EDIT: Sorry for the reupload, but for some reason, doc manager has started repeating my sentences in the above paragraphs. No idea why. It's infuriating. And I did not realise until I posted. And then it takes forever for the repostings to actually take affect.
DAY 1
1654HRS
In July's brutal heat, those mad enough to brave the outside during the day managed to accomplish a crisp dryness when exposed to the sun. Only around the hairline could you find the slightest evidence of any sweating at all. So, with that in mind, Nanami soon began to notice when the weather was starting to cool―not like such was any comfort, of course; the thermometer strapped to the front of the bus had it at least 34°C―when the sweat started to run down her face, rather than just evaporating straight into the air. She imagined, in her dazed mind made weary from intense travel, that by the time she got to base, her clothes would need wringing out.
She certainly felt damp enough under the long sleeved t-shirt to warrant that image.
The experience of traveling from San Diego to Washington for processing was so far a near-novelty. Nanami was one of forty cadets aboard the low-floor transit bus currently on their way to an undisclosed location for Operations Training. All of them had been recruited by the extra-governmental military counter-terrorism and intelligence agency, S.H.I.E.L.D., after qualifying and taking a number of different tests, and now, after a week of waiting for their results, those who passed are no longer young civilian adults, but probational S.H.I.E.L.D. cadets. Nanami herself had become accustomed to the swift, decisive professionalism. It had taken them mere days to provide her with the instructions and directions to the processing station in DC. Her initial testing had been speedy and direct. Nanami had expected more of the same when she landed to start induction.
Only when she finally arrived after a five-hour flight, she was greeted with a system in near breakdown. It had taken nearly four hours to get any and all cadets registered at the Academy of Operations written down and in a specific order. Nanami had been informed by her induction letter that everyone had to be ready for send-off at half eight in the morning. It was very nearly noon when they finally managed to do just that, in the blistering heat, a group of forty sweaty, over-agitated young adults hurtling down highways inside a bus with worn cushions, frayed seatbelts and a carpet underfooting that had lost any semblance of pattern. It was in no way comfortable. It was in no way pleasant. This bus was clearly designed for carrying soldiers, or the equivalent; every expense had been spared. There was no entertainment system. The seats did not recline. One learned early on not to put their hands, or anything else, into the seatback pockets because years of accumulated food scraps had sprouted mold, and the ashtrays were still full, even though smoking on S.H.I.E.L.D. transport had been banned for years.
Nanami may have been okay if they had access to the internet, or perhaps a book, but all outside communications had been cut off with a firm warning from their attendants that from now until they either left on their own accord or completed induction, they were at the pleasure of S.H.I.E.L.D., and that pleasure did not extend to allowing connection with the world rolling by behind the windows.
Of course, they couldn't see the landscape outside anymore. After they got out of Washington, the windows had blacked out. They had no idea where it was they were going.
Not that any of the forty Cadets on board cared. There was screaming, shouting and occasional choruses of are we nearly there yet?
They were. So far, they had been on the bus for three hours. According to the attendants, they had forty minutes left.
Even if they had been allowed to take their own things, Nanami wouldn't have had the peace and quiet to enjoy a book at length, anyway. She had some stuff, but it was only her music player, a photograph of her parents and a small necklace with a pendant made to resemble an Ema―her regulation Three Personal Affects that they were allowed to take with them. Anything else, their attendants had explained, could be sent to them through the mail once they passed through induction and settled down.
Someone kicks the back of her chair roughly, and Nanami presses her mouth into a grim line.
So much for settled down.
Of the forty cadets on the bus, Nanami only recognized three or four of them. A full year had close to ninety cadets, which meant that two buses would be en route, and back at processing, there had also been students for the Academy of Communications and SciTech as well. Through the madness of processing Nanami had only been able to identify a few by face, and now, most of them weren't here. Either on this bus en route to Operations or on the way to Operations at all. Two of whom she recognized, a pair of boys, stayed in their seats at the back of the bus and she stayed in hers, staring forwards blankly up against the windows, and trying desperately to not think about the heat.
