Chapter 11: Combat Lessons with Kev
Kevin showed up at 9 AM carrying boxing gloves, two energy drinks, and a grin that suggested he'd been planning this since dawn.
"Training day!" he announced, dropping the gloves on Ben's workbench. "If you're gonna survive Marcus round two, you need to at least look like you can throw a punch."
Ben had slept maybe three hours after the 3 AM confrontation. His body ached from adrenaline crash, his head throbbed from extended Danger Intuition use, and the last thing he wanted was physical activity.
"I don't need to fight Marcus," Ben said. "I need a thousand dollars in six days."
"Yeah, about that." Kevin cracked open an energy drink, handed it to Ben. "Heard Frank's spinning some story about Russian mob. That true?"
"No."
"Good. Because if it was true, I'd tell you to run. But since it's bullshit, we've got time to make you less of an easy target." Kevin picked up the gloves. "Come on. Alibi parking lot. V's gonna help."
"V?"
"My girl. Veronica. Best person I know at actual fighting, which is why she's gonna teach you while I provide moral support and demonstrate what not to do."
Against his better judgment, Ben followed Kevin outside. The energy drink was sickeningly sweet but did its job, pushing back the exhaustion enough for him to function.
The Alibi Room's parking lot was empty except for Kevin's car and a rusted dumpster. The February sun was weak, the air cold enough that Ben's breath misted. Veronica Fisher leaned against the bar's back door, arms crossed, wearing workout clothes and an expression that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else.
"This him?" V asked.
"Ben, meet V. V, meet Ben. He's the one Marcus is trying to extort."
"I know. Whole neighborhood knows." V pushed off from the door, approaching with the fluid grace of someone comfortable in their body. "Kevin says you need basic self-defense. That true?"
"Apparently."
"Good. Because Kevin's about to give you the worst advice you've ever heard, and I'm gonna correct it." She gestured at the open space. "Kevin, demonstrate your technique."
Kevin's face lit up. He pulled on the boxing gloves with exaggerated seriousness, bouncing on his toes like a professional boxer. "Okay, so the key to street fighting is simple. You swing hard and hope they're drunker than you."
"That's your advice?" Ben asked.
"It's worked for me twice!"
"How many times has it not worked?"
Kevin paused. "We don't talk about those."
V snorted. "Show him the haymaker, genius."
Kevin wound up an enormous, telegraphed punch that took approximately three seconds to execute. V sidestepped casually, hooked his ankle, and Kevin went down hard on the asphalt.
"See?" V said. "If they're bigger, faster, or sober, his technique gets you killed. Here's what actually works."
She spent the next hour teaching Ben basics—how to protect his face, how to throw a punch without breaking his thumb, where to aim if someone grabbed him. Her instruction was efficient, practical, focused on ending fights quickly rather than winning them.
Kevin provided running commentary from the sidelines.
"If they're bigger, go for the nuts. No rules in street fights."
"That's actually true," V admitted. "Pride doesn't matter if you're unconscious."
"And if you can't win, make yourself too much trouble. Break bottles, grab weapons, scream like a psycho. Make them decide you're not worth it."
Ben's MacGyver Mind processed the information, separating useful techniques from Kevin's enthusiastic chaos. His body learned movements his brain cataloged for later—how to shift weight, where to strike, what vulnerable points to target.
But the real lesson was simpler: fighting was about calculation. About making the cost of attacking you higher than the reward. About being too much trouble.
After an hour, Ben was sweating despite the cold. His knuckles were scraped from hitting V's improvised pad (Kevin's coat, held at arm's length). His muscles burned with unfamiliar exertion.
"Good," V said, lowering the coat. "You won't win against Marcus's crew, but you might make them work for it."
"That's the goal?"
"In South Side? Yeah. Nobody respects a pushover, but nobody wants to fight someone who'll make it expensive." She tossed the coat back to Kevin. "Buy him a beer. He earned it."
Kevin led Ben to the curb outside the Alibi. They sat with their legs stretched into the empty street, drinking cheap beer at 11 AM like it was perfectly normal. The February sun felt almost warm on Ben's face.
"So," Kevin said after a long silence. "Russian mob. That's wild."
"It's not real."
"I know. Frank's a creative liar, though. Almost believed him myself." Kevin took a long drink. "But here's the thing—doesn't matter if it's true. Matters if Marcus believes it. And Frank sold it hard enough to buy you time."
"Time to do what? Find a thousand dollars I don't have?"
