Fletcher and Tara were on the mat together, his legs wrapped around her torso to keep her from being able to swing her arms back and knock him away. All around them, other pairs were engaged in similar hand-to-hand matches. It was only their second week of training, and already Fletcher could see massive improvements in his skills.

  Drill Sergeant Tomkins walked through the gym, shouting at those who were losing their fights. All at once the bell sounded, and Fletcher released the hold. He stood up and reached down to help Tara to her feet.

  At first he didn’t think it was fair that he was pitted against her given her petite frame, but she’d proven to be a far better fighter than him. It was only thanks to a lucky shot early on taking them to the floor that he got the upper hand.

  Tomkins came to a stop in front of them, and they both went rigid.

  “Dixon, I think that’s enough pounding on little girls for the day,” the sergeant said.

  “Yes, drill sergeant,” he responded, holding back his arguments defending Tara.

  She temporarily deflated at their sergeant’s comment before quickly regaining her posture.

  “Come with me. Knox, go against Hershon for now.”

  Fletcher followed Tomkins back through the gym to where three other recruits stood: Frederick, Ramos, and Adebayo, the three toughest recruits in the platoon.

  Frederick was a towering man with cream skin, white-blond hair, and purple eyes that placed him in the category of a Mixhuman. He’d become Tomkins’ personal pet within the first two days of being at basic training. He was from a base out in the northeastern part of North America, up in what used to be Canada.

  Ramos was a hispanic woman who was nearly six feet tall, but her wiry frame gave her deadly agility. Fletcher had gone against her their very first day of sparring, and it hadn’t even been close to a real fight with how quickly she put him down. She opted to cut her raven hair into a traditionally masculine style, the top left a little long, but the sides shaved close. She was from a base in what was once Ecuador down in South America.

  Finally there was Adebayo, the shortest of the three, but easily the thickest, made of almost pure muscle. The guy could have been a model for protein powder with those bulging biceps and pecs if it weren’t for the feathers which sprouted along his lower arms. He had dark brown skin, and his shoes were overly large to account for his clawed feet since he was part [Tengu]. He originally grew up at a Mixed base on the western part of Africa, around what used to be Nigeria.

  All three stared at Fletcher, smirks on their faces. Whatever Tomkins had planned, this was obviously going to go poorly for him.

  “You four are going to practice team exercises. Ramos, Frederick, Adebayo against Dixon,” Tomkins declared.

  Adebayo cracked his thick neck, smiling broader. “Yes, drill sergeant.”

  “Wait, how is it team exercises if I’m by myself?” Fletcher protested.

  Tomkins turned to him with murder in his eyes.

  He swallowed his anger. “I mean, yes, drill sergeant. Whatever you say, drill sergeant.”

  “Good.” The sergeant faced the rest of the room. “At the sound of the bell, resume sparring.”

  Fletcher stepped up onto the mat with the other three and fell into a loose defensive position. His goal was to survive, not win. He knew his own limits.

  His three opponents settled into similar stances, though Adebayo leaned forward in an obvious sign of aggression. Fletcher would be lucky if he came out without any broken bones, but thanks to the whole “Hotshot” thing, even a fracture couldn’t keep him from training. They kept a slew of [Healers] on base to keep all the recruits in proper condition, so regardless of injury, he’d be sent right back to this hellhole.

  The bell rang, and Adebayo sprang forward, just as Fletcher expected. He dodged to the side and ducked under Frederick’s fist. The one thing he had on the two meatheads was speed, but as fast as he was, Ramos was still a level above.

  Her foot collided with his chest mid-duck, sending him sprawling backwards. Adebayo was the first to capitalize on the change, and the body-builder was on top of Fletcher in the next second. He didn’t even try to soften his hits as he launched his fists towards Fletcher’s face, but Fletcher managed to get his hands up in time to block the worst of the punches.

  The bell rang out, and Adebayo huffed as he pushed himself off of Fletcher’s chest. Fletcher heaved for air and forced himself to his feet.

  “Everyone noticed this little group exercise I hope. Team up, groups of four. Decide who will go solo first. You’ll switch positions each round,” Tomkins called out.

  Alongside the usual “yes, drill sergeant,” the room moved to fulfill his orders as Fletcher probed the injuries on his face, sighing when he discovered blood dripping from his nose. He went to the nearest set of paper towels, ripped a piece off, and shoved it up the bleeding nostril to block the blood.

