Blackwolf Base camp, Mt. Elberus
***
Second Bunker, Sparring Floor
***
'I am stronger than this. I can survive.' Lance convinced himself.
The recruit found himself lying on the sparring floor on his right shoulder, curling with his arms covering his face and his knees defending his abdomen. He noticed blood gushed out from his nose and several drops evident on the rubber-painted floor.
Three operatives surrounded him constantly kicking him from every angle to Lance, emaciated on the floor, and never allowing him to stand up. He had bruises on his forearms from blocking the kicks and pain loomed in every inch of them.
"Get up! Get up!" His sparring mates shouted while they unceasingly delivered blows to the clearly defeated trainee.
Suddenly, a large alarm sounded an instant and the operatives stopped and cleared away.
'Save by the bell.' Lance groaned as he leveraged to stand himself.
Captain Luke went to Lance and offered a hand to let him stand which the latter grabbed as he stood up slowly, grunting with pain.
"These f*ckers do not play around. They are strong and well trained." Lance said to Luke as he limped to the sidelines.
"You will get used to this, my friend. A few more tests and maybe weeks accomplishing the training from each department, you will be having your first mission with me," The Captain smiled and turn his head to his sparring operatives to go another round. He swirled his finger in the air, signaling one guy to enter the circle.
"C'mon, buddy. You are punishing me." Lance softly said to Luke.
"Nah, don't be sensitive." Luke retorted, smacking him on his shoulder.
Lance ferociously drank the water on his jug to recuperate the thirst and somehow for a small hint of hope to soothe the pain that loomed on different portions of his body.
"Am I going to spar on your men for eight hours?" Lance said as he closed the lid of his water jug.
"If you die about an hour or so, then we will end the day with you in the coffin," Luke smiled.
"That's harsh buddy, even for you," The Lieutenant headed to the sparring floor again. His sparring shoes adjusted to the smoothness of the circular concrete sparring floor. He could faintly overhear the mocking and condescending stares from the heaving elite operatives having their random training and workouts.
"Ready for another beating," A muscular Kill squad agent said from the other end of the sparring floor and started to saunter at the center.
"You are funny too, just like the Captain," Lance fixed his spar gloves. "I did not get your name."
"Brent. They call me Crow." The largely built agent stretched his chest and limbs outwardly. "Don't think for one second that you got the upper hand having best buds with the Cap."
"Nah. It didn't cross my mind at all," Lance exhaled and inhaled deeply. Both hands were raised in a boxing position.
"Some hero, they say." Brent did his boxing position too. "There are no heroes here. Only killers. And if you are not a killer or can't stomach the things we do here, then it is best that you continue your retirement, boy!"
"You are a talker, Crow!" Lance took steps closer to his opponent and maintained his boxing position.
"Your boxing does not fly around here." Brent delivered a quick jab.
Lance received the blow as he defended with his arm. He felt the strength, it was almost unnatural. He shuddered a step back almost unnoticing another blow to his abdomen. It connected.
'He's fast!' Lance thought. And waves of pain seared his insides.
"You better watch it, boy!" His opponent hopped side to side. A jab again was delivered but defended as usual. Lance was prepared for it and so was the second blow to his abdomen as he expected. He lowered his elbow down to where he anticipated the hit but Brent readjusted and connected a leftie hook to Lance's cheek.
The blow knocked him down to his knees. His vision rotated for a second and his head seemed to feel a bit nauseated. Trying to stand up, he received a kick to his ribcage and sent him to the ground this time on his back.
"Don't ever think you can rest, boy!" Brent mocked. But instead of attacking, he took a few steps back and let Lance recuperate.
It boiled Lance's blood knowing a mocking face never left Brent's expression. His motions were limited by the pain in his side and his abdomen.
"You will never be an elite. You will remain a Neophyte. You may never be promoted to Tier 1." Brent never ceased throwing embarrassment at the hurting trainee.
'I can't read his movements. And his blows are strong. I better devise a plan to defeat this bully.'
"You are lucky, boy. You are facing the best sparring fighter in the Kill squad. Maybe even all of Blackwolf." His grin was wide and his eyes held the utmost mocking stare matched with the well-trimmed mustache that signified a manly strength. Anyone could be intimidated.
But not to Lance.
The trainee lunged a Hail Mary attack - head-on with no proper strategy. He saw Brent's face turn sour at the surprise. Lance punched with combinations, aiming at different angles on his opponent's upper body but all were defended swiftly.