"Time to make yourself valuable. Make people care if something happens to you." Kevin gestured vaguely at the neighborhood. "I've been watching you, man. Since you showed up. You fix Mrs. Rodriguez's washing machine for nothing. Fix Tommy's bike. Help Fiona. Charge half what you should. You know what that does?"
"Makes me poor?"
"Makes people like you. Makes them invested. You think Marcus can just disappear you now? Mrs. Rodriguez would raise hell. Tommy would talk. The Gallaghers would ask questions. Me and V would notice." Kevin looked at him seriously. "That's smarter than any fighting. You built yourself a safety net without realizing it."
The words hit Ben harder than any of V's training punches. He'd been helping people because it felt right, because he had powers that made it easy. But Kevin was pointing out the strategic value—the community protection that came from being useful, being kind, being someone worth defending.
"Everyone's running a hustle here," Kevin continued. "Some are obvious—Frank's cons, Marcus's racket. Some are subtle—Fiona taking care of her siblings, Lip tutoring for cash. You? Your hustle is being the guy who helps. And that's valuable. Trust me."
"Even if Marcus comes back?"
"Especially then. You think I'd be here at 9 AM teaching you to fight if I didn't care?" Kevin clinked his beer against Ben's. "If Marcus comes back, he's not just dealing with you. He's dealing with me, Tommy, the regulars, probably half the people you've helped. That's the real protection."
Ben felt something uncoil in his chest—not relief exactly, but a loosening of tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. Community protection. The kind that couldn't be bought but had to be earned through accumulated goodwill.
"Thanks," Ben said quietly.
"No problem. Just don't get killed before you can pay me back." Kevin finished his beer, stood. "Come on. V wants to show you one more thing before we call it."
They went back to the parking lot where V was waiting, arms crossed, expression serious.
"Come here," she said.
Ben approached warily. V grabbed his arm—not hard, just firm—and demonstrated a basic escape technique. How to break a grip, create distance, run. She made him practice it five times, correcting his form each time.
"Remember," she said. "Goal isn't to win. Goal is to survive long enough to run or get help. Pride's just ego. Survival's everything."
She released him, then pulled Ben aside while Kevin loaded the gloves into his car.
"We need to talk," V said, her playful tone gone completely. "About the Gallaghers."
Ben tensed. "What about them?"
"Kevin doesn't see it because he's Kevin. But I do." She studied him with sharp intelligence. "You've got a thing for Fiona."
"I don't—"
"Don't lie. I see how you look at her. How you helped with the washing machine, how you undercharged. It's obvious." V's expression wasn't judgmental, just matter-of-fact. "Look, Fiona's good people. Best person I know, actually. But she's got enough on her plate without some guy adding complications."
"I'm not trying to complicate anything."
"Maybe not. But you are anyway." V sighed. "Kevin's loyalty is great, and I love that he likes you. But Frank's partnership? That's poison. And getting involved with the Gallaghers means inheriting their chaos. All of it. Frank, Monica when she shows up, the kids' problems, the constant crisis. You ready for that?"
Ben wanted to say yes. Wanted to claim he could handle it. But V's eyes were too knowing, too sharp.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"At least you're honest." V's expression softened slightly. "Just be careful. This neighborhood eats people like you—people who care too much, who try to save everyone. You can't save them all, Ben. And trying will destroy you."
She left, heading back into the Alibi. Kevin appeared a moment later, oblivious to the conversation.
"V give you the speech?" he asked.
"What speech?"
"The 'be careful with Fiona' speech. She gives it to everyone. It's like her thing." Kevin shrugged. "She means well. Just worried you'll be another Steve."
"Who's Steve?"
"Fiona's boyfriend. Rich kid, drives fancy cars, probably hiding something. V doesn't trust him." Kevin clapped Ben on the shoulder. "But you're not Steve. You're one of us now. For better or worse."
Ben spent the afternoon practicing what V had taught him. The basic strikes, the escape techniques, the philosophy of making yourself too much trouble. His body protested the unfamiliar movements, but his MacGyver Mind cataloged everything, storing it for when he'd need it.
When, not if. Because Marcus would be back.
But tonight, Ben felt less alone. Had Kevin's friendship, V's brutal honesty, the community protection he'd accidentally built through small acts of kindness.
It wouldn't stop Marcus. Wouldn't magically produce a thousand dollars. But it was something. A foundation to build on.
And maybe that was enough.
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