Herro was pretty sure he was dying.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Just... actually, genuinely dying. His lungs burned like someone had replaced the air in them with ground glass. Every muscle in his body screamed protest. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. His legs felt like they'd been replaced with lead pipes that someone had thoughtfully filled with concrete.
Lyra Ironside stood against the wall, flask in hand, looking like she'd just finished a light warm-up instead of systematically dismantling him for ten straight minutes.
"Switch," she said, like she was ordering coffee.
Relief flooded through Herro so powerfully it almost knocked him over. It was done. He'd survived. Barely, but he'd—
Movement caught his eye.
Rosa Tanya cartwheeled into the center of the mat.
Not walked. Not jogged. Cartwheeled.
She followed it with a backflip. Then some kind of aerial spin that belonged in a gymnastics competition, not a combat training facility. She landed in a perfect pose, arms spread wide, bright smile plastered across her face like she'd just won a medal.
"My turn!" she chirped.
her sheer amount of positivity almost lit up the entire room
Herro blinked. Stared. His brain, still oxygen-deprived from Lyra's assault, struggled to process what was happening.
(Wait. Rosa? I'm fighting... Rosa?)
Then the memories clicked into place. The highway. The Jackals. Rosa is actually quite the capable combatant despite her ball of sunshine attitude
and he would be fighting that ball of sunshine
(Oh no.)
"Ms. Lyra," Rosa said, bouncing on her toes with energy that seemed physically impossible given the early hour. "Can I set the rules for our spar?"
Lyra gestured with her flask. "Your match, your rules. Just make it educational."
"Perfect!" Rosa clapped her hands together, then turned that bright smile on Herro. It should have been comforting. It wasn't. "Okay, so here's the thing—I'm a lover, not a fighter. Well, I am a fighter technically, but I don't really like just hitting people over and over like some people." She shot a pointed look at Lyra.
Lyra scoffed.
From the sideline, Hilda rolled her eyes so hard Herro heard it.
"So we're doing tag rules!" Rosa continued. "I have to get behind you and tap your shoulder. If I get you 3 times I win. Or you can get me from behind once and win. Sound fair?"
Herro struggled to his feet, every joint protesting. Fair? It sounded... reasonable, actually. Almost too reasonable. Rosa seemed friendly enough. Cheerful. The kind of person who'd help you move apartments and bring snacks.
the girls face is almost always in a permanent smile and she is always moving like there is a combustible amount of energy inside of her
(At least this won't be as bad as Lyra. Right? She seems nice. She's smiling. Smiling is good.)
He opened his mouth to thank Lyra for being considerate enough to structure the training this way—
"Pay attention please!"
Rosa's foot missed his head by maybe three inches.
Herro's brain caught up with his body about half a second too late. He stumbled backward, arms coming up in a guard that defended against no one because Rosa was already gone.
He spun around. Rosa stood behind him, one finger raised, smile somehow even brighter.
herro spun the back of his fist towards her and she leaped
moreso floated
and was balancing on his arm
in
a handstand
"What—how did you—"
herro moved his arm fast enough and with enough force that he felt Rosa come off
but when he look to see where she had landed
She was gone again.
Herro's father had taught him to watch the shoulders. Weight shift tells you where the power's coming from. Don't just react—predict. He tried to apply that logic, tried to read Rosa's movements, tried to—
She was dancing.
Actually dancing. Her movements flowed like water, each step transitioning seamlessly into the next. No wasted motion. No telegraphing. Just constant, fluid momentum that made predicting her next move like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.
(Okay. Okay, I can figure this out. She moves like she's dancing, so she's got rhythm, patterns. She always has the same goal—get behind me. So if I can just predict where she'll—)
Rosa dropped into a windmill.
A breakdancing windmill.
In the middle of a fight.
Herro's brain took a second to realize what Rosa was even doing . "WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?"
"1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and 7 and 8—" Rosa counted out loud, spinning on her shoulders, her legs whipping through the air in a blur of motion that somehow generated enough force to clear the space around her.
for every number she sounded off was a kick to herro body,arms, or legs
her movment style was a blur, and predicting where she would be moving was impossible
From the sideline, Nate's voice carried across the training room: "Kick my cousin's ass, Rosa!!"
"NATE, HOW COULD YOU?!" Herro shouted back, too exhausted and confused to filter himself.
Lyra's dry observation cut through the chaos: "Wow, Herro, you're getting your ass beat."
He wanted to argue. He couldn't. Because he was getting his ass beat, and Rosa hadn't even broken a sweat.
She transitioned out of the windmill into a spinning kick that forced Herro to duck. He tried to create distance, tried to reset, tried to think of anything that might work against someone who fought like she was having the most fun....ever.
Rosa hummed a tune while fighting, like this was a casual afternoon activity , considering the experience gap between her and herro it might as well have been
"La la la laaaaaaa~"
Then her legs were around his head.
