PART 3
1 - 3
LEAVE I
“To the question of being feared or loved, my conclusion is that since people decide for themselves whether to love a ruler or not, while it’s the ruler who decides whether they're going to fear him, a sensible man will base his power on what he controls, not on what others have freedom to choose.” - Nicho Machiavelli, The Prince
Almost more than his apartment, this felt like home. Sam glanced through the windscreen. Cannoneer Schwartz was fiddling with his Ground Target Locator-Correlator nervously while Cpl. Lachenski watched over his shoulder and listened in on the comms traffic. They were settled nicely on top of OP Heronik, it had the best observation of the aptly named ‘Hacienda Village’ and the impact area beyond it where their targets lay. The village itself was a maze of repurposed containers stacked and welded together into buildings combined with mixture of artificial and natural foliage designed to mimic your average pissant Yukutan town. Technically speaking, the whole site was an ‘Infantry Immersion Trainer’ fit for most of a battalion to practice their breach-seize-clear-search operations against a plethora of roleplayers and robotic targets.
What mainly concerned him however, was the mauled husk of an Earther Grizzly tank, already blown up countless times and the ‘weapons cache’ represented by a recently erected shed another thousand meters beyond the city on the slope of a hill facing them. Schwartz would have another chance if he choked under the pressure, but it was always best to get a ‘go’ on the first attempt.
“Schwartz, relax.” Lachenski counseled. “Are you ready yet?” he asked while glancing towards the Lioness behind him. Senior Rueben flashed a ‘five’ with his hand and Capt. Beckett motioned expectantly.
Schwartz glanced over his digital cheat-card one more time, he had written all over the target brief sheet, including in the margins with helpful reminders. “Yeah, I’m set Corporal.”
“Send your line-up then. Navy’s lighting libbies on fire right now burning holes in the sky.”
Schwartz nodded, scrolled to the top of the check-sheet on his small handheld light-fighter terminal and keyed his comm. “Sovereign Fires, Cutlass Two-Zero-Romeo, stand by to copy Observer Lineup.”
“Send it.” flashed back near instantly. Sovereign Fires was sitting in the Lynx right behind them after all.
Schwartz read off his sheet in a steady cadence.“My position is Grid Yankee Delta 22743 67729. I am in overwatch located Two-Four-Hundred meters southeast of the target area, marked by track Golf-2-0 with glint and handshake available on challenge. I have two targets for CAS. My specialized equipment is GTL-C, IPS and AGDL-L linkcode: Echo-One-One-Seven.”
The transcribed and recorded text blinked over the corner of Lachenski’s Sit-Aware while Schwartz fiddled nervously with his stylus waiting for the ‘acknowledged’ ping from Sovereign which mercifully came only a few seconds later.
“Cutlass 2-0 Romeo, Sovereign Fires solid copy on all. We have CAS checking on station time now, go ahead and push to Yellow 5.”
Schwartz nervously thumbed the net in his left ear over to yellow five as instructed while he kept the one in his right on the Reg. Fires net.
“Sovereign Fires, this is Sting 2-5 and 2-6 checking in. Mission number: India-Fox-Eight-Romeo-Seven. We are a flight of two F/A-93’s currently ingressing via IP Collect holding Angels 3-5-hundred and above. We each have 2-by-GBU-40’s and 4-by-AGM-120’s plus full load gun and self-protection munitions. Running a little light at the moment, we have 2-0 mikes of Playtime. We are both Sniper-Pod and Data-link equipped but Sting 2-6 is currently Dead-Ear, non-link capable. Abort code: Echo-Kilo.”
The text streamed over Schwartz’s terminal while Schwartz listened in. He quickly pinned the message to the display corner of his display and then circled the ‘A’ in BREAKPOINT scribbled down on the RAMROD line of his checksheet and then gave his mandatory read-back after Sovereign pinged acknowledged. “Cutlass 2-0-Romeo copies all. 20 minutes Playtime; Abort Echo-Kilo.”
The nerves were getting to Schwartz. Despite the mild weather he mopped his brow and shifted his mask very slightly while Sovereign vectored the Sting flight from their ingress point to a holding area. He took looks at his mapbox and cheat sheet to cross-reference a final time.
“Cutlass 2-0 Romeo, Sovereign Fires, go ahead and give Sting your situation update.”
“Check, Situation Update to follow. Threat Activity: small arms, MANPADS, light triple-A. Advise there’s a destroyed ZU-11 SAM battery vicinity-grid Yankee Delta 262, 676. I have two Targets for CAS one-by Grizzly tank and one-by weapons cache. I am the closest friendly. Guns are Cold. Weather is workable. Remarks and Restrictions: NFA 3-Bravo-3 is still in effect over Hacienda Village, NFA 1-Charlie-3 is in effect located over my OP, 100 meter radius. Per commander guidance: no cratering munitions on roadways or damage to civilian infrastructure without prior approval, precision guided munitions only.”
“Sovereign Fires, Ack.”
“Sting 2-5, Ack. I’m glassing with my Pod; I contact that destroyed ZU-11. Go ahead and send your target briefs when ready. Waiting on words.”
Schwartz glanced at Lachenski nervously for reassurance; this was his first time outside of a sim. Lachenski just motioned him back to his sheet to continue the briefing. They were wasting more time and tax-payer money. Lachenski glanced upwards and behind him as Schwartz rechecked his target briefs. It would’ve been impossible to hear or see them at this distance. The two Navy indo-exo strike craft were barely skimming the troposphere at the moment and were twenty kilometers further away slant distance, but their tracks were still visible on his sitaware as tiny red diamonds.
“Target Alpha, line four: 545 meters; one by Grizzly Tank; Grid Yankee-Delta 24869 68441. Marked by GLT-C Link Code: Echo-1-1-7. Friendlies 2-4-hundred meters south-east. Advise when ready for Remarks and Restrictions.”
“Sting Two-Five, ack and ready.”
“Remarks Restrictions: No collateral damage concerns. Ordinance: taster's choice. Call in with direction and weapons release. Final attack direction: northeast to southwest or reciprocal.”
“Sting Two-Five, ack.”
Schwartz sat there for a moment expectantly while deafening silence came over the next. Lachenski smacked his helmet and thrust his finger at the note Schwartz himself had written on his cheat card in bold letters.
“Sting Two-Five, Cutlass Two-Zero-Romeo, can you give me a read-back of lines four, six, and restrictions?”
“Yeah, check Cutlass, line four: 545 meters; line six: Yankee-Delta 24869, 68441; Final attack direction northeast to southwest or reciprocal.”
“Good readback, say when ready for Target Bravo” Schwartz acknowledged.
