Chapter 2 – Part 1

[WARNING this chapter contains coarse language]

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Part 1

~
Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all forgiven, even though we didn’t deserve it
~
 

September 1989, Ochil Hills, Stirling

Eames hauled his bags down the corridor, counting the doors under his breath until he reached his number. Twin share, room 419. He grinned like it was the best thing in the world and opened the door. The room was of average size, maybe the same as his room had been at home in London but he didn’t care. He was free for the first time in his living history and he’d have been happy in a closet.

Both beds were empty. Figures, since Eames was here a week early. He chose the one by the bathroom and dumped his duffel bag on it, dropping his rucksack to the floor as he did a full body stretch and took in the room in detail. It was just as the photo had described it, if a little more cluttered. There were two beds, two tables with a shelving unit above each, a frame to hang up clothes with spaces for boxes beneath, one bathroom and a small window at the end. Plain and comfortable. And, to Eames, who had spent his 16 years of life thus far following his father from continent to continent, absolutely perfect.

He dragged his duffel off the bed and placed it at the bottom of his wardrobe, deciding he could unpack later. He sat on his bed for a grand total of maybe three minutes before he became restless. He dug around in his rucksack for the campus map and, checking the key was safely in his pocket, left to explore.

Murray Hall was a large building, but not particularly interesting. Eames had been around so many red-brick buildings in his life that he no longer found them remotely exciting. Had he been inclined he would have explored with intent to map the foundation structure and try to place the era it was built in but today he just didn’t care. He walked the perimeter of his new home before pulling out the map and heading towards Airthrey Loch.

Stirling had been his idea, not that of his parents. Henry and Charlotte Arlington had been intent on sending their only son to an Ivy League school to “better his education”. Eames knew better. A son of a diplomat couldn’t be seen going to any university of his choosing; it had to have standing, prestige. Enough so that his father could bring it up over dinner and impress his equally rich friends with their equally privileged children. Eames was sick to death of it. As soon as he knew he would be allowed to move away for university he’d started his own research, and Stirling had been the university to win him over.

It was the campus. The subject choice being what it was had been what won his father over in the end; that coupled with Eames’ uncanny ability to form a completely bullet-proof argument in his defense, but it was the campus that had drawn Eames in. He was used to grandeur and money, he’d been born, raised and force-fed it all his life. But no matter how grand or expensive his family’s living arrangements in all the countries they had been in, Eames needed space, he needed air. Having just come from Jakarta he needed it more than usual.

He strolled the hills surrounding the Loch and breathed, map folded in four and stuck in his back pocket as he scuffed his shoes along the pavement before moving to the grass of the gentle incline and making his way closer to the water. Few people were around and Eames savoured the silence. In a week he’d be starting university, his first education outside of home-schooling, and he couldn’t wait.

He’d wanted to take fine arts, in effect taking his life-long hobby to a fully-fledged degree, but his parents had forbidden it. Not only must a diplomat’s son have a privileged education, he must also take a respectable major. His father had wanted medicine. His mother had suggested law. Eames had spent an entire month convincing both that psychology was right up there with both suggestions, combined both disciplines to a point, and would offer him a chance to explore his options. His mother had been the hardest to convince, hoping for a lawyer in the family to follow in the footsteps of her father, but once he’d succeeded he sent a very long and almost gratuitously grateful letter to his debating tutor in India. The man had saved him seven years of an education that would have killed him for boredom.

It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. Eames shivered in the breeze a little but it didn’t deter him enough to return to his room just yet. He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was free. Well, that wasn’t fair. He’d never been a prisoner but he’d always been controlled. Even if he was given free reign of his own activities outside of home-school hours and extra tutoring it was “free reign” that fell under the constraints of a proper English gentleman. He was never allowed to do anything that would endanger his father’s reputation. Never mind that they moved countries once every three years, Eames had no right to a normal adolescence. He knew four languages, enough useless facts to fill encyclopaedias and he’d never been to a party.

