Paque’s Guidance

Evening had settled in, and the scorching sunlight waned.
Students poured out of the school gates in an unending stream.
By the parking lot—
“Mona turned out to be that kind of person, played with your feelings and conned you out of two grand. You can’t just let this go,” Rust said indignantly, walking side by side with Dean as they pushed their bikes. “You should call the police.”
Dean shook his head without hesitation.
“Then tomorrow I’ll go with you to the sewers and drag her out!”
“Are you sure you want to skip classes? Aren’t you worried about your grades?”
“I can’t let my buddy take risks alone!” Rust gritted his teeth. “But you’d better be careful. You’ve been missing so much school lately that several teachers are talking about lowering your participation grades.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve already explained there was a break-in at home. They understand.” Dean glanced toward the east side of the school, where, about five hundred meters away, a bicycle shop sign hung above the street—a perfect spot to patch a tire.
“I heard some students talking about dealing with you during class this afternoon, trying to curry favor with Bob.”
They conspired in hushed voices as they wheeled their bikes along the curb, but they hadn’t gone far when, beneath a row of streetlamps, three young men blocked their path. Their faces were rigid with tension.
Two were particularly tall white guys; the third was Asian, his pronounced cheekbones and two faint nasolabial folds beside his nose hinting at youth.
“I’m Karen Takei. And you’re Dean?”
The Japanese boy stiffened his neck, working hard to appear calm, but his trembling voice betrayed him. His muddled l’s and r’s were almost comical—clearly, he hadn’t been in the country long.
Dean jerked his chin, signaling him to go on, eyes drifting to the two tall white men, noting their hands were hidden behind their backs, concealing something.
Dean quietly tightened his grip on the bicycle’s handlebars, while Rust’s hand slipped into his backpack, finger hooking around a metal ring on a tin can.
“Did you know Bob’s throwing a birthday party atop Mount Moncarlo?”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“Bob is generous and open-hearted, inviting everyone to celebrate and enjoy themselves together. But what did you do?” the Japanese youth suddenly shouted, his cheeks flushed with anger. “You shamefully ambushed Bob! You’re a despicable scoundrel—a disgrace!”
“You should be ashamed and regretful!”
“You must pay for what you’ve done!”
Dean scoffed at this little upstart.
With a yell, the Japanese boy swung a fist at Dean’s face.
But Dean was ready—he pulled his neck back, dodged the punch, and with both hands shoved the bike frame forward.
Thud!
The bicycle wheel rammed straight into Takei’s groin.
You used a special weapon (bicycle) to strike Karen Takei’s vital spot. Combat proficiency +1.
A combat log flashed before Dean’s eyes.
Takei’s hands flew to his groin as he let out a quacking, grating scream.
Thud!
Dean sidestepped in, following up with a left hook that snapped Takei’s mouth shut.
The two white guys charged, swinging what they’d been hiding.
A pungent odor hit the air as they flung their arms.
A torrent of green paint splashed down like a waterfall, the fluorescent splash aiming for Dean.
Dean dropped low, rolling close to the ground.
Most of the paint missed, splattering the pavement and the lamppost green, but a fair bit still landed on Dean’s body.
His back and the left side of his face went cold. He shook his head instinctively.
One of the burly white guys lunged, landing a solid kick to Dean’s shoulder with the force of a soccer player, sending Dean sprawling backward.
The second white guy circled behind, about to kick Dean in the back of the head, when suddenly he clutched his face in horror and let out a scream that could have come from a damsel beset by thugs.
A stench, sharp and all-pervasive as amniotic fluid, seeped into every pore.
He’d inhaled too much of the “biochemical gas” in an instant; his head spun, his limbs wouldn’t obey, and he collapsed on his back, convulsing and vomiting up his lunch.
The remaining white guy, chasing Dean, turned to see his teammate sprawled in misery—a viscous, cloudy soup coating his head and face, a long, flat, shimmering herring wedged between his collar and neck, its big fish eyes staring in silent greeting.
“Do I smell good?”