Thoughts of her mother and Ai swirled in her mind. Nanami knows that this is a great opportunity, that she should be very proud to have been accepted by S.H.I.E.L.D., and her temperament reflects her self-confidence; she must make them, in turn, proud. Proud of her, and what she can achieve. She could hear her father's voice reminding her. Sit up straight and do as you are told. Nanami usually heard those words from him on important occasions: her first day of school, important rituals, Kendo tournaments. Do as you are told.
So she does. Nanami does so even as the rest of the cadets start acting up around her.
Someone throws a water bottle overhead, and it crashes against the isle, exploding widely and throwing lukewarm liquid all over the legs of those sat in the middle. One of the attendants starts shouting over the shouting soaked cadets, but nobody comes forward, and the attendant is met with dozens of identical smiles of innocence from the back end. The attendant moves on quickly, nevertheless, as if there is no point in wasting further time on the exchange.
There isn't, really. Someone at the front of the bus starts a loud, furious exchange with someone on the other side of the gangway and all is pretty much forgotten.
Nanami leans back against her chair and breathes out hard through her nose.
Sit up straight. Her father's voice tells her. Make us proud.
[STALINGRAD]
In contrast, sat at the very back of the bus, Daniel Bonaventura was doing everything in his power to avoid thinking about his parents.
Unbelievable. Daniel grumbled mentally. Absolutely ridiculous.
He's given up on a shot at Summer Olympics for this?
Everything had been going to plan before he was recruited. Daniel was going to be taking part in the most prestigious athletics contest on Earth. He was one of the fastest U21's in the State. He had potential. He had drive. He had talent, and he'd been forced to the other side of the country to play soldier.
Daniel has no way of knowing if anyone else on this wheeled tin shack is feeling as bitter as he is, but he can't help but let it show. The kid next to him, some twit with swept hair, had initially started making comments about his mood. That was, until, everyone was informed that if you start making enemies this early on, it may come back to haunt you later.
"My dear darling little children," one of the attendees had sighed after two lads got into a fight. The one that had come out on top had a busted nose. The other one, well, Daniel is pretty sure that if they don't kick him out for having a broken arm before training, he's some serious lucky indeed. "None of you are any more important than each other. Keep in mind, that you all took the same tests, and you all got the same results, and some of you, some of you scored higher."
The kid who had been sat next to him had made a sarcastic comment. Daniel had wanted to hit him, then. To bring attention to him was to bring attention to Daniel. And for someone who did not even want to be here, that was just...
He'd rather fly under the radar.
Under the radar is safe, or as safe as anything will ever be again.
But the kid hadn't shut up, and the torture lingered on.
"I mean, you said that everybody scored as high as everybody else, and some scored higher, and that's not true."
The attendant waited some more.
"That's all I had to say."
"Feel better?" said the man.
The kid sullenly kept his silence.
Without disturbing his perfect smile, the man's tone changed, and instead of bright sarcasm, there was now a sharp whiff of menace. "I asked you a question, cadet."
"No, sir, I don't feel better."
"What's your name?" asked the man.
"Sir, this Cadet's name is Will Yoshita, sir."
"Well, Cadet. First of all, I have all the authority here, and you have none, so I have the power to make your life miserable, and you have no power to protect yourself. So how much intelligence does it take just to keep your mouth shut and avoid calling attention to yourself?"
"None, sir."
"Secondly," said the man, "my statement only seems to be self-contradictory because you did not think of the situation. In fact, it is not necessarily true that one person has the highest scores of everyone on this bus. That's because there were many tests, physical, mental, social, and psychological, and many ways to define 'highest' as well, since there are many ways to be physically or socially or psychologically fit. Are you beginning to grasp the shallowness of your thinking that led you to your conclusion?"