Or had a roommate.

Eames chewed his lip as he skirted the shores of the Loch, hands deep in his pockets as the wind came close to driving him back to Murray Hall. What if he didn’t like his roommate? He’d applied for on-campus living to guarantee living away from his family – his father had been willing to ask for a transfer to Scotland for the three years of Eames’ degree – but he couldn’t deny that he was still worried about living in close proximity with someone he had never before met.

The fact that his family moved countries constantly made Eames adaptable. He wasn’t worried about his interactions with other students as such. What did worry him was the fact that he was starting college almost a year earlier than most people. What if he was hated for being smart? Eames had avoided bullying for his school career so far by sheer dumb luck more than anything, but he wasn’t an idiot, he knew why it happened and to whom, and although he had faith in his ability to turn the other cheek he really needed his roommate on his side and the not knowing of how that would go made him nervous.

He stopped, watching the water lap quietly against the shore and sighed. He had a week. A week to explore his new home, to get his books and figure out where all his classes were before he met his roommate for the first time. By then he’d be more confident in his surroundings and more likely to make a good impression. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice that Eames was turning 17, not 18 like more first years in a fortnight.

He kicked a pebble into the water and turned to go before the ripples disappeared.

The walk back took a shorter time and Eames scuffed his shoes along the carpet on his way back to his room, swinging his keys around his finger. He’d need to explore the building more, boring or not, if he wanted to not starve to death before classes started. The kitchen had to be somewhere nearby. He’d also need to go to the town for supplies soon, probably the next day. He had nothing better to do anyway, why wait till the mad student rush?

Eames mentally listed everything he’d be needing as he unlocked his door and stepped back into his room, only to stop short when a tall Indian boy turned to him with a raised eyebrow. Eames swallowed and swung his keys into the palm of his hand before stepping forward.

“Namaste,” he bowed his head a little with a smile before closing the door and walking over to the bed he’d chosen. The boy scoffed behind him.

“Right,” he said, his accent reminded Eames of his father’s. Maybe he was a Londoner. “So just coz I’m an Indian you’re going to pull out the only word you know. Couldn’t’ve gone with a “hi, how are ya”, no, had to be a cultural jibe,”

He muttered something under his breath and turned to get something out of his bag. Eames blinked at him in confusion. He’d spent three years in India before his father was transferred to Jakarta. Surely he hadn’t forgotten everything…

“I meant no disrespect,” he said quietly, “I could use Namaskar if you prefer,”

The boy stilled before turning to him, expression unreadable. Eames saw that his hands were covered in plasters to the point of them almost looking comical before his eyes met the boy’s again.

“Are you pulling my leg?”

Eames cocked his head a little. “It wasn’t my intention,” he said, “And I doubt wishing someone long life would go astray in any culture. Besides, you look like you need it more than most,” he indicated the boy’s hands with a smile before turning to his side of the room and dragging his duffel to the bed. He wondered if he’d made a mistake. Maybe he should have just stuck to English.

Behind him, the boy laughed. “Man, roomie, you are not what I expected,”

Eames turned around to apologise and found himself faced with his smiling roommate.

“Sorry,” he said on reflex, “Should I start over? Pretend I just said ‘hey, how are ya’?”

The boy laughed again and shook his head. “How the hell d’you know the difference between Namaste and Namaskar anyway? You’re white as they come,”

Eames shrugged, “I spent three years in India from when I was 11, didn’t pick up the language well but some of the customs stuck.”

The boy smiled and held out his hand, waiting for Eames to take it hesitantly before speaking.

“I’m Yusuf. Sorry for the rant, it’s just that you get used to people taking the piss when you spend your school years at public school in Birmingham being Indian and, God forbid, smarter than most,” he paused and glanced at the floor, “Lots of pricks in England,”

“Lots of pricks no matter what country you go to,” Eames smiled back. “Eames. And I empathize but can’t relate. I’ve been following my dad all over the world since I was 5, never really got a chance to go to a normal school in that time.”

