Page 222 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Nice to meet you," Ivy says in her usual pleasant tone, but she's already distracted, looking around the lobby with the wide-eyed hunger of a kid in a candy store.

Except the candy is smashable electronics.

The walls are lined with before-and-after photos of destruction sessions. Printers reduced to shrapnel. A row of old CRT monitors with their guts hanging out. A whole filing cabinet crushed flat and rolled up like a burrito full of empty bean cans.

"So you're the omega," Ducky says, sizing Ivy up with an approving nod. "Whiskey told me you knocked an alpha unconscious with a fire extinguisher."

Ivy blinks. "He told you about that?"

"Honey, he bragged about you nonstop when he called this morning. It's a miracle I could get a word in to make an appointment. Come on. Let's get you suited up."

Ducky leads us through a heavy steel door into the back, which opens into a concrete corridor lit by more of those neon lights. Somewhere deeper in the building, something shatters and someone cheers.

"Ground rules," Ducky says over her shoulder, pulling open a locker room door. "Anything in the room is fair game. No throwing shit at each other on purpose, but accidents happen and that's what the gear's for. No stopping until the timer runs out or you physically can't lift your arms. Whatever comes out of your mouth stays in the room. We don't judge here."

The locker room has two benches and a wall of gear. Ducky gestures to it all, gives us a quick salute and a muttered "don't go too far like last time," and takes off.

"Hey, that was all Wraith," I call after her.

Ducky ignores me.

It's kind of a half-truth anyway.

"Wow," Ivy says from beside me, staring around the room at all the equipment.

Military-grade protective vests, thick reinforced gloves with rubberized knuckles, shin guards, elbow pads, fucking masks. The works. It's the kind of gear I wore when they sent me into buildings that were definitely not empty and full of fun shit to smash.

People are, uh, considerably less fun to smash.

Except on the ice.

I haven't told Ivy that much about my past because the topic hasn't come up naturally. But she notices me pulling the vest on like I did every day for years, cinching the side straps by muscle memory without looking down.

"You've worn this before," she says.

"Heh. Once or twice." I tap the Kevlar chest plate. "Wore shit like this in the Marines."

Her hands pause on her own vest straps. "You really were a Marine?"

"Oorah." I flash her a grin and then I'm helping her tighten her vest because it's swimming on her. "I'll fill you in later, if you want."

She nods, letting me help. "Yeah. I'd like that."

She's so fuckin' tiny the smallest size still hangs past her hips, so I double-cinch the waist straps and adjust the shoulder plates until they sit right.

Omegas are cute as hell.

Especially this one.

"I look like an action figure," she says, twisting to check her range of motion.

"A fuckin' sexy one. I woulda had you marry all my G.I. Joes."

She giggles.

Masks are next. The good kind, too, not the shitty latex type you'd wear on Halloween. One's a hot pink gas mask with green tiger stripes. The other's white with dark splatter patterns that make it look like a skull.

I hope she takes the pink one.