A/N: Sorry for my long absence, I had several deadlines with work and school. :)

Dillon ground the ball of one foot against the cement. His boot squeaked richly at each movement, and the brand-spanking-new soles left black scuffs on the floor. These things would take some breaking in. Every good, sturdy, boot did. He squinted up at the cavernous training room, all its ledges and ramps and pipes and ladders. The retractable ceiling had been drawn back and strong morning sunshine beamed down on the near-pristine surfaces. Closer inspection revealed a dent in a rung here, a black sole mark there. Signs the training room had seen some use, despite the effort Pirandello-Kruger put into its upkeep. Signs Dillon had just added to.

Odin came up to Dillon's side and fiddled with the buckle under his chin with a groan. "I can't believe they're making us wear helmets." He poked a tuft of blonde hair up under his helmet with a gloved finger.

Giving his own armed skull a tap, Dillon asked, "Would you rather knock your brains out if you fall?"

Susannah snorted. "If. Let's be real, it's when." She knelt to adjust her laces.

"Fine. Would you rather flatten your skull when you fall?"

"Hm. A fair point," Susannah said.

"Are any of you guys afraid of heights?" Odin asked.

Susannah immediately responded, "Yep."

"Not too bad," Dillon said.

"What about you, Jacob?"

Dillon turned to look at Jacob, a little too quickly. He hadn't even known Jacob had been standing behind him. He didn't like being snuck up on, had hated it long before joining the force and having to worry about bums shoving a sharpened fork under his ribs when he turned his back.

Jacob bent over, folding nearly in half, to touch his toes. "Nah."

Dillon wondered what the pasty little sneak was afraid of. Probably having his personal computer searched. Although Dillon knew it was unfair to judge someone he barely knew so harshly, he couldn't help it. Jacob made his hackles rise. He wasn't sure if it was personal or his cop radar going off.

The service elevator dinged and the doors slid back. "New blood!" A man in similar pursuit gear strode over to the group. Through the face guard, Dillon could see dark skin and intense eyes. "Name's Matthews."

He shook everyone briefly, a crushing grip and a single downward jerk. Matthews was enormous, several inches over six foot and built like a lumberjack, with the stride and posture of an officer well-accustomed to action. Dillon would have liked to know which district he came from; the name was vaguely familiar.

"We'll be doing some beginner parkour exercises today, as well as some basic hand-to-hand combat. I know you are all probably pretty familiar with the basics of hand-to-hand, but I want to make sure you have a firm foundation before we try the more advanced stuff." Matthews gestured to a huge floor mat taking up one side of the training room. "First things first: the roll. Learn it on the mat before you learn it on jumps. Your knees will thank you."

Their first exercises were deceiving. It was easy enough to practice the shoulder-to-hip roll on the mat. It was another thing entirely for Dillon to get the hang of tacking it onto the end of a jump. The momentum of a jump changed the angle and speed at which his body tucked into the roll, which he struggled to account for.

"Your boots will absorb much of the impact," Matthews told them. "But don't depend on it. Good form and technique will allow you to make larger drops, or, in a worst-case situation, pursue a runner without your gear."

Matthews had them jumping and rolling for upwards of an hour, then made them pull themselves up from hanging on ledges ten feet above the ground. When they were too tired to lift themselves up over the edge, they hung there for as long as they could before their hands gave out. Their gloves had a flexible, rubberized grip very similar to the human hand, and provided good traction with the slightest pressure.

"Being able to hang on to a ledge with an iron grip may make the difference between lasting long enough for assistance and falling twenty stories."

Next to Dillon, Susannah grunted, "Well shit, don't sugarcoat it."

Sweat dripping from his nose, Dillon shakily heaved himself up onto the platform.

Matthews twirled a finger in the air. "Again."

As the day wore on, the sun began to beat down into the training room. Matthews refused to close the ceiling. They would eventually be working their entire shifts out on the rooftops, and they needed to start getting accustomed to the heat and brightness. Dillon's entire body was wet.

The group was allowed a short break for lunch, which they took in exhausted, miserable silence in the blissful air conditioning of the cafeteria. They had been told that PK would provide all meals for them, and not to bring their own. They were on a strict diet plan. Dillon was almost too overexerted to eat. Odin inhaled his own lunch. Dillon shoved the remaining half of his meal toward Odin, who happily polished the plate. Odin had hardly finished when Matthews called them back to the training floor for combat practice.