Lachenski leaned over and close to him. “You almost just failed. Don’t do it again.”
Schwartz cringed slightly.
“Sting Two-Five, ready for Target Bravo.”
“Check, Target Bravo: line four: 549 meters; One-by weapons cache; grid Yankee-Delta 25090 68445; Marked by GLT-C, same link code. Friendlies 2-6-hundred meters southeast. Advise when ready Remarks Restrictions.”
“Sting Two-Five Ack, Send ‘em.”
“No CDE concerns, Ordinance: recommend GBU-40 delay fuzed; Call in with direction and weapons release; Final attack direction northeast to southwest or recip. Send a read-back of lines four, six and restrictions for target bravo when able.”
“Sting Two-Five Ack. Line four: Five-Four-Nine meters; grid Yankee-Delta 25090, 68445; Final attack direction northeast to southwest or recip. We’re standing by for handshake; just keep in mind Two-Six is Dead-Ear. You’re gonna have to talk him onto Target Bravo.”
“Good read back. Cutlass Two-Zero-Romeo copies, I’m about to send up the lasso.” Schwartz scrambled from his cross legend sitting position and yanked his Air-Ground Data Link, Light from its holster. It was shaped like a pistol mostly for ease of use, but in reality it was an extremely high gain antenna used to signal aerospace craft with an auxiliary pointer to ‘sparkle’ targets in emergencies. Once the aircraft had established a good ‘hand-shake’ and pointed their much larger and more powerful antennas directly at you it was no-longer necessary, but until they’d figured out exactly where you were, they were searching a massive amount of land for a relatively weak signal. Emitting any kind of radio signature that wasn’t highly directional or in tiny bursts was dangerous on a modern battlefield. Once they were vectored, the two battletrak systems did a digital key exchange and established a high bandwidth secure link. It was relatively seamless from both perspectives, so long as everything was configured correctly. Schwartz pulled the trigger back and traced the piper on the AGDL’s sight around the minute track on his sit-aware in slow and lazy loops that collapsed inwards just like he had been taught.
“Cutlass Two-Zero-Romeo, Sting Two-Five, handshake. Visual friendlies.”
A window popped open on his fires terminal displaying the video-downlink from Sting 2-5 giving them a god’s-eye view of themselves. There they were, 2/1RFL-G-2-0 and 2/1RFL-G-2-0R. Lachenski waved for the camera. Despite the fact they were tens of kilometers away and thousands of meters in the air, at max-magnification, like they were now, he could nearly read the text on his own killpatch.
“Check, ready to mark Target Alpha.” Schwartz replied as he settled back down in front of his GTL-C which he had already carefully laid on the tank over two thousand meters away. With the press of a button the device began to transmit.
The GTL-C was a step over laser-designators of the past. While there had been a time it was acceptable to shine a high powered laser at something you wanted to blow up, emitting any kind of signature now was a good way to get blown up yourself. Too many people were looking for any kind of emission. A Maddox could zero you off only a split second of being lazed, and have an HE shell with your name on it out the gun a second after that. The GTL-C used much more advanced technology, one that didn’t broadcast your location to the enemy.
Optical mensuration from a trio of carefully spaced cameras and machine-learning based image comparison from a pre-loaded library terabytes in size vectored the aircraft’s sensor pod into exactly what you were looking at to within a tenth of a meter via the data-link. The aircraft’s weapon-suite then generated a firing solution and fed it to the munition before it was released. From there they were purely autonomous, there was no guidance signal to jam. In a bomb-on-coordinate scenario where the strike craft couldn’t visually acquire the target, the GTL-C could talk directly to the munition and feed it all the pertinent information before it was released. Even in a heavy ECM environment it had a low bandwidth emergency mode that took longer, but punched through all known jamming.
“Marking Target Alpha on Echo-1-1-7”
“Sting 2-5 looking… tally Target Alpha.”
What came next would be much more tricky. Schwartz had to do it the old fashioned way.
“Cutlass, Sting Two-Six, we’re dead-ear. I’m looking at the square in the middle of Hacienda, waiting for a talk-on.”
Sting 2-6 wasn’t actually dead-ear, Captain Beckett could see the video downlink just fine and the slowly turning aerial picture of Hacienda village square. However, it was part of the certification event that the ground observer demonstrated that they could perform a target talk-on if they had to. It was tricky business. You were basically walking the pilot’s eyes from something big and easily identifiable and to something potentially as small as a single person which they were looking at from dozens of kilometers away with no real indication you were both looking at the same thing except for brevity codes. Add in any kind of inclement weather, comms trouble, or darkness and it became a nightmare.
“Check, Sting Two-Six establish that square as an anchor point and call contact on a circular road running around the outside of that square.”
“Anchor point established. Contact.”
“Check, establish the east-west distance from one side of that road to the other on the opposite side of the square as one unit of measure.”
“Check, unit of measure established.”
People’s eyes tended to work better with physical comparisons of relative size rather than absolute units of measure. It was especially helpful because Sting was currently doing a loopy race-track in the sky far away from potential threats on the ground. The closest and most distant points in their orbit represented a change of easily six or seven kilometers. Their sniper pod had essentially infinite gimbal. Once it had captured something it would keep looking at the same spot no matter how they maneuvered, but the image still changed in size and orientation nearly constantly meaning only relative measures and cardinal or sub-cardinal directions were useful. In a real situation they could just mash the grid into their pod by hand and lock right onto the 1 meter square grid manually, but this was all part of the exercise.
“Alright from our anchor point go approximately two units of measure northeast to the outside of the village and call contact on a north-south running hard-ball road.”
“Contact.”
“Follow that road approximately three units of measure north until you see a stand of trees, call contact and tell me what you see.”
“Contact, I see an east-west running line of fake trees approx 200 meters in length, 20 meters deep. On the northeast end of that stand I see a dark roofed building, eh, it’s more like a shack, with two civilian looking vehicle wrecks parked on the north side.”
“Check, Sting Two-Six. Confirm the vehicles are oriented northeast to southwest”
“Affirm, they are oriented northeast to southwest.”
“Rodge, Sting Two-Six, that building is Target Bravo.”
“Cutlass Two-Zero-Romeo, Sting Two-Six is tally Target Bravo.”
Schwartz pumped his fist and Lachenski gave him an encouraging slap and shake on the shoulders. Terminal Guidance Operations were complete and their job was mostly done. Now all that was left was to watch the fireworks.
“All players, Sovereign Fires, stand-by for game plan.”
“Cutlass Ack.”
“Sting Ack.”
