The reinforced hall smelled of rubber and hot metal.
It was the smaller one, the one they had built for people who broke things — pale scratch marks fanned across the floor in long arcs, wall panels along the eastern side dented and replaced and dented again, the air conditioning running cold enough that James's forearms had gone to gooseflesh inside two minutes of standing still.
There was a faint electrical smell already. That was Cillian, forty feet away, doing nothing in particular with his hands.
James stood in the middle of the floor with Durendal in his right hand.
Across from him were the other four.
"Properly," he said.
"James—"
"Properly, Finn. Not a drill. Not a rep. I want you actually trying to put me on the ground, all four of you, and I want you to keep doing it until I ask you to stop."
Nobody argued with him.