  He returned to the mat where the other three waited. It was safe to assume that he’d be by himself again for the next round, but if he could survive just one more, then they’d switch and he’d be through the worst of it.

  “Ready up,” Tomkins yelled.

  Fletcher returned to his defensive stance, his eyes trained on Ramos. He trusted his speed to keep him from the other two, but she posed the biggest threat so if he focused on avoiding her, he might make it out without anything worse than his already bloody nose.

  The sound of the bell filled the room alongside the grunts of those surging into their fights. Fletcher again side stepped Adebayo’s rush, and then dove forward when both Frederick and Ramos joined the fray. Frederick tried to land a kick as he went, but Fletcher was close enough that the foot didn’t have the chance to gain the necessary momentum to really hurt.

  Fletcher used his lower positioning to sweep Ramos’s legs from beneath her and then jumped to the side before Frederick could pounce on him. Adebayo was close, but those extra muscles seemed to weigh him down, and Fletcher had no problem avoiding his hits.

  Ramos was off the floor in a second, but Fletcher had already moved to position Adebayo and Frederick between himself and the woman meaning she’d have to go through her own team to get at him. That gave him the space to duck the wild swings from the other two without worrying about her for a moment.

  Both of the men seemed to believe that hitting harder was somehow going to fix things, and their shots grew increasingly less accurate as Fletcher dipped and spun away from the incoming fists, making sure to move so that the two remained between him and the woman.

  Ramos did finally find an opening and was coming at him from the side, but thanks to the meat wall, he’d noticed the move and was already rolling to the side before her kick could land.

  Fletcher remained in a crouch at the corner of their mat as the bell marked the end of the match. He hadn’t landed a single hit, but then again, neither had his opponents in any meaningful sense.

  He stood up and checked the tissue blocking his nose to see that it was holding up. The hardest part of the exercise was over.

  Tomkins reminded everyone to switch, but before Fletcher could ask the other three who wanted to go next, the drill sergeant interrupted them.

  “You’re going again, Dixon. This is a fight, not a dance! Act like it!” the man ordered him.

  Fletcher blinked in surprise before managing to stammer an appropriate response. What exactly did Tomkins expect out of him? If he engaged with all three, he was going to get pounded. Defense was just as important as offense.

  Of course, Fletcher shared none of these complaints with his commander and instead returned to face the smug faces of his three opponents. It would appear his only way out of this was to get beat up… badly. He was not looking forward to it.

  The match restarted, and this time Adebayo remained back and it was Frederick who rushed first. Fletcher used his arm to block the first hit and slammed his other hand into Frederick’s chest. The man barely huffed, and Fletcher hardly had time to duck as Adebayo’s punch went towards his head. He struck out with his foot to try and keep Frederick back, but that was enough of a distraction for Ramos’s kick to land at his chest.

  Fletcher staggered back from the blow but remained on his feet, determined to not let it be a complete cakewalk for the others. Adebayo took his chance to rush again, and Fletcher narrowly avoided being dragged down as he slid to the side and swung a knee into the man’s stomach which seemed to do little good.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Frederick was already there with another set of punches incoming, and Fletcher was only able to dodge one, forced to absorb the second blow in his stomach. He tried to step back, but Adebayo appeared in his way, and he grappled Fletcher, forcing his arms behind his back as Frederick unleashed another brutal set of punches at his torso.

  Using his feet, Fletcher yanked one of Adebayo’s legs enough to disorient the man, allowing him the chance to rip his arms free. As he went to step out of the fray and give himself a little breathing room, Ramos caught his left arm and shoved her knee into his back, wrenching his arm backwards at an unnatural angle.

  Fletcher gasped, fiery pain gripping his shoulder, and he fell to his knees as the bell marked the end of the round. He used his right hand to hold his left shoulder and grimaced as he discovered that the joint was completely out of socket.

  “Ready up, Dixon,” Adebayo said in thickly accented English.

  “I think I’m out of the fight for now,” Fletcher said through gritted teeth. He stood up and started towards the edge of the mat.

  “Where do you think you’re going, recruit?” Tomkins stepped in his way, his face only inches from Fletcher’s.

  “To medical, drill sergeant. I just dislocated my shoulder.”

