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Glass Ceiling
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel: the Series are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.
Part II
Cordelia learned fuses, and found that in her own way Mandy was as great a devotee as Bitch to the principle of learning by doing. The major difference was that, impersonally brutal slave-driver though she might be, Bitch wasn’t particular about how something was accomplished, as long as it got done; Mandy, however, was a maniacal perfectionist, insisting that all tasks be performed exactly the same way (her way) every single time. She wasn’t unpleasant about it, but she was relentless.
Correction: the major difference between the two women was their attitude toward Cordelia. Bitch regarded her as an unwelcome chore, and never hid her displeasure at the imposition, but her actual interaction with Cordelia was utterly matter-of-fact; she pounded the crap out of her student several times daily, but as dispassionately as if she were working on an assembly line. Mandy always made it personal, or tried to. She habitually stood just a bit too close, touched just a bit too often and let the touch remain just a bit too long, kept direct unwavering eye contact whenever she could, and strove endlessly, by voice and body language and that not-quite-suggestive smile, to create an atmosphere of intimacy between them.
It could have been a source of awkwardness and discomfort … except that Cordelia didn’t believe for a moment that Mandy was serious. The other woman was testing her, constantly sending out little probes just to see what readings she got; and Cordelia, who had long since mastered the intricacies of implied-sex-as-power, made sure that the return readings were faintly promising but never explicit. She would draw away from the little touches when she could … but not a recoil, just a half-step back and continue with the business at hand. Sometimes she would smile a little herself, and sometimes she would simply put on a thoughtful look, as if she might be considering previously unexamined possibilities. It was the same game she had been playing since junior high, only here she could operate more subtly (with teenaged guys, anything more subtle than a brickbat or full frontal nudity was simply below their perception threshold), and the fact that it was directed toward another woman only meant that Cordelia could proceed with automatic and total objectivity, never worrying that she might become convinced by her own artifice. She was immune, for not just one but three distinct reasons.
First and most obviously, Cordelia was no lesbo. She knew exactly what got her hormones humming, and — PC or not — certain attachments were just not optional.
Second, if she ever were to consider crossing that particular street, even for a visit, it would be with someone worthy of herself. She was eighteen, and Mandy, for all her studied windblown Revlon wet-lip foxiness, would be pushing thirty and was starting to show the mileage. If that kind of attitude was superficial, then superficiality had its advantages. Charlize Theron, maybe. Mandy, nuh-uh.
Third, there was something about the other woman Cordelia couldn’t have hoped to quantify but didn’t question for an instant. She had seen it in Natalie French, she had seen it more and more in Amy toward the end (before Faith had settled the matter by sticking a knife in the girl’s belly), she had seen it in every lame retro minion-vamp strutting through the Bronze: Mandy was a killer. Not just someone who killed; Buffy had done plenty of that without losing control or humanity, and even Faith had been badly shaken by Amy’s death, though there really hadn’t been any other way to save Willow from the Mayor and his little witch-Friday. No, Mandy was someone who wasn’t bothered in the least by killing, and that would pour ice water on any potential fantasies even if Cordelia had felt an inclination in that direction.
So she was free to work a carefully-balanced pretense, just in case Mandy might ever become truly interested. That would give her leverage, and Cordelia wasn’t about to turn down any potential leverage. (She’d never actually have sex with the woman, though. She had learned that much from prime-time television, and then had the awareness honed in the gladiatorial arena of high school dating: Unresolved Sexual Tension kept its power only as long as it stayed unresolved.) She had been brought here naked, and it was up to her to construct an arsenal from whatever she could find …
She used a wire brush to clear the threads on the end of the smooth metal cylinder, then placed the cap and began to tighten it down, exactly an eighth of a turn at a time. Mandy could have watched from the side, but she had chosen to stand directly behind Cordelia, one hand resting on her shoulder and her breath caressing Cordelia’s neck and ear. Cordelia paused and let a little shiver run through her (she could have suppressed it, but dress it up right and you can make a case of the creeps look like the first stirring of passion), then continued, eighth-turn, eighth-turn. When she felt resistance, she picked up the short-handled torque wrench, ran the calibration down to zero and then back up to the prescribed setting, and matched the socket to the angles on the end of the cap. She applied pressure until she felt the wrench’s internal mechanism “break”, then withdrew the torque wrench and stepped back. “There,” she said, looking to her instructor. “How was that?”
