The makeshift sparring ring was just a square of dirt carved out beside the bay, four crates marking the corners. No mats. No padding. Just mud, grit, and fists.
Dan, Gino, and Foster were already waiting inside when Rus showed up. All three had their gloves strapped tight, shirts off, trying to look like fighters instead of grunts who'd been bullied into the exercise.
Rus stripped down to his undershirt, cracked his knuckles, and stepped in. His expression was flat, professional, but there was an edge in his eyes the three of them caught instantly.
"You sure about this, sir?" Gino asked, rolling his shoulders.
"No," Rus said. "But we're doing it anyway."
Berta, Stacy, Kate, and Amiel stood off to the side, perched on crates like it was a show. Berta had her axe leaned against her knee, grinning like she'd bought front-row tickets. Stacy and Kate already had rations open, chewing slowly as if this was entertainment. Amiel sat with her rifle across her lap, blank as ever.
Dan stepped forward first, hands raised in a boxer's stance. Rus didn't wait. He moved fast, slipping inside Dan's guard and hammering a jab straight into his solar plexus. Dan staggered, wheezing.
"Breathe through it," Rus said calmly, then hooked Dan's arm, twisted it, and swept his legs out from under him. Dan hit the dirt hard.
"Ah fuck," Gino muttered.
Foster laughed nervously. "He's not holding back, is he?"
"Nope," Berta called. "And I love it."
Dan groaned, rolling onto his side. Rus gave him a second to get his breath back, then turned to the other two.
"Next."
Gino charged. He tried to duck low, aiming for Rus's legs. Rus sidestepped, pivoted, and drove his knee into Gino's ribs. The crack echoed. Not a break, but enough to fold him. Before Gino could recover, Rus hooked his collar, yanked him forward, and slammed an elbow across his jaw. Gino hit the ground face-first, coughing into the dirt.
"Two down," Stacy said dryly, taking another bite of her ration bar.
"Pathetic," Kate added, shaking her head.
Foster swallowed hard, but to his credit, he didn't hesitate. He raised his fists, circling. Rus circled with him, shoulders loose, eyes locked.
Foster threw the first punch, a wild right hook. Rus slipped it, stepped inside, and drilled three fast jabs into Foster's face. The last one split his lip. Blood sprayed. Foster snarled and swung again, desperate.
Rus caught the arm, twisted, and hammered a palm strike into Foster's nose. Foster stumbled back, hands flying up instinctively. Rus didn't give him space. He slammed a kick into Foster's thigh, then shoved him down with a forearm across the chest.
Foster hit the ground with a grunt, clutching his face.
All three were down now. Dan wheezing, Gino groaning into the dirt, Foster bleeding.
Rus stood over them, calm, breathing steady.
"You're not fighting me," he said evenly. "You're surviving me. That's the point."
Berta whistled, clapping slowly. "Boss, that was fucking beautiful. Brutal, efficient, sexy. If you ever want to spar with me now I'd accept it!"
"Shut it, Berta," Stacy cut in, rolling her eyes.
Kate laughed. "She's probably jealous she's not the one getting choked out."
Berta threw Kate a middle finger, still grinning.
Amiel said nothing. She just watched, eyes cold, rifle resting against her shoulder like she was waiting for something worth shooting.
Dan coughed hard, finally pushing himself to his knees. "Sir… with respect… you're venting off us, aren't you?"
Gino groaned into the dirt. "No shit. That wasn't training. That was therapy."
Foster spat blood and laughed weakly. "Cheaper than a shrink, I guess."
Rus didn't deny it. He just looked at them, silent, then offered Dan a hand up. Dan hesitated, then took it, wincing as he stood.
"You three need to learn pain," Rus said. "Better to get it here than out there. If you can't take me, you won't take what's coming from the other side of the treeline."
The three of them nodded, still hurting but listening.
Berta leaned back on her crate, voice loud enough for the whole bay to hear. "God, I love watching men get beat down. Almost makes me wet."
Stacy groaned. "You're disgusting, sis.."
Kate laughed, nudging Stacy with an elbow. "You're just mad she's saying what we're all thinking."
"Speak for yourself," Stacy shot back.
Amiel finally spoke, voice flat as ice. "Sloppy."
Everyone turned to her.
She didn't elaborate. Didn't even look at them. Just stood, adjusted her rifle strap, and walked off toward the perimeter like the whole display hadn't been worth her time.
Berta blinked after her, then barked a laugh. "Ice queen gives zero fucks as always. I swear, if she ever cracks a smile, the world's ending that day."
Rus glanced at her but said nothing. He turned back to Dan, Gino, and Foster, all still holding their ribs, noses, and pride.
"Hit the showers," he ordered. "Then hit your bunks. We're not done."
The three of them groaned in unison but obeyed, limping out of the ring like men who'd just gone three rounds with a tank.
Berta stretched her arms over her head, smirking. "Boss, if you ever get tired of punching them, you can always vent on me."
"Not happening," Rus said. "Wait until tomorrow."
She winked. "Worth a shot."
Stacy and Kate exchanged looks, both snorting laughter as they hopped off their crates.
* * *
The next day, it was the ladies' turn.
Rus stood in the dirt square that passed for their sparring ring, hands taped, undershirt clinging to him in the heat. The others gathered as they had yesterday, waiting for him to make the call. Berta cracked her knuckles, grinning like a predator that had just smelled blood.
"Alright, Boss," she said, stepping forward, tank top already dust-stained. "Don't hold back. You know I like it rough."
