own decisive component. Master Deguchi knew that he would need to prepare this successor and that he would have to be his mentor as well.

It was a time of war and turmoil, a time of changes, and the man to come would bring the message of the higher arts through the work of warriors and their martial techniques. Onisaburo stood up and walked the tatami floor to the outer room and the hallway. He slipped into his boots and put his overcoat on. A student rushed to help him and the master brushed him away with a wave of his hand. Not mad, the youngster was only doing his duty, just slightly disturbed. He walked outside and swiftly moved out of the major pathways, hiding from the attention of his followers. Sitting momentarily behind one of the temples he tightened his exotic hat, warming his ears against the cold. His never resting mind started to compose a waka, a song for the warrior to come. It was ironic to think that the higher arts would be acquired by a man of Budo, but he couldn't argue with the strong vision he had. He sensed that it was going to be soon, perhaps in a few weeks, and there were plenty of things to prepare. He would have to guide him along the paths of the Omoto and make sure that he excelled in his studies. He would help him conceive, grow and name his findings; build the network for this new stranger to spread his art.

Master Deguchi's eyes closed and his body rocked, once more a vision was coming. He sensed the clouds parting and the shining body of the Dragon King burst through the opening, tainting the night's sky in burning embers of crimson. With the vision Onisaburo learned the identity of the newcomer, of what he truly was.

Opening his eyes he walked to the highest point in the farming settlement, ignoring those who recognized him and fussed around. Someone had the good sense to realize his desire for privacy, and she called the crowds away. Deguchi got to the top and looked to the east, searching with his eyes beyond the neat squares that marked the boundaries of the fields, following them all the way to the mountains. He couldn't see him as yet but he could tell that the whole play was in motion.

"Let the great plot begin!" he cried, more to himself than to anyone else and promptly composed another waka.

Jerome woke up and instinctively raised an arm to protect his head. His eyes moved in all directions, chin tucked in and back pressed against the wall. There was no attack coming, he was safe. He breathed out in relief and stood up cautiously, pushing off the cardboard he used as a blanket. A puddle on the floor caught his reflection and he stepped back in alarm; a fifteen year old boy, strong, agile and very skinny, a hundred and sixty five centimetres in height yet never stretching fully, black hair and sharp black eyes, peering beneath the eyebrows, a shadow by day and night. He could have been considered handsome but there was hardness in his features, denying softness and beauty to surface, providing a shield behind which he faced the world.

He brushed at his matted hair and lifted his head up, inspecting the blue slit of skies above the ally. The air was chilled but it was bound to warm up soon, it was going to be a nice day. His gaze shifted to the roofs that bordered with the blue, frowning at the memory of last night's incident with the stalker. Jerome was angry with himself, falling asleep on his guard - he could have paid dearly.

The thoughts went back to the stalker, the stranger who hunted him for the past week and yesterday almost took him by surprise on one of the roofs.

It was a miracle what happened up there, somehow sensing the presence of the man and managing to jump to the next roof, no less than four meters away. He couldn't comprehend how he had done it and didn't ponder on it for too long; three years experience of surviving the streets had taught him not to question good luck. People who had the time to question good luck probably didn't need it. Jerome was not one of those.

Wiping his frosty nostrils on a sleeve, he winced at the smell that penetrated his aperture, frowning at the alley where he slept. It was not the best he had used, reeking from some source he didn't dare imagine.

"No wonder he couldn't find me," he thought sarcastically of the stalker. "It smells worse than me in here."

The alley was just off 'Rue de Rivoli' street with office buildings towering over his little hide out; business would start soon, it was time to go. He had to get some food if he was to survive, yet he was holding back, afraid of the demented stalker.

"Maybe I should go back home." He smiled bitterly, painful memories that dulled with time flashing in his mind, briefly allowing him to penetrate and touch soft and comforting feelings.

Early childhood was a cherished time, a healthy family life, stable and warm. He had been happy and like most fortunate kids he foolishly took it for granted. Christmas trees were present, hugs and kisses a daily routine; home provided love and comfort, sheltering him from the world. As usual the pacifying images didn't last long, surrendering to the painful memories, reminding him to avoid personal history all together.

Fate lashed at him when he was five years old, when Mother lost her job and was forced to stay at home. Father worked hard, trying to support the family, leaving mother alone and depressed, seeking support and compassion in her immediate surroundings. A kind neighbour offered her a happiness compensation in the shape of a needle and she took it, paying dearly with vitality and health. The once large and clear eyes turned to pin point pupils, soft and smooth skin was altered by bumpy puncture scars and bluish blood shot marks. Father tried to cope and help, but couldn't handle Mother, tolerating her growing abusive ways for as long as he could, until the day he went out and never came back.

A particular image Jerome watched detached, as if it was an image of someone else; a little boy, staring out of a stained window, pressing his face to the cold glass, waiting for his protective giant to come back, waiting days and nights.

"Father…" the boy chanted quietly, tears drawing patterns on the glass. "Father…"

Mother felt betrayed, could not cope financially, and to make matters worse she blamed Jerome for her misfortune. His life became a living hell as beatings and shouts in the day were replaced by strange men that came home at night, smelling of alcohol and sweat, cursing, grunting and terrifying young Jerome. He was forced to spend plenty of time on the streets, keeping himself hidden from home and gradually learning how to endure life on his own. Occasionally he would spy on his mother, whenever he missed parental warmth. The memory of the beatings and pain dulled with time, convincing him that she did it out of love and that it was all his fault, that he was a bad son. Her love, however, hurt him in a dangerous way.

On the street it wasn't all too safe, but the unfortunate incidences were far less frequent. That had chalately with the stalker's almost daily attacks.

Jerome tidied up his ragged clothes and stepped out of the ally, into the Parisian morning. He turned right on Rue de Rivoli and then left next to Hotel De Ville, the city hall. When he was close to the river bank he turned right and walked parallel to the Seine. It was not hot enough for the smog to form just yet and a gentle breeze, fresh and awakening blew off the river. He stood and closed his eyes, enjoying a moment of partial calm before the hectic daily routines began.

A rumbling noise alarmed him and he froze momentarily yet a second later he was smiling. It was only his stomach demanding food.

