She's surprising. You frown a little and fold your arms, and, beside you, that long-haired fellow from the Cavalry grins. "She yours?"
You nod once, and then wish you could take it back. Sure, you trained her, but Lightning Farron belongs to no one, except maybe her sister. He claps you on the back and you stagger a little—for someone so wiry, he's damn strong.
And you'd thought he was nothing but a pilot. He smirks at you, but you shrug it off.
If he feels the need to show off to a member of the Bodhum Security Regiment, he's obviously not busy enough.
Your musings break when she hits the ground again. Her gunblade goes skidding across the floor, away from her, and Rosch looks down at her, his breathing almost even.
Lightning looks up him for a moment—and most cadets green as her would balk and back out after this, especially against a prominent member of PSICOM, but not Lightning Farron. She stands and dives for her weapon; luckily, Rosch underestimates her drive to win, because he's surprised and doesn't move fast enough. His Masamune just barely misses her shoulder.
She twirls, a mess of limbs and pink hair and dripping blood, and fires off shots that are half skill and half desperation. A few bullets hit, but they're glancing blows, and he's advancing. Lightning takes a gasping breath—her eyes gleam with determination, and sometimes, you forget that she's fifteen.
But this isn't one of those times.
Because if she were older, she'd have more skill. Already, you know she's a natural, with blade and gun—a reason she's so good with one of the hardest weapons ever made—but she's getting sloppy, without much inherent skill to rely on. Right now, she's all anger and desperation.
If it wouldn't be an insult to your cadet, you'd avert your eyes.
You know her—know that she doesn't give up, know that, eventually, this is going to end badly, and she's not going to be the victor. But you'd never hear the end of it if you stopped her now. Even though you're her superior, and she takes your direction, she won't settle for anyone thinking she's weak. Least of all anyone higher than her.
She catches his blade on hers and twirls, twisting out of the way of his next attack and she slashes at him. Rosch hardly blinks and sidesteps.
You see what she's going to do before it happens and you wince. Beside you, the pilot laughs. "She's gonna feel this tomorrow."
"Probably longer," you sigh. "This'll hardly be the end of it."
"Pity she's not better. Yaag Rosch would enjoy the fight more if she were."
Both of you turn, surprised, and your blood goes chill. Jihl Nabaat watches the fight with that curved smile of hers and then turns to you. "Does she do this often?" she asks, removing her glasses.
You swallow, once, but nod.
She makes an approving sound in the back of her throat, and, with her baton tucked neatly under her arm, turns to leave. "Too bad she's not in PSICOM. We could use her."
You stiffen a little, but say nothing. The point of this exercise, as the Primarch had said, was to promote unity in the military, to diffuse tension. Not to create even more competition and distrust.
But still, Jihl Nabaat is one person you'd rather not cross.
Lightning cries out when she hits the ground again, flat on her back. This time, Rosch isn't a fool—he puts his Masamune to her neck. But he still makes a mistake, because he doesn't know the girl, doesn't know what she's fighting for.
It's a desperate, fool's move, but she usually wins by making opponents underestimate her. And it helps that she's wicked fast, too.
A dagger to the underside of his wrist makes him drop his blade, and she's on her feet again before he can reclaim it. Lightning makes a run for her gunblade and grabs it and then swivels to face him. Her breaths come fast and unsteady and blood is making trails down her, from wounds on her arms and legs and torso.
You wince—soldiers only underestimate someone twice. And she's used both of her free chances. Beside you, the pilot grimaces. "Tough luck. Wonder if he'll leave anything to clean up."
Rosch looks at her. "You don't give up, do you?" he asks, and his ragged breathing, you guess, is more from frustration than any real exertion.
She's never been one for words, and she lets her answer ring in the shot she fires. It goes astray and you know she won't last much longer. Color is starting to fade from her face and she's shaking merely from standing.
He tilts his head back and laughs, and you sigh—because everyone can tell he's more than a little impressed by her, but you know Lightning Farron. She won't see it that way.
And she doesn't. Her jaw sets and despite the fact she's fading fast, she lunges forward, with her blade, and Rosch sighs, disarming her—again. Lightning flicks her dagger out again and he trips her, making her fall hard on her back and she hisses a breath in through her teeth.
With a quick move—before she can fight back and drag this fight on longer—Rosch kicks her, hard. Lightning gasps, once, and then stops moving, her breath rising and falling still.
You step forward, into the circle, and say, "Very good, Lieutenant Rosch." He looks at you, and you kneel next to Lightning. "I'll take it from here."
He hesitates, and then nods. You lift her up, and marvel at how light she is, and then you move to reclaim her Blazefire Saber. Rosch stops you before you carry her out. "When she wakes, inform her that, in the future, I'll want a re-match."
You nod, and wave at the pilot, who grins; then, you leave.
It takes her two days to recover fully from her match with one of PSICOM's finest. Her sister gives you an earful and you laugh, and tell her that Lightning is probably one of the strongest people anyone could ever have the opportunity to meet.
She seems a little calmed by this.
On the second day, Lightning shows up to training with downcast eyes. You're hardly surprised when her first words are, "I lost."
You look up from loading your gun and grin. "Kid," you tell her, "You took on one of PSICOM's elite members. You've got nothing to be ashamed of."
She directs her gaze away, and you sigh and move to her. Lightning only looks up when you put a hand on her shoulder. "Well," you say, quietly. "I'm proud."
Without another word, but with a broad smile, you hand her the trademark glowing armguard. Lightning looks at it, and then back at you with wide eyes.
"Thank you," she whispers and fumbles to put it on.
It's a little too big but she grins anyway. You're not concerned—she'll grow into it.