A Short Breather During Practical Training
Practical training. It was a term spoken by veteran Lionesses and instructors alike with the utmost seriousness and respect. Since the earliest days of Zoey's entrance to the organization, practical training had been built up as the final trial barring full membership into Lioness. Only the top trainees were permitted to go through it: to undergo the transformation and walk the streets of a real city with real people underfoot. Sitting here now however, panting and soaked in sweat, Zoey realized that practical training wasn't the final hurdle to being qualified to do the job. It was the job.
Three blocks away sat the mangled carcass of a hideous monstrosity. It was Zoey that had left it that way. Her first victory. The whole ordeal had lasted less than sixty seconds, and somehow Zoey had managed to avoid a single injury or ounce of viscera. Practical training passed, she'd left her opponent behind and walked away in an adrenaline-fueled daze to find a shady spot to sit. Her transport home would take some time to return.
Little sounds pulled Zoey from her reverie, and it was only then that she looked down to find a crowd forming. With the cacophony of conflict ceased, the people she had saved now emerged from their shelters to catch a glimpse of their champion. The necessity of practical training and its surrounding mythos was clear. To go from drills and exercises to knowing full well that thousands of lives rested on her shoulders? Zoey wasn't sure if she could have carried that weight. But clearly, she could now.
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