Hunger was a trusted friend and he was used to the feeling, at times forced to forget all about food as other, more pressing issues preoccupied him.

Jerome's attention shifted, the calming meditation gone; a street cat searching for the opportunity to score. It was not going to be easy as he so often avoided the day and practiced at night. There were places in the city where he could get a free meal but he preferred to stay away from most of them. He was young and the volunteers at the shelters could send him to an orphanage; he was terrified of their good intensions.

He knew how to beg and he knew how to steal. He would rather have worked but at his age it could have led to other legal problems he didn't need. Jerome was not at all proud of the way he was making his living, especially when it involved aggression. He was never mean enough to do anything that would dent his soul, but he was capable of protecting himself if he had to.

He moved away from the river, turning right at the Rue de Louvre, walking by hordes of tourists that gathered in front of the museum.

"Paris is one of the most magnificent cities in the world," he overheard a guide addressing a band of elderly tourists. "Nothing can go wrong around here."

"Sure," Jerome thought as he rubbed his way through them. "Just keep your hands on top of your valuables!"

A dark smile crossed his face when he remembered how Alan, another homeless kid, had tried to teach him to pick pockets.

"It's easy, my friend," he had told him. "All you need is the right touch." Jerome tried a few times but was forced to quit early on.

"You make a very bad thief," Alan concluded after he was twice caught red handed. "You look so guilty everyone knows you're up to no good."

There was no pride in the trade of the beggar and Jerome shamelessly peeped into rubbish bins and brushed at their contents, reacting to anything that resembled food.

He passed a little alley on his right, gave it a quick glance and a movement there caught his attention. He stopped and peered in, intrigued by the unusual sight. The alley itself was typically narrow and blocked at its end by a high brick wall. Two garbage trolleys and emergency staircases further minimized and shaped the space, giving the boy he saw there quite a few options for his extraordinary performance; if that was indeed what it was…

He jumped from a garbage trolley to a railing on the wall across, somersaulting backwards to the stairs and climbing like a spider from window ledge to window ledge. Jerome was mesmerized and it took him a while to realize that the boy had stopped moving and was actually staring right back at him.

He had piercing blue eyes that pinned Jerome to the spot, holding his breath. Vaguely, he sensed the boy getting closer, real close. He did not move, focused forward, eyelids heavy and swaying on his feet. The space around the stranger was blurring in a mist, disorientating and confusing, but Jerome was too taken by the nuclei of the eyes to pull away. Then, a hand touched his shoulder and the spell was broken. He shook his head and inhaled deeply, as if coming out of the deep blue sea.

"Are you OK?" asked the strange boy as Jerome looked at him with a fixed expression, trying to analyse what had just happened. "Does it ever close?" the boy grinned, pointing at Jerome's open mouth.

The boy in front of him was about his age, maybe a year senior. They were both of the same height and almost the same build yet the strange boy had unusually developed muscles, fair skin and honey colour hair that stood in contrast to that of Jerome. All in all, he looked like a healthy version of Jerome. Then Jerome noticed his clothes and the boy, so it seemed, became aware of the staring eyes.

To emphasize his words, the boy held out his trousers from the sides and gave a mock curtsey. It was so comical that Jerome burst out laughing and the boy joined in. He had a deep, hearty rolling laughter. The ice was broken and the boy stretched out his hand, offering it to Jerome.

"Max," he said and winked, waiting patiently for Jerome to take his hand and shake it. "What is it then?" he asked, enjoying Jerome's embarrassment.

A bit too direct, a bit too soon. Jerome was not about to reveal all his cards yet. He looked behind his shoulder and absently pulled on his lips, not comfortable with the question.

Max nodded in understanding. "I live on the street too; I can tell you've been to the shelters."

Jerome smiled at Max. "What were you up to over there?" he tried to change the subject. "It was quite amazing."

"Oh, that," Max indicated with his thumb at the ally. "That was a practical exercise. You would be surprised how handy it can be, especially when you're out shopping." He gave Jerome another wink.

There was a loud rumble and Max shook his head, stepping back, eyes widening in fright. Jerome smiled and Max gave him another wink.

"Sorry about that," Jerome said. "Haven't eaten for sometime. My stomach is protesting."

Max nodded in understanding. "Say!" he called out. "Want to come with me and score some food?" Jerome's eyes instantly narrowed with suspicion. "Forget it," Max said immediately, reading the reserved expression on Jerome's face. "Didn't mean to frighten you. It's my twisted nature to be so direct." He tapped Jerome on the shoulder with a knowing smile.

"Yes, I got you," Max chuckled. "You are constantly sorry. I tell you what Jerome; I know this lovely bakery not too far from here. I'm going there to score some hot fresh bread. Why don't you come with me? You don't have to do anything, just have a look and if you'd like some bread, maybe we can work something out together."

That was a fair offer and Jerome took him up on it. "Let's go," he said and Max led the way.

It was a good decision since there was safety in numbers and the madman was bound to appear at some point. They headed down Rue des Petits, pushing their way through the pedestrians who were hurrying to work and leisure.

He mischievously bumped into them, poking his tongue out and making hilarious faces. Gradually Jerome relaxed and started to have fun. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt at such ease with anyone. When they got to an intersection, Max stopped Jerome by pressing his hand against his chest.

"In a few steps you will absorb the inimitable scent of the bread," he mock warned him. "I hope that you'll be able to control yourself." Jerome smiled back at him.

They walked a hundred more meters and then the smell hit them. Max stopped him in front of a little path that ran behind the shops.

"Stop it, you mean bastard." The smell didn't pacify the empty ache in his stomach. It only increased the pain, producing new rumbles from his pit. Jerome's mouth filled with juices, crazed by the proximity of the food.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, shifting weight from leg to leg, the hunger jolting away precaution.

"Good boy," Max smiled, absently brushing at the wall with his palm, sensing the texture. "Now, don't you worry. I've done it before. There is a window facing onto this little path. I will climb in there and take some bread. All you have to do is keep the baker busy."

"What if you get caught?" Whenever anyone told him not to worry he immediately started to do just that.

"Relax, 'J'," Max stroked his shoulder, already giving him a nickname. "You are absolutely risk free. The worst that can happen is that I get caught and you take your leave. Remember, all you are doing is talking to the guy."

