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But structures he could recognize and as soon as they broke through the tree line, he oriented himself. They were on the western end of the camp, a half mile or so from the squad tents and approaching one of the more dilapidated sections.
“This building looks as old as you,” Bar’in jabbed as Smith pulled open the door of a single-story building a few paces in from the jungle line.
“It is.” Smith huffed a laugh and nodded for them all the enter. “That’s why none of the other squads want to use it.”
That and it didn’t seem to have anything in it. Fal’ran looked around as he crossed the threshold. The square building was a single room, no more than forty feet wide on each side, with tiny windows at the top of the walls for ventilation and a few lights in the ceiling that Smith flipped on after closing the door.
Spongy mats covered the floor, softening it enough that smashing into it wouldn’t injure anyone too badly.
Fal’ran recognized what those were for. “We’re sparring? Aren’t we already in trouble for fighting?”
“You are.” Smith walked the perimeter of the room, opening the windows as wide as possible and letting in some weak semblance of a breeze. “When you fight, you tear each other down. When you spar, you build each other up.”
By that definition, their squad had never sparred once, and by a quick scent of the room—Bar’in’s utter disdain and Tar’s distrustful dislike—they weren’t about to start.
“You all need to learn how to use violence to help each other instead of hurt each other.” Smith opened the last window, then turned and scanned their body language—Fal’ran’s crossed arms, Bar’in’s disinterested lean against the wall, Tar’s hunch—and sighed. “No weapons today.”
“What, don’t trust us?” Bar’in raised his eyebrows over wide, innocent eyes.
“Worse.” Smith leaned his gatlung against the wall in a corner and shrugged off his combat jacket. “You don’t trust you.”
That was true. Fal’ran didn’t doubt Tar’s ability to bury a knife in his chest with that same emotionless expression he always wore, or Bar’in’s ability to do it with a snide grin, either.
He was about to say so when Smith dropped his jacket onto the ground and turned to face them with nothing covering his torso but a clinging, sweat drenched, white tank. Fal’ran’s words died in his throat. The clinging material accentuated Smith’s chiseled abs and trim waist, and the color offset the tan of his smooth skin stretched over the bulging muscles of his arms. He looked powerful, masculine, and virile.
Shit, Fal’ran had never considered what the man might be hiding under his uniform jacket, but now he wanted to know what the man might be hiding under his uniform pan—
Bar’in made a choking sound and edged away from Fal’ran, and Fal’ran flushed and bared his teeth at him. If Bar’in didn’t like what he smelled, he could keep his stupid nose to himself.
“Alright, well, you two aren’t first.” Smith sighed and shook his head, planting his hands on his hips, oblivious to the scent event that had occurred right under his nose. Fal’ran couldn’t imagine being human, so nose blind they missed an entire plane of conversation and existence. But Smith just pointed at Tar and Bar’in. “You’re up.”
Bar’in balked. “You want me to fight him?”
“No,” Smith dragged out the syllable with a growl. “I want you to spar him. We just had a whole discussion on the difference.”
“I don’t care what you call it.” Bar’in pressed into the wall. “I’m not going hand to hand with that giant.”
“You think you won’t have to go hand to hand with an Insect?” Smith moved to make room for Tar, who had obeyed orders as usual, and pointed at the mat. “Get your ass up here and be thankful Tar doesn’t have pincers.”
Bar’in clenched his jaw but moved to where Smith pointed, leaving a whiff of fear behind him. Fal’ran didn’t blame him for that. They’d only ever heard bits and pieces of information about the Insects. Horrified whispers of armor plating and fierce jaws and ships that looked grown instead of built. A lot of what they’d heard had come from Smith and the team he’d led against them back on Tava. Fal’ran eyed Smith and his broad shoulders and stern jaw. He was the only one of them that had ever set eyes on this strange new opponent, and he seemed eager to do it again. Fal’ran wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Alright.” Smith clapped as he left the ring and stood next to Fal’ran. “One rule. If someone, anyone, says ‘time’, then everyone stops. You respect each other enough to do that, got it?”
No one answered.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Smith sighed. “Tapping out counts as saying ‘time’, if you can’t breathe. Now, the goal is to pin your opponent. You have five minutes—”
Fal’ran snorted. “Tar’s not gonna need that long.”
Smith shot him a glare and Fal’ran’s lips twitched in a smug smile to have those blue eyes on him again. Then he realized his own smugness and snapped his gaze forward, wondering where the fuck that thought had come from.
“As I was saying,” Smith growled. “You have five minutes. Injure each other and we’re all going back to the track to run until dinner time.”
“Unless we’re too injured to run,” Bar’in muttered and earned himself a Smith glare of his own.
“Especially if you’re injured.” Smith pulled a miniature tablet that looked like Qeshian tech from his pocket. “Ready, go!”
Tar lunged forward, knocked Bar’in to the ground, and flattened him under his bulk before Smith even started his timer.