  Tomkins slapped his left shoulder, sending new waves of pain through his body. “This one?”

  “Yes, drill sergeant,” he muttered.

  Tomkins spun around to look at the rest of the room. “Do you all think the enemy is going to spare you if you get a minor injury? Is your opponent going to stop pressing their advantage because you’re hurt?”

  “No, drill sergeant,” the room said together.

  Tomkins turned back to Fletcher. “Get back up, and get ready to fight! You’ll go to medical when I decide.”

  Fletcher inhaled in a mixture of frustration and pain, but nodded. “Yes, drill sergeant.”

  He returned to the mat where the others waited.

  “Ramos is going solo this time. Try not to slow us down, freak-lover,” Frederick said with a snort.

  Fletcher just rolled his eyes and fell into his fighting stance except for his left arm which he hugged close to his body in hopes of keeping from jarring his injured shoulder too much during the match.

  The bell rang out, and Frederick and Adebayo both descended on Ramos who nimbly ducked from both their attacks while simultaneously knocking Frederick to the ground. She then blocked Adebayo’s punch and threw him backwards before turning her attention to Fletcher.

  Unsurprisingly, the other two did nothing to interfere as she approached him.

  Fletcher put all his energy into dodging her attacks, barely keeping away from her fists. The strategy was working out pretty well until Tomkins shouted from behind.

  “This is a fight, not a dance, Dixon!”

  Mentally cursing himself for ever existing, he stopped ducking her shots just long enough to throw out one punch of his own. Ramos easily blocked it and then used her opening to slam her arm into his injured shoulder.

  He cried out as he stepped back and threw a kick at her. She avoided it without issue, and then the bell rang out, which should have ended the match except for Tomkins’ interference.

  “Ramos, Dixon, keep going,” he commanded.

  Ramos didn’t hesitate to take another cheap shot at Fletcher’s mangled shoulder.

  Fletcher was back on his knees, trying to keep the pain from overwhelming him as Ramos stood above him, preparing another fist for his face.

  Now would be a great time for something like [Frenzy], he thought to himself as he readied for what he hoped might be the knockout blow. He remembered seeing [Frenzy] in action for the first time when Knarf used it during the assassination attempt to protect him. He was still jealous that he didn’t have a [Skill] that useful.

  The curse inside decided to respond to that, and a notification appeared over his vision.

  [New Skill Acquired: Frenzy, Level 1]

  “Crap,” he muttered under his breath. Addy had gone on and on about how difficult it was to acquire a new [Skill] for regular Mixhumans, the process often taking days of preparation and practice until they could achieve what seemed to come to him with only a single misplaced thought.

  Everything would be fine as long as he didn’t activate it—

  [Activating: Frenzy]

  All at once the pain dulled and Fletcher felt his heartbeat and breathing slow. Ramos’s punch was still coming in, but with the additional strength and stamina of the [Skill], instinct took over and he dodged it before he could stop himself.

  Turn off, turn off, he begged whatever mystical force governed [Skills] and their levels, but his mental pleas were cut short by Ramos attempting to strike him again. His body responded before his thoughts could remind it that it wasn’t supposed to be in [Frenzy]. Not only would that raise unwanted questions about his Hexing, but [Skills] were expressly forbidden during sparring.

  Ramos went in for another shot, and Fletcher had moved to block it and was swinging his good arm back towards her before he realized it. His fist collided with the point in which her throat met her chest, and she dropped to the floor with a wheeze. She remained there as Fletcher breathed heavily.

  [Deactivating: Frenzy]

  He groaned as the pain in his shoulder returned, and his second wind disappeared in an instant. Frederick knelt next to Ramos to check on her as Adebayo shoved Fletcher backwards.

  “You cheated, Dixon,” he accused. “You must have used a [Skill], you freak.”

  “That’s enough,” Tomkins said, cutting in before the man could pound Fletcher to a pulp. “Adebayo, do fifty push ups. The only freaks in this world are the ones we’re fighting.” The sergeant looked back at Fletcher. “As for the matter of your cheating…”

  “I’m sorry, drill sergeant. I…” Fletcher’s voice trailed off. He couldn’t admit that he didn’t mean to use [Frenzy] since that would lead back to questions about how he could so easily activate a low-level [Skill], one he had only a week ago claimed to not have.