“Perfect,” Mandy said, eyes and smile brilliant. “Except, put all the tools back in the case when you finish; keeping your kit is part of the job.”
“Right,” Cordelia said, and began returning various implements to their recessed slots in the carrying case. “I knew that.”
“I know you think I’m compulsive,” Mandy said. “But when you’re working explosives, you can’t be too compulsive. You’re actually doing very well. It’s a pleasure to teach you.”
She was too close again. Cordelia let it hold for a moment, then shifted away, slowly enough for it to appear reluctant, her expression crafted to look like it was supposed to be guarded while revealing guilt, confusion, and a tinge of interest. “What about locks?” she asked. “Will I ever do locks?”
Mandy tilted her head, appraising Cordelia with amused satisfaction. “I hadn’t thought of it,” she said. “It’s not on the schedule, but it might be a good idea. I’ll ask, and we’ll see what He says about it.”
Increments of advantage. That was what it was all about.
* * *
Three days later, Cordelia tagged Bitch on the cheek during one of their sessions. She was on the ground an instant later, mouth open in a huge silent A-a-aaa-hhh! as Bitch applied excruciating pressure to a wrist that was not designed to turn in that direction. The pale-eyed woman stared down at her for an eternity while Cordelia struggled not to wet herself from the pain; then she released the trapped wrist and brusquely ordered Cordelia, “Do that again.”
Cordelia pulled herself to her feet, shaking out the throbbing hand, then began to circle the other woman. Okay, how had she done that? She remembered the move, but not the sequence leading up to it, and you couldn’t just pull this stuff out of nowhere, it had to be carried off under the proper alignment of circumstances …
Yes, there! Long step to the side, hook toward the short-ribs as Bitch wheeled to face her (blocked), hook to the other side and flow around the intercepting block to flash in a backfist from the opposite arm —
She missed by a fraction, Bitch had twitched away from it but Cordelia was moving into the opening, closing to drive a knee at her instructor’s side, only Bitch turned the knee with a hard palm-heel thrust and reaped Cordelia’s other leg out from under her, following her down and finishing her with a head-butt to the face as they landed.
By the time Cordelia could see again, Bitch had moved ten feet away, and watched as Cordelia staggered upright, blowing blood. (This would be the third time she had broken Cordelia’s nose, but here in where-the-hell-ARE-we?, it always healed cleanly and without complication.) “Goddamn,” the other woman said. “God damn. I didn’t teach you knees.”
Cordelia huffed; what was she supposed to do, apologize? “It was what I had,” she said. Then, “You didn’t teach me a defense against head-butts, either.”
Bitch studied her with a curious expression, and Cordelia belatedly realized it was a smile, the first she had seen on the woman. “The defense is to head-butt your opponent first.” She gave herself a little shake. “Okay, that opening you snuck the backfist through? You’ll never see it again, I didn’t even know I was doing it … but that is exactly the kind of thing you should be looking for, so keep your eyes open.” She scowled (okay, back into familiar territory). “You should have chopped me in the throat.”
What? “What?” Cordelia said.
“You get a clear shot, make it count,” Bitch insisted. “Might be the only one you have. That kind of chance comes around again, you’d better put me on the ground or I’ll kick your ass from one wall to the other.”
What have you been doing?, Cordelia thought, but she was already sideslipping the attack, Bitch driving straight for her damaged nose. The other woman always went for the weakest point, and Cordelia had learned very quickly to know her vulnerabilities and guard them.
There was no time for satisfaction, she was too busy being Bitch-slapped to the point of collapse. But that night, as she lay in bed counting her aches and breathing through her mouth, she considered the day’s events and filed them under Definite Progress.