Yusuf whistled lowly. “Damn, so you’re a home-school kid?”

Eames wrinkled his nose slightly. “That easy to tell?”

Yusuf shrugged and returned to unpacking. “Well, you’re weird enough,”

Eames laughed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Yusuf didn’t speak for a while and Eames returned to his duffel, pulling out bedclothes and returning the rest of the contents to the bag in no particular order. He was nervous again. What did people do in these situations? Should he ask something out of politeness, make small talk, or just let the guy go about his business? He chewed his lip in thought. He was curious about the guy’s hands…

“So what do you study?” he ventured. Yusuf dug around in his bag, muffling his answer somewhat.

“Chemistry. What are you in for?”

So that would explain the plasters. Eames smiled at the thought of Yusuf setting fire to their room by falling asleep at his Bunsen burner. Something told him he probably had his own with him, against university regulations.

“Psychology and languages,”

Yusuf laughed again and Eames found himself smiling, it was a contagious sound.

“So are ya going to psychoanalyze me till my thoughts aren’t my own anymore?”

Eames couldn’t help it, he laughed. Yusuf sent him a curious smile and he shook his head in reply. “Do you plan to set fire to the room with your experiments?”

“I make no promises,”

“Then neither do I,”

Yusuf regarded Eames a moment before shaking his head with a grin. “Touché, roomie,”

He grabbed a towel and a bag of toiletries and walked over to the bathroom without another word. Eames returned to his bed, making quick work of the sheet and started on the duvet when Yusuf leaned against the door frame.

“It’s Namaste,”

Eames blinked at him. Yusuf just smiled. “Namaskar is more common in Nepal, and I’d be too young in India to have that kind of respect laid on me,”

Eames just looked at him a moment before nodding. Yusuf met his eyes before looking down to the floor. “Thanks, though, for making an effort,”

“No problem,”

Yusuf nodded in reply and walked into the bathroom again, closing the door behind him. Eames waited a beat before sitting on the bed, ignoring the half-dressed duvet and dragging himself to lean against the wall. He smiled. Maybe he would have his roommate on his side this year.

-

June 1993, Ochil Hills, Stirling

Eames woke up with a hangover. Not a particularly unusual occurrence of late but this one had that delicious aftertaste of sadness to go with the dry throat and throbbing headache. After three years of studying, sleeping – alone and with company – and drinking enough to teach his liver to swim in a perpetual river of cheap alcohol, Eames was finished. In two days the semester ended and he had to make decisions again.

He rolled on to his back with a groan and dropped an arm over his eyes. Two days. Only two more days in which he could claim official study-related freedom to his family before they forced him back home over summer. He didn’t even know what country they were in at the moment and didn’t care; he didn’t want to go.

He’d considered post graduate study early on, thinking that if anything he could hole up at Stirling for another few years and make his father happy at the same time. Two birds with one stone; pure efficiency. But ever since Yusuf had declared – over yet another bottle of 70% – that he was leaving, a seed had ingrained itself into Eames’ mind that had now comfortably grown roots and set in for the long-haul.

“I’m bored, Eames! I’ve been at this place for three years, taking class after bloody class, acing my labs, annoying the tutors… I’m going out of my skin,”

“Drink more, you’ll kill off a few of those extra brain cells you don’t need.” Eames had laughed, taking another drag of whatever it was they had acquired this evening. It tasted like vodka but alcohol was alcohol was alcohol…

“Ha-ha, bloody ha,” Yusuf rubbed the palm of his hand over his face with a sigh. “I can’t go anywhere with this, Eames, not with the things they offer me.”

Eames regarded him a moment before passing the bottle over. The other took it and took a swing before continuing, voice slightly rougher.

“I get through more research and more actual worth-a-damn knowledge in this room than I do out there!”

“Then leave,”

Yusuf paused, bottle halfway to his mouth again and blinked. “What?”

