1965 . . .

“Take your shot, Mohave. You’ll only get one.”

Agustin rolled his eyes at Rodriguez’s repetitive instructions. He had multiple shots at this point. “Again?” His voice was tinged with exhaustion, and he was trying his best not to let his arms fall down because of how sore they were. He was done with this. When was he going to fight someone? He wasn’t going to be defending himself from punching bags in the future.

Carlos Rodriguez’s crossed arms tightened and his honey-brown eyes narrowed. “Yes, again.” Ever since his brother tried to expose his father’s business a few months ago, Agustin was put through the training. Well, he and Leira both were, but Leira’s was super boring. He had expected to get self defense lessons sooner because of the creature, but his mother prevented it. Helicopter mom, much? He thought with an internal scoff.

“I’ve gotten multiple shots so far, Rodriguez,” he retorted, swinging his maybe five millionth punch at the punching bag, the sting of the material sliding against his fist in a familiar way. But something about the punch was off. It felt weak. The punching bag hardly moved at the force. Agustin scowled at that, disappointment crumpling up his heart. Why wasn’t he getting it yet? He had been at this for months! He should be getting this by now. The thirteen-year-old let out a loud cry of frustration and backed away from the punching bag. He had dark bronze skin, dark brown, curly hair, a long nose, with a mole on the side of his nose. He was lean, taller than his older sister already, and maybe he was too cocky for his own good. Sweat rolled down his arms despite the air conditioned room, dripping through his white tank top.

Rodriguez’s eyes narrowed even more. “You won’t get more than one chance in the real world.”

Agustin pouted, pulling away to face the tall, lean man with a more sinewy build. Despite his slim form, he had been in two wars. That is, so far. His instructor had darker skin than even Agustin, with a few white scars crisscrossed along his neck, straight, dark, dark brown hair that was closely cut. He was in his normal camouflage pants, white t-shirt, and combat boots. “When are you going to let me _actually _fight someone? This punching bag isn’t doing it for me.”

Carlos rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “Agustin, for the last time, when I think you are ready. _Ready. _You are not ready. You can’t even punch correctly.”

“I so am! I’ve been doing this for months!” Agustin protested vehemently, sniffing arrogantly as he crossed his arms. “It’s just this stupid punching bag that is hindering my abilities, not . . . Not me.”

“You’ll be considered ready when I say so and when your father agrees,” Rodriguez repeated firmly. “Now, add more power into the punch. Channel it all so it leaves a mark and the opponent dazed.”

“What about what I think?”

Silence stretched on with Rodriguez just staring at him in disbelief. Suddenly, a burst of laughter escaped his normally stoic instructor. Agustin blinked, feeling a sense of being laughed at—oh, God no.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” He huffed, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Rodriguez managed to swallow back his laughter, surprise in his own eyes as he tried to collect himself. “My apologies, I just . . . I cannot believe you thought _you _also has a say in this.”

“. . .”

“THAT IS NOT FUNNY!” Agustin cried out in offense, growling as he swung a fist at the punching bag once more, his eyes widening when he saw it swing backwards from the sheer force of it.

That had never happened before. His jaw dropped for a brief moment before he collected himself enough to let out a whoop. “Holy shit. I did it.”

“No cussing.”

Agustin only grinned wider, his eyes sparkling in delight. “I did it. I DID IT!” He cried out louder, jumping back with renewed vigor and energy. “I gotta tell Dad. I’ll be back!” He said in a flurry of quickness, bolting off out the door of the training room through the hotel his father owned.

He heard Rodriguez chuckle slightly from behind him, but he didn’t see the look of pride. He didn’t even realize his mother was at the establishment. Or that she was originally looking for him.

Four years later he would find out the truth.