While Schwartz was responsible for getting the pilots all of the targeting data and making sure they had sensors on the right thing, neither he or Lachenski was actually certified to give them the clearance to drop munitions. That authority rested with Senior Sergeant Rueben, their Tactical Air Controller, or their local ground-force commander. In addition, Senior Reuben was the only person currently present who was qualified to perform any type of air-traffic control and vector the strike craft from one section of sky to another. In a more complex scenario with multiple friendly strike craft, ‘blue’ or enemy air, civilian traffic, and live artillery being fired through the airspace, deconfliction became the most important factor after target correlation in actually getting munitions on the ground.
Despite the fact this whole exercise even had been pretty hastily planned, this was all light work for Senior Rueben. This area of the Fortune Hill Military Reservation was well trodden ground and their airspace was both clear and already neatly sectioned off with ingress points, coordination and holding areas as well as ‘kill-boxes’ and attack corridors which made the job of directing them trivial. It was a simple case of telling them: ‘go here, stay above 2-5-hundred angels’. All of that troublesome aerial deconfliction had been hashed out prior.
The Navy was planning on practicing ‘air-interdiction’ operations today. They were going to blow the hell out of some ground targets without the aid of any secondary observers. What had to allow this little event to happen was that it was fairly easy to grab an OP from Range Control. Add in a few pre-formatted messages the night prior to their resident Navy Air-Liaison Officer, which Sam was already friends with, and they were cleared to get Schwartz’s certification out of the way with live aerospace craft to boot.
Senior Rueben double checked his notes before continuing. “Rodge, both targets will be Type-Two control, bomb-on-target, shooter-shooter. Target Alpha: two-by-AGM-120’s ripple fired from Sting Two-Five, Target Bravo one-by-GBU-40 delay fuze from Sting Two-Six. Expect 20 second spacing due to munition speed.”
“Sting Ack.”
“Cutlass Ack.”
There was a minute or so of exciting tension while Sting maneuvered towards their attack positions, still far beyond visual and auditory range, but with more advantageous geometry.
“Sting Two-Five, Two-Six in from the southwest.”
Lachenski could barely hear the whine of their engines as they dove to lower altitude. Aside from their blinking red tracks on his sitaware, he would’ve had no idea they were there.
Schwartz gave a mostly symbolic look around for threat activity before he gave the thumbs up. “Sting Flight, Cutlass 2-0-Romeo, continue”
“Sting Flight, Sovereign Fires, cleared hot.”
“Sting Two-Five: rifle, two-away.”
“Sting Two-Six: pickle, one-away.”
“Sting Flight is out.”
A giddy anticipation took hold over both Schwartz and Lachenski as the two strike craft broke hard left and began zooming away from the target area. That old Grizzly would be a practice target for MAAWs no more in a few seconds and the shack two hundred meters to its right would be scrapped right after. Both of the AGM’s rocket motors burned out long before they reached the target. They screamed in around mach three, easily out running the sound of their own flight.
A bright flash of light overtook the Grizzly. They watched gleefully as its already twisted turret flew a few meters into the air before dust obscured their vision. A supersonic boom of the munitions flying to their front struck, followed a few seconds later by the distant crack-crack of the warheads. Through the GTL-C Schwartz could see the Grizzly’s hull now nearly ripped in half under the force of two closely-timed 60 kilo shaped-charge warheads.
Schwartz pumped his fist. “Fuck yeah, eat that shit Green!”
Lachenski tapped his shoulder. His eyes were smiling, but they still had work to do.
The 500-Kilo glide bomb destined for Target Bravo blitzed in while brushing against the mach-barrier. It sliced through the target shack’s roof like a fallen star and then another three meters into the soil in the split second delay before it went off.
Soil and rocks flew hundreds of meters into the air. The two broken vehicles parked outside were flung away, violently flipping end over end in the low Martian gravity. The ‘weapons cache’ shack was replaced in a flash of chemistry and mechanical malice by a smoking crater. Gravity finally overtook the debris and chunks of sheet metal, pebbles, and dust rained down.
“Sting Flight, Cutlass 2-0-Romeo good effects, no need for immediate re-attack.”
The sound from the explosion finally reached them, a massive thunderclap followed by a low roar.
“Cutlass, we're joker. Just send an abridged BDA.”
“Target Alpha successful. Target Bravo successful. No CDE observed.”
“Sovereign Fires acknowledges all. Sting flight go ahead and push to IP Wernher and switch to Yellow 3 for control home.”
“Thanks for the work boys.”
With that Sting’s callsign blinked off the net.
Lachenski hauled Schwartz to his feet and clashed their helmets together in a congratulatory manner. “Good shit kid. You almost fucking blew it, but good-shit reguardless. Box-operator no more, you’re about to be a real fuckin’ FO. Lemmie tell you, there’s only one thing that feels better than blowing some shit up.”
“What’s that Corporal?” Schwartz asked while turning to admire the slowly dissipating clouds of dust.
“Putting warheads on foreheads for real. Keep this up and you’ll get your chance.”
Captain Beckett strapped his mask on and stepped out of the Lynx behind them while Senior Rueben did the same. “Schwartz!”
“Check Sir!”
“At this time, you are a Go with a score of 97. Do not, I repeat, do not forget to ask for a mandatory read-back. That is a safety measure. Someone accidentally flips a number and someone who shouldn't ends up dead, alright? Lachenski saved your ass. Since he didn’t actually feed you any info, I'll look the other way. However, I was about five seconds away from automatically failing you. Otherwise, good job. Just watch the comm etiquette and remember those mandatory readbacks.”
“Check, rodge sir,” Schwartz nodded.
“Senior you got anything?” Captain Beckett asked while motioning to him.
Senior Rueben shook his head. “I think you got it all, sir. You two goons get all this shit in the Lynx while I call range-control and clear us out.”
“Yeah, and hurry up. I got a pissed off girlfriend to get back to.” Captain Beckett added.
The main meeting room of the Central Military Commission of the Hesperian People’s Alliance Party was plain, but hardly drab. An open room with carefully selected octagonal red, gray, and sandy yellow Martian slate tiling covered the floor. The center of the room was carefully inlaid with the parties Hammer and Sextant symbol and surrounded by a semi-circular conference table where the hardfaced members of the Commission were seated. Chairman Diaz-Hidalgo sat at the center flanked by his Premier and the various heads of the Armed Services.
The Chairman himself was a small man but his presence exuded confidence and energy far beyond his physical size. Thin lines at the corners of his brown eyes were the only evidence of his middle age. Though he wore evidence of his direct descent from Earther refugees in his facial structure and slightly accented speech he was Martian to the core. A shining example of the ideals and virtues of Bo Xian’s Hesperian People’s Alliance Party, he had worked himself up from handing out inflammatory pamphlets while dodging green security forces on the streets of Zhou-Yu Arcology as a child to the very heights of Party power. That party was as much his now as it had ever belonged to its founder.