“Leave! You spend so much time complaining you’re giving me a headache. You hate it here, you’re bored, leave!” Eames looked away, jaw set, “Go do something that requires imagination for a change,”

“Alcohol’s what’s giving you a headache,” Yusuf mumbled, lowering the bottle and chewing his lip, eyes focused on a spot above Eames’ head.

“Go to the states,” Eames leaned over to snag the bottle from his roommate’s limp grasp, “They’re quite keen on the whole shoot first aim later thing, maybe you’d have more creative freedom,”

That had been two weeks ago. He didn’t HAVE to stay at university to be free. Hell, he was turning 21 this year, he could legally do anything he damn well pleased without his father’s say-so.

Eames stared at the ceiling and sighed. The only problem with freedom was figuring out what to do with it. Legally he had every freedom a person could have in Scotland, and most of the world, but logically he couldn’t think of what to do with it. He knew leaving university because his best friend was dropping out was a pathetic excuse to, but at the same time not much was keeping him here for post graduate study.

Three years of psychology, linguistics, extra classes and scholarship subjects in both and yet… he still had no idea what he wanted to do with it all. He’d managed to maintain a fairly decent balance between study and social life – he both blamed and thanked Yusuf for that – which, in a way, made it harder to leave university than if he had remained a boring reclusive study nerd.

He thought of staying for post grad again and it made him groan. What would he do? Spend two more years at university – alone, this time – analysing the psychologically healing aspects of animal therapy or preparing a thesis on why Sign Language Interpreting for speech therapy was a much more important issue than people gave it credit? He hated the sound of it. He hated knowing that if he chose to stay – to avoid family and being shuttled from place to place again – that that would be exactly what he would be doing with his life. He wasn’t ready for that, he wanted to live.

Somewhere in the depths of his exhausted mind he thought of the military. There had been a time when he’d been a child when he had wanted nothing more than to join the army and serve his country. Then the globetrotting started and Eames had no idea what country he’d be serving anymore. Also when he’d mentioned the idea to his mother she had been far from supportive. Having her only child join the ranks was not how Charlotte saw her country club life playing out.

If he were honest, Eames wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint exactly what it was that had drawn him to the idea of joining the military in the first place. Once they started moving countries every three years the pull of travel and visiting new and exciting places had worn off. And Eames had never been a particularly violent person above what his gender dictated. Maybe it was the freedom. The idea of doing what he wanted, when, and having a company of people who felt the same way. Perhaps his destructive loyalty wouldn’t go amiss either.

The more he thought about it, lying in his dorm room after a night of heavy drinking, the more Eames was drawn to the idea again. He’d had enough of travelling the world finding new and exciting places. He’d had enough of pouring over books upon books of extra reading. He knew life at Stirling would be boring as all hell once Yusuf dropped out officially, but judging by the state of the man across the room it wouldn’t be official for a week at least, he had time.

-

December 1997, Brecon Beacons, Wales

The storm hadn’t eased up. There had been reports coming in through the radio of a secondary depression heading north east up Scotland but it appeared to have settled in for a few weeks in Wales on layover. Jet lag’s a bitch. More so for the poor bastards stuck in Endurance already ten hours into their twenty-hour limit, holed up for a breather as the torrents kept up.

Seventy-eight men who had been through the wringer and back for the last four weeks now stood huddled together under an outcrop of rock in the middle of the Welsh wilderness. And they’d started with one hundred and twenty. They hadn’t been here for long, but three of their number had already collapsed from sheer exhaustion, others standing around smoking cigarettes to the butts or staring out into the rain.

The end of Test Week was aptly named. After six days of endless marches, with bergens simultaneously increasing in weight, Endurance was the final test that broke most men. The SAS selection wasn’t known for patting its recruits on the shoulder and giving second chances. Less than ten per cent of those selected made it through the sixty-five kilometre march through the Beacons, and having just dumped twenty-five kilograms of deadweight on to the drenched forest floor, Eames didn’t find the figure surprising.

