The voice that came through the gas mask was low and slightly muffled, like sound coming up from a basement.
Matthew looked Hank over and kept his expression neutral, though internally he was impressed. The man looked exactly like he was supposed to.
"Hank," he said, "I assume Ross already walked you through what I need from you?"
"Yes." Hank's gaze settled on Matthew and stayed there. It wasn't hostile, exactly. It was the way a snake looks at something, calm and completely without sentiment.
"Objective is clear. Comprehensive combat training. Get you to a functional level of battlefield survivability in the shortest time possible." He paused, then crouched and set the black case he was carrying on the floor. "Before we start, you'll want to change into this. It'll protect you during training."
Inside the case was a full tactical outfit. Almost identical to what Hank was wearing.
Matthew didn't hesitate. The suit he had on probably cost more than his old monthly rent, and he wasn't interested in finding out what a training session with this man did to fine Italian wool. He might have money now, but old habits died hard.
The tactical gear fit well. Better than he expected. The material was dense enough to offer real protection but flexible enough that it didn't restrict movement. He understood immediately why Hank apparently wore this every single day.
Once Matthew was changed, Eleanor read the room and excused herself toward the elevator. On her way out, she stopped beside Hank and murmured something to him.
Hank went still for a moment. Behind the red lenses of his mask, something shifted. He looked at Eleanor, then gave a single nod.
"Understood. I'll earn it. Full compliance with orders. No holding back in training. I'll get the boss up to speed as fast as possible."
Eleanor left looking satisfied.
At which point a notification appeared in front of Matthew, who was mid-warmup.
System Points +20. "Hank" feels significantly more motivated.
Matthew stared at it.
More motivated. He looked at Hank, who was walking toward him holding a tactical knife by the blade, handle extended.
After a moment, Matthew took it.
"Hank," he said carefully, "I'm your employer. You understand that, right?"
He was trying, gently, to communicate that there was no need to go absolutely all out on the man signing his checks.
Hank tilted his head slightly and misread this completely. He assumed Matthew was worried that the professional dynamic would make Hank pull his punches.
"I understand exactly what you mean, sir." The red lenses caught the light. "I'll give everything I have."
"Good. Let's begin."
"Yes, sir."
A blade of cold light came straight for his chest.
Two weeks passed.
Matthew survived them, technically. He slept well, he'd give Hank that. Every session ended with him getting knocked unconscious in one way or another, which turned out to be a remarkably effective cure for insomnia.
The tactical gear from day one had been reduced to rags within the first few days. Umbrella's medical spray healed the cuts and bruises fast, no scarring, but fast healing didn't mean it didn't hurt going in. Hank hit like he was being paid per bruise, and the man had apparently never heard of a learning curve. He trained Matthew to the same standard he'd apply to a fifteen-year veteran, from day one, regardless of the fact that Matthew had never trained a day in his life before walking into this building.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Matthew had assumed that being the boss would count for something. That maybe the implied message in "I'm your employer, you understand that" would register.
It had registered. Hank had just interpreted it as permission to go full throttle.
The brass casings were still bouncing off the concrete when Hank broke into a sprint.
Matthew fired the MP5 in controlled bursts, the powder loads reduced so neither of them was actually at risk of anything permanent. He'd never understood, before this, how anyone could dodge a bullet. The physics of it seemed obviously impossible.
Now he got it. Nobody outruns a bullet. But someone with enough experience and fast enough reflexes can read the angle of a muzzle and move before the trigger is pulled. Hank did it the way other people breathe, without appearing to think about it at all. Round after round passed within inches of him and caught nothing but the wall behind.
Then the bolt locked back. Empty.
Hank stopped dodging and came in.
Matthew dropped the MP5 without thinking, drew the sidearm, and fired twice at near point-blank range while his other hand was already finding the karambit on his hip. The shots forced Hank to check his momentum and turn his head. The knife came up in the same motion and knocked the pistol clean out of Matthew's grip.
But the karambit was already there to meet it.
Blade met blade. Sparks jumped. One of them caught Matthew in the eye and he blinked hard, vision going red at the edges, and Hank used that half-second to redirect the force of the block, spin, and put a boot directly into Matthew's chest.
The impact nearly took him off his feet. He staggered back two steps, found his balance through sheer stubbornness, and came right back in.
The karambit kept moving, working toward anything vital, and Hank kept blocking, redirecting, the two of them grinding through the exchange in a shower of sparks until Matthew landed a clean knee strike that finally put some distance between them.
He stood there, chest heaving, and looked at the long diagonal slash across Hank's body armor.
He'd been about to say something about it when Hank pointed at his chest.
Matthew looked down.
Hank had opened a large X across his upper armor at some point during the exchange, clean and deliberate. His legs and forearms showed another four or five cuts through the outer layer, exposing the slash-resistant underlining beneath.
He hadn't even felt most of them.
Silence for a moment.
Then Hank looked at his own chest, looked back at Matthew, and held up a thumb. "You're improving."
"We'll call it there for today. Next time, try not to trade hits to land hits. There's usually a better way."
The elevator chimed before Matthew could respond. The sound of Eleanor's heels crossed the floor toward them.
"I'm sorry for the interruption, gentlemen." She looked between them with the composed expression of someone who had long since stopped being surprised by what she found down here. "There's a board meeting tomorrow evening that requires your attendance. You'll want some time to prepare." She paused. "Also, Obadiah Stane from Stark Industries made an appointment a week ago for this afternoon. He's in the conference room now."