John threw his hands up, but Coraline was already inside his reach—short jabs thudding into his ribs and the soft plate over his solar plexus. He tried to slide back and square up; she stepped with him, heel to toe, crowding his hips so he never got the space to breathe.
“I hate sparring with you, Cora,” he grunted, eating a glove to the shoulder as she pivoted off his lead foot.
“Then stop letting me live in here,” she said, forehead almost on his chest as her elbow flashed and tapped the edge of his headgear. “You’re six-three and ninety-five kilos. Use it. Reach, weight—stack the deck.”
He threw a long hook to shoo her out. She slipped under it, stamped his shin pad with a toe-poke, and bumped him with a shoulder that bounced him into the ropes strung along the Fox Den’s matted wall.
“Sorry my grandpa didn’t teach me kung fu when I was twelve,” he managed, trying a body lock.
“Defendu,” she corrected, hands already doing their ugly, efficient work—one glove fussing at his biceps to kill his arm, the other raking across his forearm pad to ruin his grip. “Second World War combatives. Made for close quarters. Get in, break structure, end it.”
John muscled through with a frustrated growl and finally wrapped her. She answered with the gospel according to Vulpes: cheat early, cheat often. A heel nudge at his stance, a hip check to steal balance, then a fast, impolite series—glove to the chest plate, an ear-slap on his headgear that rang harmlessly but scrambled his timing, and a feinted chin-jab that stopped a breath short of his mask.
“Use your weight,” she coached, circling as he reset. “Frame my neck. Post on my hips. Big beats small when big doesn’t play nice.”
He came in heavier, forearm braced across her clavicle guard, trying to pin her to the wall. She slid her head to the safe side, threaded one forearm under his, and turned his post into a lever that walked him two steps past her. As he stumbled, she tagged his ribs twice and kissed his thigh pad with a low kick that would’ve been mean if they weren’t friends.
The round timer beeped. John raised both hands, breathing hard. “Time. Mercy. I’d like to keep the rest of my organs where they are.”
She backed off, rolling her neck. “You’re getting better. You made me respect the frame that time.”
“I thought the Silver Fox was a gentleman thief, not a super-spy,” he said, tugging at a strap on his headgear.
“He wasn’t,” she said, unfastening a gauntlet with a soft click. “He worked for the precursor to military intelligence. Gentleman thief on paper, so King and country had plausible deniability when ‘reacquiring’ rare assets.”
John snorted. “So the family trade is ‘steal things politely and hit first when polite fails.’”
“Now you’re getting it,” she said, and rapped his chest pad with two brisk knuckles. “Again. This time, don’t give me straight lines. I eat straight lines.”
He groaned, reset his mouthguard, and raised his gloves. “One more round. Then I’m bolting that claw module and making you hold a target while I throw it.”
“Deal,” Coraline said, sliding back into stance—weight light, eyes laughing over the edge of her guard. “Bell.”
Coraline gave ground on the balls of her feet, letting him take center while she worked the edges—light, diagonal steps that never crossed, never stalled. “Come on, big guy—” she baited, chin tucked, eyes on his chest, “—you haul engine blocks all day. Put some of that into your shoulders.”
John obliged, driving a heavy jab–cross. She leaned just outside the line, let the leather pass her cheek, then ghosted back in and tapped the inside of his bicep with two crisp knuckles. “That’s a nerve line. I own it if you let me. Frame sooner.”
He swung a hook. She ducked, brushed his elbow as it passed to show the hinge, and pivoted out to his blind side. “Turn your hips first, not your arms. And throw a boot now and then—your legs are rent-controlled skyscrapers. Use the real estate.”
He tried, thrusting a long shin up the middle. She caught it on her forearm pad and skittered off at a V-angle, snapping a palm-feint to his visor that stopped an inch shy. “Better. Land with your weight under you, not over your toes. If I clinch, wedge your forearm across my collarbone and post on the hip.”
He crowded; she let him, then shrugged free with a quick shoulder-bump and a toe-stamp to his padded instep. “Ugly wins,” she murmured, circling. “Elbows in close, knees up the middle. Make me hate space.”
He chased with another rush—breathing getting ragged now—and she made the ring small: slip, check, heel-pivot, tap-tap to the ribs. Nothing mean, just receipts. A final sequence—she slid under his last overhand, rapped his chest plate twice, and stepped away with her palms open, smile crooked.
