Sparring Session

Harriet sized up the small mountain of a man and nodded. ‘Bring it on.’ ‘Another bet?’ Elias said. Lemuel quickly shook his head. ‘No, sir.’ Harriet faced off against the hulking, brawny sergeant, her body coiled like a spring ready to pounce. After making sure Sergeant Beard’s stance was ready, she launched forward in a blur of motion, her fist a bullet aimed straight at her opponent’s midsection. Beard’s instinctual parry deflected the blow, but he felt his bones rattle from the impact. Undeterred, Harriet followed with a swift leg sweep, aiming to unbalance her foe. But he sidestepped, avoiding the sweep with a deft shuffle that showed surprising agility for his size. The dust beneath their feet was kicked up in a frenzy of movement. Seizing the opportunity, Harriet surged into a series of rapid punches, each jab a calculated strike that sought out openings in her opponent’s defences. Beard countered with sheer power, his meaty fists blurring in the air as they repelled her assaults. The impact of flesh on flesh resonated through the air. The dance of combat continued, a relentless exchange of blows that seemed to blur the lines between attack and defence. Harriet’s footwork was a symphony of foot shuffles, pivot turns, and sudden lunges. Her opponent’s stance was rooted, his every move a testament to brute strength. Harriet’s leg snapped upward in a vicious roundhouse kick, her foot cutting through the air like a blade. Her target—her opponent’s head—was inches away, but he ducked at the last moment. The kinetic force of her kick brushed his hair, a close call that sent a gust of wind whistling over his head. In a split second, Harriet twisted her body and delivered a sharp spinning back kick aimed at Beard’s ribs. Her heel made contact with a resounding thud, but the sergeant absorbed the hit with a grunt and retaliated with a powerful hook punch. The strike caught Harriet on the shoulder, causing her to stagger. Ignoring the pain, Harriet leaned into the momentum and executed a fast elbow strike, targeting Beard’s solar plexus. Her elbow connected with a satisfying crunch, forcing him to step back, his breath momentarily stolen. With a fluid shift, Harriet transitioned into a low sweep kick to take out her opponent’s legs. Beard anticipated the move and jumped, his muscles straining as he cleared her sweeping arc. Amidst the flurry of punches, kicks, and evasions, Harriet’s sheer speed became a weapon of its own. She blurred across the space, her strikes a symphony of movement, each impact accompanied by the sound of flesh meeting flesh. Springing back to dodge Beard’s incoming fists, Harriet executed a spinning back kick that connected solidly with the sergeant’s torso. The impact sent him stumbling backwards. With her opponent off-balance, Harriet capitalised on the opportunity. She lunged forward, delivering a swift jab to his solid chest followed by a powerful roundhouse kick that landed squarely on his side. The combination of blows was a whirlwind of force that sent him crashing to the ground. The crowd fell into a momentary, stunned silence before thunderous applause erupted. Lemuel eyed the defeated sergeant sympathetically. ‘Rough go, buddy. Harriet’s not one to take lightly.’ He’d witnessed first-hand how, just as Beard had Harriet cornered, she slipped out like a greased eel. ‘Damn woman’s like a ghost in combat,’ Lemuel muttered, thinking about his own broken ribs. ‘Both Sergeant Beard and PFC Hoover took a real hit out there,’ Elias said. ‘Tell them to report to the health centre for a check-up. We don’t need any broken bones on our hands.’ Lemuel nodded briskly. ‘Right away, sir.’ He started walking towards the crowd. ‘Welcome to the club, Beard and Hoover.’ As the soldiers dispersed, the training ground buzzed with lingering excitement. Wendy and Callie stood some distance away, their eyes fixed on Harriet. ‘Wendy, did you see that?’ Callie’s voice held a mixture of awe and admiration. ‘I sure did. That was…wow. I can’t think of any other words to describe what I saw. Wish I could fight like her.’ ‘Wendy, could you do me a favour? Grab something from the mess hall for me.’ ‘Why? Aren’t you coming to breakfast with me?’ Callie tilted her chin towards the soldiers. ‘I think PFC Hoover might have a fracture or two. I need to report to the health centre.’ Wendy’s brows knitted together. ‘But Angelia’s probably there already. Shouldn’t she handle it?’ A sly smile tugged at Callie’s lips. ‘Do you know what time it is?’ Wendy checked her watch. ‘It’s six forty-five, breakfast time.’ ‘Exactly. Breakfast time. Where do you think Angelia is right now?’ ‘Oh.’ Wendy’s eyes widened with realization. ‘Okay. I’ll bring you something. I hope they are serving toast today.’ ‘Thanks, Wendy. You are the best.’ Callie made her way to the health centre and embraced the familiar scent of antiseptic. To her relief, the break room appeared to be Angelia-free. She changed into the white lab coat and went downstairs. As expected, Lemuel walked in a short while later with PFC Hoover in tow. The soldier’s face contorted with a mixture of pain and discomfort, his gait uneven as he gingerly cradled his arm. ‘Morning, Doc,’ Lemuel greeted Callie with a bright smile. ‘Got another casualty here.’ ‘Morning.’ Callie turned her attention to the soldier. ‘What happened?’ Jonas Hoover grimaced. ‘Lost a fight, ma’am. Think I might have broken something.’ Callie’s gloved fingers moved with trained precision as she began to examine Hoover’s arm, her touch gentle yet firm. She palpated the area, evaluated the severity of the injury before pinpointing the exact location of the fracture. With a nod, Callie directed Hoover to an examination table. ‘Lie down. Let’s get a closer look.’ Hoover complied, settling onto the table with a wince. Callie’s fingers moved to Hoover’s arm and assessed the damage. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the details, her mind mapping out the fracture—its type, its extent. ‘You’ve got a midshaft humerus fracture,’ Callie declared. ‘Definite displacement. We’ll need to immobilise it.’ Lemuel’s brows furrowed with concern. ‘Is it bad, Doc?’ Callie’s lips quirked in a half-smile as she maintained her cool demeanour. ‘It’s manageable, Captain. We’ll get him fixed up.’ Callie’s hands moved deftly as she prepared the necessary equipment—a splint, bandages, and pain medication.