it, at the very least. She would probably have laughed at him if he’d tried. Women this attractive usually did.
He frowned. Where was he going with this train of thought? He had no idea.
He looked at his reflection as he frowned. The woman even looked good when she did that. Or rather, he did. He even looked good when he did that. It was all very confusing.
“Are you looking at your reflection in that blade?”
Scapegrace whirled, the sword held out in front of him. The old man who had spoken stood there with his hands pressed together like he was praying. Grandmaster Ping was the kind of old that you just didn’t see a whole lot of any more. He was a small Chinese man with a grey wispy beard that sprouted from his chin like a trail of hairy smoke. His skin was like parchment paper that had been crumpled up, tossed in a bin, then taken out and half-heartedly flattened. It was full of wrinkles, basically. Ping was dressed in what he called the traditional robes of his ancestors, but Scapegrace was fairly certain that the bathrobe was new.
“You must be ready at all times,” Ping said in that heavy Chinese accent. “How can you see your enemies clearly when you cannot even take your eyes off yourself?”
Scapegrace didn’t answer. He was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question.
Ping’s hands moved like flowing water, and he stepped back into a deep fighting stance. “Come,” he said. “Attack me.”
“But you don’t have a sword,” Scapegrace said.
Ping smiled. “That does not mean I am unarmed.”
Scapegrace let out a yell and ran forward, slashing his sword at the air, and then he leaped, spun, landed and twisted his ankle. He cried out, dropped the sword as he stumbled to one knee in front of Ping, who looked down at him and punched him on the nose.
“Ow!” Scapegrace yelled.
Ping brought his hands together again, and he bowed. “Ask yourself, my student, how did I beat you?”
“You hit my nose!”
“Exactly. If you can hit your opponent’s nose more than he can hit yours, you too will taste victory.”
“I’m bleeding!”
“You might need a tissue.”
Thrasher came forward, a box of tissues in his big, stupid, masculine hands. Scapegrace yanked a handful free and held them to his face as he glared at Ping. “When will I be ready?”
“Soon, my student.”
“You keep saying that. How soon is soon?”
“Soon is when the moment passes,” Ping answered.
Scapegrace was certain that made no actual sense, but he knew better than to press it. Thrasher helped him to his feet. The idiot’s new body was all muscle and chiselled jawline – a chiselled jawline that should have been Scapegrace’s own.
“You seem frustrated,” Ping said.
“Of course I’m frustrated,” said Scapegrace. “I have one way of gaining the respect of the people who have mocked me all my life – to become the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. You were supposed to teach me the deadly arts, but all you do is hit me when I fall down.”
“I see,” said Ping. “You do not think you are learning, is that it? Tell me something, my student. Have you ever seen The Karate Kid? The original, starring Ralph Macchio, not the remake, starring the son of Will Smith. Have you seen it?”
“Of course.”
“In that movie, Daniel-san does not believe he is learning, either, does he? And yet Mr Miyagi is teaching him without him even being aware of it. That is sort of what I am doing.”
“So what am I learning?”
“When the time comes, you will know.”
Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “In that movie, Mr Miyagi has Daniel doing all these mundane tasks like painting the fence and waxing the car, then later Daniel does the same moves and finds out it’s karate. You have me doing all of these fighting moves … if I find out later that what you’re actually doing is teaching me how to paint fences and wax cars, I’m not paying you, you understand?”
Ping chortled. “Very funny, you are, Miss Scapegrace.”
“Mr!” Scapegrace roared. “I am a man!”
“Of course,” Ping said, bowing. “Of course you are. Our lessons begin again in the morning.” And with that, he stepped backwards into the shadows, and silence settled like autumn leaves falling from the trees.
Thrasher peered closer. “Are you still there?”
From the shadows, the aforementioned silence. Then, “No.”
“You are,” said Thrasher. “I can see you.”
Scapegrace could see Ping, too, but he didn’t say anything as the wise old grandmaster shuffled sideways until he reached the doorway, then went down on his hands and knees and crawled out. A few seconds later, the back door opened and closed. Thrasher murmured something.
Scapegrace glared. “What? What did you say?”
Thrasher sighed. “I just don’t see why you have to become a warrior, Master. Why put yourself in harm’s way? We have healthy new bodies and new lives to live and, OK, your body might not be ideal, but who cares about what we look like? It’s who we are inside that counts.”
“Tell me something – when Nye was putting your brain in that head, are you sure he didn’t drop any on the floor?”
“Oh, Master, please don’t be mean.”
“Don’t be mean? Don’t be mean? You’re an idiot! My new body isn’t ‘ideal’? It’s not even the same gender as my old one! Do you know what it’s like to be one gender trapped in another gender’s body?”
“I … I might,” said Thrasher.
“You have no idea! Look at you! You’re an Adonis! You walk down the street and people stare in admiration! But when I walk down the street …”
“Well, maybe if you started wearing underwear …”
“Underwear?” Scapegrace screeched. “Underwear? You think that’s the solution? Everything I wear is either too tight or too loose! I have pains in my back, did you know that? Do you know how hard it is to even stand upright in this body? How do women do it?”
Thrasher cleared his throat. “Well, sir, not all women are as … physically impressive as you are.”
Scapegrace narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you be getting any ideas.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
Thrasher
