© 2026 Zoe Taylor
In which Tiffany first learns more about her future rival, completely unaware that Morgan, 'The Untouchable Tiger' is her own twin sister, Liberty Styles is befuddled by the humble salad fork, and Morgan finally sees her dojo and her fellow students as they are, rather than as background furniture, as she learns to see herself for who she is as well.
Wednesday evening, 4:49 P.M.
Tiffani fidgeted nervously with the wide, pink belt on her dress. She’d managed to hide most of the bruises from the ‘Static’ Out group training marathon, but every bone and sinew still ached. She had been helping her stepmom Amanda with dinner preparations, and even Alex pitched in, though neither were anything like their mother in the kitchen.
“Coach Styles said there aren’t any food allergies or preferences to worry about,” Amanda said briskly as she shifted from taking a roasting pan out of one of two stainless steel wall ovens - the other playing host to a massive pan of brownies, to stirring a pan of sautéd vegetables on the range, “But I still can’t help worrying that I haven’t covered all our bases.”
“Mom,” Tiffani said, “Relax. Liberty and her sister are karate geek elite athletes. Just imagine cooking for me but three times over.”
Amanda’s eyes widened for the briefest moment before she responded. “I’d better sauté more veggies,” and sprang for one of the sub zero freezers for another bag. That got a laugh out of Tiffani, and then a soft, suppressed groan. Amanda stopped what she was doing to turn and look at Tiffani. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Tiffani smiled and shook her head.
“It’s nothing. Just hurts when I laugh. I think I pulled a muscle stretching yesterday,” she said, and it wasn’t really a lie, just a lie of omission.
“Oh,” Amanda said, “I figured you were just sore from that hour long sparring match with Liberty.”
“Busted,” Alex snickered. Tiffani shot her a brief glare. “Hey, I didn’t tell her.”
“Rebecca mentioned it. She asked how you were feeling.” Amanda said conversationally.
“Oh,” Tiffani said, resigned to having been called out by the International Mom Network. “It was so worth it Mom. These girls, Liberty is a Kenpo blitz master, Mary Lynn is a Muay Thai kickboxer champion, Len is like... I don’t even know how to describe Len. She’s freaking amazing.”
“Wait, Mary Lynn, as in Mary Lynn Porter?” Alex perked up.
“You know her?” Tiffani asked.
“Yeah! Remember me telling you about getting some great advice from a kickboxer at my cheer clinic? I mean she wasn’t there for cheer obviously, but we were sharing the same annex. She’s a total bada-” Alex cut herself off at the glance from Amanda.
“Best behavior tonight, girls, please?” she asked.
“Always,” Alex and Tiffani said in unison. Despite being stepsisters, or perhaps because of it, they shared a special kind of sibling bond. They never argued, and even occasionally finished each others’ sentences. If not for the fact that Alex and Tiffani looked absolutely nothing alike, with Alex’s raven locks, tight and curly, and Tiffani’s golden waves, they could have been mistaken for twins, but they led very different lives too.
“I got it,” Tiffani said, a split second before the doorbell rang. She subconsciously wondered if she should have mentioned Liberty’s name in the out group training, waffling on whether talking about her, as she’d already talked about her previously, said more or less about the fact the girl lived rent free in her head now. Granted most of that was just the effortless cool factor, someone like her being friends with an anxious goof like Tiffani, but still.
“Seriously,” Alex said. “How the heck does she do that?”
Tiffani grinned, hearing Alex’s comment as she headed for the front door. She didn’t want to spoil the mystique, but she had the video doorbell app on her phone, and it gave her a gentle vibration to let her know of motion at the front door.
Across the city, Morgan stepped into her dojo, and for the first time in years, it felt to her like she was seeing it as it should be. She had been a ghost in her own home, a phantom passing through, sparring, leaving. Her fellow students were as background furniture, statues she had seen a thousand times.
She wasn’t intentionally cruel to her fellow students, not trying to ignore them by any means, but, as her ranking grew, her training becoming more intense, she had lost her connection with the others until there was only Morgan and her Sensei. But now, now the tiger really had changed her stripes.
No longer the short buzz cut, the spartan nails, the drab black uniform. Now, she wore her new hair in a tight combat braid, not a French braid, close and tight, but a whip that hung down her back, swinging with every motion and reminding her of its new weight as it tugged on her scalp, constantly grounding her in herself and her inner peace.
