a little prequel on the meeting of Loser #1 and Loser #2.
warnings: welcome to my bastardized incomprehensible com-movie-verse. rampant military terminology. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus bulls***, f***, and g**damn).
pairing: none/gen.
timeline: several years pre-movie/pre-comic.
disclaimer: the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.
notes: 1) so. glad i ran this by my intern for beta-reading, because i often forget how big a military geek i am. glossary of military terms after the notes. 2) moving from enlisted to commissioned means an increase in pay and privileges, among other things. 3) you really shouldn't change the words of your recitation while doing CAPE. but when you've been doing push-ups for a long time, you get really bored. 4) when going somewhere as a unit, recruits almost always go in formation. when in formation, you are expected to 'show military bearing'—stand at attention (or parade rest if given permission), no laughing, smiling, etc., no speaking unless addressing the drill sergeant.
CO = commanding officer.
Big Chicken Dinner = BCD, Bad Conduct Discharge (kicked out of the military for bad behavior, not quite as bad on the record as a dishonorable discharge).
kicked = dishonorably discharged.
SIC = Second in Command, also abbreviated 2IC.
oak leaves = the pins that signify the ranks of major (gold leaves) and lieutenant colonel (silver leaves).
brass = higher-ups (also used in police forces), usually referring specifically to the guys in charge of a base, but can also refer to generals, the chiefs of staff, or the directors of some agencies (like the CIA and FBI).
deactivation = the process of dismantling a unit through discharge or transfer.
Q = short for Q-Course, the Army Special Forces Qualification Course.
sandbox = generic term for desert areas where the armed forces are currently deployed.
attend = come to attention for.
mess = mess hall, where military personnel eat. on some bases, recruits have their own mess.
stripes = rank insignia for enlisted personnel.
CAPE = Corrective Action: Physical Exercise. usually on-the-spot, and typically consists of punitive push-ups. sometimes accompanied by recitation of a lesson to be learned (such as doing sit-ups while repeating "i will not refer to [mustached CO] as 'Magnum'").
bust = to demote a non-commissioned officer (usually to private).
bobtail = dishonorable discharge.
cherry = new guy. more specifically, a soldier who's never been deployed (or a sailor who's never shipped out).
Section Eight = discharge for psychological reasons (such as a complete nervous breakdown or a psychotic episode).
green beret = Army special forces member (because of their headgear).
FNG = fuckin' new guy. much like fraternity pledges, they tend to be mildly abused by their superiors, frequently being given unpleasant duties or sent to fetch nonexistent equipment.
Salute
Sergeant William Roque did not get along with people.
He felt this was simply a matter of 'people' in general being stupid. Or arrogant. Or loud. Or whiny. But mostly, yeah, stupid.
On the rare occasion that he found people who weren't fucking morons with asses where their brains should be, he stuck by them.
And if Roque decided it was worth sticking by someone, he'd stick like fucking tar. Tar with knives and guns and a temper bad enough to scare a drill sergeant. Peters (his last CO) had told him it was probably a miracle that his sticky attitude hadn't gotten him a Big Chicken Dinner.
Roque had to agree, really.
The downside was that he'd occasionally decide to stick by a guy who was too fucking noble for anybody's good. That was why Peters was swallowing demotion and 'early retirement' to keep the survivors of his unit from being kicked.
It was a shame. A goddamn shame. Because Roque had liked Peters. He was a decent, no-bullshit, no-I-in-team kinda guy—the kind that made Roque proud to be in the Army. He was also a no-women-and-children kinda guy, and sticking with him through that (against an order to withdraw) was what had gotten them into trouble.
With Peters gone, Roque was on his fourth CO in three years. Anderson, the only other survivor from their unit, was also a sergeant, but junior to Roque by eight months. If their new CO didn't bring in somebody higher, it put Roque in the novel position of playing SIC.
A sergeant, and SIC. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that (other than weird, since he was used to having a lieutenant around to do the job).
"How's the leg?" he asked Anderson as he settled onto his bunk.