Rus didn't even blink. "I wasn't planning to."
She lunged first, quick and heavy, swinging like she meant to tear his head off. Rus slipped inside her guard, pivoted on one foot, and hooked her elbow in a lock that threw her momentum against her. She hit the ground flat on her back, dirt puffing up around her.
Before she could roll, Rus dropped a knee near her chest—not striking, just pinning her by presence alone.
"One," he said calmly.
Berta groaned, head thunking back against the ground. "Fuck's sake—"
She scrambled up, came in again. Rus parried, jabbed her ribs, and swept her legs. She was on the dirt again, coughing.
"Two."
The third time, she didn't even last a second. Rus ducked her hook and drove a jab into her gut. The air went out of her lungs in a wheeze that could have been a laugh if it hadn't sounded so painful.
She stayed down this time, clutching her stomach.
"Three. You're done."
Berta glared up at him, coughing. "You punch my womb that hard again, I swear I'll sue you for making me barren."
"Talk to Command," Rus said evenly. "This is official training. Approved by Kilgore himself."
The others stared. Kate actually paled, her hand twitching like she was about to raise it and ask to back out.
"Uh," she muttered, looking at Stacy. "Maybe this isn't for me—"
Stacy shook her head, eyes on Berta as she rolled over groaning. "You back out, he'll never let us hear the end of it."
Rus didn't comment. He just raised a hand and gestured. "Next."
Kate swallowed hard and stepped in. She tried, to her credit. Quick jabs, dancing footwork. She lasted longer than Berta, but every strike was parried, redirected, absorbed. Rus moved like a machine, systematic, calm, merciless. He broke her guard with a shove, clipped her jaw with a jab, then hooked her ankle. She went down hard, rolling over clutching her mouth.
"One."
By the third knockdown, Kate was coughing in the dirt, eyes wide with shock.
Stacy stepped in next. She hesitated only once before setting her jaw and raising her fists. Rus respected that.
She swung sharp and straight, no wasted motion. Better form than Kate, but it didn't matter. Rus cut through her defense with a stiff jab, slipped her hook, then rammed an elbow into her side. She doubled over. He caught her arm, twisted, and swept her legs.
"One."
By the third fall, she was gasping like she'd had the wind stolen from her chest.
Rus didn't gloat. He didn't even smirk. He just stood, shoulders squared, waiting.
"Training's fair," he said. "Equal opportunity. You can bleed the same as the men."
Berta wheezed laughter from the sidelines. "Equal opportunity my ass. You're venting again, Boss. Don't think I don't see it."
Rus ignored her, eyes settling on Amiel.
She hadn't flinched when the others went down. Her face was the same as always, expressionless, calm, rifle propped against a crate beside her. But now she stood, rolling her shoulders, stepping into the square.
She didn't speak. Just raised her fists.
Rus met her gaze for a long moment. Then he moved.
Amiel lasted the longest. Her reactions were sharp, eyes tracking every twitch of his muscles, claws flashing whenever she struck. But Rus's rhythm was colder and clinical. He closed her angles, disrupted her balance, and countered every blow. When she clawed at his side, he caught her wrist, twisted, and shoved her to the dirt.
"One."
She rolled to her feet in a blink, faster than the others had. Came in again. Rus ducked her jab, clipped her chin, and swept her legs. She landed on her back, dust in her hair.
"Two."
The third fall took longer. She adjusted, adapted, tried to predict. But Rus's pace shifted, faster, sharper. His strikes came in like a pattern only he could see, jabs and elbows threading into gaps in her guard, his foot hooking her leg just as she went to counter. She hit the ground again, chest heaving.
"Three."
Amiel lay there for a beat, staring up at the sky, chest rising and falling. Then she sat up, brushing dirt from her fatigues. Her face didn't change, but her eyes flicked up at Rus, and for the briefest moment, there was something different.
Recognition.
A frown tugged at her lips. "You're stronger."
Rus didn't answer.
She tilted her head, voice low. "Mutation growth?"
He said nothing. Just stared down at her, silent, unreadable.
Amiel's frown deepened, but she didn't press. She stood, brushing herself off, and walked out of the square without another word.
The others were still groaning, sprawled in the dirt. Berta was laughing through her pain, clutching her gut.
"Boss, I swear, one of these days you're going to knock my womb into orbit. And then what? Huh? You gonna explain to my girls why mommy can't have babies?"
Kate sat against a crate, holding a rag to her mouth. Stacy leaned back on her elbows, coughing. Neither said a word.
Rus didn't comment. He just looked at them all, at the bruises, the dirt, the exhaustion.
Inwardly, though, the thought surfaced.
The QTE-like perception. The way time slowed, angles presenting themselves like a combat overlay only he could see. The game-like HUD dancing faintly in his vision, showing strikes, counters, outcomes. It had sharpened. Refined itself.
He was stronger. Faster. Clearer.
And they had noticed.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
"Training's over," he said. "Hit the medics. Dismissed."
The squad groaned, hauling themselves up, each one limping or clutching some part of their body.
Berta slung her MG across her back as she staggered off, grinning despite the pain. "Equal rights, equal fights, Boss. You're a bastard, but I like it."
Rus didn't answer. He just watched them file out into the light of the bay, the sound of the ocean and distant VTOLs filling the silence.
Then he exhaled, rubbing at his jaw, and sat down on the crate to catch his own breath. Being stuck in the Bay had a way of slowing down the mind.