At least they had a decent map today.

He couldn’t remember ever being this exhausted. Training had been hell before but this last week…

“Shrink, we gotta keep moving,”

Eames sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “We’ll drown, out there,”

“Clock’s ticking,”

“Shep three guys are out cold, d’you wanna carry them on top of your bag and bloody rifle? Wait it out,”

“They have medics on standby for these guys. What do you think happened to the other buggers that didn’t make it this far?” Shep replied, before adding, “Besides, it’s Wales, waiting it out will only make it worse.”

“Drowning in shit in this place isn’t something I’d wish on an enemy,” Eames replied, taking a drink from his canteen and shaking his head to clear it, “We can make up the time once the rain eases up,”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Eames sighed, “Then we’ll bloody well swim the rest of the way if we have to,”

A few of the men laughed, the storm around them howling its approval, but the sound was quite closely skirting desperate. They had been marching for ten hours in this weather already and it only looked to be getting worse. Eames couldn’t summon up enough energy to care what this would do to Scotland when it hit the place. He was too busy wondering how long it would take before Sennybridge found their bodies mummified in the dirt.

The rain eased up enough for the men to comfortably see about a meter in front of them before they set off again, getting into a fast but endurable speed for their next leg. The forest was more a marsh after the downpour and their boots sunk ankle-deep into thick mud with every step. Although there was no rank in selection, Eames found himself at the front of the party, counting heartbeats against steps as he led the march onwards.

He’d found, after these last four weeks in Wales, that the best way to deal with the exercises they were given was to think about something else. He’d combed his mind for something to bring to the foreground, but he’d exhausted his best memories on the earlier stages of test week; he was coming up short. He checked the map, glancing up to determine the location of the sun through the dirty-gray clouds before confirming the direction on his compass. They were heading north-west, back to Sennybridge, and although behind by a few minutes due to the monsoon torrents just before, were making good time.

Eames had spent five weeks with these men. He knew their strengths and weaknesses just as they knew his, and although he got along with few of them, after these five weeks he knew he’d give his life for any of them. He speculated, not for the first time, that this was the point of the training that bordered on torture in some countries.

He wondered what Yusuf was up to these days. After he dropped out, he’d fallen off the radar pretty quickly. Eames had gotten a few letters from the guy before he left for the marines, saying he’d taken his drunken advice and moved to the States but found it less imaginative than Eames had given it credit. Eames had written back before he’d been redeployed to Portsmouth, but then the flow of letters dried up and he got too busy to write anyway.

He hoped the guy was somewhere dry with hot water and the freedom to sleep, though the idea of Yusuf being in any location that could be flammable made Eames chuckle.

The party kept a decent pace for an hour before the rain picked up again. As much as Eames wanted to stop them and wait it out, he knew they couldn’t waste any more time. He adjusted his bergen and trudged onwards, feeling his fingers grow numb against his rifle in the freezing rain. Yea. He hoped Yusuf was somewhere warm.

The men didn’t talk much, after the first week of training many learned that it wasn’t worth the energy to speak and walk simultaneously. Once in a while words were exchanged, coordinates confirmed or one-word warnings issued about slips or hidden roots. Part of Eames missed the drilling he’d done in Portsmouth where they chanted meaningless things while training. It helped keep pace and motivate the men to move faster.

They reached an incline and Eames closed his eyes, taking note of his breathing and heart rate. Both were erratic, both were irregular. He wondered how men had made it through this training and again thought of the estimated passing rate for this selection. He kept his eyes on the ground as he started the climb, digging his boots deep enough into the ground to hit a hard surface; slipping now would be the end of half the men behind him.

He was about halfway up when he heard the shot fired, followed by a broken cry and then silence. The storm swallowed the echoes and regurgitated them back. The entire company stopped moving. Eames waited, as did many others. The rest continued up the slope, keeping marching speed and disappearing over the hill. Eames stopped one to ask what had happened.

