Svetlana was thrown aback, as she felt the knock into her helmet, it wasn't a normal punch. It felt like someone sent a hammer into the side, like it was fury. Spectre's fist must have been bleeding, or in agony, because the punch did throw Svetlana out of co-ordination, long enough for the baton to be taken, and for Spectre to take it. The only exposed part of her suit was her head, but the current was so strong, that even through the chest, it sent ripples, Natalie buzzed but realizing it acted almost like a Faraday suit, most of the current back to him and away from her body, the very thick armor doing a fine job indeed. Spectre came down, almost blitzing himself- in the spur of the moment, it had perhaps not been the greatest thing to do, but he had been couragous, he thought to himself. Walking over, she smirked, faceplate still up, as she looked down. She stood on the rifle's barrel, bending the flash hider and end to a point where it couldn't shoot, 7"5 of Russian armored amazon over Spectre.
"Naughty." She simply said, as she dropped, slowly and surely onto him, putting her almost whole weight of her suit's rear onto his chest, his crawl and his ferocity hopeless. He passed out soon after from the air being thrown out of his lungs, as she got up, kicking him over to keep him out of conciousness, before then approaching Iceman and finishing the deal, with a brutal kidney punch, followed by a taze.

The training was over, as she walked towards the door she came in through, both bodies over her shoulder. War Trophies.
"Interesting. Spectre does have a good streak. He caused me problems. He will be good indeed." Svetlana said, as Imran laughed.
"Well done. Get them back to their quarters, I'll have the physio check them out. Hopefully you didn't break half his ribs." Imran replied, as he looked to Howard, nodding.
"Let them on I say. They've done well. I mean, they're not like you Antoine, a ghost. Or you, Howard. A different kind of phantom indeed. But we need individuals like Spectre. Not to say Iceman did not stop. With the right kit, he will stand up. He has an awful lot of withstanding for this, a ability to go beyond it seems. And that material works well." He added, looking to both in the command centre, as he stood up, the salt water draining, as he looked over.
"You've got options. You can train with the VR stuff in there- the wingsuits are programmed up for your tastes, and the virtual sniper range is up. Since we can't fit targets 2.5km away inside this place, it's the closest we can do without having to go to a training center and making everything work out without pissing off the flyboys. Otherwise, feel free to chill out- I might need to sort some paperwork and logistics, I have a potential lead on Artemis that I'd like to look into a little more. Figure out what our next offensive move is." He said, looking to both of them, the now decloaked Antoine sitting in a seat, her balaclava off and her NVGs up, sitting back. Imran headed out, as somewhere on the other side, Svetlana had dumped the two temporarily lifeless bodies on a couple of beds in the Physio's ward, to get treated. They'd wake up, feeling shit, the adrenaline wearing off, and she'd make sure to make an effort to visit. She went back to the armory and got out of her suit, putting her black bra on and a pair of large cargo trousers, above her underwear- her bra making no mistake to reveal the sweat that poured down in an area that if you looked at for too long, you wouldn't live for very long following that. 

Walking out, she headed to the Physio's ward, taking a seat by the beds that they were on, as the Doctor looked over them, and then Svetlana. Imran followed in, again, almost not half surprised now in the state that Svetlana had chosen. This was just how she was. She didn't care. Because she knew she was a King Tigress, the head, the woman that wasn't just big boobed, but big muscled and boned. And made sure that she wasn't ridiculed for the former by proving with the latter what she did.
"Two cracked ribs, he's breathing, shock though. He'll be good in about two hours." The doctor said to Svetlana, in relation to Spectre, as Imran looked at Iceman. He looked a little worse, not physically, but just wrecked.
"And Iceman?" Imran asked, as the Doctor shook his head. He had a distinctly Austrian accent, and all that Imran could think of, was the Medic from TF2, in some strange non-relating way. He didn't even look like him, he was about in his late 20s, and a distinctly experienced medic from the Austrian Army, with his specialty in wounds, as well as other problems usually relating to getting nearly blown up being his problem to solve.
"Well....whatever it is you hit him with, he looks like he's...defecated. Not the cattle prod, that one that we agreed is more of a torture device?" The Doctor said, as Svetlana shrugged her shoulders.
"Eh." She simply said, as Imran looked to her, almost in a semi-approving look, not commending or slating that decision. She had her ways, and that was how she did it.
"Wait, did you say he shit himself?" She added, realizing exactly what the Doctor had said.
"Yes." He simply replied, as Svetlana bent over, laughing alone, almost bellowing loudly, as Imran joined in, her laughter partially infectious, though it was still the loudest of the lot. If Iceman was just waking up, he had no idea what the hell was going on, and that to the woes of his partner too, he'd find out.