Bonded

Chapter 29: Rematch

Kylo steps behind him, twisting the man's arm up in the air.

"You realize your mistake, don't you?" He presses a knee against his shoulder. "You sacrificed strategy for ferocity. In a fight, you need both." He pushes the man's arm, straining the joint. "You picked up a new weapon but you didn't consider the consequences, how it could put you at a disadvantage. Now you have no weapons and you're dead." He pushes his arm even harder, straining his shoulder to its breaking point. The man gasps in pain.

"Sir."

Kylo looks up to find an officer standing next to him, datapad at the ready.

"Alpha or beta?" The officer asks, nodding to his opponent.

Kylo pauses, glancing at the man. "Alpha," he answers decisively, releasing his arm.

The man rises, gripping his shoulder, and turns to face him. He's smiling despite the fact that he's clearly in pain. "Thank you, sir." He looks up eagerly.

Kylo nods. "You did well," he informs him. "I'll see you next week."

The man gives a bow then straightens, looking proud of himself. He turns, heading for the sideline.

Kylo shifts to the officer next to him. "We're done here," he commands curtly, handing him his weapon. "Clear the room. Tell the others I want their reports submitted in an hour."

The officer nods as he takes Kylo's baton. He strides away briskly, careful to avoid a group of fighting men on his way to the sideline. Not a minute later a loud buzz reverberates through the room and the chaos of combat dies within seconds. An officer directs the men to return their weapons and report back to their units, telling those who made the cut to return next week— same time, same place.

Kylo walks past some of the men as they file to the door, a few nodding as he passes. He nods back, recognizing most of them as other alphas, men who continue to make the cut from week to week.

He's close. Another tryout, maybe two, and he'll have his team. Then he can really start training them— A combat unit made entirely of nobodies he's plucked from the lower ranks, brawlers who haven't had a day of proper instruction in their lives.

But that's exactly the point. They'll be a training unit, a way for Hux's cadets to develop the skills they're missing, the ability to fight opponents who don't play by the rules, survivors who fight tooth and nail, who don't give a damn about following proper form, only winning. Then maybe the so-called best of the First Order will finally start to fight with some ingenuity. And as an added bonus, he'll get to watch Hux see his precious cadets thrashed by a bunch of lower-ranked brawlers.

Kylo smirks as he approaches the washing station. He picks up a towel and drags it over his face, then moves to wipe the sweat from his arms.

He's already flirting with the idea of doing more. This unit could become his cadets, a rival to Hux's. The competition would sharpen them both, encourage Hux's men to be more off the cuff and his men to fight more strategically. Though he's leery of the commitment... These days, he barely has the time to train himself, much less anyone else.

But he must admit, he's enjoyed this. He's enjoyed the past few weeks, getting to know these men who spend most of their days performing menial tasks but have colorful histories, experiences that have battle-hardened them, that make them fight like it's win or die.

Sylas isn't the only diamond in the rough. Not that he's found anyone who comes even close to matching the boy's talents— his intelligence, his savvy, his adaptability. But the people who comprise the lower ranks aren't the simpletons he once imagined them to be. He's been engaging with them more, visiting different units, observing, questioning, learning. And he's been surprised by what he's found. Many of them are like Sylas, castaways who've had to fight to survive, men who've learned to get creative or get killed. They've come to the First Order seeking stability, a haven from their hard lives.