The Chairman motioned towards him. “Vongzhi Petrova, step-forward.”
Yuri did as instructed and marched precisely to the ever so slightly worn down section of tiling in the exact center, clicked his heels together and rendered a salute which the Chairman casually dismissed.
“At this moment I am reminded of a quotation from the honorable Chairman Xian from his opening address to the 16th National Party Congress.” Diaz began.
“Our Party is opposed to war. We are lovers of Peace. We long to end bloodshed; we seek the abolishment of War’s horror. However, to meet our political aim we must use all political means at our disposal– including War. The greater injustice is Imperialism! The greater horror is Colonialism! It is precisely because we are lovers of Peace, that we will never beg for it! At all times our hearts are ready to annihilate any threat to the Peace of Revolution. We will take up arms, sacrifice our very lives if necessary! Peace is on the end of our bayonets!” Chairman Diaz ended his traditional opening recitation with an animated and thunderous strike of his fist on the conference table which was met by an appropriate applause which the Chairman himself joined.
They were applauding the idea, rather than the man who spoke it into existence.
Chairman Diaz continued once the applause elapsed. “Vongzhi Petrova, we have been charged with a great responsibility in solidarity with the united peoples of Mars and all oppressed polities in the Solar. This responsibility has been entrusted to us under the purview of the Worlds Development Forum and is near to my heart as well as that of many of our citizens. How familiar are you with the Yukutan Independent Republic?”
“I have familiarized myself with all of the appropriate material, Vongzhi-Chairman.” Yuri dutifully replied. Of course he had read it. He had studied it ceaselessly. A war does not consume some of your family without also partially consuming you.
“Then you are aware that we as Martians are bound to that State by the eternal friendship of fraternal peoples. The people of Yukatan are Vongzhi in aim and condition. The project of their independence and self-determination is under constant assault by insidious counter-revolutionary and reactionary elements! No honor-bound member of the Party of Chairman Xian can abide that!” Chairman Diaz pronounced again thunderously which was met by animated gestures of agreement from the other committee members.
Diaz settled himself. His expressions, mannerism, and passions were all well practiced, eminently calculated. It was a skill he used to great advantage in his ascendancy up the party ladder. “The Worlds Development Forum has asked us to provide four expeditionary brigades to support a ‘surge’ which will hasten the end of the war there, and we will oblige. We are to do this in concert with the other Martian nations. The Tharsis Regent Republic, The Noachian Free-States Alliance, The Dominion of Amazonia, The Solis Confederacy and Cimmerian Republic are all providing sizable contingents of manpower in the tens of thousands. There have been additional, smaller, commitments from every single member of the Worlds Development Forum from Ceres to Enceledus. All of the Solar will know: Hesperia does not shirk when it is called upon for aid.”
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“Then I measure that my summoning here is in concert with this, Vongzhi-Chairman?” Yuri questioned rhetorically. The Chairman liked to be prompted when appropriate.
“Correct Vongzhi-Petrova. Our Army is large, it is skilled and well equipped. Its soldiers are brave, honorable, and utterly dedicated to the revolutionary ideology of Chairman Xian and his Party. However, there is one thing they lack which you offer: experience.”
Yuri’s face didn’t show it, but inside he knew a golden opportunity was being offered to him. A potential elevator to a position where he could enact his own will.
Chairman Diaz let the pronouncement settle for a moment. “Given your experience on Titan extinguishing the reactionary elements and with due recommendations from General Machado-Yi; I have decided to appoint you to the rank of Da-xiao. As a Junior-Colonel you will be charged with leading a contingent of our Soldiers in an advanced party to gain experience on ground in Yukutan. After a time you and your Soldiers will bring that experience back to instruct the rest of the Army. At the request of the Worlds Development Forum, this Battalion Task-Force will be a trans-national endeavor, with contingents from Tharsis and Noachia under your command. You will learn from them and they will learn from you as you execute your mission. I trust you grasp the depth of responsibility The People are entrusting you with Junior-Colonel Vongzhi-Petrova.”
“I will execute the will of The People and hasten the Universal Revolution, Vongzhi-Chairman.” Yuri responded appropriately.
“Excellent. Never forget that Political work is Army work! Group-Captain Zhou will be accompanying you as your political officer. In addition to rooting out the corruption of Reactionary elements you are charged to spread the guidance and wisdom of Chairman Xian and strengthen the alliance of all peoples. Senior-Colonel Lao will give you a more detailed briefing regarding the specifics of your mission. You are dismissed, Vongzhi-Petrova. The People’s trust is in you.” Chairman Diaz-Hidalgo then rose from his seat and began another thunderous applause while Yuri rendered another salute and stomped his foot while the applause grew. Once he had soaked in the congratulations, he joined in. After all, they were applauding the idea, not the man.
Lucy didn’t really mind Sam was gone for the day. She supposed that she should feel upset that he was engaging in any kind of work during their leave after he spent all that time pestering her to stop worrying about it, but it did give her a chance to spend some time with Dalia at the combat club. She saw Sam constantly now anways. What had been a temporary move while insurance hashed out her claim quickly turned into her just, moving in. After all, ‘it was easier than finding a new place’. The claims agent even agreed to pay out for all of the stuff that was ruined without much fuss. It still felt weird calling it ‘their’ apartment.
She was still living out of a few duffle bags, but being so flush with cash, if she needed something, more clothes, a replacement comm, she just went out and bought it. The whole set of gym gear she’d brought was brand new. The gloves, wraps, headgear and shin guards filling her bag were straight off the shelf. Maybe she could’ve saved the old set with some diligent cleaning, but they were starting to show their age anyways.
Dalia was already warming up when she got there, resplendent in bright colors again. Apparently no amount of time living in Ridge City would ever fully accustom her to the Thartic penchant for drab soil-tones. She made it work, it looked good, but she also stood out like a blue pastel thumb among a sea of muted gray and brown.
Dalia turned away from the heavy bag she had been demolishing and towards Lucy as she approached, throwing out a half powered side kick to test her reactions. Lucy mostly parried it with her forearms. It was a playful shot to begin with so she let it slide.
“Long time, no see skipper.” Dalia jested.
“Leading with that today are we?” Lucy asked while settling onto a bench and taking off her running shoes and opening her backpack.
“What, would you rather I blow up your ego a little more?” Dalia parked herself on the bench next to Lucy. “Where’s Sam? I figured he’d at least be with you if you were gonna come tonight at all.”