"Agreed," Jerome finally nodded, exhaling heavily like a boxer before a fight. They shook hands on it. It sounded reasonably safe to Jerome and he needed that meal.

In the most amazing display of balance, Max suddenly spiralled backwards, connecting his right foot to the wall and pushing himself away on impact. He disappeared behind the corner of the bakery and Jerome peered around to find him sitting, smiling, on the window ledge. Max winked and motioned with his palm for Jerome to get a move on.

He went back to the main road and faced the front door of the bakery. Panic crept in as he recognized the stalker looking at him from across the road. Jerome took a deep breath and stepped in, now finding a new reason to follow the plan. A bell rang and the door shut loudly behind his back; it was surprisingly spacious on the inside, shelves stuffed with fresh bread covering the walls and a large counter blocking the door-less opening to the oven room, which was even bigger than the wide shop floor. Speaking of big - Jerome took a glimpse at the baker and swallowed hard. The man was enormous, tall and muscular; twisting his nose at the newcomer, large floury palms rubbing on his apron. Jerome's eyes ran in all directions, fidgeting where he stood, his cheeks burning with shame. Perhaps that was what Alan meant when he said Jerome wasn't cut out for theft.

"It won't be too long," Jerome thought. "I want… eh… I…" he palely began to mumble an answer, when the entrance door swung open, the ringing bell taking his words away. A man dressed in black entered the shop.

To make matters worse, a noise came from the room behind the baker, and the three of them turned to look. The baker was the first to react as he came from behind his counter cursing and grabbing hold of Jerome's shirt.

"I know all about your tricks," he called and dragged the frightened boy into the oven room, looking up to find Max sitting comfortably on a high shelf, chewing on a fresh bread roll, smiling and feeling completely at ease.

Max was obviously not too impressed with the baker's threatening gestures. He looked down at him with a jesting look in his eyes. Perhaps he knew the baker had no chance of catching him.

"Only met him today," he masticated his words through the fresh roll, breadcrumbs decorating his face. "I don't really care about him." Jerome hoped it to be a diversionary technique. He shook his head and his palms tightened into fists.

"You'd better not hand me to the baker, partner," he thought and ground his teeth.

Whether intentionally diverting the attention away from Jerome or not, the baker in his fury let go of the boy and grabbed a heavy broom instead. Taking a position under Max he swung the wooden broom sharply, unsuccessfully trying to pull him down. Max effortlessly manoeuvred to one side or the other, teasing the baker to a new level of fury.

"Wait till I get my hands on you," the baker huffed and sweated, swinging wildly and aggressively. Jerome was absorbed by the chase, forgetting the man in black who stood beside him. A movement to his right startled him and reminded him of the stranger. Turning his head to look he jumped back in fright.

"What the hell?" he cried as the man in black forcefully coiled into himself. It was totally surreal, something Jerome had never witnessed before. The vitality seemed to drain out of the man's limbs as he crumpled and swayed gently on his feet, the energy collecting at his core. He froze on the spot momentarily and then he shot out and up; extending as a liberated giant spring, releasing the compressed energy. In an instant the man landed next to the spot where the overconfident boy was standing.

Max looked surprised but he didn't lose his grip. He sprang out instead, hovering upward and connecting with the railings that were running parallel to the ceiling. He hung there, legs dangling beneath, looking straight at the stranger.

Jerome watched Max as he arrogantly stared back at the man in black. His new friend was very bold, if not very clever and Jerome knew with conviction that he didn't stand a chance.

The stranger coiled into his centre and moved out again, fast and incomprehensible, a blur to the eyes. The next instant he was standing on the railing, his feet almost touching Max's hands. Max realized how desperate the situation was turning. He might have been a good, even great acrobat, but he was no match for the unnatural abilities of the stranger. He tried one last move to freedom, aiming at the window at the back of the shop, a very weak move.

The man in black stretched his hand out, quick as a whiplash, and disrupted the flow of Max's flight. With a twirl in the air, the boy crashed; landing ungracefully on the floor. The baker's hands, eager for the catch, got hold of Max.

Here was a gap that Jerome could have used for his escape. The baker was busy giving Max some rough treatment and the man in black was still up there on the railings. He couldn't leave though, circumstances made him stay. He felt a responsibility to his new friend and he felt guilty for playing a part in the crime. His own well being had far less importance than the hope for friendship and loyalty.

The boys were taken into the shop and the baker held them behind the counter while serving the stranger.

"I thank you, my friend," the baker told the man in black, handing him the change and a bag full of bread. "It's about time somebody did something about these criminals. They are everywhere nowadays."

Jerome wanted the stranger to stay in the shop, dreading what the baker might do to them once he left. The man finished his shopping and turned to leave and the baker pulled on Max's hair, his face twisted in a vengeful grin. Max screeched in pain and Jerome instinctively said, "Please sir don't hurt him, he was only doing it for me. It is my fault entirely."

The baker didn't care much for Jerome's words that were accompanied by confirming bobs of Max's head. The stranger however stopped his hand that was reaching for the doorknob. He turned around silently and faced them, his presence well perceived.

"Yes?" said the baker angrily. He had already thanked the stranger and didn't wish to be disturbed.

"I will take these two with me," the stranger said in a soft voice and the baker snorted a laugh.

"Don't concern yourself with these boys, Sir. I promise you that they'll get what they deserve."

"I don't doubt it," replied the stranger, "but I would still like to take them with me."

"I am Yves Bertrand, Head of the School of Aikilibrium," the stranger lifted his chin proudly, "and I promise you they will be dealt with."

A new kind of hostility shone in the baker's eyes. "I know all about you heathens," he foamed, swinging his arms in the air. "I prefer not to be associated with you, get out or get hurt."

"Come on kids," Yves encouraged the boys, ignoring the large man. The kids started towards the door yet the baker stepped forward and blocked their way. His right hand was holding a rolling pin high, and it was cutting down sharply at his customer.

"You asked for it!" he shout. Yves moved in, fast and low, ending up almost on the same spot where the baker stood. He conquered the balance of the startled man, connecting his arm to the large body and throwing it to the floor. Yves stood victorious, his feet tucked beneath the baker's back, keeping him unbalanced, muscles twitching randomly on the floor.

