Quiet Hate

Fight

König is literally the entire, highly trained, combat ready, 141's last fight because he's so good. I look to Simon, eyes frantic, but he's busy glaring at König.

"No," he says.

"Gotta let her practice sometime," Soap says. "I guess it's like throwing a baby into water."

"Practice?" Simon says, thunderous. "People don't practice with König. I'm not approving this."

Farah and Price look to each other. I guess they've voted to stay out of it.

Simon comes to stand in front of me, protecting me from König's view and Soap's poor judgement.

It's more awkward to turn down this fight than to lose it, at this point. Either way, it's just König. His opinion of me doesn't matter, and the 141 prefers me over him, anyway.

I go up to Simon, placing a hand on his arm. "I'll do it," I say, noticing a furrow on König's brow as he sees our touch. Whatever. He doesn't get to feel that way anymore.

Simon looks down at me, worried. "What?"

I lean up, and he bends down. I whisper into his ear, "It would be embarrassing not to. I fail this, who cares. I deny it, I look like a pussy."

Simon's eyes implore me to change my mind, but he nods, straightening up. "Alright."

Soap looks at Simon, and they go to the bleachers to sit. König tosses his stuff in a chair and heads to the middle of the floor.

In that moment, König is not the sensitive, caring, soft person I thought I knew over that weekend. He's not even the asshole that I would frown at or argue with at work. He's König, former KorTac member and current Task Force 141 member who slaughters entire compounds with his bare hands. I've seen him do it with my own eyes.

He's a fucking killing machine, and little old me is going to take him on after a few weeks of training.

I don't look at his eyes, only his chest. We must look silly out here. I'm 20 inches shorter than him, and he's almost two of me wide. But I got myself into it, so I'll get myself out.

I analyze my options as the countdown begins. I clearly won't be able to move him, I won't be able to flip him, and I won't be able to pin him down.

What do I do, then?

I think back to my training with Simon, coming up with a strategy as the fight begins.

König definitely isn't going easy on me. If anything, he's clearly annoyed. He tries to strike, but I deftly dodge his movements. A downside to his size is that his movements are slower than mine, but he's still extremely quick.

It goes on like this for a minute or so, as I know there's no point in trying to get him, myself. Clearly I'm not going to win, but losing like this is just a little pitiful.

I gain motivation. In a move I know is kind of dirty, I spin and throw all of my weight into the back of his knees, and, maybe from shock, he falls. I latch onto the back of him, sneaking my arm around his neck and squeezing as fucking tight as it'll go. I know I have like two tenths of a second before he grabs me and flips me, so I do my best, keeping my lower body loose so I'm not caught under him when he does.

He grabs my sides and flips me beneath him, but I refuse to let go. At this point, I'm pissed from the past weeks of sitting in my own sadness from making the stupid mistake of letting him in. I find new resolve and new strength as he starts to stand up with me wrapped around him. I knee him in his gut, though his abs are so hard he probably doesn't feel it, and he grapples with my hips, trying to pull me off of him.

I'm an inch from his hood, but I refuse to look in my eyes.

"Look at me, meine Liebe," he whispers before flipping me over again.

The wind is knocked out of me, which fucking hurts. I don't loosen around his neck. He's big, choking him out will take longer.

"No," I say, bringing my knees up and over his shoulders, making him slip and fall onto his back on top of me.

I am running out of strength, and we're running out of time. I'm bound to lose, but not without a fight.

"Flora," he says, voice low. "You're hurting me."

"And I fucking want to," I say, mouth to his ear. "I wish I could hurt you more."

I hear a raspy intake of breath, then. He must be running out of air.

In a move that's definitely illegal, but I know he won't say anything, I use the fingers that have slipped under his hood to dig my nails in. Pointless, but satisfying.

In the next moment, he flips us up. I dig my nails in deeper. He grabs for my knees, spinning me around to the front of him. While he focuses on releasing my hold from his neck, I relax my arms for a split second and lower my body down, hooking my ankles behind his knees and pulling them forward. He falls again, and I ignore that now our hips are touching.

I might imagine it, but I feel him press against me.

I re-tighten my hold on his neck, spinning behind him and pinning his arms back, uncomfortably, with my legs. God, I'm getting tired.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, which probably wastes some of the air he has left.

"No you're not," I say. "And you don't need to be. It was one weekend. Who cares."

I say the words unfeelingly, but in reality, I care a lot. And I hate that I do.

He manages to get one arm free, and reaches up to my hands. His grip isn't as strong as it was a moment ago.

With growing anger, I squeeze tighter, and tighter.

Our position doesn't change, and his hand falls limp.

Oh, my god.

I've won, but König is unconscious.