Really, she was trying to ignore that for the time being, her reckoning was already scheduled for Monday. “Out at TA-12, doing Strike certs for one of his Cannoneers.” Lucy responded.
“During our block-leave? And you didn’t tear his head off? Or is he that bad of a roommate?” Dalia snickered.
“Eh, they’re about to send the guy down to a team and wanted to get him fully trained up first. Navy was blowing some shit up anyways and they just hopped on. Last minute thing. As for roommate status, he’s not so bad really. Actually, I think you were worse.” Lucy tried to play it off casually, but side-eyed Dalia to judge her reaction while putting on her shin guards.
“Oh please Princess, as far as Academy roommates, I was S-tier at least. Except for that one time I clogged the drain, and that wasn’t the end of the world. You’re telling me he puts the seat down every time?” Dalia brushed off. Maybe it was worth prodding a bit more to get a rise out of her.
“Well, he doesn’t use my makeup without asking either.” Lucy continued with another shrug.
“Are you still mad about that? Cydonians really do hold grudges don’t they? It’s not like I stole it, I used it one time because I wanted to try something new, alright?” Dalia defended again while her suspicions grew. “Besides. That was fair. You ate the Bueno that I had been saving for months. You still haven’t replaced it, you know.”
Bringing up The Kinder Bueno Incident after they had sworn never to discuss it again was low. Obviously Lucy was getting somewhere.
Lucy stopped what she was doing to lock eyes with Dalia. “How was I supposed to know: A, you were saving it and hadn’t forgotten about it, and B, that you couldn’t just go out and buy another one? It’s just a chocolate bar. Hardly a worthy comparison to slaving away on my hands and knees cleaning up and unclogging our shower drain. It was the night before a room inspection and you ‘just happened’ to be out on pass.”
Dalia looked positively offended. “You ate the damn thing and you’re gonna tell me it was ‘just a chocolate bar’ and not a finely crafted confection, an extravagant mixture of hazelnut cream, wafer and luxurious milk-chocolate, a demonstration of the highest form of mass produced treat? Not to mention they’re practically unobtanium in this backwards-ass country.”
Lucy motioned flippantly with her gloved hand while fasting the other with her teeth. “I mean it was good, nothing to write home about…”
Dalia jumped up while shaking her head repeatedly, motioning Lucy up with haste. “That’s it. You’re done. Get up Lucy. C’mon you’re done getting ready. Time to spar. Put your mouth-guard in Lucy.” Dalia continued motioning her forwards while bouncing on the balls of her feet backwards towards the open sparring floor. Mission accomplished.
Dalia was fun to spar with but she had a tendency to play a bit too much if she wasn’t at least a little agitated. Her form of ‘play’ was maybe a bit too rough for most of the people here, but tonight Lucy wanted to work.
They’d agreed to just touch sparring; they both knew better than to really beat the hell out of each other. Though, the jab Dalia led with had a little more heat on it than a friendly touch. All it really took was one good shot to set someone off, physical or otherwise. Lucy let it glance off her gloved guard while hovering just out of her reach for the moment, loosening up and circling. She’d run here and was already feeling nice and warm, but wanted a moment to get a sense of her surroundings before proceeding. It was just bad etiquette to get into a gym war and crash into a neighboring pair.
Dalia threw out a few long kicks aimed mostly at Lucy’s shin guard but partially at her calf, playing the range game to feel Lucy out. She had a significant reach advantage, being nearly 12cm taller with a wingspan to match, and was quite apt at using it to her advantage. Dalia threw out another probing set of punches before she lost a bit of patience and tried to sneak a cross in behind her jab.
Lucy had been waiting and rolled to the left while throwing a round kick into Dalia’s lead thigh which was currently holding all of her weight.
Dalia hopped backwards a few steps to rethink her approach. Lucy obviously was holding back, but that still stung more than a bit. She always fought like this. It was the same way she approached everything competitive: be patient, look for a weakness, then capitalize. Lucy was still just standing there while Dalia bounced around. She had her feet planted with her guard up, just waiting for her to try again.
Dalia wasn’t going to let her stand there like that forever and threw a few kicks and combinations to soften her up. Dalia wasn’t really looking for anything significant, mostly just whaling on her to keep her busy and continued this pattern for several minutes.
As a general rule, even in a real fight, Dalia favored volume over power. It tended to be much safer to wear someone down with an unending hail of shots at around 70% than to try for a knockout with every single strike and gas yourself out. Dalia was light on her feet, bouncing around, playing with range, throwing long kicks and dancing in and out of her opponent's shorter reach.
Lucy was much more sure-footed with a more square, less bladed stance that gave her movement a bit of a plodding quality outside of the intermittent explosive bursts of aggression. Lucy had always used more of a punch-heavy style, rarely kicking above the waist. She relied on timing and head movement for defense and punishing counters for offense. Dalia didn’t want to give Lucy a chance by getting close anyways. Despite her general aversion to grappling Lucy loved to clinch and dirty-box. Most of her wrestling was focused on keeping a fight standing so she could really hammer on someone with elbows, knees, and the odd spinning attack.
Lucy was getting impatient and more importantly her shins and forearms were getting sore. She could check the leg kicks and mostly parry or slip the punches, but they’d done this so much before that Dalia knew her game well enough that one good sting was enough to remind her. Every time Lucy moved in for a counter Dalia just danced out of range or kept her at bay with a checking kick towards her ribs. When Dalia really wanted to get respect she had a nasty technique of kicking with more with her foot than her shin. Even with guards covering the tops of her feet, she could curl her toes and turn the whole end of her foot into a nasty dagger that ended any exchange like a painful exclamation point. She had stunning accuracy too and kept nailing the same spot right below Lucy’s left elbow. It was definitely going to be sore tomorrow because it hurt like hell now.
Lucy would land a half decent shot to the body every one or two exchanges of punches but it wasn’t enough to get anything done. Dalia just had too much reach and too much stamina to get locked into any attritional battle with. She could throw straight punch and kick combinations until the end of time while maintaining her elusiveness if she was allowed to control the tempo.
If Dalia wouldn’t let her go second by opening herself up for a counter committing to any strike, she’d just force Dalia’s hand and go third. Dalia really liked that pawing lead hand jab to keep her range. Her pec and front deltoid twitched ever so slightly right before she threw it. That was a read Lucy could use.