Her new, neon pink nails reflected the lights as she moved with a new calm that no one had seen before, the dull thud of her black gi replaced by midnight blue with black trim and black pants, a modern micromesh material that flowed like water around her as she moved, and, every so often, as her arm moved a certain way and caught the light just right, the inside silk lining, normally hidden, flashed a tiny ray of pink to the world, wrapped with her crisp blackbelt about her waist.
For all intents and purposes, she looked like a completely different person. Even the patch on the back was not that of a roaring, ferocious tiger, but a stylized zen tiger, no longer bearing its fangs or showing its claws, but staring patiently.
The dojo fell deathly silent. No one knew what to make of this person, this stranger and yet, this familiar spirit. She wore a light coating of professional makeup, a touch of pink on her lips formulated to stay fast come blood, sweat, and tears, and a dash of eye liner of the same caliber, with a little softening foundation that would have to be removed with a jackhammer later, but it created the look Morgan wanted so badly and for so long.
A younger student approached Morgan, a girl wearing a black gi and tied with a simple yellow belt. She bowed to Morgan. Morgan returned the bow and smiled at her.
“Can I help you Miss?” the girl asked. “Our Sensei is meditating, but I can find a senior student or a coach if you need something?”
Morgan bit back a soft laugh. “No, that’s okay. Thank you Melanie. But, can I help you?” she asked. Melanie blinked and stared back at her, mouth agape.
“M-M-Morgan?” she finally stammered out.
“Hey, welcome!” Tiffani said brightly as she threw open the door to greet their house guests. Coach Styles had a large pie in her hands that instantly filled Tiffani’s nose with the sweet aroma of fresh pumpkin spices. “Oh man, that smells incredible,” she blurted out, causing Rebecca to laugh.
A lingering, sharper, but somehow more subtle smell hung in the air too, like ozone and something else Tiffani couldn't put her finger on, a slightly sour, metallic tinge that cut through the domesticity of vanilla and allspice, put the cinnamon's warm woodiness on notice, and for just a split millisecond, it short-circuited her brain.
She spent her days surrounded by artificial lavender, perfumed roses, and ionized air, and the sharp contrast radiating off their house guests, scents she could easily ignore in the cacophony of the tournament, came into sharp relief now.
“Thank you. I didn’t want to show up empty handed so I whipped it together.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Liberty said dryly. “She’s been sweating bullets ever since your mom invited us over.”
“Liberty!” Rebecca squeaked, and Tiffani giggled as Amber brought up the rear. All three were dressed nicely, although for Tiffani, seeing Liberty in heels was the biggest shocker, having only seen her before as part of the Out group or at the tournament. The second biggest shock had to be Amber though.
Amber and Liberty were so-called ‘Irish twins’ born a year apart, Amber being the younger, and like Alex and Tiffani, these two could not look more different. While Liberty was tall and imposing, just barely in the same height bracket as Tiffani for their age, Amber was closer to her height.
Amber’s blonde hair struck a sharp contrast to Liberty’s dark red locks. Despite being biological sisters they were as different as night and day, light and shadow, which tickled Tiffani's brain, but it went way beyond just hair color. Amber carried herself like a cat, fluid and dynamic, and as graceful as a dancer.
A second thought crossed her mind as she tried to sneak another glance at Liberty, who didn’t seem to notice, distracted by the decor surrounding them. Tiffani blushed softly to herself, forcing her gaze ahead as she guided them forward to what she begrudgingly called the "culinary suite" by way of the butler's pantry, a sea of fine crystal and silver flatware on walnut altars of opulence.
“We... don’t normally use it except for guests and special occasions,” she said with a sheepish and wry smile as the passageway opened onto an industrial chiqué staging area that could accommodate an entire professional catering company or an upscale 3 Michelin Star restaurant with space to spare.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Rebecca gushed. Liberty's gaze shifted lazily, almost glazing, over the double sub-zero refrigerators, double warming areas, and even the two side-by-side dishwashers. “I’m so sorry my husband Kyle couldn’t be here. . A client brought in a Porsche 911 with a blown gasket, and he'd rather starve than see a machine like that suffering in the hands of one of the assistants.”
That, Tiffani thought, explained everything - that metallic tinge in the air, the ozone smell, Liberty and Amber's dad was some kind of a master mechanic by the sound - and smell, of things.
