Behind Zima's back, someone gently prods her with a finger. She doesn't turn to look. She knows, instinctively, that it's Istina reminding her that her earphones are on too loud. Zima likes to listen to music, and especially cherishes an electronic genre popular among the Ursus youth known as 'hardbass,' the pumping rhythm and heart-shaking bass of the tracks always fires her up, and her limbs can hardly resist the urge to fill with the beat—a desire to throw hands and feet and bust down the joyless everyday, an eagerness to free her tied-up mind always ready to color her soul. There was a time where she'd sometimes wear earphones in battle too, grooving to the rhythm and stepping to the beat while cleaning up bandit nobodies. Following one training session, Dobermann sternly pointed out to her that 'as I see it, you're simply venting your violence.' Zima sneered at that, and nothing more. Anyone could tell she wasn't the impulsive girl she seemed, for she could distinguish between people she could openly challenge verbally without fear of blowback—like the Doctor—and people who really cared about the rules, for whom rebellion was best kept internal. For youth like her, knowing that distinction was one of the principles of survival. Her other instructor thought differently. Nearl was by no means strict with Zima's attitude, but the Kazimierz knight's invulnerability and tacit, solid endurance left Zima frustrated and powerless. Nearl even listened to a few of her favorite tracks and told her 'It's fine music. Very full of energy.' Zima eyed her somewhat warily at that. 'You gonna lecture me or something?' The knight of Kazimierz shook her head. 'No. Whatever music you listen to, I have no objections.' That was nice enough, but what came next was less pleasing to hear. 'But you still lack the strength to allow yourself to be distracted in battle. If you wish to earn a passing grade from me, this won't do.' Zima couldn't help but glare at her. 'I will hold on to your player and earphones for now.' The knight of Kazimierz paid no mind to General Zima's fury; instead calmly speaking words she had never heard before, now even from her parents. 'Come now, no need for that frown. I'll spar with you using one hand; once you can best me like that, and are qualified to lead a team, I'll gift you a new set.' 'Kazimierz's latest model. I've no doubt you'll like it.' '......' General Zima traces her hand over the latest Kazimierzian communicator-slash-player on her wrist, without a word cutting off the music she had playing and switching it over to access her squad's comms channel. Her teammates chatter away, the mix of voices no less relaxed than the pumping hardbass rhythm. Zima listens for a while, not realizing she's unconsciously moving her leg, tapping out a rhythm. In her head now spins a rhythm more passionate, more fervent than her most beloved of tunes. Alright, Zima has to admit, she <i>does</i> like this new model a lot— She's all fired up, and doesn't even need any music.