‘How long until Weezlekin gets back to use?’ I asked Ragnhild once we were settled into some comfortable club chairs at the safe house. Safe base really. I’d gone for a very nice Johnnie Walker Blue Label, whilst Ragnhild had settled for a Tiger Gin and tonic. I reasoned we deserved them since I hadn’t throttled the Colonel, and Ragnhild had managed to put up with me and my inability to make friends so far. Marcus had gone for 25-year-old Glen Moray, with a chaser of their Port Cask Elgin classic.

‘He doesn’t usually take too long. Once he has a task, he’s like a pitbull and won’t let anything get in his way.’

I saluted her with my glass before taking a sip. There are a lot of single malt snobs around, and I used to be one until I learned about the time and effort that goes into making a blend. Even a bottle of Ballantine’s which you can get for under £20 is a work of art. And bloody tasty too I might add. Ballantine’s was a firm favourite back home. However, I’d always wondered What a Johnnie Walker Blue Label tasted like. Even though I earned more than enough to be able to indulge myself, I usually tended to keep my whisky spending around the £50 mark. I just felt I couldn’t justify spending any more on booze. And £120 just to see what something tasted like was a bit much.

The bar in this warehouse was incredibly well stocked, and I’d passed on a lot of much more expensive whiskies to get the Johnnie Walker. I’d made a bloody good choice though, this Blue was utterly sublime, and I’d already ordered five bottles from Amazon, and sod the guilt I felt at doing so.

‘How much do you trust the Colonel, Marcus?’ I asked.

‘Since you invoked Directive 51? Not very. You took someone who was already pissed off, poured petrol on the situation and did so publicly. You embarrassed her, you pulled rank, and you made it clear that you enjoyed doing so.’

‘Ja, not your best course of action,’ agreed Ragnhild, much to my well-hidden displeasure. ‘And stop looking at me like that.’ Or maybe it wasn’t so well hidden. I made a mental note to work on my poker face.

‘What can she do?’ I tried to make my tone reasonable.

‘Do? Any number of things. Or her people could step up and do, or not do, any number of things. Literally anything ranging from pranks through to asking you for a not-so-friendly sparring match. Heads up.’ He titled his glass in the direction over my shoulder.

‘Agent, ma’am?’ Said a polite and very Orcisk voice from behind me. I twisted to see one of the Orcs standing politely behind me.

‘Miss Doe is fine Corporal Taxish,’ I said, reading his name tag. ‘Or Agent Doe if you prefer. Anything but ma’am to be honest.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said, verbally laying down a gauntlet. ‘We’ve heard a lot about Agent training and we’re wondering if you’d care to train with us tomorrow. Do some friendly sparring.’

Gin and tonic sprayed from Ragnhild’s mouth, and she coughed her apologies, saying something about a bit of lemon getting stuck.

‘Challenge accepted. I’d like nothing better, corp,’ I replied. Two could play that game.

‘Just so long as you don’t punch his cock off like with that ogre,’ said Marcus, a twinkle in his eye. Ragnhild’s choking got worse. I realised I hadn’t told her that story yet.

‘Ogre? You fought an Ogre?’ Corporal Taxish’ tone implied he didn’t believe us.

‘And punched his cock off. Don’t forget that. Are we fighting before or after breakfast?’ I smiled. Probably showed too many teeth, including the canines I made extra-long.

‘Err,’ he stammered, looking around at his team for help. ‘We’re not fighting, just training.’

‘Of course we’re fighting, sweety,’ I simpered. ‘You don’t publicly ask someone about their system and ask them for a “friendly spar” in front of your whole unit,’ and yes, I did the air quotes. ‘We’re fighting, you and I. Shall we do so before breakfast? Say, oh seven hundred hours?’

He nodded dumbly. Nodding back, I tossed down the rest of my Scotch, stood, and held my hand out to Ragnhild.

‘Coming to bed babes?’

She grinned, stood, and we both swanned out of the room leaving behind dumbfounded silence.

*

‘Look, he’s tried to pull out of this twice already. Merryweather has even tried to get out of this,’ whispered Marcus as he tied a light pair of UFC sparring gloves to my hands. Only really designed to protect a fighter’s knuckles and therefore allow them to have a long fighting career, they were barely any good at truly reducing the power of a blow.

‘Tough. I’m fed up with all this “I did so and so and got a beret to prove it, but you’re just some amateur”. It pisses me off. These guys are supposed to be the best, and yet they’ve treated us with nothing more than disrespect since they arrived. If I have to beat one of theirs to get them finally accept that we’re good at what we do and be fine with it, then I’ll beat him black and bluer then he already is.’

I opened my mouth for Ragnhild so she could put a mouthguard in. I hated the bloody things, always felt like I was gagging when I got really out of breath. But they helped keep teeth in place, and reduced concussion.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The garage of the safe house had been turned into a fighting area; 2.5 centimetre rubber jigsaw mats placed on the ground. The area was roughly eight metres by eight. Every member of Team, Ness was there, even the support guys who we hadn’t been introduced to, and I could see bets changing hands all around us.

‘Put a grand on me to win in the first round,’ I said to Ragnhild loudly.

‘What?’ I was slightly surprised, maybe even a bit hurt that she’d question my ability to win the fight.

‘Bet a thousand pounds that I can best their guy in the first round. That quartermaster over there is running the book.’ The quartermaster was a human, well-built although running to a paunch, and was busy handing out tickets to betters.

‘One thousand? Sure you don’t want to make it two?’ She smirked, although I could still see the concern in her eyes. And my hurt disappeared. She was on my side and the world was right again.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she relaxed slightly, ‘make it five.’