Lucy shifted her weight forward and blitzed in with a lunging left hook to close the distance. As predicted Dalia leaned back and away from her hook. Her shoulder twitched. Lucy bailed on her feint and rolled to the outside with Dalia’s piston-like jab skimming off her head gear. Lucy took another step forward, fluidly switching stances into an overhand right that snuck over Dalia’s shoulder and spun her chin like a damn pinwheel.
Lucy stopped while Dalia shrunk backwards with a few rubber legged steps.
Dalia dropped her hands and spit her mouth piece halfway out as she moved out of range “I thought you said we were touch sparring, bitch.”
Lucy raised her arm to reveal the red imprint left by Dalia’s toes in her ribcage while removing her mouth piece with her other hand. “Does that look like a touch?”
Dalia rolled her head back and around “fine… fine. Two more rounds; then we grapple, alright?” Dalia motioned to the clock on the wall and Lucy nodded. “And no fuckin’ elbows, no spinning shit.” Dalia reinforced while shoving her mouth piece back in. Lucy nodded again.
Dalia learned fast enough and spent the next two rounds punishing Lucy from range again but dialed the intensity back some. You had to meet a training partner half way.
They touched gloves and took a break after their sixth round.
Dalia ripped off her head gear and loosened her neck with her hands. “Certainly haven’t lost your touch.”
“Same to you. That kick still fucking hurts.” Lucy replied while rubbing the mark on her abdomen.
“Eh, not the only love bite you got.” Dalia teased while pinching at a more faded mark on her neck.
Lucy brushed Dalia’s hand away with a smirk. “You should see what I did to him”.
Dalia sighed. “Ugh, Mark is so selfish with that shit. He’ll lick every bit of makeup off my face but I leave one little hickey above his collar line and it’s the end of the world because all the officers in his company will tease him about it”.
“Look at it from his perspective; he’s a gentle soul.” Lucy replied sarcastically.
Dalia wiggled an eyebrow suggestively. “Oh trust me, he wants anything but gentle.” They both laughed and let the thought hang for a while before Dalia continued. “Enough about that stuff. You still doing your change of command on Monday?”
Lucy nodded. “Yep.”
“They decided your fate yet?” Dalia further questioned.
“Nope. I have a meeting with the Colonel the same morning to discuss ‘my career’. Pretty sure they’re gonna stick me in S3 again. Get some more practice being a fucking TOC-roach” Lucy replied remorsefully.
“Where all good officer careers go to die.” Dalia lamented theatrically. “Can’t be as bad this time around right? You’ll have some stupid Ensign to bully. I mean, what else would you really be doing if you hadn’t gotten an extra bar?”
“Keep command of my platoon for one,” Lucy replied with a shrug.
“For how long though? Another few months at most. I’m due to give mine up soon and I only got it a couple months before you did. What else would you do? Be a Company XO?”
Lucy sighed “I suppose, but I wanted to stay on the line, in Cutlass. I don’t mind Fritz either.”
“He’s an okay guy Lucy but everyone has to go sometime. Up or out.” Dalia wrapped a jovial arm around Lucy. “That, and I’m sure the ‘Legendary Captain Petrova’ will get her chance to command again before long.” Dalia added while gesturing dramatically and trying to bring some levity back.
“We’ll see about that.” Lucy deadpanned. Dalia rolled her eyes and released her friend while Lucy continued. “I think it’ll be a while; they’ll probably swap me out with Captain Sloan and let him take over Cut-throat since Captain Byrne’s gone.”
Dalia sighed at the recollection of that formation. “What happened to her wasn’t fair.”
“They were her Riflemen. She might not have been able to do anything to stop it from happening, but someone has to be responsible,” Lucy clarified.
Dalia sipped at her water and threw her shin guards back into her bag. “It’s still a fucking shame; one of the few people I could stand in 3rd Battalion and she gets wrapped up in that mockery of justice. You know Norman? Er, Lt. Blackwell, he just walked straight into 2/4 and took a platoon again.”
Lucy motioned flippantly. “Fucking typical. He’s got connections.”
Mental gears turned. Dalia glanced at Lucy. “Ever thought about using your connections. I mean you know the Regent right? If you want a command, I’m sure If you asked you’d get one.”
“You know how I feel about that, Dalia. Everything I have, I earned. No special treatment, nothing done for me by favors or politicking.”
Dalia’s lips wiggled thoughtfully while she tried to put it to words. “I mean you say that and I believe it, but other people don’t seem as content to look past your name as you are. That and I hardly think most people will interpret your ‘Meritorious Promotion’ as anything other than special treatment.”
Lucy took a drink of her water while contemplating it. “What do you mean?”
“C’mon I know you’ve thought about this before. There’s a lot of people, seniors even, worried about you shooting past them. Captain Mars, Corvo, they’d probably be more than happy with you rotting in staff while you ‘gain some maturity’ or some other bullshit like that. Sure Fritz or anyone like that won’t hold you back but, other people resent you just because you’re good at what you do. Trust me, I hear more scuttlebutt than you do.”
Lucy looked both remorseful and frustrated at the same time as Dalia continued.
“I mean, I’m the same way to an extent.” Dalia pointed at the marks under her eyes. “This, this is the kinda shit that you have no control over, but people will still hold against you. Odds are stacked against people like us; regardless of how good we actually are. It’s all political, and I’m not really up for all that. Lt. Col. Rhenner, Capt. Wunder, and I are alright, but I don’t see myself ever getting to a Battalion command. That’s fine for me. Really though, you have a hell of a lot better shot for all that than I do if you use what God and 30 nerds in a laboratory gave you. Sky’s the limit.” Dalia reassured.
“I still don’t like it.” Lucy reinforced.
“Sister please, there’s no stabbing like backstabbing; it’s the Officer way.” Dalia joked.
“Don’t rock the boat unless you’re ready to swim.” Lucy replied with a butchered version of one of Sam’s Hensho proverbs.
“C’mon lets get some of that aggression out.” Dalia stood up and moved over to a different section of the open floor where several pairs of people were already engaged in the artful sport of trying to strangle the life out of each other.
“Just imagine I’m Mulleux.” Dalia joked while assuming a wrestling stance and pawing Lucy's head. That was all the encouragement she needed. Lucy launched herself forward like a spear.
Rand cut the water and yanked his towel off the hook. Something stirred in the other room. Every two rooms in this barracks shared a bathroom with each other and of all people Balachenko was his ‘latrine-mate’. Right at this very moment, he didn’t want to deal with his shit. He just wanted to finish his shower and go about his business. The other door to the bathroom which he’d forgotten to lock flew open and late-afternoon sunlight streamed in.
“Dude! Big-shot where the fuck you been!” Balachenko burst out as he entered.
