It was always odd to Zak that, when he got to his feet again, there was never any kind of victory in Lee's eyes. There was merely something he learned later was resignation, futility. For Lee, it was never about the win. It was always about the fight.

One night, drunk on too much ambrosia and the feel of the Viper around him, Zak had challenged Lee to a duel. It had started out friendly and degenerated into something darker, something that tapped into the well of rage just below Lee's calm surface. They'd called each other names and punches had been thrown until they'd stumbled out of the bar and into the street, threatening violence with guns and swords and whatever else they could get their hands on.

They'd ended the night passed out on the Commander's lawn, dew soaked uniforms clinging to their skin. Zak had ended up with a black eye and a split lip. Lee had three bruised ribs. Their father had turned a hose on them both and Zak had run from the spray, but Lee had stood there and taken the brunt of it, soaking it in.

The old man had looked furious, and Lee's eyes had shone with triumph. Zak had wondered about it for a long time after, wondered if Lee had been fighting with him or if he'd just been a substitute, a battle in a fight Lee could never win.