(Another short one, but that’s because it’s the end of the prologue. ~Jason)

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Four men from the group rushed in to attack. Beside him, Diego heard Captain Rhys sigh and mutter under his breath.

“Hot-blooded zealots always have a hard time learning . . .”

The two corporals moved simultaneously. Aires caught a punch from a skinny kid in one hand, and then brought his elbow down violently across the forearm. It snapped audibly and horrible screaming filled the air. He then twisted his hips and threw the broken young revolutionary, who barely looked older than Diego, to the ground before dropping a knee on his solar plexus. The kid’s eyes gaped like a fish, and he struggled to breathe, his mouth making strange motions in a vain attempt to suck in any oxygen he could.

Jeffe continued to use his baton with brutal results, dropping two of his attackers the moment they drew within range. His strikes were quicker than Diego could follow, but he could hear the crack of metal upon skin and bone. One man lost all his teeth while another ended up on the ground, clutching both his knees and howling like a madman. Diego wasn’t too sure about human anatomy, given that he’d never attended school, but he was fairly certain knees were not designed to bend that way.

The fourth attacker held a pistol, and he raised it to shoot. “Fuck you and the Tyrants!”

The shot was loud in the confined quarters. The round struck Corporal Jeffe in the shoulder, causing him to stagger back. Diego’s eyes widened in fear as he waited for the legionnaire to fall to the ground, bleeding. Instead, Jeffe rolled his shoulder and cursed under his breath. Aires moved to cover him instantly, shattering the kneecap of a man trying to take advantage of Jeffe’s lapse in concentration.

“We use an armor that . . . well, you’ll discover how it works at Advanced Combat School,” Captain Rhys explained calmly to Diego. “The corporal is going to feel that tomorrow, though. The armor will keep you alive, but it’s not necessarily . . . pleasant.”

Sergeant Buckholz moved forward. He was fast, and managed to snatch the pistol out of the revolutionary’s hand, then proceeded to backhand him contemptuously. The man yelped and tried to flail back, but the sergeant slapped him again, and again, each blow more demeaning than the last. With a split lip and tears in his eyes, the shooter fell onto the group and curled into a fetal position, his begging sobs loud enough for all to hear.

For good measure, the sergeant slapped the man a few more times to drive the point home. Diego, ever the survivor in Overdark, understood the message immediately. He hoped the crowd understood it as well.

Through it all, Captain Rhys had remained standing at the doorway, his face a carefully neutral mask as the beatings had commenced. Diego, wide-eyed and shocked at how quickly the legionnaires had dismantled the main aggressors, could barely breathe. The men had moved with purpose, unity, and as a team watching each other’s backs.

For the first time in his short and sad life he wanted to be part of something bigger than himself, larger than surviving. The sudden drive for more than his next meal almost terrified him. He wanted to be the best, like the men protecting him. Not just a legionnaire, but the legionnaire.

Sergeant Buckholz flicked a stray bit of blood from his hand, as though it was a contaminant not worthy of touching his flesh. He looked down at the mewling puddle of would-be revolutionary and spat on the ground, effectively dismissing him as any future threat. Jeffe, still rubbing his shoulder where he’d been shot, looked around at the downed men while Aires simply stared, unblinking, waiting for the next person to move at them. Captain Rhys remained motionless as well, daring someone to say something wrong.

“You have been ordered to disperse.” Sergeant Buckholz’s voice cracked like a whip through the toxic air. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Diego had never seen people flee so fast in his life. He turned to speak to Captain Rhys, but Sergeant Buckholz seemed to anticipate his next question.

“That? That was nothing,” Sergeant Buckholz said as he grinned. “Not even a worthy warmup. You’ll handle worse things in your career and not even remember things like this. Plus, local politics aren’t anything we ever pay attention to. Not like we’re going to start now. Leave the politicking for politicians, you know?” His grin turned conspiratorial, and he winked at Diego. Behind him, Jeffe and Aires fist-bumped. Gently, in Jeffe’s case. It was clear his shoulder was still sore. Even the captain looked less stern than before. Only mildly, but it was better than the granite face he’d had prior. The sergeant continued after spitting on the rough pavement of the street.“Eh, fuck ’em all anyway. You’ve sworn the Oath. You’re one of us now. Welcome to the Legion, Diego.”

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