Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

train. He gasped as the air rammed from his lungs, and he fought the urge to buckle. Nearly blind from the blow, he yanked his arms up, closed his guard like Parvotti had taught him. Hill's next punch struck his forearm, drove his own fist into his face from the impact, but his block held. Firenze reacted by touch, twisted to snag Hill's arm and lock it. On reflex, he pulled the soldier into a dronetown cop-lock.
Unlike a ganger caught in that arm-bar, though, Hill was unphased. The commando twisted, dropped his elbow, and Firenze's hold vanished. Firenze tried to recover. He whirled through the collapsing hold and drove his elbow towards the back of Hill's skull.
Hill wasn't there. The soldier staggered forward, and the back of Firenze's elbow grazed over his shaven head.
For a split second, Firenze had a chance to think. He'd almost formed a plan when Hill speared him.
The lights swung overhead, and he slammed into the floor.
Firenze scrambled to escape the pin, but Hill denied him, pressed him hard into the mat until the blue plastic stretched white around him. He choked on sweat and the stench of industrial cleaner, tried to curl up on instinct.
An iron hand closed around his neck. Hill shifted back and locked Firenze's legs with his own, forced apart Firenze's defensive shell, and then started raining down blows. The hits weren't even hard enough to hurt. Hill's punches were just to remind him he'd been hit. 'Cherry taps', they'd called the taunting blows.
It was one insult-beating too many. Firenze's plastic-choked desperation and anger blurred. He snapped with a howl, bucked, and slapped Hill's strangling hand away. In a rage, he kicked up, slammed his knee into Hill's groin. The soldier's eyes bulged, his mouth fell open. Firenze followed the shock, flipped the hold, and hurled his opponent to the ground.
His cries now tinged with triumph, Firenze reared back and threw a punch. Another. A third!
The lights spun, again, as Hill twisted free. Firenze crashed bounced from the plastic, the edge of the cold cement just past his nose. He tried to turn, to see what was coming-
Hill struck him, hard. These blows came without an ounce of mockery. Firenze attempted to block them but found himself choked by gym-short fabric as a thigh slammed over his face, and a leg-lock pinned his shoulders to the mat.
Firenze was trapped at the commando's mercy. Hill hopped from his hold, snatched up his victim's legs, and twisted them towards the sky. From the side, Firenze heard Sergeant Clausen call out, "Broken!"
Hill let go of his legs, threw them down. Firenze felt the sting of the impact, despite the adrenaline. Clausen continued, "That's two busted legs and a dislocated shoulder. Princess! You're dead!"
Hill's weight vanished, and Firenze managed to half-crunch into a sitting position. Hill had slumped to a seat by the near turnbuckle, shining with sweat and glaring hard towards Clausen. The sergeant stood in the opposite corner of the ring, his face frozen halfway between laughter and exasperation.
Hill sucked his breath through pursed lips, tried to keep a wince from his face. Clausen scolded him, "Reaper, you won. There was no need to break his legs."
Hill managed only a groan.
Firenze lay on the mat, trying to make sense of the world as the post-combative rush faded. Someone pulled him to his feet, and he staggered towards an upright to lean on.
Clausen's voice cut through his mental fog, "Everyone, pay attention! This is what happens when you flash your nasty bits at the enemy."
From the corner, Hill's strained voice replied, "Sorry, Sarge. Didn't expect Princess to ring my bells." He groaned, and Firenze could almost picture him doubling over. Hill continued, "Hey, Princess? Can you warn me next time? Maybe, 'Hey, Reaper, just so you know, I'm the kind of little bitch who kicks someone in the dick.' Some fucking courtesy?" He followed with a pained laugh.
Clausen said, "Nice job, kid. Hell of a fight. Point of note: that kind of low-blow only works if someone's not trying to kill you. When death is on the line, the other guy will finish you and then limp it off. If your goal is to leave a fond memory, sure, do it. Otherwise, forget using pain. Strike to disable or kill, every time."
Firenze nodded, sweat pouring over his eyebrows. "Got it."
Hill leaned against the ropes, face ashen as if he was fighting the urge to vomit. Kawalski stood beside him, looking like she'd choked half-to-death on a laugh. She said, "Quit your bitching, Reaper. It's not like you used those."
Hill snapped back, "You come in here and let Princess cunt-punch you! Then tell me how funny it is!"
All that earned was a guffaw.
Hill turned to Firenze and dropped his glare. He admitted, "Nice shot."
"Thanks?" Firenze tried to move his arm, work the soreness from his bones.
"No problem." Hill winced.
Clausen called the fight, "Final score: Reaper eight, Princess one. It's the start of a comeback!"
Firenze didn't know how Clausen managed it. The sergeant was always so cool, so level, so confident. Every time he spoke, it was with unflappable calm and pure competence. It didn't matter what happened or how wrong something went, Clausen kept a laser-focus. Everything was 'this needs to happen', 'get it done', and 'adapt and overcome'. Firenze wished he could muster half that composure, just once.
Instead, he was covered in sweat, from headgear to his shorts, drenched and stinking. His breath was ragged, his arms and legs shook, and every muscle burned. At least this time, he'd done something, even if it was just punching Hill in the cojones. Today, the ache wasn't shame, but accomplishment: he'd gotten a point on the board.
Eight and one was better than nine and zero. He was getting better. Sometimes, he even survived the sims. He'd come kilometers from where he'd started.
It just wasn't enough. He was going to fail and get everyone killed.
He pushed that horrible, weak voice out of his head and