Title: Basic Training
Fandom: The Middleman
Timeline: Before Pilot
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 495
Characters/Pairings: The Former Middleman; The Current Middleman
Summary: The Middleman wasn't always Wendy's mentor. He was in training once himself.
He held a shiny black combat boot in one hand and stared at the chipped dingy tiled floor that had seen better days. Just hang in there one more day, he repeated to himself. He was a Navy SEAL, goshdarnit, and he was not a quitter! This was going to get easier. Things were going to get better. He was here for a purpose. He was here to save the world and no training was going to get under his skin and make him give up, no siree, Bob!
He jumped as The Middleman stormed into the locker room and shouted his name. "Get up! We've got an outbreak of diseased coons growing the size of an '88 Tercel and you're just sittin' there, paintin' your toenails." The Middleman's voice was gruff and raspy, the voice of a man who'd smoked at least a thousand cigarettes and only spoke in one volume: loud.
"Yes, sir," he mumbled, leaning down to pull on his boot. He could feel The Middleman's eyes glowering down on him. He grabbed the laces and threaded them through the rivets. Under, over, around the tree...
He'd survived basic training. He'd survived Gulf War. He'd seen his best friend's F-14 Tomcat shot down by an Iraqi Mi-24 and blown to smithereens as it fell 50,000 feet down to the god-forsaken desert. Then he had turned his own Tomcat around and destroyed the Mi-24 and the two enemy aircraft flying with it. He was a fighter. His mentor might have faced down 103 demons alone and lived to tell about it, but heck, he was no pansy himself.
He stood up and walked over to his locker. Tenacity, he reminded himself. Tenacity was the word of the day. He grabbed his uniform jacket and pulled it on. The Middleman banged a pack of Marlboro Reds against the opened metal locker door, slamming it shut. The Middleman glared at him. This was nothing, he told himself, remembering the same tactics being used in basic training, the COs trying to get the new recruits to break, to give up, to follow without question.
"Get a move on, pussy," The Middleman growled. An unlit cigarette dangled from The Middleman's yellowed teeth. The Middleman pulled a silver lighter out of his shirt pocket without looking and carefully lit his Marlboro, almost instinctively, then inhaled on the cigarette. He wouldn't break away from The Middleman's beady brown eyes. Tenacity. The Middleman pulled the cigarette out and exhaled smoke. Dirty smoke. Disgusting habit.
He glanced away and coughed, knowing he had lost the pissing match and it was going to be another day like the day before. The Middleman chuckled. "That's what I thought," The Middleman said, knocking into him with his shoulders. The Middleman stubbed out his cigarette onto the side of the locker.
"Hurry up," The Middleman said as he stomped out of the room, slamming the heavy wooden door shut.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head into the cool metal of the locker. Get a move on, Corporal. He quickly buttoned his green jacket. Mud, he reminded himself. He was mud. And no matter how hard The Middleman stomped, he wasn't going to break down any further. Just hang in there one more day.