In their next two sessions, Cordelia could tell that Bitch was regarding her differently. For one thing, she actually looked at her. Normally she kept her gaze just below Cordelia’s bust-line, and Cordelia had learned the utility of the practice: eyes on center-mass, your peripheral vision will keep you posted on hand- or foot-movements. Now, however, she was studying Cordelia’s face, as if trying to see (though she had never shown any interest before) the person behind it.
She also taught Cordelia knees. To the belly, take your opponent’s breath. To the ribs, try and crack a few. To the back of the knee, break the balance. To the side of the knee, break the knee. To the groin —
“Hey!” Cordelia protested, drawing back out of striking distance. “Do I look like a guy here?”
Bitch snorted. “It’s not a good move against a guy. They’ll guard the spot automatically, and even if you land one, you can’t really count on it. One time I had a guy take me down after I snocked him solid … and then once he had me trussed up and tucked away, he blew his cookies and laid around for awhile holding himself and moaning.” She showed teeth in a grin that was more of a snarl. “A woman, now, a woman won’t guard that area in a fight; and a good hard shot in the crotch won’t drop her, but it hurts like a screaming bitch, and you can hit her with something else while she’s still getting acquainted with new worlds of hurt.”
This was a new world in itself — Bitch was generally given to demonstrating her lessons directly on Cordelia’s shrieking flesh — but after that lapse she returned to her prior practice, and in the next hour Cordelia narrowly avoided a dislocated jaw, three re-breakings of her barely healing nose, and having her crotch driven up next to her two belly-buttons. (Side-thought: what would that kind of thing do to someone who already sang soprano —?)
Toward the end of the second session, Bitch simply stopped, lowered her hands, and said, “You’re a natural at this.”
Cordelia watched warily; this could be a distraction, the lead-in for another attack. “Well, if anybody would know, it would be you,” she replied at last.
“No,” Bitch said. “I’m good at fighting, always have been, and I worked to get better at it. But you, you’re a natural at learning.” She gave Cordelia another of those odd slantways looks. “If you keep at it, get instruction from other people … you’ll be better than me.”
Cordelia thought about it. “Is that bad?” she asked.
“It’s what it is,” Bitch said, and Cordelia stopped a kick just short of her belly. “Like that. We haven’t been doing kicks, have we? But you dropped a little and used the block for a low punch.” She shook her head, and added, as if to herself, “This might actually work.”
“What might work?” Cordelia asked, and struck at the moment of possible inattention.
They were busy for the next thirty seconds or so; then, while Cordelia was pulling herself back to her feet and blinking away tears from the agonized throbbing in her nose (she’d deflected and evaded most of the impact, but it was still pretty bad), Bitch went on conversationally, “Our fearless leader has some kind of master plan He’s working. He’s basically full of crap, but He may not have been wrong about you. We’ll see.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re about done for now anyhow. Come on, there’s somebody I want you to meet.”
Somebody else? Until now, Cordelia had been given no hint of any presence beyond the four of them: herself, Bitch, Mandy, and the unseen male she probably wasn’t supposed to remember but to whom the others made occasional reference. Or maybe it was him that Bitch was taking her to see. “What about my other lessons?” she asked, following. “You know, with —?”
“Mandy? Screw her, she can wait.” Bitch glanced back at Cordelia. “Better yet, don’t screw her. You know what they say about the praying mantis?”
“I’ve heard stories,” Cordelia said tersely.
“Yeah? Well, where she’s concerned, believe ’em.”
Once again, they were moving through new areas, doors that wouldn’t have budged for Cordelia opening freely before the other woman. Cordelia greedily drank in the further expansion of her world, trying to memorize details; then they came to a door that didn’t yield. Muttering to herself, Bitch rapped on it sharply, twice, and the two of them waited.
The woman who opened it was taller than either of them, sturdily but proportionately built, and Cordelia felt something click! inside her head as she noted that this new person had long, dark hair. Well, well. Most Western women had dark or medium-brown hair, but a sizeable proportion of them chose not to stay that way. (There had been a joke running through Sunnydale High during Cordelia’s junior year, sufficiently offensive to move her to scorching verbal retaliation: What do you get when you turn three blondes upside-down? — Two brunettes and a redhead.) No phony blondes here, and she tucked the information back for further study and a later time: the so-called fearless leader seemed to prefer brunettes. She might be able to use that.
