Thanks again to A2 for allowing me to use some of her OC's. I hope I do them justice!
"Alright, men, you have a one minute breather," Encke told the line of panting fighters, his amber gaze cool and measuring as he looked at each of his soldiers. "We'll be spending the next hour on conditioning, so use your breath wisely."
Several men shuffled uneasily, well aware that they were being exercised to discourage gossip over the morning's events. News of Epiales had spread like wildfire, swelling until the tale was warped, fueled by exaggeration and nervousness. Morpheus, Epiales' fighter, was absent.
Cain stood near the end of the line, quietly regaining his breath. He leaned back and peered at the others, suspicious without really knowing why; from the tight-jawed way the other fighters stared ahead, he knew he wasn't the only one. But there was a tightness in his shoulders and a tingling in his legs, a sense of something being wrong.
Deimos, standing immediately to the left, glanced up at Cain with a frown. He looked hesitant, pensive.
"Well?" Cain whispered, watching to make sure Encke didn't notice. When there was no mumbled reply or twitch in his periphery, Cain scowled and looked back. "Well?" he repeated irritably.
Deimos shook his head by way of answer; his confusions were the same as everyone else's. Medical wasn't releasing information, and nobody knew what to make of the incident. "Lots of headaches," he rasped. "Lots of nightmares."
"No shit, kid," Cain scoffed. "Tell me something I don't-"
"Would you shut up?" Praxis snapped from his place down the line, massaging his temple with one hand.
Cain's upper lip curled in a silent snarl, but his comeback died on his tongue as he gave Praxis a quick once-over. The broad, crooked-nosed fighter was sweating heavily, and the skin around his mouth was pale and pinched, throat tight like he was fighting down nausea. His remaining eye was shadowed from lack of sleep. "You look like shit," Cain told him, but the words didn't hold their usual malice.
"Reliant!" Encke barked. "Enough chit-chat. Minute's up." He nodded when every man straightened, pleased, at least, that they worked as an obedient unit. "We're going to run laps. This isn't a race; I want a nice, easy jog," he told them.
The fighters made their way to the track and fell into a steady lope, beginning the lap in rows of two or three as they kept their friends by their sides. It wasn't a conscious thing, Encke figured, but they looked like small packs that way. Running alongside trusted comrades, keeping a few feet of distance from everyone else. It was strange, he thought, but he didn't tell them to line up properly.
It was a quiet run, an easy stretch for their endurance. The first lap was completed without incident, as was the second.
Then Hermes stopped running.
"No breaks!" Encke stated firmly, expecting compliance, but the dark Irishman stayed where he was, shoulders hunched and head bowed, indifferent to the other fighters as they ran around him with scowls. There had been a few disciplinary issues among the fighters during the first few weeks aboard the Sleipnir, but nothing as bold as this, nothing like flat-out disrespect.
"Hermes," Encke warned, his words edged by cool anger, "get your ass moving."
There was no reply, no sign that Hermes had heard at all. The other fighters began to slow down, eyeing the scene like a cautious flock of crows, dark eyes and dark hair, wary and speculative. Encke spared them a frown, but it was brief. Cassius, his second lieutenant, followed Encke as he approached the insubordinate fighter.
"Soldier," Encke started to say, but Hermes snapped his head up like he had been jolted, and his sudden grin was feral.
"Bodies," he hissed gleefully, right before he lunged, hands reaching for Encke's throat.
Experience was the only thing that allowed Encke to step aside quickly enough; he gripped one of Hermes' outstretched arms by the wrist and twisted the limb back, using the fighter's momentum to his advantage. "The hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled.
Cassius hovered nearby, tense and grim-faced. "Sir?" he asked loudly, waiting for an order. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the rest of the fighters, startled and muttering, formed a hesitant half-circle.
Before Encke could answer, Hermes grinned over his shoulder, manic and twitching. He snapped once at the air, teeth clicking sharply, swinging his gaze over the rest of the room before staring back at Encke. "Goin' to rip yer throat out," he said confidently.
"If you so much as move a fucking muscle, I'll break your arm," Encke warned him, knuckles whitening.
Hermes cackled, a thin string of saliva between his teeth. "Only bone," he crooned, and then there was the loud, audible crack of his humerus snapping as he threw his weight around. Shrieking a combination of pain and excitement, Hermes rammed his head forward, hitting Encke just above the brow line.
Cassius quickly intervened, tackling Hermes with a grunt, separating him from the lieutenant. They rolled, each one struggling to overpower the other, before a few fighters hurriedly ran over to help.
Hermes was pulled down in a tangle of limbs, throwing his weight every way he could, slinging his broken arm as if it were merely an object to strike with. He growled and cursed and thrashed, using nails to scratch, teeth to bite and tear. It was only when Cassius punched him across the face that Hermes quieted, blinking unfocused eyes, licking his split, bloodied lips as though dazed.
"He's lost it," somebody muttered, and Hermes only laughed again.
Encke wiped blood from his face with a grimace. "Dante," he ordered, nodding at the fighter in question. "Get the MPs. Make sure they… Praxis, son, what the hell?"
Praxis looked up from the floor, wondering when he had made the conscious decision to sit down. "Sir, I…" Don't feel well, he thought, reasoned, tried to say. Instead, he leaned forward and gagged, shoulders heaving, breath catching, before he vomited over his own boots.
"Fuck, man!" Cain griped, stepping away with the others.
Hermes laughter grew louder.
Encke looked back and forth between the two and shook his head. He kept his tone and posture confident, relying on himself even if the situation felt out of hand. "Oberon, escort Praxis to medical. Everyone else, I want you to-"
The overhead lights suddenly flickered, dousing the room in intermittent darkness. Deimos stepped closer to Cain, butterfly knife in hand, as the rest of the fighters seemed to hold their breaths anxiously.
As if to answer their baited questions, a scream sounded from behind the exit door.
"They want our bodies," Hermes told them quietly, affectionately.
"Quiet," Encke snapped, and the lights flickered again. He looked his men over disbelievingly, wondering what they were about to face, wondering if they were about to fight themselves. He motioned to Oberon, who kept a hand on Praxis' trembling shoulder, then back to the men restraining Hermes. "Bind him. The rest of you- find your navigators, and defend the ship. We might be under attack."
"From what?" Cain asked guardedly.
"I don't know."