John leaned back against the ropes, sucking air and fixing her with a wounded glare. “Starting to think you enjoy this, Cora.”
She snorted, snagged a towel from ringside, and tossed it onto his shoulder. “Nah. I enjoy that you’re getting harder to bully. If something goes sideways out there, I need my tech wizard doing more than praying to torque specs.”
Thought for a couple of seconds
John grunted and ghosted back to the corner, dropping onto the stool with his shoulders sagging and his head bowed, breath hauling in hot gusts through the headgear. “I used to think I was good at fighting until I met you, Cora.”
She smirked, peeling her gloves loose with her teeth. “Eh. You were… okay.” A squeeze bottle spun from her hand; he fumbled the catch and clutched it like a lifeline.
He took a long pull, water dribbling off his chin guard. The old mat smelled like tape and effort; the ceiling fan ticked, pushing tired air. No sense arguing with a fox when it’s grinning, he thought, rolling one shoulder as the burn faded from a dull roar to a steady ache.
“Your feet are the problem, not your hands,” she said, gentler now. “You park ’em, I tag you. Keep them whispering—heel, ball, heel. And when you get tired? Smaller motions, not bigger. Save the freight-train stuff for the finish.”
He nodded, still catching breath. “Copy that. Whisper feet. Freight train later.”
She flicked a towel across his neck, gave it a brisk rub. “You’re getting there, John. First time we did this, you tried to headbutt my elbow.”
“That was a strategy,” he muttered.
“It was a cry for help,” she deadpanned, then softened it with a quick nudge to his forearm. “Round two after you stop seeing three of me.”
He huffed a laugh, capped the bottle, and met her eyes through the visor. “Yeah, yeah. Ring the bell before I remember I’m the one who builds your toys.”
The last round went as John expected—him looking like an amateur against a woman he had a full head on. Still, sparring with Coraline was nothing if not instructive; he learned fast, and every session left him a shade better. A quick shower later, the balance of power shifted. Now she was in his domain.
He stood at the bench in oil-stained overalls, arms folded, watching her pad in wearing after-workout blacks and a towel slung like a scarf.
“So. Claws, huh?”
John tipped his chin at the open gauntlets on the table. “Keeping with the fox motif you love. If tekko-kagi were good enough for shinobi, they’re good enough for your kit—updated for the twenty-first century.”
Coraline lifted one, turning it in her hands. “Retractable, hooked blades for climbing—and if I need a fistful of short, mean knives to punch through armor or put a Special on the floor?”
“Exactly. The trick was balancing strength, mass, and a retraction system that doesn’t shatter if it eats a hard parry or lock.”
She slid her fingers along the channels. “Walk me through.”
“Blades are S7 tool steel, water-jet cut, oil-quenched, and tempered. Cryo cycle to stabilize, then a ceramic micro-coat to keep rust down. Leading edges carry a tungsten-carbide insert—chews through sheet metal and laughs at paracord. Tips are radiused just enough they won’t chip the first time you hit bone or a bolt head.”
She raised a brow. “Deployment?”
“Thumb paddle inside the guard. Three positions.” He tapped the inner plate. “Safe: everything buried. Half: two centimeters out for blade traps and line control. Full: five-and-a-half out for climbing or ending arguments. Mechanical cam with a spring assist; you can throw them out silently, or punch to lock. Detents are positive—you’ll feel them through gloves.”
“And retraction?”
“Reverse the paddle or slam the dorsal plate. Cam pulls them home. If you get wrist-locked, there’s a shear pin. Force the plate and the whole claw cassette drops free—better to lose the toys than your hand.”
She nodded, pleased. “Weight?”
“Four hundred grams per forearm. I shaved everywhere that wasn’t structure—skeletonized the carriers, pocketed the backplates. Balance is forward-neutral so your guard doesn’t drift.”
She tried the fit, the gauntlet kissing closed with a soft snick. “Noise?”
“On purpose, very little. Nylon dampers in the tracks, felt underlays on contact points. Up close there’s a click, but street noise will bury it.”
She flexed, thumbed the paddle. The claws whispered out to half, then full—sleek, hooked, wicked. She rolled her wrist; the blades tracked with her grip.
