Sexis' mom's name was Stronges Trum.
Yeah, I have no comments. The name itself sounds like a rejected superhero who lost her gym membership and her contract with Marvel.
She was a trainer—and she looked like one.
Abs so sharp they could slice onions, shoulders like she bench-pressed her emotions and pregnant elephants, and that same scowl every PT teacher wears when they see you breathing too happily.
She said she'd train us to fight Malthus and his army.
I asked how long it'd take and she said:
"Five years exact."
"How can you be exact?" I asked.
She smirked like she'd bench-pressed math itself. "Because I know my skills."
"Then why not four years?"
Her smile died. "Because I know your skills."
Damn. That's a good one.
"Fine. We're ready," I said, trying to sound strong but mostly sounding like a student volunteering for suicide in a amateur's magician's trick.
The prisoners echoed me. They were also ready. As ready as a