Herro's exhausted brain registered this fact approximately one second before Rosa used the momentum to attempt a throw. His hands came up on instinct, grabbing her legs, and—
(okay...brute force.)
Rosa was fast, technical, creative—but Herro's raw physical strength exceeded hers. He felt it in the way she shifted her weight, trying to complete the throw, and his body just... didn't move.
which took the attention of lyra,Nate,dean, and even j.j
herro was rather physically powerful
He flipped her off instead.
Rosa went sailing through the air, spinning mid-flight with the kind of spatial awareness that suggested this wasn't her first time being thrown. She reached the ceiling, planted both feet against it, and landed perfectly fifteen feet away.
She laughed. delighted by how amazing she found herself to be.
"Impressive," Hilda called from the sideline. "But you forgot about Herro."
Rosa blinked. Looked around. Seemed to remember there was an opponent involved in this whole situation.
Herro was behind her.
He tapped her shoulder.
For a moment, the training room went silent.
Then Lyra's voice: "Point goes to Touya. Rosa's rules, Rosa's loss."
Rosa spun around, eyes wide, then immediately jumped up and down clapping. "You did it! You actually got me! That was so good!"
Herro bent over, hands on his knees, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. His lungs burned. His legs shook. Sweat dripped off his chin onto the mat.
Rosa looked like she'd just woken up from a refreshing nap.
(How. How is she not tired. How is any of this possible. How am I still standing. Why does everything hurt.)
"If you breathe any heavier, you'll fall on your own, hehehe!" Rosa teased, but her tone was genuinely friendly, not mocking.
"Good job," Lyra said, taking a swig from her flask. "Rosa is as acrobatic as she is sweet and as deadly as she is adorable. Most people can't touch her in a straight fight. You managed it through adaptation. That's progress."
"Aw shucks, you're making me blush!" Rosa's cheeks actually turned pink.
Herro tried to respond. Couldn't find the air. Settled for a thumbs up that probably looked more like a plea for mercy.
"Alright." Lyra pushed off from the wall. "Nate. You're up."
Herro's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. "Wait. Wait, I'm fighting everyone?"
"I'm not just gonna torture you for shits and giggles," Lyra said, which was probably meant to be reassuring but absolutely wasn't. "Believe it or not, I actually know how to do my job. You need to understand how your teammates fight. Team cohesion. Tactical awareness. All that shit you learn by getting repeatedly punched in the face."
Nate stepped onto the mat, apologetic smile already in place. "Oh wow—listen, Herro, I'm really sorry about this."
"Nate." Herro's voice came out as a wheeze. "Cousin. Family. Blood relation. Please."
Nate shook his head
THERE IS NO WAY OUTTA THIS ONE
"Commander's orders." Nate's smile turned genuinely regretful. "But I'll go easy on you. No Gear, just hand-to-hand. Technical practice, nothing brutal."
(he says that but his eerie smile is telling me something else)
That should have been comforting.
It wasn't.
Because Nate had actual military training. Police academy. Combat certifications. Years of formal instruction in how to efficiently take another person apart.
Herro had ten sessions with his dad when he was eight and a promise he'd never use it to hurt people.
He was so, so fucked.
Nate moved like a textbook come to life.
Every strike was precise. Every block was economical. Every step was measured. No wasted motion. No excess aggression. Just clean, technical fighting that systematically exploited every gap in Herro's defense.
It wasn't brutal like Lyra. Wasn't playful like Rosa. It was methodical. Clinical. The kind of fighting that made you understand, with crystal clarity, exactly how outmatched you were.
Herro threw a punch.
Nate redirected it with minimal effort, used the momentum to pull Herro off balance, and delivered a palm strike to his solar plexus that knocked the air from his lungs.
Again.
Herro tried a low kick.
Nate checked it with his shin, countered with a jab that Herro barely blocked, then followed with a body shot that Herro didn't block. Pain exploded across his ribs.
Again.
Herro attempted the Gazelle Punch—his father's technique, the one move he knew inside and out.
Nate read it like a children's book. Sidestepped. Swept Herro's front leg. Herro hit the mat hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Yeesh," Nate said, helping him up with genuine concern. "I forget how talented Rosa is sometimes. You did really well against her, Herro. That's not easy."
Herro wanted to appreciate the compliment. Couldn't. Too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.
then
They went again. And again. And again.
Nate didn't showboat. Didn't lecture. Didn't even really seem to be enjoying himself. He was just... doing his job. Executing techniques with the kind of casual competence that came from thousands of hours of practice.
Five minutes in, Herro couldn't feel his arms.
Ten minutes in, he was operating purely on instinct and spite.
Fifteen minutes in, Nate called it.
"I think that's enough," he said, and he actually sounded worried. "Commander, he's reaching his limit."
Lyra nodded. "Yeah, alright. Dean, you're—"
"I already explained my Gear to Herro yesterday," Dean's soft voice cut in from where he sat against the wall. "So there really is no need."