Meanwhile, the as-yet-nameless woman was regarding them without welcome. “It’s too soon,” she said. “I don’t have the ordnance I need, and I’m still drawing up a learning schedule.”
“Lighten up, will you? This isn’t about that.” Bitch hooked a thumb at Cordelia. “She’s coming along okay, actually showing a little talent. I thought a change of pace might do her some good.”
The taller woman looked wary. “Change of pace?”
“Different fighting styles,” Bitch clarified. “She’s learning, but mostly she’s learning how to go against me. Time to mix things up a little.”
Cordelia could see the other woman gathering herself to refuse; apparently so could Bitch, because she said, “Okay, never mind, I’ll just send her over for some more hands-on with Mandy.”
That one struck home. “Go away,” the woman said to Bitch. To Cordelia she added, “Not you,” and stepped back away from the door.
Cordelia went inside, noting at a glance that these were quarters all but indistinguishable from her own. As the door closed, she asked, “Is it like this everywhere?”
“What do you mean?” the other woman said.
Cordelia sniffed. “So far, nobody I’ve met here can stand each other. You’re supposed to be working together — color me clueless on what — but everywhere I look it’s hate, loathing, and total lack of sisterhood.”
Her new host laughed. “If that woman was my sister, I’d shoot her. And if Mandy was …”
The expression of distaste was so pronounced that Cordelia hazarded a guess. “You’d shoot yourself?” she ventured.
“No, I’d shoot her with a bigger gun. And then scrub my DNA with bleach.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Sam.”
Cordelia took it. “Cordelia.”
Sam regarded her with a slight smile. “So, are we going to hate each other?”
“I don’t know,” Cordelia said. “Are you going to pick up something and hit me on the nose with it?”
It was supposed to be a quip, but it came out sounding like something else. Sam lost the smile, and Cordelia postponed wishing she’d said it a different way, and concentrated on assessing the other woman’s reaction. She looked … ashamed, and that was worth thinking about.
“No,” Sam said. “We’ll do sparring — not today, but after I’ve gotten a feel for where you stand right now — but I won’t hurt you just for the fun of it. I’m not like that.”
Cordelia was taking nothing on trust, but this seemed promising. Looking around, she asked, “So what’s your job supposed to be, if working with me hand-to-hand is an add-on?”
“When you’re ready, I’ll be teaching you weapons,” Sam said. “Only it’s driving me crazy, He doesn’t really know anything about that so I have to design a curriculum —”
“Weapons?” Cordelia said. “Samurai, ninja, medieval, what?”
The smile came back. “Military,” Sam told her. “I figured I’d introduce you to the basics: M-16/203 combo, M-9 pistol, MP-5 sub-gun. Maybe some familiarization with the AK models, that’s always good to know; fragmentation grenades, claymores, some close-quarters techniques with bayonet and entrenching tool …”
“Whoa, whoa, time out!” Cordelia made the ‘T’ with her hands. “This is the basic stuff? For what, the invasion of Shadaloo?”
“Right,” Sam said. “Sorry. But you know what they say about too thin and too rich? Well, you can also never be too well-armed.”
* * *
Working with Sam was a lot more of a problem than Cordelia had anticipated.
Her dealings with Bitch and Mandy were, at bottom, based on trust. She trusted Bitch to hurt her at every opportunity, probably without taking direct pleasure from it, but certainly without regretting or apologizing for it. She trusted Mandy to lie to her, manipulate her, play with her for gain or amusement (that was if Cordelia gave her the chance, which she never would), and betray her for a moment’s advantage or even on a whim. But she liked Sam, enjoyed the time they spent together, and wanted to trust her. That, she knew without having to think about it, posed a hideous danger.
In their first meeting, after getting the preliminary introductions out of the way, Sam had asked a few questions about Cordelia’s current training regimen, and then nodded understanding and satisfaction. “About what I thought,” she said. “She’s good, but I think I can show you a few things she doesn’t pay that much attention to.”
“Is she better than you?” Cordelia asked. That information could be useful, as could how Sam felt about the subject. “I mean, could you beat her?”
“Yes, she’s better than me,” Sam said. “As for whether I could beat her … I intend to, if it comes to it, but it wouldn’t be a sure thing. I’ve got reach and strength on her, and I’ll take a hit to give one; but she’s fast, and she’s tricky, and she’s mean as a snake. Meet her on her own terms and she’ll smear you, count on it.”
“She’s been doing that already,” Cordelia said. “But how do I put things on my terms? I don’t have any power here. You guys are the teachers; I’m the student body, and this body has been taking some serious abuse since Day One.”
“I can see that,” Sam replied. “Three and four full-contact workouts a day, with no recovery time? Even here, that’s a killer, it’s a wonder you can even walk.” She looked around. “Okay, sit down over there, facing the back of the chair. I’ll do some massage to get you loosened up.”
Cordelia regarded her with a carefully mild expression. “Loosened up for what?”
Sam’s mouth tightened briefly, then she sighed. “Right. It’d be a surprise if you weren’t suspicious. Look, the old Japanese bujutsu had something called kappo, restorative techniques to help a samurai recover from training injuries. I don’t know any of those, but I figure therapeutic massage can accomplish some of the same things. Sleep is basically the only rest you get, right? Well, you’ll rest better and heal better if your muscles aren’t all tightened up, fighting each other.”
Cordelia sat down; bottom line, these people could do whatever they wanted to her. She would change that — she would — but until such time, acquiescence and the appearance of friendship were the only tools available for her use. Sam started in on her shoulders with strong fingers, careful but not tentative, and talked as she worked. “All right, now. As far as I can tell, most of her style is Korean-based: hapkido, hwarang-do, maybe a little kuk sool. It suits her: quick and nasty, just like her. The thing is, people tend to focus on what they’re good at; which means if you look at what they’re not doing, it may give you a clue to a weakness.”
The steady kneading of her fingers through stiff, aching muscles was a delicious agony; if this was a come-on, it might be worth it. Cordelia concentrated on making her whole body limp so that Sam could work on her without resistance. Not exactly tender loving care — in its way, it was as hard on her as combat sessions with Bitch — but she suspected she would feel a lot better when it was over with.
Sam was still talking. “If I was your primary teacher, I’d probably be running you through a lot of the same things she is. But, the whole idea of bringing you to me was to expose you to something new, so we’ll work at it that way. First of all, you’ll get a good massage every time you’re here … because you need it, I could crack walnuts on your neck muscles. I’ll also show you some yoga routines you can use to relax and build flexibility. As for actual fighting moves …”
She switched to Cordelia’s right arm and began to work down it slowly, seeking out knots of tension and methodically pulverizing them. “She works mostly hand techniques,” Sam continued. “That’s good, hands are fast and precise. But she’s still thinking in terms of human combat. Some things … nerve strikes don’t work as well against a creature that’s plated like an armadillo, or has spines covering its vital areas. For that you need weapons, or power. Your legs are probably four times as strong as your arms, so you and I will go through different types of kicks, find what works best for you.”
Other arm, the left one. This went faster, because Cordelia had found the rhythm and was able to flow with it, but Sam didn’t rush. “Mostly, though,” she was saying, “I think I’ll teach you close-in grappling. Kicks, chops, punches, those are dandy and I love ’em, but they don’t stack up when it comes to F-equals-mv-two.”
That roused Cordelia from the torpor of near-total relaxation. “Huh?” she said blurrily.
“Physics,” Sam clarified. “Force equals mass times velocity squared. Punch or kick somebody, it’s your strength, your body-mass, your speed. But if you throw ’em … well, once they’re in the air, gravity supplies the velocity, and it’s their body-mass that gets tossed into the equation, and basically you’re hitting them with the ground. Trust me, even if you’re used to that, it’s hard to shake off.”