A breeze picked up, and the suffocating stench wrapped around him instantly.

“Ugh!”
How to describe it?
It was like an old toilet, unwashed for a decade—a stench that burrowed deep into the soul, rooting him to the spot with a shudder.
Dean seized the opportunity, swinging his shoulder bag like a meteor hammer, carving a graceful arc through the air and striking the man’s head dead-on.
You used a special weapon (shoulder bag) to hit the enemy’s head. Combat proficiency +1 (30/100).
Dean braced his feet, twisted his hips, and drove his shoulder forward—a left straight punch, as forceful as a cannon shot, slammed into the man’s flabby gut. The man gasped in pain, eyes bulging as he curled up. Dean’s hand chopped up, lightning-quick, into his windpipe; the man swallowed his scream and lay clutching his throat.
Dean wiped the paint from his cheek with his sleeve and surveyed the scene. In mere seconds, both towering white men were down for the count.
Takei, the only one still standing, saw his chance and hobbled toward the intersection, clutching his groin. A few high schoolers at the corner, there for the spectacle, ducked out of sight.
Dean caught up in a few strides and kicked Takei square in the lower back, sending him sprawling.
Both fists rained down on his back, left and right.
Only when Takei was barely breathing—and another proficiency point awarded—did Dean stop.
All three attackers were now reduced to beaten dogs.
“A few punks think they can ambush me.”
Dean pinched his nose and turned to give Rust, who was busy pouring herring juice into a white guy’s mouth, a thumbs-up.
“Nice work, man!”
“This can is magic!” Rust gazed at the empty can in his hand, face aglow with pride and awe.
“Too bad about the smell—Grace will kill me!”
Dean couldn’t help but laugh. With his Ironman talent, the fierce little skirmish had left him barely winded.
The pain in his shoulder, kicked by the burly white guy, passed in a flash.
Before, he would’ve needed a break at the very least, if not a trip to the doctor.
“Rust, see you at school tomorrow. Re-stock tonight.”
…
Dean patched his tire, then he and Rust went their separate ways home.
“Is that paint on you? And what’s that smell—did you fall in a toilet?”
Paquay, lounging in the yard with a cigarette, teased him.
“Got in a fight, but they got it worse. I’m off to shower!”
Dean dashed into the bathroom, using olive oil and soap to scrub most of the paint off, but his hair was a lost cause. He grabbed scissors and chopped it all off, leaving a clean, short crop.
The only misfortune: no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t rid himself of the herring can stench.
That smell would haunt him for days.
…
“Not bad—this haircut suits you. You finally look less childish. Ancestors be praised. You’ve inherited all the best features from Light and Leia. You’ll be a handsome guy one day. But what were you doing in the Vegas sewers?”
Paquay scooped up a mouthful of cherry pie—tonight, with neither Tangya nor Jacob’s barbecue, dinner was whatever he could manage.
Dean, though Chinese by blood, had no talent for cooking; he ate whatever, as long as it filled him up.
“A friend’s gone missing. He used to live in the sewers. I thought I’d check it out. Do you know much about the place?”
“Your girlfriend?” Paquay eyed his nephew, noting the pause in his chewing, and nodded to himself. “If you’re headed for the sewers, you can either go in through a manhole, or head ten kilometers south of the school. Once you see the interstate sign, go west and you’ll find the nearest drainage entrance.”
“It’s dark and damp in there, a lot like the old subway stations in New York, but with more branching tunnels—you could easily get lost.”
“It’s not as filthy as you’d think, except in the rainy season. With a bit of cleaning up, it’s livable. Add a generator and it’s not so different from a regular house, aside from frequently losing things.”
“I heard some criminals trade in the sewers?” Dean asked.
“Not every day, but if you’re unlucky enough to run into them, just turn back and leave. Don’t stand there like some cop, staring down the barrel of a gun.” Paquay advised. “Most of the people living down there are con artists—don’t trust them, and don’t get all soft-hearted, or you’ll end up swindled out of your underwear.”
Dean let out a breath of relief.
