Rhapsody

10: unless they do

Training exercises have always felt a little inconsequential to Maverick, perhaps because he's experienced such situations first hand.

His first raid happened years ago, just months after he graduated the academy. A man had holed himself up in a motel room, on the run from his ex-wife just weeks before the divorce was to be finalized. He held his own daughter for ransom at gunpoint. Maverick wasn't a detective then—hardly even an officer either, just a body with two hands that could shoot a gun. Since then, he's seen plenty of shit. He's fallen in love with the feeling of adrenaline in his veins, of blood oxidizing on his skin. And yet, he still remembers his first police raid like it was yesterday, because it taught him a good lesson about a little something called fear.

Every half-decent cop knows the feeling well. Fear keeps things grounded, and fear keeps people alive. Fear is something that will never leave him, Maverick thinks, and for good reason.

He tries to feel it here, but there's something about these exercises that is too artificial for him to even muster up a vague sense of dread. 

The exercise begins as normally as it can. When Team Bravo is cleared for extraction, Maverick enters the building with Emery at his side. It feels weird, having a partner there watching his six, but at the same time, it doesn't feel wrong. Behind them follows a young fireman with wiry hair and a sprightly step, whom Maverick cannot be bothered to remember the name of.

The hallway they're in is dimly lit by a single bulb. The fluorescent light blinks on and off like a bad omen, casting harsh lines on the dusty linoleum floor. Half of Emery's face is shrouded in shadow, and his eyes are narrowed. They've just reached one of the warm zones, a room with three civilians, who are just poor sods who got roped into wearing kevlar vests with the word "civilian" taped across them. Two are well enough to walk, but the third is down with a gunshot wound. The wiry-haired fireman sets to work, and together, Maverick and Emery guard the door.

It's simple enough. Maverick's blood pressure hasn't even spiked yet.

He glances over at Emery. To Maverick's surprise, the wolf looks completely, totally, and ridiculously out of his element. His gun doesn't quite fit his palm, and his fingers curl awkwardly around the grip, as if he's afraid of the weapon. Maverick finds it comical, sure, but also deeply upsetting.

His partner better not be this jumpy in the actual field.

"Hey, wolfman, you good?"

Emery side-eyes him. "As ever."

"All that time you spent looking at the guns, and you didn't even pick one you liked?" He snorts. "You look goofy as hell."

The wolf curls his lip. "As you'll come to realize, detective, I don't like guns."

"Whatever, Batman."

It's hard to not draw a bit of confidence from the revelation. Maybe the wolf isn't better in all things, after all. Emery may have heightened senses, terrible strength, and frightening teeth, but those mean nothing beyond melee range. Maverick has aim that is clean, consistent, and accurate, to the misfortune of anyone entering his line of sight.

Behind them, the fireman finishes working, and the last of the civilians rises to his feet. One of the other teams guides him down the evacuation route, and Maverick finally releases the breath he was holding. One more "civilian" safe—and who knows how many to go. He tightens his grip on his firearm, and casts a glance back at the fireman.

"Damien? You good?"

Emery huffs, and the young fireman makes a noise of disapproval.

"My name is Dominic," the fireman corrects.