"Still fuckin' broken," Anderson grunted. "This stupid goddamn cast—I feel like a fuckin' invalid."
They sat in silence for a time.
Neither one of them spoke about Peters, or their dead comrades, or the whorehouse that'd been aflame when they broke down the door and ran inside. Neither of them mentioned the smell, the screaming, the fact that burning alive was probably the nastiest way to go.
After that disaster (and all the other instances of insubordination on his record), Roque wasn't that surprised to see Major Clay appear in the door of their barracks.
"Good afternoon, sir!" Anderson said, sitting up and saluting.
Roque didn't bother. Etiquette said he should've—they were in uniform and they were in the barracks, so he should at least stand to attention for the sake of the oak leaves, if not the man wearing them. He didn't feel like it.
They might've been signed over to the King of the Losers, but the bastard would have to earn Roque's salute after what the brass had done to Peters.
"Good afternoon, sergeants," Clay replied. "Pack up; your unit's been deactivated. Neal and Greene just passed Q—you're with them now. As soon as Anderson's cleared for duty, we're shipping out to give the new kids a tour of the sandbox."
"Aw, man…" muttered Anderson.
Roque just sneered. He might have to live with the kids, but he didn't have to like them, and he didn't have to treat them like they mattered—because they didn't, not the way real soldiers mattered, not the way Peters mattered…let them spill some of their blood for something more than money or a woman, and then he'd think about it.
"And Roque?" Clay said as he turned to leave.
He glanced over, but didn't say anything.
"While on base and in uniform, you will show the respect and acknowledgment proper to those who outrank you. The next time you fail to even attend a superior officer upon his entering proximity, I will have you out in front of the recruits' mess doing CAPE in your stripes until every one of those little pissants has seen and laughed at you."
Roque snorted. Like he'd never had to put up with bullshit humiliation tactics before…
"And the time after that, I'll punch you in the face."
It might be funny to see him try.
"After strike three, I'll bust you so hard your stripes'll still be wondering what the fuck happened when they hit the ground. Got it?"
Grudgingly, Roque decided that the man might be worth a little respect. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Peters seemed to think you had it in you to earn yourself a commission, and I'd like to believe him. But you better get your head back in the game, or he saved your ass from that bobtail for nothing."
And he left.
Just left.
Roque gaped after him.
Because the fucker was right.
Four days later, Roque was in front of the recruits' mess, doing pushups in his stripes and reciting, "I will pay proper salute to my commanding officer while out-of-doors, regardless of my personal opinion of his mental acuity, even while administering vigorous physical correction of a cherry's attitude."
A recruit snickered as his formation went past, and Roque couldn't supress a smirk when the drill sergeant called a halt (fuckers had ears like a damn lynx, always knew who'd been muttering or laughing).
"I will pay proper salute to my commanding officer while out-of-doors…" Roque muttered, watching the only source of amusement he was likely to get all day. "…regardless of how strongly I feel he should be riding the short bus, even if I am otherwise occupied in demonstrating the progress of my Section Eight to a bigmouth newbie."
The drill sergeant drew level with the snickering recruit and stepped up into his personal space to shout in his ear (as all good drill sergeants should, in Roque's opinion). "Why were you laughing at the sergeant, maggot?" demanded the drill sergeant. "Don't you know what a cherry is?"
"No, Drill Sergeant!"
"It's a wet-behind-the-ears little battlefield-virgin, only a half-step up from you pathetic pukes! That man is a green beret; he could eat you for breakfast and forget to spit out the bones!"
"I stand corrected, Drill Sergeant!" the kid yelped.
"Since you find CAPE so amusing, you may join the sergeant for the next twenty before you fetch your chow, you miserable little toothpick!"
"Thank you, Drill Sergeant!"
Roque smirked at the hapless recruit (who was wisely keeping his head down and doing his twenty push-ups) and went back to reciting his lesson. "I will pay proper salute to my commanding officer while out-of-doors, regardless of what a dumb fucker I believe he is, even if I am in the process of beating the stupid out of an arrogant dumbfuck FNG."
.End.