XY Revolution

I’ve changed into a pair of black track-pants, like Travis’, and a loose black t-shirt. Our feet are bare, and my hair is pulled back into a bun.

“First, we’re going to test your reaction times. I’m going to attack you, and you’re going to dodge. Do not counter-attack,” he instructs carefully. “Settle into a good stance; one where you’re grounded and won’t be knocked over easily, but one where you can move at a moment’s notice. Your movements need to be as urgent as they are strong.”

I adjust my position, widening the gap between my feet and bending my knees.

“Don’t bend so much,” he immediately corrects. “And try not to face so front-on. You’re a much easier target if your belly is wide open.”

I nod and turn onto my side. He nudges my legs into place with his foot, placing my feet on parallel lines despite the way my body is turned.

“Okay, that’s good. Now prepare yourself,” he tells me, taking a step back and locking eyes with me.

His fist is almost instantly within reach, but I duck under it. I’m not so lucky with the next one; his sucker punch gets me right in the gut. I grunt with the strength of the blow, and my fist flies out. He catches it with his hand and raises an eyebrow, pulling me closer.

“What did I say about countering?” he growls.

I glare at him and wrench my arm away from him, taking a few steps back and preparing myself for the next attack. I will not fail on the very first task, that’s for sure.

I don’t bother with the stance. I just stand side on, light on my feet and watch. His chest gives him away this time and I easily side-step the blow, and lean back to avoid the sucker punch.

“Good,” he says. “Now let’s see how fast you can go.”

His fists soon seem like a blur, and I’m trying to match the speed. My losses far outweigh my wins to my dismay. Every time I lose, I’m rewarded with a strike to the arm, or the gut. Occasionally it’s a thump on the back, which he always apologises for.

“Not too bad,” he tells me when we’ve stopped.

I’m panting and sweating. His cheeks have gotten slightly pink, but otherwise, there’s no sign that we’ve been fighting like this for a good half an hour. I probably look like a tomato with blonde hair.

“But you do really need to watch the stance.”

I’m then on my back, my breath gone. I’m gasping for air, and Travis is standing over me. The tingling on the back of my calf tells me he’s swept me off my feet there. He offers me a hand though, and between my desperate wheezes, he pulls me back up.

“You need to be grounded,” he critiques. “You don’t want anyone catching you by surprise. You don’t want to die for something stupid like not having a proper stance.”

“Okay,” I croak.

“I’ll let you catch your breath, and then we’ll see how well you can defend yourself.”



I’m only slightly better at blocking his punches; my arms are aching though and I can’t land a counter no matter how hard I try. It’s frustrating as hell. Despite his height and muscular build, he moves with so much speed and fluidity that I’m just a second too late. It’s almost like he’s dancing, but it just feels like he’s toying with me.

“How did you learn how to do this?” I ask, breathless as I block a high punch.

“My mom,” he replies before jabbing me in the ribs. “Keep your arms tight to your body.”

“Does anyone ever even touch you?”

He laughs.

“Sometimes, but they don’t tend to live to tell the tale.”

There’s a sort of sick satisfaction in his smirk, but I understand it completely. If there’s something you’re good at, and that something means you can get the ultimate revenge, you’re proud of it. No one will ever take it away from you, because you’re the best. In the survival of the fittest, you are at the top of the food chain. I felt that way when I slit Nate’s throat.

I dodge a head shot and then my fist finally connects, right in the lower abdomen. I’m so shocked I freeze. Travis looks just as surprised.

“I think we can test your actual fitness now,” he announces, eyes still wider than usual. “Treadmill, now.”



The hot water works wonders on the knots in my muscles. I just know I’m going to be in agony tomorrow. Travis says they’ll have my personalised training schedule sorted by then, but the alarm will still go off at 0600 hours, much to my disgust. The only day without an alarm is Sunday and that’s still too much of a wait for me.

I’m still sweating, standing under the stream of water. I had to run for an hour, and Travis would up the speed every five minutes, monitoring my heart rate and stride with one of those portable screen things he calls a ‘tablet.’ Apparently they’ve been around for almost a hundred years, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen one.

Next he tested my strength. I had to lift weights, stand against a wall at a ninety-degree angle, and hold a push-up position for as long as I could. I almost collapsed right there on the gym floor when he told me to go shower, that we were done with combat training.

I step out of the shower, and feel the cold air chill my body. I quickly towel myself off, put on my clothes and then head back to the dining hall for lunch. Eliza gives me a large portion of roast ham that is sweet with honey glaze and boiled potatoes. Travis is sitting at a table with Phil, reading a book in a language I don’t recognise. Phil is, once again, stuffing his face.

