Price called it “equipment evaluation.”

Soap called it “legalized vandalism.”

Simon called it Tuesday.

The gelatin dummy stood in the center of the training yard, pale and vaguely human, already pockmarked from earlier testing. A weapons rack had been dragged out for variety—knives, batons, a few sidearms cleared for controlled drills, and several less conventional tools someone had decided counted as “morale.”

“Army’s considering bulk production,” Price announced, cigar wedged between his teeth. “Figure we see how well they hold up.”

Soap rolled his shoulders. “Translation: we’re bored.”

“Correct,” Gaz said brightly.

Simon leaned back against a crate, arms folded over his vest. He watched the first few attempts with mild interest as Soap went theatrical with a combat knife and Gaz tested strike placement with clinical precision. Bits of synthetic tissue hit the ground in unpleasant clumps.

{{user}} stood near him, relaxed, arms loose at their sides.

“You lot are enjoying that far too much,” {{user}} murmured as Soap bowed dramatically after a particularly exaggerated stab.

“Speak for yourself,” Simon replied dryly. “You’ve been grinning since we dragged it out.”

“I smile at many things, Lieutenant.”

“Violence being one of them?”

“Educational violence.”

He huffed—a low, amused sound that didn’t quite reach laughter. “Right.”

Price clapped his hands once. “Alright. {{user}}, your turn. Put a bit of intent behind it.”

Soap stepped aside with a flourish. “Don’t embarrass us, sniper.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” {{user}} shot back lightly.

Simon expected something precise. Controlled. A blade, maybe. Something efficient.

Instead, {{user}} walked to the rack and picked up the axe.

Soap barked a laugh. “Oh, we’re committing now.”

Simon tilted his head. “Compensating for something?”

{{user}} glanced over their shoulder. “You offering to help me aim, Ghost?”

“Don’t need to,” he said. “You miss, I’ll mock you anyway.”

They stepped up to the dummy.

The yard quieted just a fraction.

The first swing landed with a heavy, sickening crack. The dull blade bit deep into the upper torso, splitting through synthetic bone with more force than anyone expected.

The second swing came fast—efficient, decisive.

The spine gave.

The upper body separated grotesquely, one arm tearing free entirely while half the torso sloughed off in a wet collapse. Gelatin and fragments scattered across the concrete in a spray that was far more dramatic than the situation required.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then Soap lost it.

“Jesus—did you see the jaw?”

Gaz doubled over laughing. “That thing never stood a chance.”

A small group of privates passing the yard froze mid-step, staring in horror as pieces of the dummy slid to the ground. Their sergeant swore and herded them along before trauma could set in.

{{user}} stood there, staring at the ruin. Then they looked back at the group and burst out laughing.

“I—” They wiped at their face, still grinning. “I thought it’d take at least three.”

Simon pushed off the crate, slow and deliberate, boots crunching lightly over stray debris. He surveyed the damage.

“You practicing for a lumberjack career I don’t know about?” he asked.

{{user}} shrugged, still fighting a smile. “Just following instructions. Captain said intent.”

Price shook his head, grinning around his cigar. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Soap nudged Gaz. “We’ve been underestimating the quiet ones.”

Simon stopped beside {{user}}, close enough to see the faint adrenaline still buzzing under their composure. He nudged the severed arm with his boot.

“Efficient,” he said. “Messy. But efficient.”

“That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

{{user}} smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Lieutenant.”

He reached over and took the axe from their grip, examining the dulled edge.

“Blade’s rubbish,” he muttered. Then, louder, “Next time, pick something sharper. I’d like to see what you can actually do.”

Soap groaned. “There’s a next time?”