“Ms. Fiorelli.”

Grigori smiled at his over-eager boss with all the warmth of a hot summer’s night. It was all too often that he remembered the characteristic underbosses of the organization, those who had too much ambition with their positions of power.

For better or worse, Elisabeth Fiorelli had made such a pointed impression.

“I’ve seen them before, once or twice,” he admitted. “Utilized them. I’m afraid it’s been quite some time.”

He wasn’t one to delve into these strange digital worlds. For once in his life, he had to admit that the technology absent in his youth, or even middle age, had surpassed what he understood. But to be fair, this sort of technology was well above most of the other grunts understanding as well. He didn’t lose sleep over not knowing or trying to know the technology.

It’s not like the League was trying to shove the grunts into digitized worlds as a combat method yet. He could afford it.

“And it’s… going, to say the least,” he said. Things were a lot harder this time around. He learned so much about himself, yet it felt like for every step forward, there was also a step back. Time didn’t heal everything after all. “But I must thank you again for showing me that there is still work to be done.”

He did not regret it, and he would not let Elisabeth think herself clever for what she pulled in her office, all those months back. “But, if you could please give me a run-down of our purpose here today, I would appreciate it. Specialized training, I presume?”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Oh.

So that meeting still lingered in her mind. “Ms. Fiorelli, I will do my best to complete what you’ve set out for me. But I must recommend you let sleeping dogs rest– it’s not good for your long-term mental health. Please understand, I speak from personal experience.”

Either have him properly punished by decree of the other underbosses, or let the matter stay where it belonged: in the past. But, as he took her hand into his and met her eyes with confidence and compassion, he could not let the matter sit in his own mind. Everyone had their vices. Elisabeth’s was past slights.

His was past mistakes.

As he stepped through the doors, he could already feel the environment be molded by his thoughts. Sudden hatred towards Gabe. That night in the garage. The cold chill of the concrete-padded floors and cinderblocks that made up that prison of emotion. Faint smell of oil, mixed with blood…

How he entered with such cold, calculated rage and left with the deepest of shames. He looked at his hand, the one that shook with the venomous viper. She… did she do this?

As the doors closed on this sudden prison, he met her eyes. Disappointment filled his deep-blue irises. Metal snapped together, and he was locked in.

“What past perils await me, I wonder,” he quipped. They both knew where this would go. There was never more than one path for this encounter to follow.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

As described and envisioned in his mind, the scene came to the forefront of the simulation. Several bright red toolboxes illuminated underneath the dingy yellow lights. An expensive car hung from a machine in the middle of the floor, and oil covered the dusty concrete.

Even the quiet hum of a radio, which played hard rock from forty years ago, was present. Subconscious memories that not even he could recall with such detail. It was familiar, painfully so. What such technology of capable of would’ve been impressive.

If it were not for the matter at hand.

He was back. Elisabeth held the grudge from the meeting in the Cave of Origin, and he held the memory of the mistakes committed by himself. It combined together into a bastard child, a wispy shadow figure molded into the problems of his past.

The form walked confidently towards Grigori, unbothered or unaware of how events were supposed to go in the memory. Tall, lanky, and filled to the brim with murderous intent. “You wish I could abandon you, Grigori.”

“And I wish I could–”

The words never got out, as Gabriel threw the first punch. The grunt spun to the side, only able to balance himself with the help of a workshop bench. Despite being a simulation, he could feel the blood start to emerge from the wound. The first drop of crimson stained its scratched wooden top. Gabriel snickered, and cracked his knuckles.

And thus began the second-most one-sided fight between Grigori and the man he’d beaten the first time.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

The first half wasn’t even close. Grigori took each blow without so much as a raised hand in defense. They connected into his face, chest, gut, arms, legs– if there was a part of him to hit, it received the retribution it deserved. It hurt like hell, but he had to think. Not succumb to the rage.

This was a test. That much was certain: Elisabeth messed with his emotions to put him in the worst possible spot. He felt angry, spiteful, and ready to obliterate the shadow for the same reasons as three years ago. Unhealthy reasons. Ones that he no longer agreed with.

And the gas didn’t help. A silent yet insidious detriment, another roadblock placed in the path. Once he got a whiff of it, his senses clouded even further. Thoughts became sluggish, and his judgment corroded even further.

But perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. The silver lining in the clouds. This was a test. It wasn’t real. He could not change the past, yet this wasn’t that.

Thus, when another fist flew towards the bridge of his nose, his hand shot up. Suddenly, the blow met the palm of his hand, and the tables turned. His other fist mirrored the attack and sent the apparition spinning. Back into the wall of the garage.

“Oh, so you don’t regret it at all?” The shadow mocked, a dribble of dark matter escaped past its fingers.

“I regret the past,” he grumbled out. “But I live in the present. Unlike you.”

The tides turned. It was no longer a one-sided stomp, but a fight of equal proportions. An unstoppable force met an unmovable object, and they brawled as such. One unable to back down, and one unwilling to bend the knee.

Ms. Fiorelli will not win.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Elisabeth was among the most astute within Rocket’s ranks. Her conclusions were succinctly on point, to a scary degree. The fight continued on, but it was more akin to a punching bag training session rather than a proper brawl. Dark matter continued to fly from the shadow form as Grigori finally started to finish what was started.

Anger carried him forward, but it was ultimately the frustration within that gave him the strength for the final blow. His fist sank into the ‘flesh’, and everything disappeared. Like a poof of smoke, a stiff breeze, the darkness went away.

He gulped air greedily. His body sank backwards, and he grabbed the wall for support. Bones ached and flesh desired rest. Physically, he would recover. his wounds had yet to fail even that task. And when they did, he wouldn’t be much further behind.

It was clear what the Underboss wanted. Him to break. His submission. Admittance of defeat. Something he could never verbally give her. Trials and tribulations were what he deserved, but not a step more.

That’s why he pushed himself from the wall and looked around the ceiling. Up. Which one had he come from?

Did it matter? “Ms. Fiorelli. I’ve completed the training. What now?”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

“No.”

Another trial. To keep his composure, to kill his boss with kindness. She wanted him to lash out, show anger. It was a common happenstance with Elisabeth. It was her job to bring out the worst of people, of the grunts. Rage to be turned against the enemy. But not him. It could not be him.

His anger had started to wane when he set foot on this land. But what else could it be that drove him? Gave him the energy to keep doing what he did? A mystery that begged for an answer. Explanation.

So until he could find it, then he would keep going. If people claimed it to be anger, then anger it would be. Until the culprit reared its ugly head he would go with the flow.

As if nothing was wrong.

“I appreciate your time today, Ms. Fiorelli. But I do not wish to strain myself. We can come back later, if you deem it necessary.”

She can control his actions and his life, but her grip on his emotions must remain loose. Otherwise… then was as lost as the rest of them.

Lost as her.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli