"Right," he muttered, pushing away from the desk.
"Practice. Brenda said to practice."
The thought still made his muscles groan, but anything had to be better than stewing over his digital humiliation.
Then - another thought surfaced—Barty.
The weird, winged creature he had freed from Volkov's basement prison.
He said he was moving into the abandoned building across the street. Maybe Barty knew something. Or at least, maybe talking to someone who wasn't Brenda or a condescending Paladin would help.
Decision made, Jett grabbed his sling bag and headed out. He crossed the street - approaching the dilapidated building Barty had indicated. It slumped between occupied structures like a missing tooth—with windows boarded up or broken, and paint peeling like sunburnt skin.
There was a chainnlink fence, it was bent and rusted, it offered little resistance as Jett slipped through a gap.
The air inside was thick with the smell of dust - decay - and old rain. Dim light filtered through cracks in the boarded windows, illuminating swirling dust motes.
"Uh, Barty?"
Jett called out tentatively, his voice echoed slightly in the empty space.
"You here? It's Jett. The pizza guy. Well, former pizza guy for now."
An audible voice echoed from above.
"Pizza boy! So soon? Did you miss my charming company already, or have you brought that offering you owe me?"
Jett looked up.
Perched precariously on a high—crumbling ceiling beam - silhouetted against a grime covered skylight was Barty. He unfolded his leathery wings slightly, stretching like a cat waking from a nap.
"Neither, actually," Jett said, craning his neck.
"Look, I know this is weird, but I need… advice? Or something. My instructor is out of town for a few days."
Barty hopped down, he landed silently on the debris strewn floor despite his size. His wide grin was stretched across his face.
"Instructor? Ooh, getting fancy, are we? Who's drilling the fear of the night into you?"
"Her name's Brenda," Jett mumbled. "She's teaching me this… footwork stuff. Supernatural movement. There's one called the Nimbus Step?"
He looked hopefully at Barty.
"Ever heard of it? It's supposed to be like, instant repositioning using Vitriol."
Barty tapped a long finger against his chin, he tilted his head.
"Nimbus Step? Sounds… fluffy. Like stepping on a cloud. Is that the one where you sorta pop from here to there?"
He snapped his fingers—creating a small puff of dust.
"Yeah! That's it!"
Jett exclaimed, he was relieved that Barty understood.
"I can barely do it. I just lurch around like an idiot. Brenda says control the burst, but I can't get the hang of it."
Barty laughed again.
"Ah, the pop step. Old trick. Control the burst is fine, very technical. Very… Brenda-like, I imagine."
He circled Jett, his black eyes inspected him.
"But it's not just control, pizza boy. It's a release. Like letting go of a tightly wound spring all at once. You gotta gather that juice—that Vitriol - right down in your legs, coil it up—then snap it loose. Not push it, release it."
He demonstrated himself—not with Brenda's vanish, but with a more explosive thump, disappearing from Jett's left and reappearing instantly on his right, dust swirled where he'd been.
"See? Less cloud, more contained explosion."
Jett blinked.
"Contained explosion? Release?"
It sounded simultaneously more violent and somehow more intuitive than Brenda's precise instructions.
"Alright," Jett said, finding a relatively clear patch of floor.
"Let me try."
He took the stance - focused on his legs - and tried to feel the Vitriol pooling there. He pictured Barty's coiled spring analogy, then tried to release.
He stumbled forward, catching himself before he face planted.
"Nope. Still lurching."
"Less lurch, more launch!"
Barty critiqued cheerfully, hopping onto a pile of rubble to get a better view.
"You're hesitating! Scared you'll blast off into orbit? Relax! Just a quick little pop!"
Jett tried again. And again. He focused on the feeling Barty described, the quick release rather than a controlled push. It was still clumsy, still jerky, but maybe fractionally better.
He managed a short, uncontrolled hop that covered maybe two feet.
[ Somatic I: 80/1000 ]
"Ooh! Progress!"
Barty clapped his hands together.
"You almost looked like you knew what you were doing for half a second there! Keep at it!"
Jett spent the next hour practicing in the abandoned building—the musty air was a strange contrast to Brenda's sterile training room.
Barty offered a running commentary - a bizarre mix of insults - encouragement - and utterly baffling analogies involving startled squirrels and poorly thrown pottery.
"No, no, coil it tighter! Like you're hiding secrets from your mum!"
"Too much! You almost popped into next Tuesday!"
"Think less, pizza boy! Your brain's getting in the way!"
Between attempts, Jett found himself talking - venting his frustrations about the training—about his slow progress - about getting kicked from his dungeon group.
Barty listened with apparent amusement, occasionally offering remarks or completely changing the subject. Murk even poked his head out of the bag, observing Barty with wary curiosity before retreating again.
By the time Jett decided to call it quits, the sun was beginning its descent again.
He hadn't mastered the Nimbus Step, not even close. But practicing under Barty's strange tutelage felt different and less pressured. Or just chaotic enough to bypass some of his usual overthinking.
"Alright, I gotta head back," Jett said, wiping dust and sweat from his forehead.
"Thanks, Barty. I think? Your advice is… unique."
Barty grinned.
"Anytime, pizza boy! Happy to provide guidance! Keep practicing that pop! And don't forget my pizza!"
With a final wink, Barty leaped effortlessly back up to the ceiling beams - seemingly vanishing into the deepening darkness of the building.
Jett sighed, he picked up his bike, and headed back out into the evening - his muscles were always aching, but his mind felt slightly less like a tangled mess.
-
Jett pushed his bike along the cracked sidewalk - the squeak of the wheel was a familiar counterpoint to the distant city sounds. The session with Barty had been weird—undeniably weird, but also oddly helpful?
'Release, don't push.'
It was a different way of thinking about the Nimbus Step. He tried to subtly practice the feeling in his legs as he walked—with a tiny internal coiling and uncoiling, not enough to actually move, just enough to feel the potential.
He glanced down at the sling bag resting against his chest. He could feel the slight weight and occasional shifting of Murk inside.
The little guy had been quiet during the practice with Barty, only peeking out once or twice.
"Alright, Murk," Jett muttered, he slowed his pace slightly.
"Round two on the food front."
He reached into his jacket pocket where he had stashed a piece of the beef jerky earlier, deciding it was easier than rummaging through the grocery bag still inside the sling-bag with Murk. He pulled out the tough, leathery strip.
Carefully - he unzipped the top of the sling-bag just enough to peek inside. Murk's small, green eyes blinked up at him from the darkness within the bag.
"Hey," Jett said softly, he held the jerky near the opening.
"Still hungry? Wanna give this another shot? It's… beefy?"
He wiggled the jerky slightly.
"Come on, little dude. You gotta eat something. Unless you really do just live on dust bunnies and existential dread..which, you know—fair enough, but probably not healthy."
Murk shifted inside the bag—his tiny nose twitched as he sniffed the air near the jerky. He let out a soft, questioning squeak.
"Yeah, I know, it probably smells weird," Jett continued, walking slowly.
"But it's food! Protein! Good for… growing? Or whatever it is you Spawn Ruin things do. You can't just live in my laundry pile forever, man. Well, you probably could—but it's getting kind of gross."
Murk nudged the jerky cautiously with his snout - then pulled back again, shaking his head in a distinctly rat like gesture of refusal. He squeaked again.
Jett sighed - lowering the jerky.
"Still no, huh? Okay, okay, I get it. Not a jerky fan. Or maybe not this jerky. Maybe you want, like—artisanal, grass fed, locally sourced jerky? Are you a hipster monster rat?"
He zipped the bag up a little more - leaving just a small gap for air.
"Seriously though, Murk—what am I supposed to feed you? Carrots didn't work, cheese didn't work, jerky's a bust. You didn't seem interested in the nuts either. Are you photosynthesizing in there? Am I supposed to leave you out in the sun? Because, uh, newsflash - I don't like the sun much either right now."
He tucked the jerky back into his pocket. The problem of Murk's diet remained unsolved. Was the creature drawing energy from him somehow? From the environment? Did it even need to eat in the conventional sense?
These were questions for Brenda or Myrna, he supposed.
"Guess we'll figure it out," Jett mumbled, he picked up his pace again.
He patted the sling bag gently and added:
"Just try not to, you know—starve in there before I find something you like. Or figure out if you even need to eat at all."