Yoshita nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Excellent. At least someone has the capacity to learn. But back to my initial point. I was telling you that even though some cadet here may seem like a prime target for your need to assert supremacy, you must control yourself, and refrain from poking or pinching, jabbing or hitting, or even making snidely provocative remarks just because you think somebody is an easy target. And the reason why you should refrain from doing this is because you don't know who in this group is going to end up being your SO in the future, the Level 7 when you're a mere Level 6. And if you think for one moment that they will forget how you treated them now, today, then you really are a fool. I'd suggest you work on earning their respect, not trying to put them down so you can show off like some schoolyard punk."
Daniel had been just as surprised as all the other cadets. Not about the fighting. He knew, long ago, that it amounted to nothing. He was surprised about the tests. There had only been one test paper, and they had all reported to a local clinic to run on a treadmill for a few hours, which seemed more like a medical evaluation than an actual examination. Apparently they all needed time to think about this at length, however, because that had been the end of Will Yoshita's grilling. The attendant had gone back to the very front of the bus to leave them to their thoughts. Yoshita seemed unbothered, but Daniel is also a competitive ass himself; getting taken down a notch in front of everyone must hurt some way.
One kid got floored when trying to board the bus and ended up becoming the laughing stock for a good minute and a half.
Daniel glances around. Is this what he's really going to be experiencing? One-upmanship and politics? Because he'd rather kill himself now.
Sighing, he sets his head back with the intention of shutting his eyes.
Only for the bus to stop abruptly, and with the momentum, Daniel jerks forward and smacks the front of his forehead against the metal edging along the seat in front of him. Will Yoshita snorts, but Daniel pays him little mind, because the girl in front of him spins around abruptly to see what had happened.
"Are you okay?" She asks sharply, abruptly, and Daniel looks up to see a girl with long dark hair and a pair of blue eyes that seem far, far too large for her face. Like a lot of the people here, she's young looking, but there is an air about her that makes her seem far older. Mature, almost.
"I'm fine," He replies. "Thank you."
"Are we here?" The girl next to her asks. "I've been cooped up here for far too long. I want my lighter."
The boy next to him smirks. "So you've said. Like, fifteen times."
"Seventeen, actually." Daniel grumbles. It earns a laugh from the girl who likes the lighter and a searching look from the other one.
She looks at Will imploringly, too. "Did you have to piss off the attendant?" She asks.
The boy raises his eyebrows. "Are you kidding me? He's so far up his own arse he can see his tonsils."
Daniel tuned out their conversation, eyes drifting towards the bus doors. They flap open impatiently. She was right. They are here.
So much for the Summer Olympics.
[STALINGRAD]
The S.H.I.E.L.D. Training Facility 003#, codenamed "The Pitch", had been a checkbox on his to-do list for as long as he can remember.
Reg Decker had been waiting for this. For eighteen years, very nearly. He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the massive window that looked down on the depot, situated just beyond the command center proper. Despite the thickness of the glass, Reg could hear the rumble of the buses as they pulled up. Two in unison, painted almost exactly like school ones, only filled with enough S.H.I.E.L.D. tech to warrant the protection of an armored fighting transport van. He wondered if the candidates from America, Mexico, and Canada could tell themselves apart from one another. He supposed that they could, somehow or another, but he certainly could not. Not from way up here.
Somewhere in the small crowd that issued forth from the buses was one of his squadmates, he felt certain. Of course, he was certain. He had to be. All five of them, in fact. But something in the group to emerge from the doors last felt different. Is it you? He wondered, watching as a tanned girl with white-blonde hair hopped onto the tarmac. You? A dark-skinned young man who looked older than the regulation eighteen. You? Reg's mind soared as he caught sight of them all. This was it. He thought. They're here. I'm here. We're going to start this in earnest.
"Reginald!" Boomed a massive voice from behind Reg, causing his heart to feel as though someone had suddenly squeezed it in their fist and then released it just as quickly. He turned on his heel with military precision, so fast that the soft brown curls of his hair slapped ticklishly against his forehead, and saw a bear of a man making his way toward him, smile wide, arms opened even wider. That man was one of the most powerful politicians in America, a hero of the Iraq War, among one of the most dedicated advocates of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the entire world. And he was Reg's father. Councilman Reginald Decker, Sr., of the World Security Council. The elder Decker wore a tight fitting suit, as he almost always did, the tie selected personally by Reg's mother, whose small steps were bringing her down the hallway more slowly than her husband's, and she gradually fell more and more behind his father's strides grew faster.
