It's burning hot; hotter than the days before.
The man is shouting – counting down, telling them to speed up, yelling their names out individually to gain attention. Them. They are but mere cadets, training to be real heroes; it is what the captains describe the force as. When one of them makes a smart comment during the lecture, the whole team of cadets must earn the lost respect back.
Or else – cleaning duty, kitchen duty, whatever other humiliating task would go as followed.
A whistle was blown, dirt and pebbles flew feet as the vast amount of combat boots came to a halt. Sweat was shed, some ofit more than others. Their breaths became heavy, and they began to pant. Some bent over to cup their knees, their breathing running faster than when they had firststarted. Others stood there, waiting for command. Six miles completed. No walking, just jogging. A few of the cadets cleared their throats, being dry anddehydrated. The only combat boots to lift off the ground were making their way towards the tired men.
This captain dragged his feet, his eyes never left the timer strapped to his wrist, and dirt was gently kicked as he walked. His eyes averted to the checklist he had been keeping tucked under his arm; each name was checked. The smirk he usually displayed when an exercise was finished came outof hiding, his head shaking as if he had been surprised. A chuckle and a lick of his lips followed after,
"Ten point two seconds better than yesterday. How you men are shaping up."
The cadets smirked, proud of themselves. A shrug came from the captain, his grin living on as he spoke, "Could have been better, however."
It didn't last long, the smirks had faded to a frown, some others rolled their eyes, and the leftovers shrugged it off. Some even did combinations of the actions, "That's why we're here, men, that's why we're here." He chuckled once more.
There was a loud ring-like siren going off, echoing throughout the entire training ground. That annoying, ear busting, sonic boom-like noise only meant one thing at this particular time. Lunch. The best time of the day, the time each of them looked forward to, dinner was second.
A surprised yelp caused Chris Redfield to jump in place, it coming from right behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck straightening like needles on a porcupine, he had Goosebumps on his skin. Unfortunately for Chris, this happened every single time, ever since the very first day of training.
"Jesus Christ, Vickers." mumbled Chris, who had spun around to face the other brunette, "Do you have to do that every goddamn time?" As frustrated as Chris was with Brad currently, he managed to keep his tone at an average volume. If yelling at his comrades was the only way to give out a point, he wouldn't resolve to it; one of his redeeming qualities.
"H-huh… sorry, Chris." His voice was shaky; the poor guy couldn't seem to hold in his excitement. Brad just seemed like the type of guy that enjoys staying out of trouble's way. It was obvious to Chris – as well as everyone else – that was most true. Now that Redfield thought about it, the guy could hardly stand shooting a gun during target practice, not to mention that he would stand a good twenty or so feet away from everyone else, "I can't really help it, I've never been very fond of high-volume noises."
A smile leaped upon Chris' cheeks, right before setting a gentle (naked) hand on the embarrassed brunette, "It's fine. You're just lucky you didn't bust one of my eardrums, couldn't forgive you then now, could I?" Chris came to the conclusion that he was most likely too forgiving, the hint being that he began to laugh with that sweet smile glued to his cheeks.
"Glad you two got to kiss and make up." The sarcasm gracefully slid off Joseph Frost's tongue, taking a dive out of his mouth and slapping both Chris and Brad right on the butt, "So let's stop having this little tea party and go get some grub."
If there were anyone in the whole cadet squad that Chris disliked most, it was Joseph. In fact, he did have distaste for the hot-head. He had to admit, it wasn't a powerful bitter effect, the guy just got on his nerves rather often, "Let's see what crap they whipped up for us this time."
That red bandana, that stupid red bandana.
It had come to Chris' realization that Frost always wore the damned thing, he couldn't think of a time when he even took it off his head; besides while taking a shower, that is. Come to think of it, he always wore it to sleep. It didn't matter all too much to Chris, however, he couldn't get the devious thought out of his head. The one where he thought about how easy it would be to target Joseph's forehead, all thanks to his red bandana. Hell, it would be easy to spot Joseph in general with him wearing that thing.
That's when Chris remembered; today is paintball target practice.
Redfield recorded a mental note in his mind, one that included targeting a certain Joseph Frost. Shooting a paintball right at that bandana, no matter how much it would sting. Perfect.
"Redfield." Chris jumped at the calling of his name, snapping him out of his la la land. His attention was directed towards the tall man behind him; the sudden earthquakes lurking in his heart going off. He swore he felt his pupils shrink as his fingers began to twitch. The vulnerable feeling ate his soul just then, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was how Brad felt each time something startled him,
"Captain Wesker, sir?" He managed to choke out, somehow regretting it afterwards. Somehow, Chris always felt as if he was making an idiot out of himself each time his captain called his name. Moments like this made him regret ever teasing Brad Vickers about his little nervous episodes.