“Fweya,” he says with his mouth full.

“Hey.”

He then swallows and leans over, resting his head in his palm.

“How have you been coping with Mr Hardass over here?”

Phil grunts when Travis thumps him.

“Does it get easier?” I ask and Phil laughs.

Travis doesn’t look near as happy, and looks down, frowning as he concentrates on the strange markings on the pages.

“Well, you get used to it,” Phil offers. “They’ll keep you in basic training for six months, and then you’ll find something you really like, that you’re good at, and your training becomes way more focussed.”

The ham melts in my mouth.

“What do you do then?” I ask him.

He nearly puffs out his chest with pride when he says, “I’m the assistant bomb technician.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a guy who didn’t like blowing things up,” I muse.

Phil pouts.

“I’m not just some guy. I’m the best at blowing things up, that’s why I do what I do. I’m special.”

“Yeah, special in the head,” Travis interjects.

It’s his turn to get thumped.

“Meet me at level three, Freya, when you’re done,” Travis commands then gets to his feet, smacks Phil with his book, and leaves.

“Master of dramatic exits, that one,” Phil states when the blue-haired guy is gone.

I shrug and say, “He’s allowed to be, the way he can fight.”

Phil smirks with realisation.

“Yeah, you’re not the first one to think Trav’s hot without a shirt. I mean that scar is rugged.”

My face must give away how appalled I am, because Phil cracks up laughing.

“Lighten up, Freya! I know how good he is. He’s the go-to hazer around here. By the time he’s through with us, our asses are as hard as steel.”

“Now who thinks he’s hot?” I mock.

“Every man is allowed to have a man-crush on his best friend,” Phil states, like it makes total sense.

I just make kissy faces at him then go back to finishing my lunch.



“So what’s next?” I ask Travis when I meet him outside the gym.

“We’re going to the firing range. We want to see how good you are with your weapons,” he tells me and a grin stretches across my face.

His eyebrows raise and he states, “You are unnaturally excited for this.”

“Why? Because I don’t have the same enthusiasm for weight-lifting?” I snap back.

“Because most people who first come here have never shot a gun in their life.”

We start walking down past the gym, past the showers, and to a simple door right at the end of the hallway.

“I couldn’t imagine living without a gun,” I declare.

“You really are a country girl,” Travis says with a mocking sigh.

“If we didn’t have guns, I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve starved to death along with the rest of my family years ago.”

Travis stops and looks down at me. I pause too and meet his gaze.

“Then you’ll be fine.”

He then opens the door and I step into the shooting range.

I’m immediately greeted with a “Bonjour, ma chère!”

The man is well over six foot, with a large belly and a big black beard.

“Je m’appelle Pierre. Vous doivez être Freya, oui?” he asks.

“Oui, monsieur. Enchanté,” I respond.

“Ah bon! Savez-vous ce que nous faisons ici?”

“Oui.”

“Bon. Choisir une arme, s’il vous plait.”

I wander over to a table, laid out with over a dozen different guns, organised from smallest to biggest.

“Start off small,” Travis instructs.

I pick up the tiny handgun at the end and walk over to the barrier. I put on the supplied set of earmuffs, and line up my shot with the target maybe fifteen metres away. I switch the safety off and there’s then a hole clean through the bull’s-eye. And again, and again.

“Excellent. Try the next one,” Travis calls.

I put the handgun down and pick up the next, with a larger barrel. Bull’s-eye.

This happens all the way down to the semi-automatic.

“Vous-êtes une prodige,” Pierre breathes.

“Merci, monsieur.”

“Pierre, pourriez-vous pousser la cible plus loin, s’il vous plait,” Travis asks.

“Bien sûr.”

“Freya, pick up the rifle.”

I do as I’m told and walk back over to my station.

“Is this something you’re used to firing? For hunting?”

“Yes. Though not nearly as fancy,” I tell him with a frown, trying to adjust to the foreign weapon.

The target is meanwhile moving to thirty metres away. With a decent sniper rifle, the shot’s still a piece of cake.

“Aller!” Pierre calls.

I rest the gun on the bench and start to line up my shot.

Inhale, exhale, pull the trigger.

Bull’s eye.

“Plus loin, Pierre!” Travis calls.

Again, and again.

We’re at the very end of the room when my shot suddenly isn’t as dead-centre. It hits the white of the inner-most ring.

“Bugger,” I mutter with a frown.

“Impressive,” Travis tells me. “I’ve never seen anyone do that the first time.”

“You haven’t seen country girls shoot before.”