Chapter 4: Hunk Feels More Motivated!
The voice that came through the gas mask was low and slightly hollow, the way all voices sounded filtered through a respirator.
Matthew took in Hunk's appearance — the gear, the mask, the whole arrangement — and quietly approved. The man looked exactly like he was supposed to look.
"Hunk," Matthew said, "I assume Ross briefed you on what this assignment involves?"
"Yes."
Hunk nodded. His gaze settled on Matthew and stayed there. Standing in front of him, Matthew had the distinct sense that the thing looking back at him was not quite a person in the ordinary sense, more like a very calm snake that had decided to wait and see what he did next.
"Objective is clear," Hunk said. "Full-spectrum combat training. Get you to a point where you can survive on a battlefield, in the shortest viable timeframe."
A pause.
"Before we start, you'll need to change. This is to prevent injury during training." He crouched and opened the black case he'd brought with him.
Inside was a fresh tactical combat suit. The cut was, Matthew noticed, nearly identical to Hunk's.
He accepted without argument. The suit Eleanor had brought him that morning was expensive, he could tell that much without knowing anything about tailoring and he had no particular interest in finding out what it looked like after a training session with Hunk. He was no longer broke, but that was not a reason to be careless about things.
The combat suit fit well. Good material, good construction, protective without being restrictive. He understood, for the first time, why Hunk apparently wore this setup every single time.
While Matthew changed, Eleanor excused herself toward the elevator with the quiet efficiency of someone who recognized when she was not needed. Before the doors closed, she stepped close to Hunk and, in a low voice, told him about the salary increase.
Hunk was still for a moment. The red lenses of the gas mask turned toward her.
Then the stillness passed, and he nodded once.
"Understood." His tone did not change, but something in his posture did. "I'll earn it. Full obedience to orders. No holding back in training. I'll make sure the Director gets what he needs to survive a battlefield as quickly as possible."
Eleanor left satisfied.
At the same moment, across the room, a System notification appeared in front of Matthew.
[System: "Hunk" feels significantly more motivated. System points +20.]
Matthew stared at it.
That "motivated" had better not be directed at me specifically.
He looked up. Hunk was walking toward him, holding out a tactical knife, blade catching the light.
Matthew took it. Then, because it felt like the kind of thing worth establishing, he said: "Hunk. I'm your employer. You understand that."
His intent was to use that fact as a buffer against whatever was about to happen to him.
Hunk, unfortunately, interpreted this differently.
He assumed Matthew was signaling that he didn't want his position held against him, that he was giving Hunk permission to treat him like anyone else and not go easy.
Hunk's eyes narrowed behind the mask. Understood perfectly.
"Then we'll begin," he said.
A flash of cold light came directly at Matthew's chest.
Half a month passed.
Matthew had spent most of it in a condition that could charitably be described as functioning and less charitably as everything else. Hunk had, in a roundabout way, resolved his post-transmigration insomnia, every training session ended with Matthew horizontal, and his body had stopped fighting the process.
The combat suit from the first day had long since been retired as structural integrity was no longer one of its qualities. He had accumulated wounds across his torso, arms, and legs in numbers he had stopped counting. The Umbrella Corporation's medical spray handled recovery efficiently, no scarring, rapid healing, but the process of acquiring the wounds remained as painful as wounds generally were.
Hunk's threshold for what constituted "appropriate force" was, in Matthew's estimation, set considerably higher than it had any business being for someone with no prior training.
He was fairly sure he had communicated something between the lines when he'd mentioned being the employer. He remained unclear on what Hunk had taken from it.
Brass casings arced through the air as the MP5 cycled through its magazine. Matthew tracked Hunk across the training floor, muzzle moving with him, rounds reduced-powder — non-lethal, leaving real margin for this kind of work.
Hunk was closing the distance.
Matthew had spent a long time not understanding how a person could dodge a bullet. He understood it now. The answer was that they couldn't — not by outrunning one. What they could do, with enough experience and refined enough reflexes, was read the muzzle and move before the trigger broke. At that point the bullet went where the gun had been pointing, which was no longer where they were.
Hunk was very good at this. Round after round passed close, close enough to be intentional and not one of them connected. They hit the concrete wall behind him and spat sparks.
The bolt locked back. Empty.
Hunk stopped dodging.
He pulled the knife from his hip and came in fast.
Matthew dropped the MP5 without hesitation, cleared his sidearm, and put rounds into the space between them. Point blank, no warning. His other hand found the karambit on his belt.
The shots bought him a moment. Hunk rolled his head past the muzzle, and the knife came up and knocked the pistol out wide in one motion.
They closed to blades.
Hunk's technique was precise in the way that things built over many years of actual use became precise — nothing wasted, nothing decorative. Matthew had absorbed enough of it over the past two weeks to know what he was looking at. He had not absorbed enough to consistently stop it.
The karambit caught Hunk's knife mid-swing. Sparks between the blades, close enough that Matthew felt the heat. Before he could press it, Hunk turned inside the contact, bled the force off his strike, and put a kick into his chest.
The impact was solid. Matthew went back two steps and held his ground through what was mainly stubbornness, then pushed back in, karambit moving through Hunk's defensive lines, targeting the gaps.
The sound of fabric tearing filled the room.
Matthew's blade caught Hunk across the chest. He followed with a knee that shoved Hunk back a full step and gave himself space to breathe. He looked at the cut across Hunk's bulletproof vest.
Then Hunk pointed at him.
Matthew looked down.
Across the front of his own vest, at some point during the exchange, Hunk had opened a clean X — two diagonal cuts, shoulder to opposite hip, both directions. His legs and arms had additional cuts of varying sizes showing the slash-resistant underlayer beneath.
He said nothing.
Experience did have its advantages.
After a moment, Hunk looked at the tear across his own vest. He held up a thumb.
"That's real progress." A pause. "We'll call it there for today. Next time, try not to trade wound for wound if you can avoid it."
The elevator at the far end of the floor chimed softly. The sound of heels on the floor followed — Eleanor's, recognizable by now.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir." She looked between them. "There's a board meeting tomorrow evening that requires your attendance. You'll want to start preparing."
She continued: "Also, Mr. Obadiah Stane of Stark Industries made an appointment a week ago for this afternoon. He's already waiting in the conference room."