One quick glance towards his captain's shades managed to send his brain ticking again, the screws turning counter-clockwise. How could I be so stupid?
Without a moment's hesitation, the cadet switched to his 'greeting' position; otherwise known as a salute. Redfield didn't fail at standing as straight as a pencil, the stiff hand at his forehead not twitching one bit. He refused to show any emotion as he stared deep into those shades, or at least as deep as they could go. Frankly, he could hardly ever get past the darkness of the lenses. This caused Chris' curiosity; what color are his eyes, is one slightly different than the other, do they change colors during certain occasions?
He wanted to know, however, he couldn't find out.
"No loitering in the field during lunch hour, Chris." The younger man's spine crawled a second time, obviously over-come by the way captain Wesker voiced his name, "Rules are be followed, you know better."
"Yes sir, I apologize." The words sped past his lips and off the tip of his tongue, "It won't happen again sir, I'll be going to the mess hall now."
Chris' eyes averted from his captain's shades, to his I.D. badge as his salute began to fade, his eyes squinting to get a more clear vision; his first name is Albert?
It suits him so well. Captain Albert Wesker. The name just seemed to go together so perfectly, as well as matching his personality. Chris couldn't quite put his finger on as to why, though. It just did.
Redfield gulped at the sight of a furrowed eyebrow, his captain noticed the glance at his 'identity', "It's not polite to stare at your captain like that, let alone forget your simple assignments, Chris."
"Right sir, I'm-" Chris stopped himself from going any further. There were no 'I'm sorries, only 'apologies', "I'll just get going now. I apologize again, sir."
Albert. Albert Wesker. It suited him so well.
"We had this crap yesterday," the daily whine fled past Joseph's teeth, whom was giving his lunch a disgusted stare, "It's so… so ludicrous."
"Ludicrous?" Barry wrinkled his nose, mimicking the word Joseph had used. The way he voiced it made it seem as if Burton had took it in his grasp, stomped it on the floor, twisting it with his combat boots and spitting on it afterwards. He was mocking the very word, "Since when do you know how to use a word like that in proper context, did it take you all night to come up with that one?"
It was now Joseph's turn to wrinkle his nose, only out of insult rather than in that mocking sort of way, "Don't be a smartass, Burton, you can't even spell-" Frost's eyes wandered to the upper right-hand side of his socket. Back in school, they would call it 'thinking with the right side of your brain', "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."
One of Barry's eyebrows was raised, giving Joseph a look that asked him 'are you insane?', "What are you, in kindergarten?"
Joseph's eyes narrowed, giving Barry a look that clearly stated he was not amused, "Christ Burton, you of all people should know it's a classic. Hell, it's what, four or five years younger than you?" A smirk graced his lips, "A little squirt named Barry."
"Don't get cocky with me." Barry snapped back, obviously not in the mood to deal with Joseph's sly comments, "What's that saying, respect your elders?"
"So you're admitting you're prehistoric?"
"Are you putting words into my mouth?"
"And if I am?"
The spat between the two cadets raged on, containing both insults and threats, possibly more. Spit flew after words, at times their volume grew to the point where Brad Vickers couldn't handle; his hands twitched as he held the spoon protectively between two fingers and a thumb. His left hand tapped the cafeteria table nervously, wondering if their bickering would ever come to a halt,
"You guys, you're attracting attention." Volume being low, his observation was cast away, ignored by both men, "Are you listening to me? You're going to get cleaning duty if you two don't come to an agreement…" Brad was able to heighten his volume; however one couldn't tell with the constant snapping both men sent each other. The eldest cadet silenced himself, his glare at the blond in the red bandana lurking as his eyebrows furrowed,
"I'd take cleaning duty over being humiliated by this little punk."
"It's a hell of a lot better than wasting my breath on this old hag."
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Vickers jumped in his seat, dropping his spoon along with the process of staining his pants with his meal, "S-sir." He managed to squeeze out.
The bickering vanished, along with the color on each man's cheeks; or at least the ones at their table. Frost cleared his throat, casting a quick glance at a random comrade at his table before setting them on the captain. Luckily, the man didn't belong to their squad, but instead was the captain of the opposite team, "I can assure you sir, there is not a problem occurring as of now." Joseph managed to keep his voice at a professional level, "In fact, everything's just right; we've managed to balance out our disagreement." Brad couldn't help but wonder if Joseph took acting as a profession before joining the force.