Yves led them out of the shop and down towards the Seine, tightly holding Max by the shirt. It was nearing noon and the streets were filled with cheerful tourists, frowning stiff locals on their way to lunch, and the cars, the smelly noisy beasts that sullied the otherwise fresh air. They walked on Quai des Tuileries, just on the water front and further down on Cours de la Reine, rushing as they crossed the fast and busy road.

Jerome slowed down, allowing the two to walk ahead as he looked over his shoulder. He saw the shadow of the man that prowled behind and he hurriedly joined the others, accidentally bumping into Max who tripped and tried to use it for an escape. Yves didn't lose his grip, sharply jerking Max onwards, aggressively convincing him to stay.

They crossed the river on one of the many bridges and the last familiar point for Jerome was Hotel Des Invalides, a long ago shelter for the disabled. From there on he was in unfamiliar territory, the south part of the city. They followed Yves obediently and quietly; even Max stopped struggling.

The man had saved them from the baker's punishment, but he was also the one who caught Max and delivered him to the same assailant. Jerome measured Yves for any special features, something to explain his extraordinary performance but the man had none; looking like any other Parisian Jerome had seen, apart, maybe, from the eccentric clothing. Yves was of average height, around a hundred and eighty centimetres tall. He had fair hair and skin, and an athletic body that radiated strength. There was a parental air about him, at least it felt that way to Jerome and that feeling strengthened his decision to stay.

They stopped at the entrance to a large building and Jerome lifted his head to look up. There, above the thick glass doors, was engraved in bold letters: 'THE SCHOOL OF AIKILIBRIUM'. Yves gestured with his hand for them to enter and Jerome scanned the streets and spotted the man who stalked him. He sighed and went in, spine rigid and shoulders held high.

If the finely decorated exterior made an impression on the boys then it was nothing compared to the richness they witnessed on the inside. The whole reception room was made from marble, shiny patterns of white and creamy colours that gave a sense of space and stability. The ceiling was high and the distance to either side of the hall was at least thirty meters. Far and across from the entrance was the reception desk and two large oak doors behind it suggested that the hall stretched deeper than the eye could see. Two men stood next to the reception desk. They wore Aikido training gear, looking serious and severe.

"Osu!" they shouted and rushed towards the newcomers. They stopped in front of Yves and bowed deeply. Yves returned an informal bow, showing his authority.

"Looks like a mental institute to me," remarked Max. "See how they are all dressed in white and behaving silly." He was tidying his shirt, straightening the creases where he was held by Yves.

One of the men in training gear gave him a warning look. Max snorted a laugh and eyed the man, "I'm afraid that I was right. All we need to do J, is sew their sleeves together to complete the picture."

Max had ignored his first warning completely and one of the Aikidoka grabbed hold of his hair at the side of his temple, pulling and twisting. He fell screaming.

Yves hardly looked at Max as he explained, "In our school we demand a high level of discipline and manners. Try to maintain it and we will get along just fine. Misbehave and you will suffer the consequences." The man holding Max's hair gave an extra twist on Yves' final words and left Max sitting on the floor cursing to himself.

Yves headed to the reception desk where he gave some orders to the man behind the counter. His two disciples stayed next to Jerome and Max, keeping them restrained and quiet. After a few minutes Yves finished and turned to face the two.

"Welcome to my school," he said. "This is the most acclaimed institute in the world for Aikilibrium, one of the highest Skills of Aikido." Here Yves stopped to look at the two, judging whether they knew what he was talking about.

"School?" Max asked raising his voice. "I'm not going to join any bloody school. You can't make me, Yves." Yves sighed, and it might have been a hint for one of the men who immediately kicked Max in the ribs.

"Raise your hand, please, if you would like to ask a question. And don't call me by my first name." Yves pointed a finger to warn them. "From now on you shall refer to me as Sensei, which means teacher in Japanese." He waited a second and asked, "Do you understand?"

"Understood, Sensei," he said with clenched teeth and the Sensei nodded his head, pleased with the response. He then ordered them to answer all of the receptionist's questions.

They were asked about their family and other personal information that Jerome didn't care to reveal. He had left that part of his life long ago. What worried him was the same thing that worried Max, only Jerome was clever enough to conceal it. The last thing he needed was living in an orphanage and the place certainly looked like one.

He inspected the hall and the doors leading to the street while the receptionist was busy with Max. There were no fences or barbed wire outside and the hall was open and vast, not threatening or confining; he didn't think it would be difficult to escape if he had to. He had done it before and besides, for now he wanted to stay, intrigued by the events unfolding.

The receptionist finished his interview and Yves Sensei had a few quiet words with him.

"Ok boys," Yves announced as he turned around. "You are now official property of the school. Please don't try to escape, it would be pointless. You will get caught and punished severely." Max's face was contoured in concentration, his chest heaving in quick respiration and his eyes were darting around the hall; a caged animal, surveying his options.

"Follow me please," Yves ordered, opening one of the oak doors behind the desk. They had to follow, the two men in training gear made sure.

"You bastards!" Max cursed at the guards who encouraged him through the opening with a kick.

Beyond the doors the space was divided differently. There was a long corridor with sliding paper doors along its sides. They walked fast through it, being pushed constantly by their guards. Jerome heard shouts and commotion coming from the doors but he only caught a brief glimpse of the action within; two people dressed in training gear practicing some fighting moves. It was interesting to watch but soon he was dragged along the corridor. At the end of the long walk there was another door. This one was very different from the decorated doors they had seen before. It was made of thick iron and looked heavy to open. Yves, with the help of one of the disciples, opened the door and waited for them to move in. He closed the door behind them and rechecked that it was locked.

"Welcome to your future home," he told the boys. "Here you will spend quite a bit of time; the duration will be determined by your performance. But I will get into that later on. First let me congratulate you on joining our school. Here will be your home and here, hopefully, one of you will excel. This room is the living room, a place you will use for your meditation and reading." He looked at them questionably. "You do know how to read don't you?"

Max grumbled. "I can readbetter than you, Sensei," he said. Yves ignored the attitude; one of his disciples didn't. He smacked Max on the earlobe, causing him to grimace.