Rand lunged for the other door which he’d hadn’t even bothered to close, catching a glimpse of the angry looking guided missile, its smoke trail streaking and billowing up Priveda’s leg, which was dangling out of his bed while he slammed it closed.
“Whoa! Jumpy! Relax dude,” Balachenko eased.
Rand flattened his back against the door while holding his towel up with one hand. “Ballie, I’m fucking naked.”
“Yeah, you also disappeared for like two weeks; what the fuck?” Balachenko questioned while Rand glanced at the beer in his hand.
“I was with family and shit.” Rand lied.
“Well shit man, come over. You can tell me, Sverts, and Tybalt all about it.” Balachenko invited jovially.
“Ballie, I’m still naked.” Rand pointed out.
“No shit retard, go get dressed and shit and then come over.” Balachenko instructed.
Rand breathed a tiny sigh of relief. “Yeah, yeah just gimme a few minutes.” How exactly he was going to resolve the rest of this situation without revealing the extent of his travels or who else was currently occupying his room evaded him for the moment. He needed a few minutes to formulate a plan. Balachenko showed himself out the other door while Rand's mind raced.
Just as he was turning to go back into his own room Balachenko poked his head back through his own hatch casually. “Don’t worry about-”
Balachenko stopped himself mid sentence while his eyes locked onto the back of Rand’s neck and the other drunken escapade he’d engaged in recently.
“Rand, what the fuck is that.” Balachenko questioned bluntly.
Rand spun around and flattened against the wall again. “Nothing dude!”
Balachenko threw the door open again and set his beer on the floor, approaching him slowly.
“Dude what is it, let me see.” Balachenko questioned while slowly stalking forward.
“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Rand bluffed while fearfully clutching his towel.
“C’mon dude just let me see.” Balachenko asked again.
“No.”
Balachenko kept his eyes locked on the cornered Rifleman and turned his head slightly behind “Sverts! Tybalt! Come ‘ere!”
Svertson and Tybalt both piled into the tiny bathroom behind Balachenko.
“What’s up?” Tybalt questioned.
Balachenko spoke like a hunter concerned about startling his prey. “Rand’s got new ink and is actin’ mighty suspicious' about it.”
A terrible malicious look slowly crept over the trio’s faces.
“Get him!” Balachenko shouted.
Rand clutched his towel and threw a punch at Svertson while the larger man rushed him. Svertson ducked under it and crashed into him, locking in a vicious side choke that pinned his arm against his neck. Rand kicked and struggled furiously while still trying to maintain some modicum of modesty. Balachenko grabbed his other arm and they forcefully flipped him over. Tybalt caged his legs while they wrestled him to the floor. Rand had been through enough combatives training and barracks brawls to know that all physicality and skill in the solar wasn’t enough to stop multiple motivated attackers.
“Oh no no no...” Svertson chuckled while pinning Rand's opposite shoulder with his leg.
Balachenko straddled his back and slapped the freshly tattooed purple lipstick mark on the back of Rand’s trapezius muscle.
“Siobhán? Who is that! Start talking!” Balachenko barked while tugging on Rand’s earlobe painfully.
“Get the fuck off me you goons! I’ll never talk!” Rand shouted defiantly.
“We’ll see about that Soldier!” Balachenko ripped a wet washcloth off the towel rack and whipped Rand’s back with an evil laugh. Rand struggled valiantly while Balachenko continued to torture him. Svertsons and Tybalt both giggled with sadistic glee while he squirmed and yelped.
“Theo? Are you alright!?” bounced through the door’s grated lower vent.
Svertson and Balachenko both glanced at each other, they both recognized that voice.
“Siobhán, help!” Rand shouted while ripping his arm out from under Balachenko’s knee while he was distracted. The door to his room flew open closely followed by the scowling missile marked on Priveda’s shin. The munition found its mark on Balachenko’s forehead. His snapped backwards and he tumbled backwards and off of Rand completely.
Tybalt’s hands shot out in front of him defensively. Priveda just squared up with him threatening a vicious punch.
Svertson rose more carefully, backing into the shower stall with his own guard up while Balachenko rubbed his head. Rand scrambled to his feet and into his own room. As soon as he was through, Priveda slammed the door and locked it behind them.
“What the fuck was that?” She questioned.
Rand pointed over his shoulder to the tattoo on his back. “Ballie saw that and needed a closer inspection.”
Priveda gently ran her fingers over the still tender cursive of her own name while admiring the red welts on his back. “Idiots.”
“Just stupid Rifleman shit, they’ll get over it,” Rand remarked while he dropped his towel and searched for clean clothes.
Just as he finished changing Balachenko was back, this time knocking much more politely on his front door. Rand glanced through the peephole. One can of Kroner was held up to to the peep, the other to Balachenko’s forehead.
“You’re seriously not about to talk to that buffon are you?” Priveda questioned indignantly.
Rand sighed. “He’s an idiot, but he is my friend. Really, you should take a chance and get to know him. The dumbassery kinda grows on you. ‘Sides you never had anything like that done to you before? It’s uh, all in good spirits I guess.”
“Been in a fight or two dozen, but I’ve never had anyone ambush me while naked.”
“Maybe it’s a guy thing.” Rand theorized while turning back to the door. He made sure to latch the chain before opening encase they decided now was the time for round two.
“Peace?” Balachenko offered the can through the cracked door.
Rand laid out his terms. “No retaliations, alright?”
“Yeah, sure. She can uh, she can come too if she wants, I guess.”
Rand closed the door and glanced over his shoulder. Priveda made a sour face and shook her head while gathering up her things. Rand turned back to the cracked door and Balachenko’s best sad puppy impression.
Rand took the offered drink. “I’m coming.”
Rand opened the door all the way. Priveda walked up behind, in full view of Balachenko, and pulled down the collar of Rand’s shirt planting a kiss on his tattoo as if to remark her territory. She strut out of the room and past Balachenko down the catwalk, stopping at the stairwell breifly. “Tomorrow, 9 AM, ready to ride.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there, babe.” Rand replied with a wave.
Balachenko was baffled watching the exchange, Rand was grinning like the village idiot as he watched Priveda walk away. Rand had followed him into the room next door, sauntered in behind, kicking a rolling chair in his direction.
“Babe? What the fuck happened when you were gone?”
“Well, it wasn’t all lies. I was home for like a week and she met my family and then we rode down to Pavin and I got drunk with all her sibkin and stuff.” Rand explained while cracking his can.
Svertson raised his drink towards Rand. “Yeah and got the mark of the beast too boot I see.”
“Oh that?” Rand rubbed the mark again. It’d healed well, but still stung a little. “I was pretty gone when I got it but, it was sorta my idea I guess.”