“Use cases,” John said, slipping back into instructor cadence. “Climbing: short, dirty ascents only—dumpsters, chain-link, rain gutters, vent lips. Not for vertical heroics; your piton line is still king. Fighting: trap his blade in the gauntlet guides, half-extend, twist, and you own his wrist. Full extend for ripping attack angles—down the tricep, hamstring, calf. You’re not stabbing—these are for disabling and ending momentum.”
“And armor?”
“Soft armor, yes. Kydex and cheap plates, often. Proper ceramics—no. But the hooks will catch webbing, molle, straps; you can yank his platform out of square and make the plate work against him.”
She retracted to safe and knocked her knuckles against the dorsal guard. “What about me getting skewered?”
“Metacarpal padding under the shell, plus a breakaway threshold at two-fifty newtons on the claw cassette. Take a bad fall, the cassette sacrifices itself before your ulna does. Also added a palm spur—non-lethal. Heel-of-hand strike and he forgets his own name without you opening him.”
Coraline set the gauntlet down, satisfied. “Maintenance?”
“Wipe the tracks. Two drops of oil per channel. Cerakote will take abuse, but don’t put them away wet. And train the half-lock until you can hit it blind; it’s where the magic lives.”
She smiled, small and sharp. “You spoil me, Wolf.”
He shrugged, a little proud despite himself. “I keep you alive, Fox. Spoiling’s just a side effect.”
Coraline paused, then tilted her head. “And when I don’t want to puncture a thug—my Kitsune no tsume,” she said, tasting the name, “how do they stack up against the sap gauntlets?”
John grinned, like he’d been waiting for it. “That’s the best part. Safe mode turns the claws into a better sap than the sap.”
He lifted a gauntlet and tapped the palm. “See this metacarpal bridge? It’s a stiff bar that spans the knuckles. When the claws are fully retracted, their mass nests under that bridge. You’re basically holding a roll of quarters inside an armored glove.”
He turned the gauntlet, rapping the dorsal plate, then the heel pad. “Inside the palm and knuckle ridge you’ve got a lighter version of your usual cocktail—micro-shot and impact gel. The shot shifts on impact to spike local density; the gel is shear-thickening, so it goes from soft to stone the moment you hit. Net effect? Your ‘Kitsune no tsume’ will thump like the old saps but with better energy transfer and less rebound.”
Coraline slid it on, flexed, and made a short hammerfist into her other palm. “Targets?”
“Non-lethal lanes first,” John said, slipping into coach mode. “Bicep and tricep to deaden the arm. Radial nerve just below the elbow for a drop. Ribs, not floating; you want breath, not splinters. Thigh—vastus lateralis—for a buckle. Palm-heel up the jawline to rattle, not break. And forearm checks—use the bridge like a bumper to smother blades without feeding them into your wrist.”
She thumbed the paddle to confirm Safe and drew a loose guard. “What keeps me from accidentally popping the claws mid-strike?”
“Haptics and hardware. There’s a pronounced detent at Safe—you’ll feel the notch through gloves. The thumb paddle has a dead-space so you can’t slip it by clenching. And the lockout needs deliberate forward pressure; a straight punch won’t trip it. If you’re clinching, you can still half-deploy with intent for traps.”
“Modes,” she said, ticking them off. “Safe equals sap. Half for traps and control. Full for climbing and endings.”
“Exactly. And remember the palm spur I added? In Safe you can drive that into sternum or hip crease for space without opening skin. If you need to move somebody through a doorway, heel-of-hand with the bridge, shoulder post with the forearm shell, and steer.”
Coraline tried a short three-beat: palm-heel, hammerfist, forearm bump. The gauntlet stayed quiet, weight sitting right over the knuckles. “Feels honest.”
“It is. Train it like a tool, not a toy,” John said. “Mitts, heavy bag, then edge-awareness drills. I want you hitting that Safe detent blind every time. And—legal hat—non-lethal first where it fits the continuum. The claws are for when policy and physics say it’s time.”
She gave the gauntlet a final squeeze, a small, vulpine smile cutting across her face. “Kitsune no tsume it is.”
“Good name,” he said, pleased. “Now let’s make sure the fox can use them without leaving tooth marks—until she means to.”
John couldn’t help the small, pleased smile. “Needed a break from the ton of legacy kit you dumped on me from your grandfather’s stash. Reverse-engineering sixty years of ‘silver age’ cleverness is a full-time job.”
