1.23.2018
Sergeant Gregory had never intended to be a drill sergeant; he was a paratrooper. But after he lost his right arm (in a training accident of all things, after 15 years of service), his pension was barely enough to buy him the cardboard box he would need to survive the winter under a bridge on the Thames. Lucky for him, a friend of his in the Indian Army was part of some sort of experimental training project and recommended him to his superiors. At first, Gregory had only taken the job begrudgingly. When they gave him a new arm, though, he was sold. Within a month of his starting his integration into the Indian Army he was an Indian citizen (his application had been fast-tracked because of the priority level of his project), and was ready to begin his job: training a fifteen year old brat.
It was a bit anticlimactic, and rather puzzling. He was only training one soldier, and that "soldier" was so young that to call him "cadet" felt like a stretch. Even when it was explained that Cadet Khan Noonian Singh was the project of significant genetic engineering, essentially a human weapon, and he was to train him to fulfill his potential, it seemed like a rather poor job for a man who used to jump out of airplanes behind enemy lines for Queen and Country. Nevertheless, these people had given him a new start, and he certainly wasn't going to let them down.
The day that Gregory was brought to the training facility for the first time, none of his doubts had subsided. In fact, as he watched the pasty white, lanky boy run the obstacle course, his doubts only increased: he looked like a twig that would break in a stray wind-a decidedly western twig, as well.
"Doesn't really look like a 'Khan,'" Gregory observed quietly.
"Sir?" the private-a man with dark skin and an accent that attested to the authenticity of his Indian citizenship-asked.
"Nah, just looks a bit pale for an Indian, is all," Gregory repeated. In reality, he was referring to how unsuited the skinny lad was to share names with the fabled Mongol warrior, but far be it from him to question the success of India's super-soldier project.
"He's imported, sir. Our scientists couldn't get any of our augments to live past two until we got a look at him; this one was purchased from the UK's backup supply. Got him for a bargain, even if he is sub-par." Gregory ground his teeth.
"Nice of 'em, that. Did he come with the 200 year regression in human rights, or was that extra?"
"Sir?" Gregory sighed.
"Nevermind. Dismissed, Private." The private saluted and walked away, still looking confused. Gregory turned towards the "import." He finished the course barely half a second ahead of the best time on the board. The sergeant frowned. With what he knew about the Augment program, he should be able to beat that time by a much better margin. At first he shrugged it off as a consequence of Khan being "sub-par," as the soldier had put it (it was hardly surprising that the British government wouldn't give India its best and brightest to poke and prod to figure out why their science project had failed). Then he saw the boy walk off the obstacle course.
He was dry as the Sahara, not a bead of sweat on him, his breathing steady as a drummer's beat and light as a summer breeze. He had finished the course with the best time on record and wasn't even winded.
Khan wasn't sub-par, Gregory realized, a sense of awe washing over him. He was coasting.
And then, just as quickly, the awe was replaced by anger. The boy was capable of so much and he was coasting!
Khan looked up at his new drillmaster, awaiting the nod of approval that would send him back to the locker room to prepare for evening meal. Boy, was he in for a surprise.
"Do it again," was all Gregory said. Khan blinked, confused.
"Why?"
"I'm your new instructor; I don't need a reason. Do it again." Khan's eyes snapped with anger, but he nodded and obeyed.
This time, Khan finished half a second below the fastest time.
"You're holding back. Again; this time like you mean it." Khan furrowed his brow.
"I can match the best time-"
"I don't care. As good as anyone ain't good enough. Again."
At last, Khan seemed to understand. This time, Khan beat the best time by a minute. Gregory forced him to do it again, and beat it by ninety seconds. A hundred seconds.
The last time around, Khan made it two minutes faster than the prior best time. Exhausted, Khan fell to his knees and vomited on the ground.
"Want it again, sir?" he gasped defiantly.
"Did you see your time?" Gregory asked, trying to keep the pride out of his voice.
"No, sir." Gregory lowered the timepiece to Khan's level. To Gregory's surprise, the boy knocked it away.
"What was that?" Gregory demanded.
"That is what I care about my time," the boy gasped out as he stood up. Gregory stared after him.
"Where do you think you're going? I haven't dismissed you yet!" Instead of deferring to Gregory's authority, Khan raised his hand and gave Gregory an obscene salute. Flabbergasted, Gregory could only stare after the boy. He shouldn't have been quite that shocked; he had known training a soldier was no easy task.
He just hadn't anticipated how hard it would be.