Conflict

Part 1, Chapter 3

"Ready."

Strip looked across the courtyard as Rick's voice came over the radio. Diego was staring back at him from the opposite corner, watching his every move. They were circling the area, no more than two hundred feet above the ground while the rest watched on. It was sparring day according to the calendar.

"Set."

Weeks had passed since the maneuverability tests, and their training regimen was growing more intense. What better way to practice fighting than to actually spar? Their guns had been loaded with rubber training pellets instead of bullets, which would still hurt, but wouldn't pierce metal and cause lethal damage.

"Go!"

The goal? Don't be the first to be shot.

Diego came flying across the courtyard, spraying bullets haphazardly in Strip's direction. They were easy enough to avoid, but Strip knew something Rick didn't when he'd paired them up: Diego had a score to settle, and he wasn't about to play nice.

Strip didn't mind the added competition, as he was confident he could win, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to. After some consideration, maybe letting Diego think he was better than him would solve some of their social conflicts. But was it worth it? Diego had knocked a couple of the others out of the air before, just to prove a point...

"Don't let him get to you."

That's what Izzy had told him a couple days prior. She said that Diego was just out for attention, that he'll calm down after he's forced to fight for real. Strip doubted this. He and the other trainees had been around each other since they were manufactured, and Diego was always vying for more and more praise. It was who he was, regardless of the situation.

Strip swooped up and over his opponent in a corkscrew, coming to a level behind him and starting into a turn to better position himself. He watched as Diego struggled to pull up into a vertical and avoid collision with a wall. Maybe Izzy was right. This wasn't the time or place to solve their differences.

Diego righted himself once more and saw Strip coming for him. A few precisely placed shots whizzed over his roof, missing him by a fraction of an inch.

"Not today, you don't," Diego muttered, altering his trajectory ever so slightly. "This one's mine."

It instantly turned into a game of chicken, each of them flying straight toward the other from opposite corners of the training fields, target locked. Strip noticed no shots were being fired, and decided to return the favor. Despite imminent disapproval from Rick, this competition had turned into a test of bravery, if not stupidity.

The space between them eroded quickly. Five, four, three seconds to impact, Strip thought he saw Diego smile. In no more than half a second, Diego had fired three shots, and Strip two in anticipated response. All five of those projectiles found their targets, but something was off. The first two Diego fired off had been followed by their signature dull bang, as were Strip's shots. But that third one had more of a crack to it. Diego's eyes widen as he realized what had happened and pulled up, trying to avoid collision.

Strip's gaze flickered down to his hood. Two dents, yeah that was normal. But where did that gaping hole come from? The world around him suddenly seemed very fluid, and quite small. Shocked from the wound, he forgot about the competition, and started to fall sideways through the air.

As he tipped, the very end of his right wing made contact with the underside of Diego's, slicing through the outer layer of sheet metal. The loss of structural integrity in addition to the increased G-forces Diego was pulling trying to get out of the way sheared that wing right in half. He violently spiraled the next hundred and fifty feet to the not-so-soft cushion of dirt and grass.