Rebecca’s face lit up even more when she saw Amanda. “Mandy! Good to see you!”
This time, it was Liberty’s turn to be caught off guard. “Wait... Mom you and Tiff’s mom know each other?”
“You’ve never noticed that pile of legal briefs Bridget always has with her?” Amber asked dryly. Liberty shot her a glare
“I don’t carpool,” was her response.
“Poor Bridget gets the lion’s share of the grunt work, yeah,” Amanda said. “But I try and take on as much case load as I can when it comes to Soaring Dragon, especially contract negotiations, making sure when it’s practice time she can focus on actually coaching.”
“Ha, that’s so cool,” Amber said as she stood close to Tiffani, trying not to break something by looking at it for very long.
To Morgan’s surprise, and more than a little relief, things settled back down fairly quickly around the dojo after she confirmed that she was, in fact, still Morgan, although she had become so absorbed in helping the underbelts, in between talking with both the male and female black belt students, that she hadn’t noticed their Sensei had entered, and had been watching her closely.
“Morgan, to your mark,” he barked. Her head snapped to look at him causing her ponytail braid to fly over her shoulder.
“Hai, Sensei!” she answered, taking only a moment to wrap the braid so that it would be secure inside her headgear before taking her mark. The entire dojo buzzed with both excitement and curiosity as the Sensei stood six feet away on the opposite mark.
“Explain,” he stated.
“I have emptied my cup, Sensei.”
“You changed your gi,” he said, not betraying for a single second what emotions he might be feeling beneath the stoic, dead calm exterior. The students, and even the other coaches, began to whisper quietly, wondering where this all was going.
“I checked that it would be legal before I had it custom made. It allows more freedom of movement, and-”
“Show me,” he interrupted her, and put up his hands.
“Hai!” she said, bowing deeply, and entering a forward stance.
The grand dining hall stood in stark contrast to the bustling Hidden Tiger Academy Dojo, an ocean of crystal and fine silver. Amanda wasn’t trying to show off their wealth by any means or by any stretch. She believed in selling the experience, in putting your best foot forward. If all she’d had was dixie plates and plastic sporks, she would proudly have served her guests on that.
It did have the somewhat awkward effect of putting Liberty in particular into being a bit of a fish out of water, though. She stared, bewildered at the different forks, knives, spoons, wondering why there were so many, and which was supposed to be for what, or if this was one of those fake outs where the right answer is ‘yes’.
“So, Rebecca,” Amanda said as she dished out sauteed vegetables, “You were telling me about this special training group that had accepted Tiffani. She won’t admit it, but they really worked her over.”
“Mother!” Tiffani hissed, her cheeks flushing. Amber, contrasted to her sister, politely giggled behind her hand, but shot Tiffani a sympathetic smile. She knew better than anyone what her sister’s ‘Static’ group could do, and she wouldn’t wish that kind of torture on anyone who didn’t deserve their attention or their ire.
Rebecca gave a soft laugh, but then nodded more seriously. “The Out group. I’m going to be honest, Mandy, they don’t accept just anyone, and I don’t just mean because they look out for each other in the LGBTQIA+ community either. For them to accept Tiffani after just one tournament means they see something in her. The last boy they offered to train tapped out in ten minutes flat. Tiffani lasted the whole damn hour.”
Tiffani sank into her chair just a little bit more as Alex shot her a surprised glance and mouthed ‘A whole hour?’ to her. Tiffani sheepishly, silently nodded back.
“That tells me she’s not just in it for the glamor, and what she did for Liberty last weekend tells me she’s not in it for the glory, either.”
“Yeah, that was pretty righteous of you,” Amber spoke up at that. Liberty elbowed her discreetly.
“Shuddap,” she whispered to her sister. Amber pretended to straighten the hem of her skirt, flipping her middle finger at Liberty under the table where only she could see it, while the adults were busy gossiping over the 5A tournament.
“Is it really that dangerous?” Alex asked, taking more interest now.
“It’s not really about danger as much as it is endurance,” Liberty said, finally settling on the largest fork on the grounds that the other two, especially the little dinky fork, couldn’t spear a sweet pea let alone a sauteed carrot. She continued, crunching loudly, “It’s about being the unseeded, unknown. She has to win at least six, maybe seven fights, and then she’s up against the Roth kid.”
Amber perked up, biting her bottom lip.