"Very well then," Yves smiled. He placed three large books on the table. "Study these ones like a priest studies the Bible," he said. "It's not often that we get youngsters that can read and write. We usually have to teach it verbally and consequently it takes a long time. I hope you will take your studies seriously and do as you are told."

Max spat on the floor, lips curled in resentment. "What if we don't get along? You can't make us do a thing. Perhaps it would be better if you let us out of here all together."

Jerome uncomfortably shook on his feet, biting his lower lip. He liked his friend and didn't want to see him getting in trouble. Yves materialized Jerome's fears as he approached Max without a word, his stare cold and deadly. His right arm reached out, grabbing Max by the shirt and driving forward, picking momentum, forcing Max's legs to lift high in the air. The wall blocked their advance, bringing Max to a sharp halt, speared at the chest by Yves' arm.

"You will never be able to leave," the Sensei whispered in a disturbing voice, loud enough for Jerome to hear. "I only need one of you. The other will serve as stimulation along the way. Like a rabbit in a dog race, something to tempt the runner, to force his progress." He winked at Max in understanding. "I know what you are thinking; you think that you won't try too hard, of doing badly on purpose in order to be released." The pressure of Yves arm was agonizing, Max coughed in pain yet managed to defiantly smile back. "Like I said," Yves continued, "all I need is one. The other is expendable, and will be killed." He looked straight into Max's eyes, like a wolf at his prey. "The only thing to keep you alive at the moment is the fact that I haven't decided which of you is going to be killed." The Sensei's lips lined tensely. "I won't hesitate to execute the one that fails to hold the lead, even if he is almost as good as the other."

Jerome's heart was pounding in his chest. He could not believe his ears. This man, someone he had just met, had promised to execute him or his friend. This was not happening; it didn't feel real. Jerome knew all about parental cruelty; he knew about the harshness of life on the street. This was his first encounter with the professional, methodical malice of institutional abuse. It was very powerful! He wondered if following Yves wasn't the biggest mistake of his life, one that would end his life altogether.

Yves twisted his hips in a move that caused his arm to jerk. At the same instant he let go of Max. It was abrupt and surprising, yet beautifully done, almost artistic. Max's body turned in the air and then landed on top of his shoulders, legs dangling over his head. The master walked back towards the door. He then turned to face them.

"I will revive the Skill in the one I choose, beat it out of him if I have to, make him bleed if it will serve the cause. In the end he shall thank me. And as for the other?" he smiled viciously. "Well, the other will never know, will he?" Jerome swallowed hard; the man was a total psychopath. "Tomorrow you shall start training and I demand that tonight you read the first chapter in the book titled: 'INTRODUCTION TO THE SKILL'. It will give you a clue as to what you will learn and what can help you achieve it." He stopped talking and let the two guards step forwards.

"The two men in training gear or as we call it dogi, are your instructors. You shall refer to them as Sensei and they will guide you through your studies of the Skill. The one on the right is called Henri and the other is George." Yves stopped talking as the two men bowed to the boys. "You will have to do better than your best in order to survive, boys. Tomorrow is a long day and you have reading to do as well as to get acquainted with your new home. We are always watching you so don't embarrass yourselves or us." He looked at them one final time. "Read the first chapter in your book, you might like it. Good night boys, welcome to a world of pain!"

Yves and one of his companions bowed and left the room. The other companion, the one named Henri, was left behind.

"Over here boys," he called when they had gone, waiting for them to stand by him. "I will give you a brief description of your new home. You will not physically train here, but you shall use it for your studies and rest." He ran his arm around the room. "Here, like Yves Sensei told you, is where you will do your reading. Don't you dare damage the furniture." Max raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Furniture?" he asked, staring at the two rigid metal chairs and the heavy table. "We wouldn't be able to damage it even if we wanted to."

Henri ignored him altogether, leading the way to a door opposite to the one they came through. The next room was the bedroom. It was very small, a couple of plain army beds and a little night table that had three drawers and a lamp on top. The walls were white and shiny; Jerome felt chilled and exposed, longing for the streets, for the hazards he was familiar with. Max plainly thought otherwise, licking his lips as if staring at a juicy meal. Beyond the bedroom they saw the bathroom and toilet.

"You must keep this place clean at all times and you must clean it yourself. This is a respectable school; we don't raise pigs here." It sounded like Henri was enjoying the sound of his own voice, Max comically moving his mouth behind the Sensei's back, mimicking an endless speech. The last door led to a staircase.

"This is the door to the interview room. Every evening you will go there and report to Yves Sensei. The stairs can only be used at designated times or on special request. The rest of the time the door remains shut."

"What are we to report about, Sensei?" asked Jerome. Henri eyed him distastefully; Jerome could read the hostility there. "Maybe it would be better to behave like Max," he thought to himself.

Henri sucked some air between his clenched teeth. "Every day you will train and report to Yves Sensei. Every day he wants to know about your progress and he wants to hear it from you." He thought for a moment longer. "Use your time to get acquainted with the place, eat, and study what Yves Sensei instructed you to read. It will give you the necessary background for what we do tomorrow. You are about to study the first level of techniques, the ones that will teach you the base for Aikido and the Skill. Good night boys. Please do as you are told." And that was it! Henri left the room and the boys to wonder what to do next.

Jerome broke the silence. "I'll take a shower now," he blurred, "and then I am going to read that chapter."

He went to the bedroom and got a towel from the drawer next to his bed. Each boy had his own name tag on every piece of clothing. In the drawers they had a couple of dogi or training suits, yukata or Japanese robes, some other clothes and creams to soothe aching muscles.

Jerome took off his ragged clothes and threw them in the laundry basket. He went out to the shower, passing by Max, who looked fairly depressed.

After the shower Jerome returned to the bedroom and saw that Max was missing. He walked into the study room and found him reading.

"Excellent stuff," Max answered excitedly, not lifting his eyes from the open page. The reading seemed to have elevated his spirits. "Get dressed and have a look. I've almost finished the chapter myself."

Jerome rushed back to the room and got dressed in the yukata, not fully dry as yet. All the clothes that he would wear in school from now on would be school issued. All that he wore, ate and used from that time on would be school property. Including himself.

Jerome finished dressing and quickly walked back to the study. Max had closed the book and was on his way out for a showe.