He stood, walked over, and handed Herro a bottle of water.
"Here you go."
Herro grabbed it with shaking hands, chugged half the bottle in one go. The water was cold. Perfect. Possibly the best thing he'd ever tasted.
"Thank you," he managed.
Dean smiled. Small. Gentle. The kind of expression that made you feel like everything might actually be okay. "You're doing well. Rosa is as lively as ever, but you adapted. And you survived Nate's technical work without any serious injuries. That's impressive."
"Doesn't feel impressive," Herro muttered.
"It is." Dean's voice was quiet but certain. "For someone with no formal training, you're doing better than most would. Your instincts are good. You just need refinement."
"If only his teammate would help him with that refinement." complained lyra her voice carrying over a mix of annoyance and impatience
"Whatever you say, Miss Lyra," Dean added, louder, acknowledging her with the same quiet deference he gave everything.
Herro slumped against the wall, water bottle clutched in both hands. Every muscle screamed. His entire body felt like one continuous bruise. But Dean's words, quiet and sincere, helped. A little.
"How many more?" Herro asked, afraid of the answer.
Lyra's eyes flicked to the corner of the room where Hilda had been napping through most of the proceedings.
Oh no.
"Just one more," Lyra said.
Oh no.
Hilda Tanya was asleep in the corner, curled up against the wall like a cat that had found a sunbeam. She'd been there since Herro's fight with Rosa, bored by the proceedings, apparently deciding that napping was more interesting than watching the new guy get systematically dismantled.
Lyra walked over. Grabbed Hilda by the back of her crop-top.
And kicked her onto the sparring mat.
Hilda woke up mid-flight, eyes snapping open, body automatically adjusting to land perfectly on her feet in the center of the mat. She blinked. Looked around. Processed where she was.
Cracked her knuckles.
"As you can see," Lyra announced, "Miss Hilda Tanya is bored. So this is how I wake her up."
"Yeah yeah, whatever you say," Hilda muttered, rolling her shoulders. Her voice was rough with sleep, but her eyes were sharp. Focused.
She looked directly at Herro.
Smiled.
Not a friendly smile. Not even a competitive smile. The smile of someone who'd just been handed an extremely satisfying opportunity.
Herro's brain, exhausted and oxygen-deprived, struggled to process the situation.
(Well. At least I don't have to fight Hilda. That would be—)
His brain caught up.
(Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no no—)
"If it makes you feel any better," Hilda said, stretching her arms above her head, "Lyra is this sadistic all the time. It's not personal."
"That's... some bullshit," Herro muttered, too tired to filter himself.
Hilda's smile widened. "There's the fight. Was worried Lyra knocked all the personality out of you."
" is that what you plan to do"
" yes....yes very much so"
"YOU PEOPLE ARE CRAZY!" Herro shouted, finding energy he didn't know he had left purely through indignation.
From the sideline:
Nate covered his face with his hands.
Rosa bounced excitedly.
Dean looked quietly concerned.
JJ, who hadn't looked up from his phone once during the entire gauntlet, muttered "jeez" without elaborating.
And Lyra? Lyra just smiled, took another swig from her flask, and leaned back against the wall.
"Alright, Touya," she said. "Show me what you learned."
Hilda dropped into a fighting stance. Casual. Relaxed. The posture of someone who knew, with absolute certainty, that they were going to win.
Herro raised his fists. His arms shook. His legs barely held his weight. His lungs burned with every breath.
But he raised his fists anyway.
Because what the hell else was he going to do?
Hilda's smile turned sharp. Predatory. Her blue eyes gleamed with something that might have been excitement or might have been hunger. Possibly both.
The training room held its breath.
END OF CHAPTER 8
GLOSSARY
Terran Energy (TE)
Life force flowing from Terra through all living beings. All phenomenon of the world comes from this energy, manifesting as Gears and trainable into four basic combat applications.
Gears
Biological energy phenomena that manifest when Terran Energy interacts with an individual's unique genetic code, generating personalized superpowers.
Amplification
Offensive Terran Energy application. Channeling TE into strikes to increase power, speed, and damage output during combat.
Reinforcement
Defensive Terran Energy application. Channeling TE into the body to increase durability, reduce incoming damage, and withstand stronger attacks.
The Gauntlet
Military training tradition. Trainee fights multiple instructors/teammates until landing clean hits or completing set objectives. Designed to push recruits past perceived limits and teach adaptation under pressure.
Air Trend
Rosa Tanya's Gear. Grants precise control over wind currents for mobility, defense, and offensive pressure through manipulation of air molecules.
Kinetic Aegis
Nate Touya's Gear. Summons semi-sentient energy shield that absorbs impact force to fuel high-velocity projectile attacks and provides adaptive defense.
Heavy Metal
Hilda Tanya's Gear. Transforms the user's body into ultra-dense unknown metal, granting overwhelming strength, durability, and impact power.