‘And I’ll put in another thousand,’ said Marcus. ‘Same stakes.’

I could have kissed him at that point. He was an utter stickler for the rules and sometimes was so stiff I thought he needed surgery to get rid of the stick up his arse, but he always had my back. Always.

‘Listen up,’ called out a Sergeant Major, his name tag marking him as McNeill. ‘The rules are simple. No groin shots, no eye gouges, no biting. If a fighter taps the fight is over. If a fighter has three standing counts, I finish the fight. If a fighter can’t get up after being knocked down, I end the fight. Each round is three minutes. Try and last that long if you can Miss Doe, I’ve got a lot of money on you not being knocked out in the first round.’

The room erupted into laughter, and Taxish held his hands up, bouncing on the spot whilst saying something about finishing in ten seconds.

‘I’ve heard you don’t even last ten seconds. That’s what your mum told me,’ I said as I placed a foot on the mat.

If there’s one thing you don’t do when talking to an Orc, that’s talk shit about their mothers. To say that they’re psychopathically obsessed with protecting their mother’s honour is a gross understatement. Laughter and jeers turned into a collective “oooooooh” from the crowd, and a feral roar from the Orc.

‘Get that bet!’ I yelled as I charged into the ring to meet him head on. Or that’s what he thought. I was spinning even as he went for the shoot, trying to snatch my legs, drop me on my back and pummel me senseless. Instead, I turned to his outside, raised my leg waist high and kept spinning, smacking the sole of my foot into the back of his head and forcing him head down into the matting. Had I used the heel the fight would have been over. But that wouldn’t have been fun. I needed to make a point and a quick knockout could always be argued to be a fluke.

I stayed where I was, hands down and bouncing on the spot as he picked himself up, the crowd yelling various form of encouragement.

Taxish was more measured his time. Walking in, left leg leading, always stepping with the left and dragging the right in behind him, arms raised in a classic Thai Boxing guard. As he got within punching distance he started weaving, throwing out slow and light jabs. Every time he did so he planted more weight on the lead leg.

He’s going to try to return the favour, I thought, leaning my head just a little bit closer, making a seemingly clumsy attempt at a check which left the left-hand side of my head open. Taxish went for it, spinning on his lead leg and whipping out his heel. It would have knocked me into next week if I’d not been ready. I dropped into a spin of my own in the opposite direction, my foot just a few inches off the ground, my heel sinking into the base of his calf and blasting him off his foot.

As he crashed to the mat, I bounced away, hands down and loose again. I could see the crowd looking less and less confident of their champion’s chances. I wasn’t even blowing hard.

He kipped up to his feet, stomach muscles rippling, and I sighed as my mind’s eye played back exactly the sort of thing Dawn would have said if she was there. I paid for that moment’s distraction as an unchecked shin smacked into my thigh. It was the hardest kick I’d experienced for a long time and brought stars to my eyes.

He followed it up with a cross, a huge punch with all his weight behind it. I moved my head slightly to the inside, countering with an inside jab, cross, a duck to avoid his counter jab, and a jumping back kick to his gut as I launched myself back out of his reach.

It drove the breath out of him, and pushed him back. I was glad we had a bit more space between us.

I needed to finish this. He was at least half my weight again, and if he managed to land a proper punch I’d be out for the count. As it was my leg was getting more and more painful; the muscle knotting up. There’d be a full-length bruise in the morning. If I didn’t get it Healed that was.

‘Fucking bitch,’ he panted, just loud enough for me to hear.

‘Ma’am. Fucking bitch, ma’am, I said, tossing out a basic combination of jab, cross, rear kick.

I wasn’t trying to actually hit him, just keep him on his toes. I needed to finish this fight quickly. He countered with a huge right which connected and well and truly rang my bell, much to the enjoyment of the crowd.

I allowed the punch to keep me going backward, forcing him to come after me. Straight onto a teep – a Thai Boxing front kick - to the chin. which seemed to rock him in turn. He roared, a full-on bestial challenge, arms spread wide like he wanted to be the next Wolverine, and came charging in.

This was what I needed. An angry Orc was nowhere near as effective as a calm and controlled Orc. They tended to get rage blind, a form of tunnel vision. Of course, they became instantly a lot more dangerous than before, and they had the tendency to rip people’s arms off, or bite their faces off, but downsides considered, this was what I needed to win.

I stood my ground, setting my foot slightly behind me and then, when the time was right, I threw a rear elbow straight into his forehead. His head was lowered as he’d just started going for a tackle, so it was the perfect height. His momentum meant that his body kept going, forcing his head up and back, exposing the throat. The rules didn’t say anything about what I did next. A very simple, traditional close quarter combat technique back from the history of black ops and the Special Operations Executive videos. An outward chop. To the throat.

Both of his hands came up, clasping at a throat which was suddenly closed, and I dropped another rear elbow, this one straight into his breadbasket. He folded, what breath he had had in his lung being forced out, his throat unable to allow him to draw more. That exposed the rear of this head, perfect for a lead elbow to the base of his skull, a weak point on most sentient beings, but particularly so for Orcs who had a large nerve cluster there.

Taxish smashed into the ground face first and the room went silent. I realised then as I tried to look at my friends, that his punch had completely closed my eye. My leg was now on fire, and I shifted my weight so that I didn’t have endure the feeling of a thousand red hot nails being driven into my muscles.

‘You going to count then?’ I asked the NCO as he stood stunned over the prone body of their champion. ‘He’ll be fine. But he’s going to need someone to get his mouthpiece out and help him into a better position. I would, but I’m starting to think he’s actually broken my femur.’

And with that, I gratefully collapsed into the arms of Ragnhild and Marcus as they tried to help me off the mat.