When he reached his son, Councilman Decker stopped just short of hugging him, which Reg appreciated but still pined for, electing instead to clap him on both shoulders with a heavy blow, one that might have sent him stumbling as a smaller boy. "My boy," the Councilman noted, after a few seconds. "Here we are."
Here we are indeed, he thought, but his mind told him to say: "Yes, sir."
There was no way on this Earth that Reg, even if he had wanted to do anything otherwise in earnest, would not have been undertaking this opportunity. That had been made apparent from before he could properly string a sentence together. The second his Father realized that he had a son, Reg had been slated for S.H.I.E.L.D. almost as quickly as his elder sister Johanna had, and Johanna was currently serving under John Garrett himself. A great opportunity. Almost as great as Reg's himself.
But he also knows that in setting himself aside, being here early when everyone else had gone through regular processing, will have it's consequences. He knows that he'll be marked for this. For being different. For having a surname that resembles one of S.H.I.E.L.D's top dogs.
Which is precisely why when his father learns that Anthony Dunkirk was the one overseeing them through the two days of induction, he feels some semblance of hope. Dread, too, because Kirkland will be out to kill him and make him fail, no doubt, but hope too.
Hope, that even with all his power, Father can't do anything against a man like Dunkirk when Reg moves through those doors. That's good. It is. It means that Reg can do something on his merit and his merit alone.
"It's routine work." His father grumbles. He still yet has to remove his hands. "Clearly he's not going out on much of a limb with you."
His mother gives Reg a pitying look, then turns her attention to her husband. "I think it means Reggie's passed Director Fury's initial test." She holds her husband's gaze. "He knows what he's got in the boy."
Father gives her a sidelong glance.
Reg, uncomfortable with the tension just as he's about to send-off, smiles meekly. "I'm not sure it's that spectacular, Mother."
"Agreed." His father growls. "Reginald's still a long way from getting the man's trust."
His mother sighs, looks at Reg, and mouths silently.
He knows you're special.
"He" doesn't mean Director Fury. Reg knows this. Even if, sometimes, it's hard to keep in mind.
Although he's about to undertake the most important decision of his life, Reg can't help it. He looks down at his feet and grins.
[STALINGRAD]
"There are yellow footprints on the ground outside. Each of you will step onto a pair of those footprints. You will not move from these footprints, you will not talk while you stand on those footprints, nor will you fidget while you stand on those footprints." The blonde haired attendee tells them. "Execute," he adds with a tone of finality, and then steps out without looking back. Everyone gets out of their seats and files out onto the lot outside. It looked almost like the bus station they had left previously, only beyond, far beyond, one could see the lines of trees rather than apartment blocks.
Ella Kahala watches him impassively as the attendee walks across the rows and scans the sloppily formed line, straightening out the front of his uniform like the entitled twit he was.
She's used to this. To the military pomp and the grandeur. It makes her want to puke.
Not just her, it seems. Some of the recruits are looking a little sick themselves. Maybe because of the reality that has dawned on them. Or maybe because they are back in the sun and the warm, sticky air has finally hit them.
The attendee stands with his feet apart, at parade rest.
"My name is Agent Dunkirk. I am not your SO. I'm your Class Mommy."
The cadets begin to laugh, but the smiles drop off their faces when they see their 'mommy' has a blonde shaved hair and more muscles than Ella knew a human being could carry. Then it hits them.
"I did not give you permission to speak. Or to cackle like little grannies." Kirkland pauses impeccably with a lofty chin raise. "It is my job to oversee you for the next two days. From there, you will be passed onto your new SOs. There will be one SO for one Squad. Tell me, cadets. What is a squad?"
Silence. The question is not hard. Ella feels her jaw go slack.