That’s the problem, Cordelia thought as she surrendered herself to the other woman’s ministrations. I don’t trust you. I can’t afford to. You, or anybody else.
She was alone. But then, she always had been.
* * *
Difficult as Sam’s addition to her daily routine was on an emotional level, it provided immediate and invaluable benefits elsewhere. Her training sessions with Bitch were becoming almost bearable; the massage and yoga really did work, and all the time she spent practicing with Sam was time not being put through a meat-grinder, so that her body had more opportunity to recover. In addition to that, controlled falls on the mat (Sam had brought in something she called tatami, 20'×20', for their workouts) had the effect of loosening her up yet further. The greatest advantage, however, came in her dealings with Mandy.
Thoroughly as she disliked the woman (and just as thoroughly concealed it), Cordelia had to admit that Mandy’s method of instruction was well-suited to her student. Cordelia was good at physical learning — witness her ascent to head cheerleader, she could pick up a new routine the first time she saw it — and even so, Bitch had nearly killed her in those first weeks of hand-to-hand training. On the other hand, though she had a good brain, she didn’t normally do well in technical subjects; and yet Mandy’s methodical approach, breaking every step down into smaller digestible chunks and ceaselessly reviewing previous lessons, was producing results that Cordelia would otherwise have considered impossible.
Cordelia had not, however, gained any ground in the subtler campaign she was waging. She hadn’t lost any, to be sure — she had neither been swayed by any of Mandy’s overtures nor burned the bridges that would be necessary for any possible offensives of her own — but stalemate was not to her liking. She was still in control of herself, but so was her instructor, and she hadn’t been able to think of any way to break that deadlock.
Sam’s addition to the dynamic changed that. Her dislike for Mandy was so pronounced that Cordelia assumed it must be reciprocated; and so, during her next instruction block — she had progressed far enough that she was now working with basic alarm systems — she mentioned her new instructor to Mandy, speaking of Sam with a glowing enthusiasm that seemed to hint at hero worship, punctuated by occasional wistful silences that might have suggested more.
Mandy’s self-conscious vitality had never dimmed in any of their prior dealings, but Cordelia saw it falter now. It was, Cordelia thought to herself, as if one of the chess nerds had taken it on himself to introduce her to the intricacies of the game: carried her along, encouraged her, taken pride in the improvement she demonstrated … and suddenly had to listen and be a good sport while she went into rhapsodies about some AV club geek who was teaching her to operate a teleprompter. No matter how disinterested he might originally have been (the analogy got strained at this point, because of course no guy in school had been disinterested where Cordelia Chase was concerned), that had to be a personal blow; and jealousy of any type, once it appeared, could be used and perhaps redirected.
As further weeks passed, Mandy’s smile no longer came so automatically, and carried a different flavor when it manifested. Before, her attentions to Cordelia, however framed, had been about acquiring power over her. Now, for the first time, it seemed that there might be some genuine desire beginning to make itself known.
She was holding her own with Bitch now in their twice-daily contests. She never won (she still wasn’t on the other woman’s level, and she was still keeping about five per cent of her capabilities hidden for the day when it might serve as an ugly surprise), but the skill gap was shrinking, and now Bitch was putting more attention into teaching and less into unending smackdown. Cordelia was getting stronger, quicker, more sure in her motions, and — not to be minimized — there were days at a time now when she didn’t look like a domestic abuse victim.
Sam finally got the right gear, and began introducing Cordelia to military firepower. Bitch began teaching her joint-locks. Mandy, too, brought locks into her lessons, and Cordelia was working with pins, tumblers, barrels and bolts, as well as with multimeters and magnifiers and tiny screwdrivers and battery-powered soldering irons. Mandy touched her less often now, and with less assurance; and now, about one time in every ten, Cordelia would lightly and quickly return the touch.
She continued to talk worshipfully about Sam, though, outwardly oblivious to the way it gnawed at Mandy.
Power was beginning to shift, and the direction of the shift was just where Cordelia wanted it.