"You do not know how to fight, boy!" Brent tackled him down to the ground right after evading a series of blows. His body weight over Lance's belly had pinned the latter to the ground. Lance could not muster a significant escape as the man above him weighed almost double his own.
All he could see was Brent's wearing a mischievous smile sitting on his belly and the lights overhead that blinded most of his vision. He covered his face meekly with his forearms for a futile defense. Brent delivered the blows, so fast, and every punch had immense weight on them.
Until his lights went out.
As he regained consciousness, he saw Luke hovering above him. His voice muffled on Lance's hearing. He felt the pain emerging in every inch of his body and the ringing continued to disorient his sanity.
***
"Lance, are you ok, pal?"
Finally, he could hear his words and had hardly surpassed his perplexity.
"What happened?" He asked as he inspected his head with his hand for any signs of contusions or blood. A slight raucous could be heard from random corners of the room.
"He can't survive," One agent said.
"Hero? He doesn't look like one," Another one said.
"Don't mind them," Luke said, picking him up.
"These men are made with rocks and nails." Lance retorted as he lowered himself to a bench outside the sparring circle. The laughter from the corner increased. He just shuffled in his bag in a hope of finding water and disregarding every menacing joke surrounding him.
"Here." Luke offered his jug.
Lance did not hesitate and drank on it to fill his seemingly unquenchable thirst. He trained his vision towards the clustering agents, laughing and mocking. Their stares locked unto his sometimes, seemingly talking about his current embarrassment.
"This Brent guy. Is he the best?" Lance returned the jug to Luke.
"Nah. He just claims to be one. But, in my professional assessment, it's Agent Joseph. Second to me, of course."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Our training here is different from what he had in the force. We trained them hard in very difficult situations. Your first sparring with three Tier 1s is just a taste of what we do to our neophytes. Like an initiation of some sort."
"It's like you are enjoying what you see," Lance said.
"Enjoying you got beaten down? Hell yeah." Luke laughed. "Seriously, you take a rest for now. Observe how they moved. For the succeeding days, you will be sparing with knives."
"You never ceased to amaze me, buddy!" Lance said. The thought of knives scared him a bit. His movements and skills were rusty, and he was never even revisited to work his body out after the force. He had a lot of booze, although maintaining his lean features, his movement seemed slower and heavier.
The guffaws were silenced as a woman in a lab coat entered the three-hundred-square-meter workout room. The eyes of the kill squad members gawked at the feline creature as if she was their prey.
Her high heels clanking on the smooth pavement echoed against the walls. She walked too fast and seemingly avoided any unwanted attention from the guys. Other whistled maliciously.
"Lieutenant Lance?" The woman said as she stopped near Lance. "I am Ela. Blackwolf's lab analyst. I am here to take a blood sample from you." Her cute face, petite height, and glasses had made every man interested in her contribution to the organization.
Lance was even surprised that a military facility had a lab analyst in their midst. He needed a medical doctor for his bruises, not for his blood.
"What is the blood for?" Lance asked. Ela started to open her case and took an empty syringe.
"It's Commander's orders." She responded, as if irritated. She then positioned the syringe on Lance's forearm.
"Hey, wait a minute. I did not receive any instructions from the Commander, doctor." Luke defended. It seemed that blood collection was not within their training protocols.
"Captain, you can directly ask the Commander. This instruction is new for every trainee. His blood samples will be collected every day during his training."
"It's ok, Luke. It's just blood." Lance said to end the ensuing argument. He knew the Captain won't back down from an argument as he was assertive and doubtful. He questioned every activity that was new to him and he was always against paradigm shifts. Lance knew well the Captain as they had served together during the force for years. Their friendship deepened during their tours to the Rebel countries in the Middle and Southern Continents.
Ela took the blood sample efficiently as if she had no regard if Lance would be in pain as the needle pinched through his skin. He could see the reddish ooze through the transparent small syringe compartment and then placed it back in the case right after it was full.
She then applied a plaster right after her thumb placed pressure on the needle mark.
"Same time again, Lieutenant," Ela said as she lifted the case ready to amble back to the door. The fiesta of gawking ceased as she exited the room. Then the guys were back to their training.
"So what's next?" Lance asked.
"Tomorrow, I will take you to the next level," Luke responded.