“If you really plan to go, wear something thick. Don’t let them see your Asian face. Bring plenty of flashlights and a weapon, like a baseball bat. And don’t go too deep—no one will help if you get lost. If you see a restricted sign, don’t play hero.”
Paquay licked the last breadcrumb from his finger, still worried.
“Forget it. Tomorrow I’ll go with you myself, or send Jacob. If anything happened to you, I couldn’t face your missing parents.”
“Don’t worry, a classmate’s going with me.”
Dean flexed his newly developed biceps.
Paquay’s gaze slowly swept over his nephew’s calm face, his fearless eyes meeting his own.

“This time, you’ve changed so much I can barely recognize you. Is a broken heart really so miraculous? Does it turn a boy into a man overnight?”
Dean grabbed a second burger from his plate, stuffed it in his mouth, and replied casually,
“Uncle Paquay, so do you think these changes are for better or worse?”
“Smart kid, changing the topic on me,” Paquay said with a laugh and a curse.
Dean breathed easier, knowing the subject was dropped. They chatted about sewer exploration precautions.
“Dean, ever since you started high school, we haven’t sat out here like this and had a real talk. You’re just like your dad—bottling everything up, never sharing with family. Not the Comanche way.”
“I realize that was wrong, Uncle. Tonight, let’s talk as much as you like.” Dean answered sincerely.
Paquay laughed, the tattoo on the back of his neck gleaming. He went inside, fetched a case of beer, and toasted Dean’s orange juice.
He talked about Dean’s late parents, who had vanished eight summers ago while traveling back to their Indiana hometown. Even the cops couldn’t solve it.
He spoke of his days serving in New York.
…
Dean, in turn, asked why his uncle was still single.
“Some people are born to wander. When I was younger, I couldn’t settle anywhere. Once I finish my current work, I might leave Nevada, maybe head back to Indiana. By then, you’ll be working or in college—time you learned to stand on your own two feet.”
…
When the moon hung high overhead,
Dean felt restless—the big meal, combined with his Ironman gift, had left him bursting with energy.
“Uncle Paquay, you were a soldier—you must be good at hand-to-hand combat?”
“I trained a bit, but not much. Unless you’re a pro wrestler or boxer, hand-to-hand isn’t much use in a real fight.” Paquay, seeing his nephew silent, tried to explain.
“I’ll tell you a joke. Good hand-to-hand combat only makes sense if—
1: You and your buddies get separated
2: You’ve lost your gun
3: You’ve also lost your knife
4: You’ve misplaced your belt, helmet, entrenching tool—anything that could serve as a weapon
5: You’re somewhere barren, with no rocks, bricks, sticks, or even sand around
6: And, by luck, your enemy is just as stupid as you are
Then—you can have a great brawl.”
Dean nodded in agreement.
In a real fight for your life, nobody cares to wrestle empty-handed.
But right now, he needed a sparring partner.
“So now you get it—training for hand-to-hand is fine, but you’re better off sharpening your awareness and your shooting. Still, if you want, it’s good for self-defense at school, and for strengthening body and mind.” Paquay’s tone softened.
“Will you practice with me?” Dean stood, hopping in place and loosening his limbs. “Don’t go too easy, but don’t kill me either.”
Paquay rolled his neck, fists cracking like gunshots. The six-foot-three man came alive—legs bent, stance wider than his shoulders, head low, arms extended.
“Be prepared. This might not be what you expect, but it’s for your own good—to show you how brutal reality can be—”
His words cut off.
A shadow, as heavy as a mountain, rushed at Dean.
Caught unprepared, Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to dodge, but his body wouldn’t move, frozen like a statue.
Bang!
Paquay hit him like a speeding train, his arms locking Dean’s waist in a vise.
Bang!
He slammed Dean to the ground.
The back of Dean’s head softly struck the grass, and his mind buzzed like a speaker.
“Unfair! You ambushed me!”
Dean’s vision blurred, then cleared again.
Paquay, across from him, crooked a finger contemptuously.
“Rookie, this is lesson one—always stay alert, and don’t listen to the enemy’s nonsense.”