“Poor bugger shot himself, forgot the safety on his rifle,”

“Christ.”

He watched as more and more men marched past him, some looking like if they stopped they’d drop where they stood. He wasn’t far from a similar state. After a few more moments he slowly made his way down the slope again, ignoring the indignant cries of those still moving forward, and walked back to the small group of men that had stayed by the injured one. Shep was among them.

“Poor bastard,” he said shaking his head.

“Where did he shoot?”

“Foot from what I can tell, still, not the best injury to get in the bloody Beacons,”

A few men turned to make their way up the hill now, leaving the injured man with Shep and Eames.

“Or ever,” Eames knelt by the man and snapped his fingers until he looked up.

“Name and rank, soldier?”

“Johnson,” the man replied, his voice thin, “Lieutenant,”

“Ok Johnson, medics are on their way but you have to stay awake till then yea? Give them a piece of your mind when they find you, come on,”

Johnson’s eyes fluttered a little and Eames shook him.

“You’re in the Brecon Beacons, soldier, you collapse here the rain will bury you and they won’t even have dog tags to send home,”

Shep made a sound as though to argue and Eames shot him a look.

“Talk to me, Lieutenant,” Eames’ eyes searched the man in front of him, thinking, “What’s five times eight?”

Johnson laughed, choking a little as the rain trickled into his mouth.

“Math was never my strong subject,”

Eames found himself laughing, “Sense of humor’s still in place, that’s good, alright… I need to get you up,” Eames dropped his bergen, groaning at the feeling before removing Johnson’s as well. He circled an arm around his middle and hauled him up. The man made a pained sound and Eames glanced around for some form of shelter.

The rain had lessened again but it wouldn’t last. Eames found the tallest tree off the main track and made for it, supporting most of Johnson’s weight.

“Stay with me, Lieutenant,” he muttered. How long would it take the medics to arrive? Eames needed to keep the man talking… “You remember how hot Shannon Tweed looked on the cover of Playboy in the 80s?”

Well, that was one way to go.

Johnson laughed, “I was more a fan of Barbi Benton,”

“Too young for Barbi Benton,” Eames chuckled, half dragging the man to the tree. He had to make up time, he was behind most of the company now and the thought of running after them to catch up did not appeal in this weather. He set Johnson down, making sure he was as comfortable as he could be against the tree trunk before grasping his shoulder.

“Check the safety next time, yea?”

The man nodded with a pained smile. Eames nodded in reply before jogging over to his bergen and reluctantly shouldering it. He picked up his rifle and glanced at Shep, who was still standing by the Lieutenant’s bag.

“We better run,” he said. Eames nodded and huffed a breath before setting off.

The rain had slowed the company enough that it didn’t take Eames and Shep longer than ten minutes at a well-paced jog to catch them up. At a glance, the company was thinning, or maybe it was the rain that was washing numbers out. Eames slowed to marching pace and heard Shep jog a few more steps to catch up with him before doing the same.

“What was that back there?”

Eames kept his pace and didn’t look at his companion. They had gained on the last stragglers and were making their way at a painfully brisk pace to the front again.

“Lieutenant,”

“A soldier shot himself in the foot, was I supposed to leave him there?”

“Yes,” Shep raised an eyebrow, “The medics would have gotten to him just as quickly if you’d left him. You know what they’re like with keeping their boys alive, too many high-ranking men to lose out in bumfuck Wales,”

Eames didn’t reply, feeling anger and annoyance and exhaustion come close to boiling over the edge in a dangerous concoction.

“It’s just training,”

“And what’s the point of the bloody training if soldiers just leave men to die behind them?” Eames shot back finally, startling Shep to a standstill before the other regained his feet.

“We march through the bleeding Beacons for weeks on end and on the final leg no one’s willing to stay back with a man who shot himself in the foot from sheer exhaustion?”

