Titus Hammerfell [d2/cb2]

His knuckles are bruised and sore, but they're not going to burst open like they did when Titus was twelve and learning the ropes. All that mattered was hitting the target; that's all that matters, still, but things have changed a little bit. It's different, now. When he's placed in training, it's like his vision goes into focus on that one thing, and all else fades away. Some days, it's the face of some other brutal career. Today, it's the weighted, hanging bag. 

It used to not matter, the feeling of his skin breaking open on someone's face or meshed metal. It used to be - it still is - a good feeling, a sense of release. A way of letting go the ever-building rage bubbling in his chest, hurting, agitating, needing escape. It's like freedom. 

Orion never saw it that way. He used to stop and help Titus wrap his hands whenever the younger kid started for hand-to-hand stations. "You'll hurt yourself otherwise," he explained. The day Orion was killed Titus woke up screaming to blood on the meshed metal bag like an explosion of red stars. His weakened hands could not create galaxies; his tired feet could not hold him up, and his voice had failed him entirely.

It mattered most when he heard Orion's cannon. Losing Mason hurt, but Orion had been there. Losing Orion hurt, and Titus doesn't remember anything until he'd already created a whole new universe with bare knuckles on a punching bag. For the weeks he could not strike out Titus heard Orion's chiding voice, and the first day - and every subsequent one - when he could, he wound tape around his knuckles and felt his brother's silent approval.

Today he stops the bag, white tape bright against the faded black, and exhales slowly. Next to him, another career boy is staring at him curiously. "What are you training so hard for?"

Flipping a towel around his neck, Titus rolls his shoulders and takes a long drink of his water bottle before responding.

"Revenge."