"It's very interesting, I must admit," he told Jerome and wrapped a towel around his waist. Jerome sat in the metal chair and looked at the cover of the book. It was old but in good condition. He opened the heavy cover, skipped the introduction, and revealed the first chapter. Taking a deep breath he started to read.

"A Brief History of Aikido Relevant to the Development of the Skill" was the long title of the first chapter.

"There is no way of understanding the Skill without a proper historical background as it is a main factor in obtaining the higher arts.

Aikido was invented in the twentieth century by Morihei Ueshiba, also named O Sensei, or the Great Teacher. He was born in 1883 to a well respected family in the farming village of Tanabe, Japan, and as a child was tutored in Budo, martial arts, and spiritual studies, both creating huge impact on the boy and serving as the base for his later findings. As he grew up he continued to practice the ancient arts passionately but failed to generate the same kind of enthusiasm when participating in business ventures, showing difficulties in finding his place in the modern materialistic Japan.

His interest in Budo compelled him to join the army in the war against Russia where he excelled in bayonet fighting. He was pleased with his achievements but as he returned home he was troubled yet again by anxiousness and unfulfilled feelings.

In the year 1912 he led an expedition of fifty families to the northern island of Hokaido where they established a village called Shirataki. There he studied martial arts under the notorious Daito Ryu master Sokaku Takeda, but was left unaccomplished spiritually.

At the end of 1919 he left Hokaido and returned to his home town, where his father had fallen seriously ill. On the way to Tanabe he was motivated to make a detour and meet Master Onisaburo Deguchi, the director of the new religion Omoto Kyo and he spent a few days with him, engrossed in reflection and meditating. When he returned home he learned that his father had already passed away and he is left unstable, roaming the mountain surrounding his home town like a mad man.

In 1920 he moved to live in Ayabe, the Omoto Kyo religion headquarters, feeling the need for spiritual guidance. Master Deguchi received him warmly, opened a dojo, martial art school, for him and ordered Ueshiba to compose a new form of Budo using the philosophical principles of the Omoto Kyo.

Many adventures and tragedies befell Ueshiba during this time, such as losing two of his children to disease in 1920 and the persecution of Omoto Kyo members by the authorities in 1921. Yet the most significant incident for his development occurred in 1924, when he took a trip to Mongolia, serving as a bodyguard to his mentor, on a quest to establish the New Jerusalem. Although the trip itself was a shambles with almost tragic consequences, it still presented Ueshiba with the biggest discovery of his life. No one could pinpoint the real cause of the transformation that transpired in him but Ueshiba Sensei was a different man when he came back. He had changed; anyone who had known him before would say so. For some unknown reason he was able to perform incredible deeds. He could make himself so heavy that no one could pick him up. He could make himself light, stepping over delicate china teacups that were filled to the brim, while spilling none of it. Ueshiba Sensei could roar like a lion and move in unexplained ways, sometimes disappearing altogether. He himself was baffled by these strange abilities but less than a year after his return from Mongolia he was enlightened and suddenly it all made sense.

Legend tells us that he was outside his house, standing by the well when the light struck him and he touched the Skill. At that moment he knew it for what it was and Aikido was born. Finally he could explain to himself the great feats that he was able to perform.

O Sensei was a methodical man and in no time at all the first book of the art was published. It was the book of the martial art techniques he composed for Aikido, that is known in modern days as basic Aikido or Dai Ichi Kihon - the first level of techniques. These techniques are the foundation of the art, serving as the bridge between the normal conception of life and the higher and much wider understanding of it.

All these techniques follow simple principles intentionally, allowing the students to concentrate on details usually missed by other martial arts. Basic Aikido is practiced in almost laboratory conditions, on a flat surface, either in standing or sitting positions, without competition or fighting. To make matters simpler, each technique always starts with the assumption that the attack has already been identified. One of the hardest elements of combat is identifying the attack, its timing and direction. Basic Aikido doesn't deal with that major hurdle. It starts from the point where it is already known which attack is coming. It is a graceful place, the key to the magic of Aikido, the gateway for the higher arts."

There was more to read on the next page but that wasn't part of Jerome's assignment for the night. Instead he looked at some of the diagrams at the back of the book, the ones referring to the bit he had just read. They showed all kinds of exercises and techniques. Jerome couldn't figure out much from them, but they all shared one thing he could spot straight away, an abundance of circular motions.

The door to the bathroom burst open and a smiling Max came out dripping water. Jerome closed the book and went to the bedroom. They stayed awake for quite some time, sharing their excitement that was mixed with fear and worries. It was late when they finally fell asleep.

"A father can only give his best efforts for the sake of his child", a line Yoroku Ueshiba overheard during childhood long ago at his father's house. As a young boy he had never understood the meaning of the words but now he looked at his son and knew the meaning, inside and out.

Young Morihei was the only male offspring in the Ueshiba family and the health of the boy's body and soul was a constant worry to the proud father. Yoroku was a well respected man in his village; rich and sitting on the village council for many well favoured years. He had three daughters already and the birth of his son, Morihei, was supposed to complete his well planned picture of happiness. He was happy, undoubtedly, but the happiness was soaked by worries, and plenty of them.

Morihei had only recently turned eight years old and he was small for his age and a little frail. Yoroku wanted his son to succeed in the newly modernized Japan and he knew that his son would need to be powerful if he was to excel. He had sent Morihei the year before to the shrine in Jizodera, forcing him to learn the holy scripts of the Shingon religion. The boy obediently followed his father's desires, to an extent Yoroku had never expected. Deities were running in the boy's head during the day and leading his dreams while sleeping at night and Yoroku decided to teach Morihei swimming and Sumo wrestling, two earthly means of survival. Religious studies and physical activities were great tools to strengthen his son but they turned out to be his son's main obsession. Yoroku was worried yet had enough means to support his son into the future; he could allow him a bit of dreaming, something he was denied as a boy.

Sitting outside his house, he watched his son practicing sword moves, the boy reciting battles he envisioned in his dreams.

"Morihei," Yoroku called him a few times, the boy fighting demons in another world, the words taking time as they cut a path to his consciousness.

"Yes, Father," he finally reacted and got closer to his dad, replacing his wooden sword at his belt.