“We have to make up time –“

“No one made you stay,”

They were silent for a while, Eames letting his anger drive him on through the drenched group of men until he was at the front again. No one stopped him and he set a comfortable albeit slightly faster pace. Shep was right about them needing to make up time.

The rain was unrelenting, drenching their canvas bergens and adding extra kilograms to weight they could already barely carry. Eames adjusted his hold on his rifle and winced as the rain washed his sweat into his eyes. Christ, would this day ever be over?

He’d caught himself thinking similar things in the last few days of Test Week, and, miraculously, the days ended. In a few more hours this one would too. He didn’t pay more attention to his surroundings than he had to. A few men had their compasses within reach to check their location frequently, and besides the occasional direction issued, the company stayed silent.

As they walked, Eames thought. Why hadn’t anyone else stopped for Johnson? The navy, like anything else, had its popularity contests but surely none of that mattered when it came to grievous injury or, heaven forbid, the battlefield. He wondered what would happen if he slipped down the next slope, accidentally flicked the safety off his weapon and on the next leg fired off a round into his kneecap. How many would stop then?

He shook his head. Not the time, Eames, get it together. You have eight hours to get these men back to Sennybridge or the whole company’s gone. As self-assured as Eames was, he doubted he’d be able to convince his body to go through selection again in 6 months if he failed this time.

“Why Shrink?”

The question startled him from his daydreams and Eames turned to the voice. It was Shep. He wasn’t looking at Eames but keeping his pace by his side, rifle bumping against his knees as he walked. The man looked no older than Eames was, but held a rank above him. What had he done to earn it? Eames chewed his lip and nodded. That was as much of an apology as he was likely to get from the man.

“Portsmouth, ’95,” he said, finding his voice rough from lack of use. How long had they been marching since Johnson’s incident? Had the medics found him yet? “Particularly nasty drill sergeant, bastard of a man, spent hours convincing his troops they were all useless sacks of shit,”

“Character building,” Shep said sarcastically.

“So I’m told,” Eames allowed a smile. He remembered the day quite well, actually. It had been sunny.

“What the fuck kind of trash did they give me to work with?” Eames had stood in line with the rest, wondering if all drill sergeants went to specific courses which taught them to yell at that particularly annoying timbre or if this one just liked following film stereotypes to pass the time, “A bunch of motherfucking pussies is what you are,”

“Sir, yes, sir,” the soldiers replied in perfect sync. This had been going for nearly twenty minutes already and didn’t look like it was close to finishing.

“Sir, yes, sir,” the sergeant imitated in falsetto, “They brought you to me to make you into men, not teach you to speak in time! If I wanted that I’d send you to try out for a fucking cheer squad!”

One man down the line laughed. Eames groaned and took a deep breath. And the speech had been so close to coming to an end…

“You think it’s funny?” the sergeant yelled, turning on his heel to seek out the disruptor with hawk eyes. “Who laughed?”

There was silence, only a few men shifting their feet.

“WHO LAUGHED?”

The shuffling stopped.

“Cowardice is not something I want on this port nor something that I’ll tolerate. Speak up now you little cunt, before I find you and drown you like a bag of fucking kittens!”

Eames wondered if it was worth taking one for the team. On one hand, this could extend the drilling for another half hour if the sergeant was in a particularly sadistic mood that morning. On the other, “taking one for the team” didn’t always result in praise and respect from the regiment. Hell, another half hour of the man pronouncing “thing” like “fing” wasn’t worth praise and respect. Eames stepped forward.

It was as though someone had flipped a switch. The entire company turned to him in sync, causing the sergeant to spin on his heel as well. It would’ve been comical if it wasn’t about to lead to a potentially painful face-to-face one-way screaming match. Eames stood his ground as the sergeant marched over, stopping toe to toe with him, his red face only inches away.

“Something I say funny to you?”

“Sir, no, sir,”

The sergeant leaned in. It took all of Eames’ willpower to hold his position and not move back. He expected a tirade of questions, more putdowns pronounced with a horrendous parody of the English language. He wondered when he’d become such a language snob.

