Dauntless: Destiny Remade

1.4 Martial Training

After twenty-cycles of martial training, Lance wanted to leap out of an air hatch—at least he wouldn't have to tolerate Haxus's caustic abuse. When he'd been assigned to Central Command, Lance had never anticipated his greatest thorn would be martial training. He hadn't expected to enjoy it like a day at the spa, but it broke him down and left him exhausted in the barracks every night. Lieutenant Haxus drilled them to scale obstacles, run exhausting distances, and on mental endure. Haxus delivered the grueling training Lance yearned for.

Yet, Lance never foresaw a crucial detail—Haxus would be petty.

During the first day, Haxus praised the efforts of certain cadets, and after several days, even Lance couldn't help but identify a pattern. To Lance's chagrin, Haxus glazed over Hunk, whose strength and size glossed over any physical flaws. Haxus's ire settled like a thundercloud over Lance's head, and after every drill, Haxus rained down snide, verbal abuse upon him.

Today was no exception.

"I see we're unable to surpass a seven tick distance again, cadet," Haxus said, leaning over the runners' track. Lance propelled himself through the finish line, staggered forward several paces, and promptly vomited upon the track. Haxus's mocking laugh drifted through his haze—a cause of weakness and exertion.

Curse Hunk—Lance did miss three meals a day.

Several Galra cades sprinted by Lance, who sagged against the fence to catch his breath. Lance wiped the spittle off his mouth, and it stuck like glue in his dusky, purple fur. It wouldn't matter how many cadets' ran slower than him—even Lance learned in the first several sleep cycles that his abilities were worthless. The rankings of the Galra Central command weren't fair, and he had to suffer through Haxus's hazing.

Lance's two choices were desert or suffer—so he had one choice.

The Central Command cadets cheered for their tribemates, but Lance staggered away from the finish, dejected. It would never matter that he always finished in the top fifth of cadets during their speed trials—he'd seen that Haxus changed his times several sleep cycles ago when he'd had his best time. Lance finished third, and the top Central command cadet was fifth—so Haxus demoted Lance to sixth via a flimsy technicality.

After that, all hope in the fairness of the universe evaporated from Lance's soul.

You can survive five life cycles in this assignment, Lance mentally coached himself—even as he gagged and dry—heaved between the bars of a fence.

"What a loser..."

"Wonder how many ticks he'll lose for tossing his stomach..."

Too many—that's how many—Lance thought as he tried to swallow his bile. He failed and vomited on Hunks's feet.

Hunk shook off his flexible, charcoal boots and scattered intestinal sludge across the space deck. "Come on, Lance—not here."

Lance flushed, and his fur tingled. He'd at least expected to rely on Hunk—a cousin and genuine friend—but competition would severe them as well. Lance decided that's what martial training was really designed to do—destroy friendships.

"Sorry," Lance stammered and wiped the vomit off his foot-molded Galran boot.

Dripping with sweat, Hunk ignored Lance and bolted for the shower. Lance's stomach jerked—in two sleep cycles, they'd deploy for Central Command. Tomorrow, they'd take their skills tests for their assignments at Central. Not like that mattered now—Lance had lost his closest family and friend several sleep cycles ago.

"Cadet, what's wrong?" Haxus sidled up to Lance. Haxus's teasing was barely veiled.

Lance cast Haxus a cool, sideways glance—even as Lance moped at his own sweat-drenched fur face.