Rica Dragovic— codename Hawk, observed his opponent with a cool eye. Chiba Juro. A former contender for the global heavyweight title, but he had disappeared from the public scene years ago.
Chiba was huge, towering over Rica at an impressive two meters, and hopefully, that meant he was slower on the step too.
"He's just some flower raised in a cushy greenhouse. Don't be afraid to get rough and dirty with him," advised his recently assigned handler and commanding officer, Sgt. Arina Kozlova.
An intimidating, larger than life figure, and a woman not to be crossed. She was a Soviet through and through, but had decided to take her expertise to more… profitable sectors after the disbandment of the NSC— the Neo-Soviet-Coalition.
"No headgear for the little soldier boy?" the boxer taunted.
Rica kept an impassive face, knowing better than to fall for the boxer's half assed verbal baits.
It was only a light sparring match, or so Arina called it. But it was obvious she had instructed Chiba to fight without holding back. He was in Chiba's realm now. The padded gloves didn't do much to help Rica's situation either. His CQC techniques required the use of unrestricted, free moving fingers. Only half his arsenal was available to him at the moment.
Chiba approached him with his red gloves dangling to the side, not even bothering to put up a fighting stance. "Don't be afraid to call it quits when it gets too rough, kid."
Rica muttered an obscenity under his breath and bolted across the ring, releasing a loaded cross straight onto the boxer's unprotected jaw. Chiba's head was sent snapping back, but by the time the boxer had regained clarity from the initial blow, Rica was already well out of Chiba's range.
"Cheeky brat," Chiba snarled, wiping away the thin stream of blood trickling from his lips.
"Keep a good distance from him," the Sergeant said from her corner.
Chiba let loose a series of heavy, erratic punches but Rica evaded the telegraphed blows with ease. Good. The boxer was flustered. Any moment now he would make a mistake.
Slipping under another sloppy punch from the boxer, Rica returned a swift counter hook to his ribs. Too easy. It was as if the boxer was letting him score the-
The next thing Rica saw was a red blur hurtling towards his face. Rica raised his guard just in time to meet the blow, but the sheer power of the punch sent him reeling back.
Chiba chased after him, slinging a wild hook aimed at his chin. Rica leaned away from the punch, mustered up what energy he had left and slammed the boxer's sides with the toe of his boot.
Chiba froze for a brief moment, and then slumped to the canvas, his face contorted in pain. "Little Bitch!" he growled, nursing his sides.
"Don't be afraid to call it quits," Rica replied, switching up his orthodox stance for a looser, more ambidextrous stance.
With a roar, Chiba jumped off the ground and threw himself forward in a fit of blind rage. Rica strafed around his clumsy effort, pelting him with blows to the sensitive areas. The temple. The upper lip. The eyes.
Rica slipped underneath a wild punch and finished the fight with another kick to the liver. The boxer dropped to the floor slowly, clutching his sides. Seeing Chiba stir on the ground, Rica smashed his head back down to the canvas with his boot repeatedly.
The Sergeant slipped through the ropes and whistled at the sight of the bloodied boxer. "I give you… seventy. You could've handled him better. You were too soft on him. That softness can get you killed."
"Looks like Mr. Chiba was all talk," she toed Chiba's motionless body with the tip of her leather boot. "Go get washed up and change, we leave for Tokyo in an hour."
Rica nodded. He made his way from the ring and across the empty gym to the shower rooms. After stripping down to his bare flesh, he stepped into the cleanest shower he could find.
The showerhead sputtered on with the press of a button. Freezing water cascading over his head and shoulders and dripping down to his sides. He enjoyed cold showers. It was a blessing to have cool water to shower with after a sweltering day out in the field.
He shut off the water only minutes later. He wasn't one for long showers.
Just below the showerhead, embedded in the cold, ceramic wall, was a mirror. Reflected in that mirror, was the face of a living corpse. Thin cheekbones, angular jaw, pale skin, he looked more phantom than human at times. A phantom living in human guise. No emotion, no drive, no dreams or desires, he was a living tool, a weapon to be used and discarded.
Rica Dragovic— codename Hawk. Phantom with no place in society; child soldier forged in the flames of war; youngest contractor in Firebird history.