Running the Gauntlet [Kris]

Max nearly rolled his eyes as Waite answered with a neutral, 'Yes sir, I'll keep that in mind.' One minute he was perky and moto, the next he was boring; it was going to be a long, long internship.

"And yes, I think I'd like to be trained to work with animals."

He raised an eyebrow scrutinizingly, unable to tell whether Waite was simply saying so to impress his so far less-than-enthused mentor or because he had a genuine interest; most people who didn't already hate or fear dogs generally took notice of Kaiser, but beyond that had little to no interest in the details. People liked the idea of having a badass, well-trained dog trotting at their heels; they didn't want to know about the training, the time out of their personal lives, the shedding... (And dear god, did Kaiser shed. Waite would probably wind up being the new office newbie armed with scotch tape to remove the dog hair from his superiors' uniforms.)

"Very well." Was all Max could think of to say.

With any luck the kid would either find himself a dog handler and leave him the hell alone, especially now that some of Max's superiors were piling books about biology and genetics on him; apparently the Peacekeepers were going to take on some new mutts.

Max sighed internally at the thought; he didn't mind the homework. He did mind when the first of a new batch of mutts would come in for vaccinations or checkups, and having to figure out what mix of creatures had made this monstrosity and have to figure out what they needed... and first batches always had some defect or quirk of some kind that hadn't been polished over with further drafts.

But he digressed.

Mornings were usually slow, and today was no exception; even with the bustle of mentors with their new charges filling the halls with traffic, most of Max's work involved a bunch of general administrative bullshit that he couldn't fathom caring less about. In the meantime, he piled Waite with aptitude tests to find out if, at least on paper, the kid actually had a mind or a personality for animal handling or training; worst case scenario, he'd be suited for something totally out of left field and Max could dump him on someone else.

There was, however, an undeniable environment of excitement with the slew of new cadets.

The announcement had come in over the intercom that the second block of sparring sessions would begin at 1300; Max glanced up from his paperwork at Waite, who was still seated across from him at his desk with a pile of tests in front of him. If he had to wager a guess, Waite being from District 1, he was probably going to be handy with yet another metal, bladed weapon; sword, spear, maybe a javelin kind of man.

Max, well... he was a little old-fashioned.

"Showtime." He said with a roll of his eyes as he stood up from his desk and stretched. "You remember how to get to the galley from here?"

He shooed his charge off to go eat and invariably gossip with his buddies about their 'first big day on the job' or somesuch, sending him off with a reminder to show up to the gym in PT gear and a warning not to be late. Or else.

Leaving Max alone. He exchanged a glance with Kaiser before shutting the door and putting on his own PT clothes; Max would worry about food later. He hated fighting on a full stomach.

There were few things Max enjoyed more than having the gym to himself; with the lunch rush, the place was entirely empty. Kaiser sat panting happily on the sideline of the sparring mat watching his master take his time stretching before picking up a long, heavy oak staff and swinging it experimentally around. It didn't take much time to get used to; Max was so accustomed to having to improvise his weaponry that the idea of having just one dedicated staff was completely foreign to him. He'd made do in a tight spot with sticks, branches, sections of pipe, anything he could get his hands on.

There was no room to be picky when there was a pack of schoolyard bullies at his back looking to put him through the ringer.

Max went through the basic forms his mentor had taught him, then spinning it in his hands; slowly at first, to get a feel for the weapon. It was just a few inches longer than he was tall, but less flexible than the bamboo staff he typically used to spar. He picked up speed, until it was a blur as it moved around his body. Max's mentor had told his thoroughly dazzled protege many years ago that a skilled staff wielder could spin it fast enough to deflect arrows; Max didn't know if it was true, but one of these days he was going to find out.

He was on the sidelines waiting, barefoot and in his issued white t-shirt and loose white trousers, when people started to filter in to watch the next block of matches. Max was well aware that those of his colleagues who knew which district he hailed from thought his choice of weapons was crude and barbaric (he snorted at the irony), but he'd long since learned to ignore the looks of disdain directed at him for it.

Max idly wondered if Waite would do the same. He'd enjoy wiping that Career smugness off his face if he did.