“You saw his last fight right Mom?” Liberty went on, oblivious both to Amber’s sudden interest and to the fact Morgan’s coming out as transgender.
“Morgan?” Rebecca asked and then nodded. “Good God yeah, that kid is a machine. They call her the untouchable tiger for a reason. If Tiffani wants to podium against her she has to be more than a Taekwondo master. Cold as ice and zero hesitation.”
Liberty snapped her head up at the mention of Morgan being called ‘her’. Before she could open her mouth, Amber interrupted.
“I’ve seen her fight, lots of times. In her last tournament she scored a 7-0 spread in 15 seconds tournament time.”
Tiffani’s breath caught in her throat at that. Amber gave her a look that seemed almost apologetic.
“Hey,” Liberty spoke up, “That’s what you’ve got us for right? If we told you what you were up against before your first training session, you never would’ve agreed. This way, you already know you can go the distance. And I promise our next session won’t be anything like that.”
“It better not be,” Tiffani shot back, but her smile betrayed her. “I’ve got bruises in places I didn’t know I had places. I haven’t hurt like this since I fell off the jungle gym when I was 7.”
“I promise, it’s all technical from here,” Liberty said, and even made a crossing-her-heart motion, as Amber slipped out her phone, quietly typing a text to Morgan.
In the dojo, Morgan had no hesitation, but she had no rage either. She no longer looked like a caged tiger lashing ineffectually at impenetrable steel bars. She looked like a senior student at her prime. And the Sensei was not holding back, either. Rather than merely blocking her strikes, he actively retaliated, attempting to punish her for every missed point.
At the end of one full minute, Morgan had scored two points on him though, and he managed three on her.
“Match, sensei!” Melanie announced as the pair returned to their marks and bowed. Morgan, despite her best efforts, burst out laughing, really, really hard. “I’m sorry,” she said, deeply apologetic. “That was just the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Her sensei, rising, had a broad smile on his face. “Never apologize for experiencing joy, my friend. It is the most precious and important emotion on the path to inner peace. I have something of yours,” he said. “Wait here for a moment.”
“Hai,” Morgan said, entering a ready stance, feet apart, hands at her sides, knees bent in a modified, but extremely relaxed horse stance, as he turned to approach one of his assistant coaches who gave him a black belt. At first glance, Morgan saw nothing special or unusual about it. It looked identical to hers. This confused Morgan because he clearly said he had something ‘of hers’ and not ‘for her’.
And then as he gave it a firm tug, snapping the cloth so that it sent a sharp echo that resounded across the entire dojo, she saw it, there on the end. It had a new stripe denoting a second degree. And it, the stripe, was as pink as her fingernails.
“It may not be traditional,” he said as he approached, extending the belt with both hands, palms up, toward her. “But, sometimes one must modify traditions to embrace new understandings. If we do not learn from the past, we are doomed to repeat it, but so too, are we doomed, if we live only in that past.”
“Domo arigatou,” Morgan said, then added,Thank you, Sensei Michaels.”
She carefully untied her old belt, not allowing it to fall from her hand as she wrapped the new one in its place, “It would honor me to return this to the dojo. Without this sanctuary, without these teachings, I wouldn’t be here,” she said and offered her old belt in the same gesture, except that she had her head bowed.
While cooling down, Morgan felt her phone buzz against her hip, a soft, haptic reminder of its presence in the pocket of her pink undershirt, hidden by the chest protector. She scurried to the equipment bench and began dressing down, removing her pads, her headgear, and her gloves, and opening her gi to remove the chest protector.
This was the first anyone could fully see what she wore underneath, a soft, powder pink undershirt, and, as she pulled the gi jacket back into place and rewrapped the new belt, flashes of the inner pink lining that were only brief rays before.
She unlocked her phone and checked the text.
‘OMG mom just called you ‘her’ in front of everyone congrats!!! BTW Barbie is ready. Are you? She’s got the Static in her corner and she’s hungry.’
Morgan glanced up at the mirror wall behind the equipment bench. Her new bangs, a mess of hair and sweat, clung to her forehead, but she grinned and pulled her braid intentionally over her shoulder, lifted the camera, and snapped a selfie, the reflected light bouncing off her nails as she gave the mirror, the camera, and herself, a genuine, proud smile.
‘Thank you. The tiger is loose from her cage. Tell Barbie I wish her luck. If Liberty’s rattled then she must be good.’