Agent Dunkirk smiles a feral little smile. "How about this. There is a Cadet here, in this line, who goes by the name of Reginald Decker. Would this Cadet please raise his hand?"
Sure enough, a hand is raised.
Ella glances across the line to see that the boy who had risen his hand was not someone she had seen on the bus. Maybe he had come on the other one.
"Permission to speak, Cadet."
"Thank you, sir." The boy, who has an accent distinct of New York, replies.
"Can you answer my question, Cadet?"
"Yes, sir." The boy stresses. "Three fire-teams of Cadets, sir."
"And how many Cadets is that, Cadet?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"How heartening it is, to know that the children know basic arithmetic." Kirkland is still grinning. It's not in humor. "I suppose it would be gratifying to know, Cadet, how you appear to know such information. Care to tell us, Cadet?"
The boy does not speak up.
"Oh, not so insistent now, are we, Cadet Decker?"
"No, sir."
"You see here, cadets. Decker here, you may know the name if you are in any way associated with S.H.I.E.L.D., is the dear baby boy of Councilman Decker. A highly coveted member of the World Security Council. Aren't we fortunate, cadets? To have a young man of such high esteem among our ranks? A Cadet that will almost certainly pass while others fail, simply because he happens to be directly related a man who oversees the organization we strive so hard to work for?"
Ella wants to scream. She has no loyalty to the kid getting grilled, heck, she didn't even know him, but she's been in his position before. She knows it's not fair. She's been in enough schools like this to know that the kid was being set up. What interested her, however, was that the kid had refused to try and hide from the obvious answer. Even though the question was designed to make the others detest him for answering it.
She could feel the hostility of the other cadets. There was nothing he could do about that right now, and she wasn't sure that it was a disadvantage, anyway. What mattered was the much more puzzling question: Why was Kirkland setting them up? There was one kid on the bus that got a grilling as well.
If the point was to get the cadets competing with each other, they could have passed around a list with everyone's scores on all the tests, so they all could see where they stood.
As if to answer her question, Kirkland begins to speak up again. "As you can see, cadets. You are all among the five percent of applicants accepted into S.H.I.E.L.D's Acadamy program. You may think that this makes you special in some way. It does not."
"This program is brutal, boys and girls. It has the highest percentage of drop outs. The largest number of injuries. We will put a lot of effort in making you into credible agents, and we expect all of that effort to be returned in kind. For some of you, it will be easier than others. For most of you, it will be harder. This program is not custom-fit to your needs as a whole. It favors those it likes. Some of you will be at an advantage. Some of you will have parents in high places. Some of you will have trained. Some will be more intelligent. Others, stronger. Faster. Others will have little experience. They will be weaker, less mentally adaptable. They'll break, and they will drop."
"When you wash out, and you will, nothing will happen to you. You will merely be put on a bus home. You will not owe any money, nor suffer legal penalties. You will go home."
"There are nintey of you standing on this spot right now, and only thirty-odd of you at most will graduate Basic Training."
"If you find those odds troublesome, you may turn around and board the bus behind you once more."
A pause. One minute. Two. Three. There is some rustling and shuffling in the ranks, and three people get up and move. With the first few stepping out, the timider find the encouragement to do likewise, and four more no-longer-cadets step out of formation.
"It's good to see that some young people still have the smarts to see when they're about to grab the shitty end of the stick."
Then Kirkland turns to look at them.
"The rest of you are dumber than a bag of retarded hammers."
Yeah, Ella thinks idly. Just like military school.
[STALINGRAD]
Welp. Here we go.
You may notice that not everyone is represented here. I tried to get many people in as possible, but since we have three places to use up, I feel that it will be better to introduce people in relative halves. Everyone will eventually be getting grilled at some point―for Squad 6, our OCs, things are going to be difficult.
Why? Because I like to make people suffer :)
But really, there is a reason. Really.
We've got three more places, as I've stated. We really filled them up quickly, and with some great characters, too. So stay tuned. Things are about to get complicated.
- Alfenide, Over and Out.