Mulan is not mine and I make no money from this.

The first time Fa Ping walked through camp, he had Mushu at his back. The small, 'travel-sized' dragon was a great comfort, for all that his words terrified Ping. The creature didn't question that Ping had no idea how to be a man; he didn't ask why he cringed at the sight of men picking their noses, why he flinched at weapons; he didn't pick at any sore points that Ping was unwilling to explain. Mushu simply helped him fill in the blanks.

Well, some blanks. Ping hadn't strutted more than a few feet into the camp before realising that his normal walk wasn't out of place here. It was true some men made themselves seem larger than life, but most seemed to be relaxing.

He outright refused to act just like them though, gaping in horror as he watched a man use his chopsticks to clean in between his toes. The pride in Mushu's voice as he looked on made absolutely no sense.

The tattoos, the aggression, the humour derived from it… Ping watched them and didn't want to fit in. He tried to join in, punching one man when instructed, though he refused to slap his arse on command. In response to Ping's disobedience, Mushu shouted an insult which the short, angry man he had punched took offence to.

Having this man advance on him threateningly was far more unnerving than when Mulan felt the need to get aggressive; after all, he trusted her to stop before he was actually hurt. Ping scrambled out the way of the on-coming fist, which narrowly missed him and instead hit a table, sending someone's dinner to the floor.

The tall man stared at his food for a moment, before turning his glare on both Ping and the short guy. When he threw himself at them, Ping backtracked quickly, falling over a crate and knocking someone else over. The person he had knocked over decided to join the fray and throw the contents of the crate over Ping. Thankfully, the chickens weren't too bothered, but they scratched him as they tumbled to the ground and the now empty crate must have tripped someone else up, because there was more angry shouting.

As the fight really got going, Ping resorted to his usual tactic and curled in a ball, protecting his head and hoping to remain unnoticed. Would his sister have had this much trouble? She was always so confident on what she did, surely she would have managed better.

As he received blows and bruises, he wished Mulan was here. He wished they had switched places. Mulan struggled with the 'obey your place' thing that women had to follow, but he was better at things like that. If he had gone to the matchmaker for her, maybe she wouldn't be dishonoured now.

Her misery was why he was here in the first place. Ping refused to let his father come out here. The man was old and his body would be unable to support him out here. Mulan was closer to their father than he was, and she would break if anything happened to him. Ping would not let that happen.

No one had thought to forbid him from taking the conscription and joining the army in their father's place; he knew what they thought of his courage… and his lack of it. He was aware that he had been sickly for a large portion of his life, that he had never joined in with the games that other boys played; he knew that playing with his sister, trying on her clothing and playing shops with her was frowned on; he knew his mother often found him shameful, but he didn't care.

The Fa family did not need him, but they needed his father. They needed Fa Zhou; and Ping would do anything to facilitate this.

Even if that meant cowering on the floor. He had only just joined the army, he couldn't be expected to know how to fight quite yet, surely.

Suddenly, everyone took a step back, and Ping took a shy peek out of his defensive position and saw a stern face glaring down at him. Fight over, the young man quickly got to his feet.

"I don't need anyone causing trouble in my camp." The man informed him.

"Sorry." Ping replied, flinching away. He frowned slightly, realising that didn't sound confident. He wanted to be confident, just like Mulan. "I mean, sorry… that you had to see that. You know how it is, you get annoyed and just have to shout… things. One of those manly things, like woodwork and masonry and scribing and cooking and… outdoors, I mean. Cooking outdoors. Manly… stuff…"

He tried to make his voice gruff and low, like his father's, but it trailed off quickly. The faces glaring at him (and now that Ping looked, it seemed to be everyone in the camp) didn't seem to hold any confidence in his words. He looked at his feet, trying to think of something to say, but desperately hoping they would leave him alone.

"What's your name?"

"Name? I- I have a name." The handsome face of his commanding officer leaned closer and Ping froze up, terror seeping through him.

"Which is?" The man snapped.

"Um… I…" He stuttered, wishing the man would move away. "Name…"

"Do you wanna go for a false name? Go for Ling." Mushu picked a fine moment to reappear, making Ping jump.

"Ling?" asked Ping, wondering why he would give a false name.

"Ling?" The officer nodded his head and stepped back slightly.

"Ping!" yelped the young man, not wanting to be known by the wrong name, and finding his voice return with the distance between them.

"What? Which is it?"

"Ping. My name is Ping." Should he have told them his name? Maybe Mushu wanted Ping to give a false name for a reason, but he couldn't really ask the small dragon without making a worse impression than he already had.

"Let me see your conscription notice."

That was easy enough. Ping handed over the paper he had taken from his father's beside table.

"Fa Zhou? The Fa Zhou?"

"I didn't know Fa Zhou had a son." Exclaimed the scribe beside the commanding officer.

"Uhh…" The idea knocked him. His father had actually kept him hidden? "Guess he doesn't… talk about me much."

Ping looked at his feet again, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He was willing to bet they had heard of Mulan. Everyone knew who Mulan was, whether it was for something good, or one of her well-meant disasters. His sister was a mix between clumsy and graceful. In her confidence, Ping was certain she would do anything, but put her in an uncomfortable situation and everything went downhill.

"I can see why." muttered the scribe, the disgust evident in his voice. "The boy's not… much…"

"Okay, gentlemen. Thanks to your new friend Ping, you'll spent tonight picking up every single grain of rice. And tomorrow, the real work begins."

The officer and the scribe marched off, the red and blue fabric they both wore striking a bold picture in Ping's misery.

Every grain of rice? As in all of them? Ping silently headed over to pick up a bowl. The men parted as he passed them, and when he picked a spot to crouch in and start gathering the grains, a large perimeter formed around him.

"We're here." Whispered Mushu, his small, red body moving away to assist Ping. The cricket chirped and hopped over to the bowl, dropping a grain into it.

Ping didn't reply. He simply focussed on his task, trying to absorb himself in it completely. Maybe then he wouldn't have to acknowledge the fact that he was a disgrace to his family who had made the entire camp hate him on the first day.

It was long and tedious work, and though the other men cut off when the light fell away, Ping continued. He didn't know if his officer had meant the command literally, but the young man didn't want to go and pitch his tent. At least here he was sort of near people. He wasn't too alone.

It was well past the middle of the night when Ping finally crawled into the tent that Mushu had erected for him.

"It was your first day." The guardian said, his small paws pressing into the pillow by Ping's ear. "No one has a good first day."

"This was a bad idea." Ping sighed, his body exhausted. "I should never have left home."

"Give it time. Just… give it time."