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She’s not the first female recruit he’s seen.
Over time, as tales of the exploits of the Spetsnaz spread, so did its prestige and glory. More recruits came, some seeking to make a name for themselves, others hoping to serve their country and her people. More women entering and qualifying for the grueling training program was a natural progression.
Still, she’s the first one to have made it this far, and that is enough to warrant his attention beyond the cursory glances he’s given to everybody else in this current batch of recruits. He leaves the actual day-to-day training to the others.
The program moves quickly, roots out those who have no place, those who don’t have the drive and discipline. Now, though, the recruits face a lull in the action. They’re in limbo, continuing their exercises and spending time at the shooting range but learning nothing new, facing no surprises. Some have taken this as an opportunity to relax, while others remain on edge, waiting to see what is next.
They don’t know it yet, but they’re close to finishing the program - close to becoming full fledged Red Berets. He is the gatekeeper, the final test before they can reach their goal.
He sits on a crate overlooking the field, watching pairs of the remaining trainees spar as he idly flips his knife in the air. The black blade absorbs all light as it turns over on itself, lazily soaring through the air before it returns to his hand. He pinches the tip of the blade between his thumb and forefinger and gently throws it back up again, the repetitive motions becoming an unspoken mantra.
She’s in the middle of the group, eyeing her opponent as they circle around each other. Her opponent makes his move, having lost all patience, lunging at her and beginning their dance. She uses her speed and small size to her advantage as she ducks and counters with jabs of her own.
Her opponent overextends, throwing his fist a bit too far. She deftly sidesteps out of the way and snatches his wrist to lock it in place, then uses his momentum to flip him over and pin him down with her body’s weight and her other hand on the pulse points on his neck. For a moment, they freeze, locked in time until he moves to tap two fingers against the hard gravel on the ground.
As she moves off of her opponent and extends a hand to help him up, Kapkan catches his knife one last time and slowly runs the pad of his thumb across the edge, back and forth, a faint smile present at the corners of his lips.
The reason for the low-level anxiety that has been plaguing her the past few days finally reveals itself. Kapkan stands before her, talking shit with the other trainers while idly stretching. One comes over and hands them both a standard issue knife. Curious, she runs a finger along the edge and nearly cuts herself - it’s freshly sharpened and ready for field work.
It seems fitting that they’re finishing their training with live weapons, serving as a taste for what’s to come. If they can’t handle this, they don’t deserve to carry the Spetsnaz mantle.
Kapkan finishes the last of his conversations with a smile and a low chuckle and moves to face her, an action that she mirrors. The background conversations die down as they face each other, sliding into combat ready stances with weapons outstretched. His eyes track her every movement, no doubt cataloguing them as he looks for an opportunity to strike. He’s the hunter, and she will be the prey if she doesn’t set the terms of the battle. Decision made, she jumps forward and initiates the battle with a clean swipe to the chest that he immediately dodges and counters.
They trade blows for some time, neither making any apparent progress. The only sounds in the room come from their grunts and exhaled breaths as they struggle to gain the upper hand. He has years of experience that she doesn’t have, but her agility and intuition have allowed her to dodge and anticipate his moves. Seeing an opportunity, she moves to parry an uppercut with a movement of her own - but this time, something’s wrong. She oversteps by a few centimeters, a window of opportunity for Kapkan and a mistake that is too late for her to rectify. Her eyes widen slightly.
With a flourish, Kapkan brings his blade back up and steps towards her, bringing it down on her head.
Pain. The cut burns like a line of white-hot fire, leaving gushing blood in its wake. Distantly, she realizes that the cry she heard was her own, but there’s no time to reflect on that now. She needs to end this.
Kapkan had left his knife hand lingering near her collarbone for a second too long, long enough for her to grab his wrist and bring her other fist to his face, knife forgotten and slipping away from her fingers to clatter to the floor as she resorts to her base instincts. A sickening crunch echoes throughout the room as the blow shatters his nose, causing him to snarl and move his own forearms up to protect against further attacks.
The pain from her wound intensifies, as if the cut was opening further and splitting her face in two. The blood drips down her face and into her eyes, obscuring her vision. She shoves him off balance and lands on top of him, aiming for his ribs as he desperately scrambles to push her off him.
Her vision is a blur from the blood in her eyes and the tears of pain, but she manages to land more punches despite his struggling, the cracking of ribs confirming that her fists were on target. There’s shouting now, seemingly distant as her punches become less forceful than before. The pain radiates from her face and leaves every nerve in her body screaming, begging her to stop. Her muscles are either burning from the exertion or numb from exhaustion, to the point where she can barely lift her arms. Idly, she wonders if she needs another check up on her treatments.
She feels two strong sets of arms pull her off of him and onto her back before the world goes dark.
Lera wakes among the familiar beeping of life support machines. She mindlessly glances around her until she remembers why she is in the medbay to begin with, quickly pushing herself upright and grasping at the bandages on her face. The pain is a dull, distant throbbing and reminds her of the ordeal she went through.
“Melnikova! Stop! ” A doctor rushes to her side and grabs her hands, pulling them away from her face. “You need to rest. Stop trying to tear your stitches.”
Her personal health, normally something that plagues her waking thoughts, is not at the forefront of her mind. “Did I do it? Did I pass?” The heart rate monitor behind her begins to beep more insistently in tune with her speeding pulse.
“Yes. You did it. Now rest. ” She allows his insistent hands to push her back onto the bed, muscles slack with relief. As the doctor moves about her, checking her vitals, her gaze begins to wander until she sees the patient in the bed next to her.
Kapkan’s nose is set with a cast that covers most of his face, the rest of his body carefully padded around his torso. Despite the IV line in his elbow that is no doubt feeding him with large doses of painkillers, his eyes are sharp and alert as he observes her.
Silently, they allow the doctor to finish his work and move on, letting the hours pass between them.
At the ceremony, Kapkan is the one that presents her with the pin that she’s worked so hard to earn.
“Well done,” he murmurs softly as he delicately threads the tip through the fabric of her uniform, “Finka.”