  “You and Ramos go to medical. When you’re cleared for training again, come find me and we’ll work out an appropriate punishment.”

  “Yes, drill sergeant,” Fletcher said. He bent down and helped Ramos to her feet, and the pair of them walked out the training room, all eyes on him. His goal of going unnoticed at training was going horribly so far.

  ***

  “Come,” Tomkins said from the other side of the door after Fletcher knocked.

  He took a breath and then entered the small office. “I’ve been cleared to return to training, drill sergeant.”

  After getting to medical, one of the doctors had pulled him off to the side, reset his shoulder and then [Healed] it to get it back into shape, but they left his bruised ribs and nose alone, claiming those were standard training injuries that didn’t warrant medical attention. It was only half an hour later he found himself back inside the dingy bunker outside the drill sergeant’s door.

  “You lied to me, Dixon. You and I both know that wasn’t [Dark Vision] you used back there.” Tomkins addressed the topic directly, and even with all the time to think about it, Fletcher had yet to come up with a convincing lie as to how that all happened without spoiling the secret of being part [Demanlic].

  “I… don’t have a good answer for that, drill sergeant. I thought hiding [Frenzy] would somehow be better. I’m sorry, drill sergeant.”

  “If you’re going to lie, at least do it well.” Tomkins leaned back in his chair, studying Fletcher. “If you were anyone else, I’d have your butt behind bars for telling that kind of lie, especially given the danger. There’s a reason [Skills] are banned in sparring. You realize you could have killed Ramos.”

  “I’m sorry, drill sergeant,” Fletcher repeated, unsure what more he could say to get the man off his trail.

  “Given your connections to the Mixed military, I know you’re not some spy or terrorist trying to infiltrate our ranks, though believe me, it’s happened before. I’m not going to push for more answers since I get the feeling they’re above my pay grade, but don’t let it happen again, Dixon. This is the only time I’m going to cover for you.”

  “Thank you, drill sergeant. I understand.”

  “You’re going to spend the next hour of your life doing nothing but laps and pushups as punishment. Sergeant Robertson is already outside handling some of her recruits’ punishments. You’ll report to her.”

  “Yes, drill sergeant.” Fletcher paused. “Sir, I missed the mail call while I was at medical. Is there anything for me?” Despite having sent several of his own, he had yet to receive a letter from anyone back in Finnack, including his father, and with how tough the early weeks of the training were, he was in desperate need of the reminder as to why he was out here at all.

  “Nothing.” Tomkins’ face twitched. “I suppose I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I’d rather rip the bandage off now then deal with your constant asking about letters. Your mother put a stop on all communication for you. Nothing in and nothing out. You won’t be receiving anything while you’re here nor will anything you send actually go out.”

  Fletcher’s heart sank. “She did what?”

  Tomkins shook his head. “You can ask her why when you get back to Finnack. For now, I suggest you focus on not screwing up anymore. Dismissed, recruit.”

  “Yes, drill sergeant. Thank you, drill sergeant.” Fletcher spun on his heels and walked out of the office, a new rage burning inside. Of course his mother chose to make an already miserable experience worse by denying him any reminders of family or home. That was just like her.

  He walked up the stairs and went outside to where Sergeant Robertson stood amongst half a dozen other recruits from different training platoons. The sun was fully set as the base quieted down for the night.

  “Private Dixon, reporting from Sergeant Tomkins,” Fletcher said with a salute.

  “About time, Dixon. You’re already behind several laps. I suggest you make them up now,” the woman said.

  Fletcher nodded and went to the track to run. The first lap wasn’t so bad, but after that it got progressively harder to keep his motivation up due to the pain in his chest from the bruised ribs he received courtesy of the sparring session earlier.

  After ten laps, Robertson stopped him and directed him to do fifty push ups before running another ten. The process repeated for an hour, and Fletcher completed his last set of fifty push ups with shaking arms and ragged breathing as sweat dripped from every part of his body.

  Once he was done, he got the chance to go back to the barracks and clean up before bed. His body was exhausted, especially with the sore ribs, but he laid in bed that night churning the same question over and over in his mind.

  What could he do to piss General Hazel Anders off enough to repay everything she’d done to him?

  An answer didn’t come that night, but luckily for him, he had eight and a half more weeks to think about it.