"Sit next to me, Son. Relax with the morning's beauty." It was the end of the summer and soon the seasons were to change.

Yoroku was a farmer and knew his days according to the elements. He took the surroundings in, slowly turning his head to catch a panoramic view. It was an unusually bright day, following weeks of rain dark clouds, exposing the shimmering countryside. Tanabe was stretched fairly flat to all sides, dotted with modest houses and lined with narrow dirt roads that divided the fields. It was bound by the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other side, cutting the sky line high and bulky.

Yoroku had four acres of land and he loved to work his fields, enjoying being close to the cycles of nature: birth, growth, adulthood, old age and death.

"What will be of you Morihei? What does the future hold?" He was talking to himself more than asking, his left palm tenderly patting his son's head. Morihei was finding it hard to concentrate on his father's words, his mind drifting in and out of his fantasies. Yoroku smiled and sighed at his son's silence, knowing it is better to get busy than to talk.

"Come, let's go swimming," he called and Morihei jumped to his feet, following Yoroku ecstatically, holding a wooden staff that replaced the sword he had earlier.

They reached the little stream and the boy ran around the rocky banks, banging his staff on the rocks and chanting to himself.

"And Kukai struck the ground and water gushed out as a river, obedient to the Daishi's will." He drifted inside the stories of Kubo Daishi, envisioning himself as the magical Buddhist priest, casting his spells on nature. Yoroku watched, his mixed emotions speaking through his body, changing from a stiff back and heavy frown to light hearted laughter that shook his shoulders. He wanted his son to be realistic but couldn't deny him the innocent joy of youth.

They finally had their morning swim and Yoroku lovingly helped Morihei improve his buoyancy technique, keeping his wide palms beneath his son's belly. The boy did well and Yoroku allowed him a momentary break as he sat drying in the sun. Morihei stretched up and stuck his palms down into the water, lifting his arms up and watching the water raining down from within his fingers.

"What is the meaning of that?" Father asked, as always intrigued by his son's inner world.

"It is the magic of Kukai, Father." Morihei smiled shyly. "He could make the rain come down by using the right Sutras."

Yoroku returned the smile, his eyes at the same level of his son's, sharing the inflamed images. Yoroku knew of the stories of Kukai, the founder of the Shingon religion. Shingon plainly meant 'True Words' and indeed some of the Sutras used by Kukai were supposed to be very powerful indeed; the 'Lotus Sutra', to name one of many.

Yoroku played with Morihei a while, pretending to be the Emperor, begging the Kobo Daishi for rain. He watched Morihei performing the rituals he observed in the Shingon shrine and the worries penetrated his mind again.

When the game was over he led the boy back to the yard in front of their house, it was time for a wrestle. Yoroku was known to be a powerful man all around the region and he loved to exercise his body, advocating Sumo as the most important sports of all. For a few weeks now he had been teaching his son the basics of the fight, proudly observing the quick progress of his offspring.

The boy nodded in enthusiasm and crouched low, one hand held high and the other touching the floor.

"On a Yahashano," he chanted, imitating holding the 'sword that cuts illusions' in his right hand and the Sutra of Wisdom, in his left.

Yoroku recognized the Mantra and its related deity, Bosatsu Monju. He burst out laughing and was caught unguarded, almost losing his footing on the wet ground. He overheard laughter coming from behind and he turned to face Yuki, his beloved wife. The boy used the break in concentration and charged again, this time toppling the big man down.

They rolled on the floor, encouraged by the cries of Yuki and the boy's imaginary world of gods and demons. Yoroku at long last got hold of Morihei and pinned him to the ground, tickling him in his soft armpits. The boy giggled and then hollered loudly, a ball of pleasure on the floor. Yuki called on him to stop and Yoroku pulled back, his son at his side.

"What will be of you, Morihei?" he asked yet again, flicking clumps of mud from his clothes. The boy looked back at his father, but his eyes were focused far and away.

"I want to be a priest, Father, just like the Kubo Daishi and I want to be as strong as a mighty deity, protecting this world from wrongs and helping the weak."

Father nodded at the dreaming youth. "I hope you'll be able to protect and help yourself first," he mumbled but the boy, who had already wriggled his way out, was not listening.

Quietly Yoroku sat there a little longer, suspecting that by trying to strengthen the boy he might have only implanted new obsessions. Little did he know how right he was, that he had actually shown his son the life he would eventually choose.

"Boys," said Henri. "Pay attention please. Today we will start to learn essential Aikido skills. In those I refer to break falls, strikes, and the turning of the body's centre. In addition you will learn how to connect to your centre. This is only the beginning, the basics. Remember, Aikido uses the opponent's power for execution of techniques such as throws and locks. Aikilibrium, the higher Skill, uses all the immediate powers surrounding."

"Osu, Sensei," shouted Max, miming a respectful expression. He felt that Henri was talking too much. If they had to be there then he preferred to get on with it.

Henri sensed the insulting attitude. He reacted immediately, punishing the rude youngster. His right hand connected, open palm, with Max's left cheek. Max was quick but couldn't anticipate the move in time to counter. The sound of the slap echoed across the empty training room. Max rubbed his cheek, his mouth twisted in pain and anger.

"No problem, J," Max smiled. He was staring at Henri murderously and Jerome thought that Henri was actually frightened.

They were in the room nicknamed the Plain Dojo, for the very reason that the space was mainly vacant. Near the wall they saw a few punch and kick pads, a weapon rack and that was all. It was designed intentionally empty, to avoid any external stimulation that might distract the students from their goal. The simplicity in the School of Aikilibrium, however, didn't come cheap as was demonstrated by the high quality of the materials composing the room. The walls were covered with smooth planks of wood that sweetly scented the well-ventilated hall, a remnant of living nature. A narrow and decorated tiled patch, at the entrance of the room led to a floor covered with tatami mats. They were made by the finest weavers, and coated in silk sheets to keep them intact and to allow minimum friction.

It was not a large dojo, only a hundred meters square but it was big enough for two. Skilled fighters were used to training in small secretive halls, although Jerome was certain that Yves would have put them on display if it brought him profit. The whole place stank of money and greed. Yves kept them hidden and Jerome was positive the reason was to conceal their identity and to minimize their chances of escape.