"Let's not have any more outbursts in the future; we S.T.A.R.S. troops have no time for constant bickering, we are not trash, is that clear men?"
"Sir yes sir!" The two men replied in unison, keeping a careful eye as the captain turned to walk away.
Frost waited a good while before deciding to speak up, "Yeah Burton, learn to control yourself. I'm not the enemy."
It was at that instant Brad had realized the blond always had to have the last word. His respect grew for Barry; who turned the other cheek and took Joseph's sneer and smart-ass comments like a man, stabbing them in the chest with the pocket knife he kept so safely tucked in his right pocket; a gift from his wife, they had been told.
"Chicken heart," The calling of his nickname caused him to direct his attention towards Joseph, "You look a little shaken up, what's the matter? You've hardly touched your food." There was a hint of mock in his voice, no sign of concern what-so-ever for the short-haired brunette, "You can't have dessert till' you've had your entre'."
"God Joseph, can't you leave the guy alone?" Their attention was cast towards Redfield, who was lurched over their occupied table, "He's never done anything to you, no need to be a complete ass."
"Shove it Redfield, the guy can take a joke." Joseph snapped back, the smirk wiped off his lips within a matter of seconds past Chris' sentence, "It's what guys do, we fool around, I suggest you learn to live with it."
"And if I don't? What are you planning to do about it?""It was just a suggestion."
"Then I'm inclined to ignore it?"
"I really don't give a rat's ass about it."
"Guys, watch it." Brad let the warning graze off his tongue, allowing his tone to raise enough for the two to hear, "Hey Chris, why did it take you so long to get here, anyways?"
"No doubt the captain showed up." Forest Speyer chuckled to himself, finding his own comment amusing, "What? Did he want to speak with his 'best man'?"
"Captain Wesker clearly stated that I was one of his best men, Speyer." Chris snapped back in reply, not spotting any sense of humor in Forest's little joke. If the idiot was trying to pull off some kind of show for the guys… Redfield would have another dummy to shoot at during target practice. The brunette clenched his teeth, sensing an invitation being thrown out at Joseph. It seemed like the perfect time to jump in; a chance to humiliate Chris as a team as always,
"The mother's taking pity on the poor little runt." Oh, how wonderful the image was; red paint spewed across the blonde's face, shades of both pink and red surrounding the marks he had been shot at. The sugar-sweet picture, the wonderful feeling he would have after shooting his mark. Right underneath his eye, only a quarter-inch away from his nose. It would sting so terribly, his face would feel as if it's throbbing; his eye would start to water. He'd yelp in pain and out of surprise.
Marvelous.
That red spot would linger there for possibly a week, if he shot it just right.
"If you're implying that I'm the youngest, then your sly little remark doesn't have very much effect. We were born in the same year." Chris sneered, flashing his 'pearly-whites' as he felt sudden victory tickle his anger; the satisfaction grew as he detected a low growl leering inside of Joseph's throat,
"Age isn't all there is to a runt, Chris, think about it." Joseph shot back at Redfield, letting out just as much spark as the brunette's comment.
"Well there's no way I'm the weakest, nor am I more than two feet shorter than all the other men here."
The battle raged on, up until the second 'bell' rang. It was the bell that signaled one thing; target practice. The sound of a spoon ringing on the floor sounded, lowering down to a tiny vibrate-like sound,
"G-god dammit." The sigh leaped out from Brad Vickers' nostrils, his shoulders shrugging as his breaths relaxed back down to its normal level, "I hate that siren."
The only protective gear the men were allowed to wear; a thick vest, heavy camouflage pants (as they always wore during the full day) and a crotch guard. Men were always getting carried away, and one of the number one rules for the men's training was to never aim low.
"This is not child's play, men; we are not in karate class. You are here to mature into the best. You are my men; my men are the best of the best. When one of you goes down, the others follow along. Make no mistake, gentleman, I am not here to be your enemy." Captain Wesker paced back and forth in a perfect line; the men were not to turn their heads to follow his movement. They were to remain focused; their eyes were only to spot the objects before them, "I am here to be your captain, your leader. I am here to lead you, you are and shall always be the best."
Chris broke the rules; he always broke the rules.
He couldn't stay focused, not for one second. When Wesker's back was to him, his head would turn about ninety degrees. He would stare at the back of his head until the blond would rotate directions, pacing his way back over.
Such natural sunny-blond hair. He must be blue-eyed, most blondes are.
The thought remained locked within him; never did they escape his mind.