Third Person - Complete

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Lewis walked up the stairs, her mouth dry. Heather and Miranda were in front of her, a heavy canvas aid  bag bouncing on Heather's hip. Heather had one hand on the aid bag and was humming, her hips swaying back and forth like she was heading out on a date. They passed the second floor, then the third, and went through the fourth floor door.

Lewis felt like she had to pee as she went through the door. There were a dozen men and two women in the room. Three of the men had their shirts off, leaning on the wall and smoking cigarettes. Everyone but Lewis was wearing BDU's, the three men standing by where they'd folded up their brown T-shirts and BDU tops.

"Hey, Cromwell," one of the bigger guys said. Lewis recognized him from the mask room. The eye patch made him look kind of like a pirate to Lewis.

"Hey, Monkey," Cromwell laughed. She slapped her aid bag. "Between me and Amazon, we should be able to patch up anything that doesn't require surgery."

"When you're not beating us with our own arms," one of the shirtless guys said.

Several of the men laughed. Lewis could practically smell the testosterone rolling off of the men.

The door opened behind Lewis and she turned to look. The three Marines and the short lanky guy with black hair that had driven the truck came into the room. After them came someone that surprised Lewis. Chuck Newsome, from AIT. Some of the guys during AIT had pushed him around a lot, calling him a pussy, and Lewis remembered him basically hiding out for the last three weeks of training.

Lewis noticed that it seemed like he was hiding behind the Marines.

"All right, I think this is everyone," The big one eyed guy, Monkey, said, his voice a bass rumble. "Let's go over some rules."

Lewis paid attention. No killing blows. No holds barred. Submission or knockout. Full contact. Bare knuckled. No skill separation. Any unconsciousness longer than ten seconds and you were eliminated for the night. Thirty seconds and you went to the Dispensary for medical treatment. Challenges or random draw. Apparently there was some kind of ranking. Command knew what was going on so there wouldn't be any UCMJ action. While he was talking the lanky guy with the scars under his left eye wheeled a chalkboard into the room. Everyone called out their name and the lanky guy wrote them down.

The first match Lewis's dry mouth got worse.

They're so fast, Lewis thought, watching the two men fight. She smacks of flesh on flesh, bone against bone, as the punches and kicks were met with blocks or slaps. It ended suddenly, a punch deflected, followed by a forearm grab, a flip, and the arm wrenched around with the boot against the neck. The guy on the ground slapped the tile and the one holding him let him go. They both stood up, gave each other rough hugs, and backed off.

The next few matches were just as bad from Lewis's point of view. It was less martial arts and more straight out punches and knees. The last one was particularly bad. Both men seemed to be able to handle all kinds of brutality being done to them. It was brutal and ended with a knockout that sent the loser crashing to the floor on his back.

Lewis watched Heather move up and check him, patting his cheek. Lewis realized she was holding her breath when the guy moaned and rolled over, spitting blood on the floor.

"You were out for seventeen seconds, champ. You're done for the night," Heather said. She stood up, holding out her hand.

"Dreamed I was kissing you," The guy said, taking her hand. Heather heaved him up, kissed him on the lips, then stepped back.

"There you go, champ. Go sit down," Heather laughed, slapping him on the butt as he went by.

"Is anyone going to clean up the blood?" One of the Marines asked.