She slipped off the gauntlets and set them down, nodding. “It’s dated. Cutting edge back in the forties into the sixties when he hung up the mantle. He always said the oldest pieces were built for him in the war by the boffins who basically invented spy gadgets. The later stuff? Some of it’s stolen villain tech. The real gems are MI6-grade—super-spy kit circa 1966.”
John’s smile bent wry. “Explains why half of it feels like a prototype and the other half feels… sanctioned.” He thumbed toward the pegboard. “Analog ages well. No firmware to fry, no signal to jam. My job’s mostly materials and tolerances—keep the soul, lose the brittleness.”
He tapped the compact grapple. “Your ‘66 pattern—same geometry, lighter alloys, aramid line with a heat sheath, passive brake so you don’t skin your palms. Gas cartridges quick-change, mechanical lockout so it can’t dry-fire.” A row of thumb-sized cylinders: “Smoke and flash are your grandfather’s recipes, tighter packing, cleaner burn. The batons got new hinges; the lock kit got better steels. And this—” he lifted a knurled tube—“is your acoustic stunner, rebuilt diaphragm. Still analog. Still mean.”
Coraline’s mouth tipped. “Modernize what breaks, leave the workhorses alone.”
“Exactly,” John said. “Keep the MI6 bones, trim the fat, and make sure nothing quits on you when it’s raining and you’re three floors up.”
She nodded, approving. “So, modernization without turning everything into a computer.”
“Exactly. If it fails, it fails graceful.” He pointed out a few telltales: gasketed seams, captive fasteners, oversized lanyard holes. “Field fixes with a multitool and swearing. Where I did go ‘new,’ it’s invisible—materials, tolerances, safety interlocks. The grapple has a mechanical lockout so it can’t dry-fire. The smoke casings have tactile bands so you don’t toss the wrong one in the dark. And anything with a spring? Corrosion-proof.”
Coraline exhaled, a quiet, satisfied sound. “Grandfather would’ve approved.”
John chuckled. “I suspect He’d complain I made the line ‘too fancy’ and then never give it back.”
She glanced across the board one more time—the past rebuilt, ready for the street. “Keep the workhorses honest, make the fragile parts tougher, and don’t fix what isn’t broken.”
“Now you’re speaking my language,” John said. “Fox kit stays fox kit. Just… fewer sharp surprises for the person wearing it.”
Coraline couldn’t help the little smirk, easing him away from shop talk before he disappeared down a torque-spec rabbit hole. “I bet Serah just swoons when you romance her with engineering patter.”
John snorted. “If she didn’t like it, she wouldn’t date a gearhead.”
“Oh, so it’s the brains that did it—not the arms, the height, the heroic jawline?” She tilted her head, eyes bright.
He caught himself, wary. “I’m sure Serah has… a wide array of reasons to put up with me.”
“And a few reasons you keep putting off marrying her,” Coraline teased, rolling onto her palms against the bench. “Though under common law you’re basically there, so who am I to talk.”
“I’d rather discuss kit or the case than dust that off,” he said, half-laugh, half-groan. “You know neither of us is big on ceremonies or rings.”
She waved it away, smile softening. “Relax. Keeping that brain from calcifying on specs and stats. I adore Serah—and her ability to keep you honest.”
His wrist comm buzzed—screen blinking. He glanced down, mouth hitching. “Speak of the devil. One of my guys may have breadcrumbs on the armor pipeline—quiet brokers, police-grade smoke. Could be Bloodletter’s trail.”
Coraline rolled her neck, the switch flipping from banter to business. “Then I should suit up. If the night cooperates, I’ll field-test your new toys.”
John nodded toward the rack. “I’ll push the claw module live and load your belt. You get the fox ready.”
She lifted the gauntlets, weight settling into her hands like intent. “Fox is ready.”
The Vixen slipped out of the hidden bay and knifed into the night, engine a low animal purr under her. Vulpes tucked in, visor down, city lights strobing across the fairing as she headed for the lakefront—where the warehouses crouched low and the brokers who asked no questions asked their prices twice. John’s breadcrumb list scrolled on her HUD: three docks, two back-room machine shops, one “marine supply” that moved more armor than anchors.
She rolled on the throttle. No rest for the wicked—and no better time than now to make the wicked restless.