Third year linguistics, a voice at the back of his mind helpfully informed him. Peachy.

“Did I give you permission to negate me, soldier?”

“Sir, no, sir,”

“Then why the fuck are you still doing it? You’re an idiot.”

Eames kept his mouth shut. It was an easy enough trap to fall into replying with the generic reply. He’d watched many men fall into it and subsequently drop down and do twenty for their folly.

“D’you hear what I said?”

“Sir, yes, sir,”

“You’re an idiot!” the sergeant repeated. Eames resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If only there was some way to legitimately reverse that previous statement, without breaking rank, without – technically – breaking rules…

“You’re an inbred son of a motherfucking bastard!” the man spat the consonants at Eames. The other responded with the sanctioned “sir, yes, sir,”

“You think I’m here to hold your hand and make this all better?”

“Sir, no, sir,”

“DON’T NEGATE ME!”

Eames licked his bottom lip into his mouth and released it slowly. This was the closest he’d ever come to punching out a ranking officer, and the first time the thought of the consequences didn’t deter him. That said, he stood at attention wondering how long it would take the man to run out of words.

“If you’re a goddamn son of a jackass after months at the port that reflects badly on me, d’you understand?” he was yelling. Eames held his breath. “If that reflects badly on me, that makes me an idiot,”

I doubt me reflecting badly on you makes that statement factual, Eames thought absently as the man’s eyes blazed. Suddenly a thought struck him and he cleared his throat.

“Sir, yes, sir,”

The man was fuming, caught on the dangerous edge of a power-trip and an aneurism.

“And do I look like an idiot to you?”

Eames kept his face completely neutral.

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The silence was so intense the entire camp appeared to have come to a standstill. Very few of the men in line were at attention anymore, some had taken a few steps out of line to see better, several had their mouths open, stunned and impressed at once. The sergeant looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing in silent rage.

“What did you just say to me?”

“I answered your question, sir!” Eames replied, eyes focused on a point just above the man’s left eyebrow. “You gave me no permission to negate you, sir! And defiance in the form of silence is not tolerated, sir!”

Some of the men in line were beginning to titter quietly, shocked expressions morphing into grins. They returned to perfectly neutral machines when the sergeant sent a glare their way but didn’t hide their amusement when he turned back to Eames.

“Solitary!” the sergeant managed after a moment. He hadn’t quite regained his full composure but the tone – complete with atrocious pronunciation – was back to standard film stereotype. “Two days no food or water!” Eames chewed the inside of his lip slightly. Worth it. The sergeant choked on his words slightly. He appeared to have lost his fight.

“Drop, give me fifty! NOW!” the man was beside himself again, “Then two laps, soldier, and another fifty!”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Eames had given the man a slow exaggerated wink before dropping as ordered.

Shep laughed and shook the rain from his hair.

“Christ,” he sighed, glancing to the mud to navigate around the roots at his feet. They were skirting the shallows of yet another forest and making good time. “That story made this entire march almost worthwhile,”

Eames smiled to himself. The name was well-earned but hard-won. He’d acquainted himself with that solitary cell too often for his liking that year.

“How’d you come by yours?” he asked, checking his watch before glancing through the leaves at the foggy gray sun.

“My father gave it to me,” Shep replied with a shrug. “Unfortunately no history-making reverse-humiliation in my past to get it. James Shepherd. Shep.”

Eames nodded and stopped the company, dropping his bergen to the ground with a groan and rolling his shoulders.

“No name’s unearned, soldier,” he said with a smile, “Go round the boys up. Tell me how many drowned in the mud while I was reminiscing.”

Shep shook his head. “You bastard,”

He quietly removed his own bergen and complied, leaving Eames alone for the first time in many hours. He closed his eyes, leaning against the tree behind him before sliding to the ground silently.

Seven more hours and test week would be over. Continuation training seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel after this. And after that…

Eames allowed a smile. At least Borneo would be warm.

—

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