The walls of the Plain Dojo were padded one meter up from the floor to give extra protection for the fighting drills. Students of the Skill were an expensive investment. Only maintaining the special equipment and paying the rent were substantially costly. Understandably Yves took many measures to keep practice controlled and protected, not wanting his protégés hurt. Not unless it was done deliberately by him or at his command. Nobody in the school dared to hurt his students without permission. Henri was one who had that permission.

Max stopped rubbing his cheek and clenched his jaw. There was a red patch, resembling the large palm of Henri, on his face. If any instructor had to hurt a student, they had to do it just as Henri did, superficial and painful. Enough to sting the flesh and the pride. Enough to bring about discipline. Jerome kicked Max when Henri was not watching. He shook his head at him, signalling with a finger across his sealed lips. He didn't like to see Max getting hurt.

"The main objective of this drill is not to get hurt while falling. It is the most basic break fall." Max copied him with ease, his natural acrobatic skills coming in handy. Jerome managed to roll but it took him a bit longer.

"Come on, J," Max teased. "We'll never make it to lunch like that." Henri approached and slapped him across the face. This time on the other cheek.

"No one speaks during training. No one apart from the Sensei." Max nodded in conformation, his eyes flushed with tears of pain. "Do I make myself clear?" Henri asked, loud and sharp.

"Osu, Sensei," answered Max, tightening his lips. They went through the low break fall exercise for an hour.

When the time came to train on the high break fall, Henri ordered them to sit as he explained. "The high break fall, like everything else in Aikido, is carried out with emphasis on the centre of the body." He stopped to demonstrate how he stretched his head and spine, creating the right sensation for practice. "You must practice a lot of these drills and indeed you shall in the days to come. It is the base for the whole art."

They rolled constantly, dazed and nauseated, the bony ridge of their lower back swelling up. Henri stopped them for an hour's lunch break, taking them back to their lodgings.

They ate, replaced their sweaty dogi with clean ones and lay briefly on the hard floor. Before they knew it Henri came back and led them to the Plain Dojo.

"In order to create a circular motion, a person needs a good centre, an axis to rotate upon. You will practice how to create awareness of that centre and once you have mastered that you will have to learn where to place it." Jerome raised his hand to ask a question. Henri allowed him to speak.

"What do you mean by saying 'where to place our centre', Sensei?" Henri seemed to like that question. Henri seemed to like talking the best.

"You will learn to place your centre and body weight on different places of your feet, like your heel or the ball of the foot. Later on you will learn where to place it in relation to your opponent's position. Another important matter, as it can determine the outcome of your technical execution." To emphasize his words, he stopped and demonstrated two different pivots. One using the heel as an axis and the other the ball of the foot.

"We will start with these turns," Henri ordered and once again they resumed training.

As before, Max was doing exceptionally well. Performing with ease and confidence. Jerome struggled a bit, but he got there soon enough. Next they practiced strikes and the way to deliver them from the centre.

"It is vital that your strikes be derived from your core. You might be able to extract a lot of power with your limbs but it is a very different level of energy when it comes from your centre."

He ordered Jerome to pick up a square punching pad and to rest it against his body. Henri placed his fist on the pad. He concentrated a minute and then a shudder went through his body. He didn't really punch, his hand didn't lose contact with the pad. Jerome, however, felt a huge power surging into the pad and through it to his body. His legs lifted off the floor and he flew backwards. The padded wall stopped his flight and with a grunt he dropped to the floor. Max laughed heartily, tears in his eyes and Henri looked quiet pleased with himself.

"A fine bunch of sadists," Jerome thought, grimacing as he lifted up. "Does everyone here have to be that cruel?" It was a question he would repeat to himself on numerous occasions during the following days.

They waited for Jerome to return and then they started to practice. Henri worked them tirelessly, hardly allowing them any break.

"You will need to be a warrior to survive. Don't you dare stop before I tell you to." They didn't, concentrating firmly on their training, well behaved over all. Discipline, however, didn't come that easily to Max; he got smacked twice more before the day ended. When they were done, Henri escorted them back to their living quarters and locked the door.

"What about a shower?" Jerome reminded him. Yves ordered them to shower daily and it was a task Jerome liked. He kept that fact a secret because he knew how much Max hated it. "Come on," he called to his friend. "You'll feel much better afterwards." He didn't wait for him though. A moment later, Jerome was standing under the steaming water of the shower, washing the sweat and dirt away. He closed his eyes and tried soothing his aching muscles and bones. Never before had he undergone such intense physical activity.

He came out of his meditation with the heavy pounding of Max on the shower door. "Hurry up, J," he shouted. "Don't spend the whole day in there." Jerome sighed and raised his arm blindly, feeling for the tap. He tightened the valve and stepped out, wrapped in a towel.

Dinner was ready in the dinning room. There was a hatch through which the food was brought. They never met the people who delivered the food. Jerome waited for Max before he started to eat. They were both dressed in the yukata that they had received from the school.

"Yes I did," Max replied with a mouth full of food. "I love the acrobatic stuff and the fighting techniques. I think I'll make a good fighter." Jerome agreed with him, Max was punching and kicking the pads almost as powerfully as Henri did.

Sadly Jerome remembered the cruel competition Yves had set before them and it overshadowed any sense of pleasure that he might have. He envied Max for the way he tended to forget about it. Either Max had found a way to deal with the threat to his life or he was never actually bothered. Jerome was so convinced about it that Max's words came as a total shock.

"We will not let him get away with it," he declared in a chilling voice, not specifying what he was referring to. Jerome stared wide-eyed at him, he had no doubt what the topic was. Max hadn't forgotten about it after all.

"I say that if it ever comes down to it and Yves wipes one of us out then the other shall avenge him." Jerome swallowed hard. He was scared of what Max was proposing.

"I propose that the one remaining kills the bastard. Make him pay with his life for the life he takes." It was sharp, brutal and yet somehow it was reasonable enough to Jerome's sense of justice. His fear changed to determination.

"I agree." He nodded to confirm. Max didn't doubt the sincerity of the statement.

They finished eating quietly and went to bed. In a way Jerome slept better that night. Now he knew what to do if the worst came about. He had a plan and he had gained a friend, a new and loyal friend. He was smiling to himself when he finally relaxed into sleep.