Matthews positioned the group near a row of dummies. "Your boots have a small wedge of Kevlar in the tops of the toes," Matthews said. "The knuckles on your gloves also have Kevlar caps, as well as your knee and elbow pads. Use this to your advantage." He bent and tapped the side of his knee. "When you catch up to a runner, your objective is apprehension at whatever cost. Go for debilitating strikes that are not life-threatening. Knees and ankles. Keep them from escaping. Body hits can be effective as well. A few broken ribs can keep them from breathing deeply enough to keep running. If the situation gets desperate, go for facial strikes." Matthews turned to the upper-body dummy next to him. "Nose, temple." He demonstrated with sharp jabs to the dummy's face. "Use these last attacks with discretion. Your gloves are armored and with your adrenaline going, it's easy to hit too hard and irreversibly injure a possible informant. We can't interrogate them if they're a vegetable. Or dead. Gradual escalation of violence."

Dillon slowly swung his locker door open on its silent, greased hinges. Maybe taking this job hadn't been the wisest decision. Sure, the pay was nice. But how long did he have before he broke his back or blew out his knee? A week? A month? He eased his duffel bag over his shoulder and fished his cell phone from the side pocket. He had a text from Julian, sent two hours before.

Dinner at the Centurion food court tonight? I already miss you 3

Dillon rubbed the spot between his eyes and his fingers came away greasy. He was tired as hell, but a little time around Julian might raise his spirits. Key word: little. And he could probably find something within his diet plan. He shut the locker and spun the dial lock.

I can grab a quick bite after I shower. Heading home now.

"Lift your legs more when you vault," Talia called. "You'll catch your foot and eat shit right as the blues are on your tail."

Her trainee for the day, Niko, gave a breathless nod and trotted back to the start of the course.

"What are you gonna teach him next?" Logan asked. "How to run in the rain?"

"Ha, ha."

Logan bumped her shoulder with a fist. "Come on. You know I have to give you a bit of a hard time."

Still not taking her eyes off of Niko's practice, Talia let a ghost of a smile appear on her face. "I guess I deserve it."

Logan scratched at his inked temple, then ran his fingers through his short mohawk. Showing concern always made him uncomfortable. Joking was his natural state. "How's the leg doing?"

"Better. I still have to be careful with long drops. And I won't be picking fights with any blues anytime soon." Absentmindedly, Talia reached down and fiddled with the wrapping around her knee. "It should be back to normal in a few weeks. I got lucky. Niko! Tuck your shoulder more when you roll!"

Logan snorted. "Should. It's times like these I can see the advantages of being a Conglomerate drone. X-rays are nice sometimes."

"Yeah, well. We can't have everything. And I'd take the rooftops over cushy healthcare any day. Besides, we all know we aren't gonna die old. Probably won't need too many x-rays in your lifetime."

"Can't argue with that. How are the new shoes holding up? Grip better?"

"Yeah. Still breaking them in. Haran did a good job, he knows what I like in a shoe." They were fire engine red, with an individual pocket for each toe, extremely flexible material. Logan thought they were hideous, and Talia knew it. She wiggled her toes for him.

Logan wrinkled his nose. "You look like a gecko. Did Haran give you that lecture about shoes –"

Talia waved her hand. "Yep, they're a runner's most important tool. The whole spiel again."

Logan cracked his knuckles. "Ever wonder what happened to that cop? If he got in trouble or something?"

Talia shrugged. "I have no way of knowing."

"Well." Logan squinted out across the brightly-lit rooftops (Talia insisted on training in the middle of the day to build a resistance to the heat), in the direction of the police station. It wasn't visible from where they were atop the Centennial Mall, too many tall office buildings in the way. But Logan knew exactly where it was, saw it clearly in his mind's eye, and could probably make it there in less than ten minutes. "Much as I hate the sons of bitches, I hope that one didn't get in too much trouble."

Talia blew out her cheeks and followed Logan's gaze. It was her turn to feel uncomfortable. Things were easier if she thought of blues as malicious, unrepentant, brainwashed Conglomerate foot soldiers. "Yeah."

"Kind of makes you wonder if there's a chance for Glass after all."

She sighed. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Pessimist."

Narrowing her eyes, she spat on the bird shit-splattered concrete near her feet. "Niko!"

Talia's trainee faltered in his leap over an air conditioning unit and landed clumsily. His shoulder and jaw smashed into the roof.

"You have to be focused. Aware of your surroundings while remaining clear of distractions," Talia called.

"That was dirty trick," Logan whispered.

Talia ignored him. "You can't let a slamming door or a car horn screw up your flow."

Grimacing, Niko pushed himself to his feet. He swiped at the blood on his stubbled chin and wordlessly resumed his circuit.

Logan smiled. "He might make a decent runner yet."

Talia's lip quirked. "He has spunk. He'll get his ink eventually."

"Eventually?"

"Baby steps. Change takes time. He's got to shake off that easy life he had. Sitting all day, taking the bus, never having to look over his shoulder."

"He's only fifteen, perfect time to change."

Talia bit down lightly on one of her calloused knuckles. "He's one of the lucky ones."