“That’s bad luck I hear,” Tybalt mentioned.
“What? Who the fuck believes in that shit anyways?” Rand replied.
Svertson took a drink. “Dontcha think things are moving a little fast bigshot?”
Rand replied with an oblivious look and equally oblivious remark “What do you mean?”
“Listen, I like Faye, I definitely like fuckin’ her too, but I’m not about to go get ‘Hennetto’ permanently marked n my body anytime soon either.” Svertson counseled.
“I told you to stay away,” Balachenko remarked as if this one incident had confirmed all his suspicions. “That’s dangerous territory and close to home. I mean pussy’s pussy she can’t be that good right?”
“I mean that stuff's great, fantastic even but, I dunno. I kinda like just hanging out with her and stuff,” Rand confessed.
Svertson’s two extra years of seniority showed in every line on his disappointed face. “It’s too late for you then Bigshot. You’re gonna have to ride this one out until you crash and burn.”
Rand was genuinely confused by their concern. What was so wrong with this? He felt excited to wake up now. Happy even.
Svertson leveled with him. “Just promise me one thing, alright?”
“What?” Rand replied while sipping at his beer defensively.
“Do not, I repeat, do not get fucking married.” Svertson ordered in a serious tone. “I’ve seen it explode before. Just give this shit time. I know you’re all full-a hormones right now, busy slamming at every opportunity, but really, and trust me here, give it time. It’s a lot better if you split up beforehand. A lot fuckin’ cheaper too.”
Rand hadn’t even thought remotely that far ahead at this point. He was very much still living in the moment, soaking every bit of enjoyment out of it he could. Svertson’s advice did seem prudent however and he would take it into consideration.
“Anything other major life events you wanna read us in on, Rand?” Balachenko question.
“Oh,” Rand held up a keyfob. “Bought a cycle. Actually got a screamin’ deal through my old-man.”
Svertson was exasperated again. “How much did you pay?”
“Picked up a couple years old Cyton Adventure for a clean 75 Libra, complete with tax, inspection, and registration. It only had 600 k’s on it too. Guess the dude bought it, hardly ever rode it and just wanted to get rid of it for space.” Rand explained.
Svertson relaxed some. “Well you did better than Ballie there at least.”
Balachenko immediately got defensive. “I guess you’re not getting a ride then anytime soon, eh fucker?”
“Yeah, that would be threatening if your fucking car drove farther than around the block.” Svertson jabbed.
“Listen Rand,” Balachenko deftly redirected. “I spent like a week trawling Marketplace. Found an old Kolox Sprinter, fucking sick car right? Only 150 libbies cash too. Dude was most of the way through rebuilding it and then threw in the towel.”
“What’s the snag?” Rand questioned.
“It needs a new fucking battery pack and they don’t make them anymore. I get like maybe 15 k’s out of it right now. 7 if I really fuckin’ let it rip, but man does it fuckin’ rip.”
Tybalt gave an agreeing nod. “It is really fun to ride around in. It’s a coupe though, really only seats two comfortably.”
Rand rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may be able to help with that. I guess I do owe you a little since Priveda did just try to kick your head off.”
Balachenko’s eyes lit up while Rand continued. “I’ll ask my old man about it. He's got a pretty good line on all the salvage yards and stuff. If we can’t find a better one then we might be able to hot-rig a close match.”
Balachenko beamed. “Dude you’re a life-saver! Tomorrow?”
“Can’t. Already got plans. We can go like, maybe the day after tomorrow? Fuck, what day is it even?”
“Wednesday. Leave block ends Monday,” Tybalt helpfully reminded.
“Yeah that sounds good.” Rand settled on the date and he and Balachenko shook on it.
Dalia had a punishing body triangle locked around Lucy’s abdomen and was hand fighting with her over her shoulders rather playfully. Lucy would’ve been slightly upset that Dalia wasn’t trying her very hardest, but she was fully occupied trying to avoid being strangled by the Sirenese giant on her back while the round timer ticked down.
Lucy could kickbox with the best of them and wrestle quite well, but the moment they got completely to the ground, she was out of her element. She’d always thought she was decently able, certainly skilled enough to submit Sam and most of the other Officers in the Regiment, but Dalia was on another level. Not only did Dalia have a preternatural sense of balance and loved to throw people around, there was a relaxed fluidity to her game on the ground. One attack always slipped into another. One guard position easily switched into the next without pause; every opening was a trap and she just liked making other people squirm. To make them struggle. Grappling with her was like drowning and every time you seemed to reach the surface another massive wave crashed overhead.
Dalia glanced at the clock, twenty seconds to go. Without even really thinking about it she isolated Lucy’s left arm while unlocking her legs. With supreme hip mobility she hooked and swiped the isolated arm with one of her heels down to Lucy’s and then locked her legs together again. Now with only one hand to defend herself, Lucy was easy pickings.
Dalia played the hand fighting game again, this time with 2 on 1 odds, for a few seconds before she stopped stalling and pulled a quick switcheroo of hands that left Lucy’s neck open. Her arms locked in a vice-like rear naked choke with one fluid motion. When Dalia wanted to use her strength, nothing could stop her. Lucy even tucked her chin to her chest, but she just squeezed even harder forcing Lucy’s jaw back into her neck and cutting the blood flow through her carotid arteries.
Lucy’s world became hollow. Stars appeared. Her vision narrowed. Fervent tapping with her caged arm against Dalia’s leg finally brought release. Dalia dumped Lucy off to the side as the buzzer rang.
Maybe she should tap sooner next time. Both her ears were ringing and the lights above seemed extremely bright.
Dalia loomed over her. “You’re getting better. I actually had to turn it on a bit at the end there.”
Lucy laid there for another moment, sweat pouring onto the mats and panting with exertion. “At the end? I was fucking fighting for my life the whole time.”
“Yeah well, you did blast me pretty good when we were sparring. Fair’s fair. Chow?” Dalia offered a helping hand.
Lucy took it and staggered over towards her gear. “Yeah, shower, change, then we can get something to eat.”
“Where do you wanna go? I got the whip today.” Dalia raised a keyfob from her bag. “And don’t say Chino’s.” Dalia added in a sudden deadpan.
Lucy bit her tongue for a moment while slipping on a pair of sandals. She kinda was feeling Chino’s. “Uhhh…” Lucy struggled for a moment trying to form an alternate plan while picking at her nail beds.
“Taphouse?” Dalia suggested while slinging her bag and heading to the locker room.
A stroke of genius, but they couldn’t go there dressed like this. This was more like a night out and would require additional preparation.
“Taphouse.” Lucy agreed.