I say punished, but it’s nothing too crazy.
I mean it’s not like he’s about to experience the shit Mussolini’s corpse did.
Although, a few of those things may have crossed my mind.
He would make a perfect candidate to test some of my food masked projectiles on.
Tyson Reynolds gives me an uncomfortable glance from where he’s waiting outside the glass training room. “And you’re sure that you can’t just keep using a dummy?”
I very much so still am.
“Company protocol requires in the field simulation after passing prior standard testing methods. That data has already been evaluated and analyzed indicating that it is safe to enter its next phase of testing, which is on a live subject.”
I fucking refuse to call someone who slept with their girlfriend’s younger sister while she was visiting town for Christmas, human.
Social rules are – again – not my strongest suit, but I do know that screwing your girlfriend’s sister without her permission or an agreed upon arrangement is unacceptable behavior.
It’s an action that should receive adequate disciplining, which is more than giving you the nickname “Captain Hook” because of the way your average size cock curves in verbal slander campaigns.
Um…office gossip?
I think that’s what most people call it.
“The test scenario will be short and quick,” I state in the professional tone I rarely fail to maintain. “We need to get a basic read on how it handles while moving in combat and under the stress of a physical occupant.” The tablet in my possession gets cradled a little closer to my busty chest. “If it makes you feel any better,” not that I care, “it’s previously passed the NFPA 2112 standard, our medical team is on standby, the sprinkler system is intact, and your employment contract includes a compensation clause for hazardous training.”
Reynolds grumbles his unhappiness to himself as he changes into the new boots that need to be analyzed. Afterward, he enters the area and takes a defensive stance. Camden Tortorella – his adversary who I don’t have any opinions about one way or another, and who also didn’t express concerns about burns – uses the opposing door to join him. Once they’re both inside, Ali prepares to hit the necessary button on cue.
Unlike at other private security and military companies – or so I’m told since this is the only one, I’ve ever worked for – our recruits are required to treat each training situation they are put in as real as possible. This can and sometimes does lead to broken limbs, the need for stitches or surgery, and on the rare occasion long-term hospitalization. Basically, you’re supposed to do whatever it takes to complete the task minus actually murdering a fellow coworker. Things can get pretty gruesome especially when we’re tactical testing, and if you don’t have the stomach for it, working down here in the pits with me isn’t for you. During one eyewear testing procedure, someone had their eye pop out of the socket and the dude who used to have Ali’s job a few years back threw up his tuna sandwich all over his device as well as my brand-new tennis shoes, which added a special suck factor for me personally because I already loathe having to get new footwear so having to do it again after just having done it made me extra irritated. Part of what sets Haworth Enterprises aside from other organizations is how far and how hard we’re willing to test human limits. The company has other divisions designed for genetic engineering – the legality of which is complicated – however when it comes to advances in gear that’s my department.
My specialty.
My passion.
Basically, the only one I have.
Reynolds makes the first move like the impulsive person he is. The mad dash across the room to attack before he can be attacked gives Tortorella a slight advantage to evade the head-on assault. He blocks and counters only to be met by a block and counter. Their back and forth fast-paced movements continuously build up proving this to be the well paired match Nikita Davis promised it would be.
Her job is much harder than it looks.
Pairing operatives together for training encounters requires not only knowing a vast amount about the agents on paper but off it as well.
Perhaps that’s why I typically prefer inanimate objects.
The majority of the data I need is always written down.
I don’t know secret codes or second guess the information regarding the non-human variables I’m dealing with.
People complicate everything.
Tortorella lands a solid punch in Reynolds’ face that successfully stumbles him backward.
At the sight of him momentarily stunned, I command, “Now.”
Ali taps a button on her tablet causing flames to burst through the slits on the floor.
Neither of them wastes time being distracted by the environmental challenge they knew would be added.
Instead, they continue the skirmish, both wanting bragging rights in the breakroom over the other.
Their slender yet toned bodies swiftly cover the length of the room back and forth in a determination to take down their opponent. Despite how much I would love to see Reynolds lose a tooth or perhaps a kneecap or even both, I oscillate my focus between both pairs of feet where my latest design is being put through a multitude of tests and the tablet recording the information using the sensors installed inside.
Numbers seem to stay steady where they are expected to as well as in the avenues I am hoping.
Needing to push the prototype further before we’re out of time, I quietly instruct, “Increase temperature and intensity.”
“One or two?”
“Two.”
Ali doubles the volume of flames significantly shorting the amount of time the exercise has left. Between the smoke and their consistent strikes, breathing will be the biggest issue of concern. Their persistent nimble movements repeatedly have me studying the information being charted to the same degree I do their actual bodies. Everything below the waist of the two individuals is rapidly filtered and documented of importance in my mind. Little things that the program isn’t designed to track are embedded right alongside the data that is; however, I push the ticking clock further than most would in my position, waiting until the winces of discomfort on Reynolds’s face are undeniably too constant to continue to ignore.
“He’s getting burned, Dr. Rothwell,” my twin brother, Brandon, unexpectedly states over my lab coat-covered shoulder.
Only if I’m lucky.
Rather than say that out loud, I cut Ali a glance. “End.”
The flames extinguish as abruptly as they were born. Immediately afterward, both men cease their attacks and glance in our direction for confirmation to exit. I give a casual nod that’s followed by a finger point to medical to tend to any of the minor damage they may have received.
“Fuck, it hurts!” Reynolds shouts as soon as he’s outside of the secluded room.
Maintaining an air of innocence is difficult but not impossible. “What does?”
“My fucking legs,” he grouses while flopping down on the nearest chair.