It was the habit of the Sergeants, after hours to stay indoors and sit around chatting or playing games. Usually they went out to the nearby bars and got hammered. The weather was slated to be stormy the following day...so Dean and Gordon stayed in, playing cards in silence.

The TV was stationed in the corner, playing CNN on low volume with neither of the two sergeants inside paying any attention to it. The only real sound came was the sound of thunder in the distance to signal the coming storm...and the sound of cards as they hit the table in front of the two men.

Gordon had had enough, deciding to break the silence and over-concentrated look of his companion.

"You gonna tell me what's going on with you, or do I have to address the fact that you've had three losing hands so far?"

Dean glanced at him then went back to looking at his cards. "Nothin's wrong."

"Uh huh. Sure. C'mon, Dean. It's not like you to be completely silent during these things. Even when you're losing. You're usually groaning and moaning about something."

Dean just shook his head, shut his eyes for a long moment. He set his cards face down on the table and stood up, turning his back to Gordon as he approached the window.

"One of my recruits from the Initiative...Something's...Something's wrong with em'," Dean expelled a frustrated breath.

"No offense," Gordon raised a hand. "But isn't that the goal of the Initiative? To make something out of troubled young adults? Emphasis on the troubled."

"Yeah...It is," Dean glanced in Gordon's direction briefly. "...But this is different."

"In what way?"

Dean was a long time answering, his eyebrows creasing in frustration. "...I've been in the military my whole life...even before I officially enlisted. My dad used to bring my brother and I to this base. I haven't seen a lick of war...just preparin' for it. I was there when the soldiers started comin' home from the Middle East. I was there to see each one of em'. Every single one had a look...I'd never forget."

"...Like what?" Gordon asked.

The Sergeant traced his lower lip. "...Like some part...some fragment deep inside their soul...had left. Had died...had stayed in the battlefield, swallowed away. Never to be seen again. Even to this day...I can't shake off what I saw...what I still see something see in the senior officers."

"Dean, I don't understand," Gordon admitted. "I don't know what this has to do with you recruit."

"I saw the same thing in his eyes...Like something inside had broken."

Gordon was silent as he took this in, then he too stood up to face Dean's back. "...All those kids are troubled, Dean. That's why we're trying to help them. Cramming twelve weeks of training into six."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to massage an ache forming away from his head. He walked towards his bed and dug into the chest at the end, taking out a manilla folder that he wordlessly handed to Gordon. The other Sergeant just rose an eyebrow before taking the folder back to his seat and opening it up. His eyes swiveled across the first page, his eyes widening just a bit as he read on.

"Is this...Is this for real?" Gordon asked, recieving a nod from Dean. "Four suicide attempts in two years?"

"Look at the pictures," Dean prompted. The other man turned a few more pages and then openly shuddered at the sight of said pictures. It was just of James Novak's chest taken on a hospital bed. There was several deep red lash marks...several purple bruises on his stomach all the way up to his neck. All in places that were not visible when one wore clothing. All done by someone else.

Gordon was appalled. "Why the hell is this all in his personnel files?"

"The father," Dean answered, smiling wryly. "James Novak the First. You probably know the name. He's got his hands in a lot of big businesses. Bruce Wayne of the modern world."

Gordon scoffed. " Didn't know we had the son of a celebrity in our ranks."

"He's adopted."

"Still," Gordon closed the file and slid it towards Dean. "...You know I'm sure that all of those recruits have their own stories. They wouldn't be here if they didn't. Why is this one bothering you so much?"

Dean didn't have an answer for him. He took his cards off the table. "...Let's just get back to the game."

The next morning had the sound of trumpets blaring outside the recruit barracks. There were loud shouts of the Sergeants from the outside coming in. James nearly fell off his bed when he heard how close they were...and looking around, he knew he wasn't the only one out of Platoon 88 that felt like he had a rude awakening from a coma.

They were all ordered to dress and get in formation outside in two minutes. There was loud scrambling as everyone moved to follow the command. James haphazardly pulled on clothes and followed the rest of the platoon. As soon as they cleared the doorway, James felt cold wet raindrops hit his newly bald head. The wind was harsh and chilly...and it was still dark outside. It had to be night time, or the storm clouds were just covering the sun entirely.

As James squinted through the rain, he spotted the Sergeant in front of them. It was not Winchester...but another man. Someone new...someone older. He wore a high crown hat unlike the others. He must have been a higher rank than any they had seen so far.

Like Sergeant Winchester however, he too had a southern accent, speaking over the sound of the pouring rain.

"Listen up, ladies! Today begins the first day of PT training! My name is Second Lieutenant Bishop. I do not give a damn what your name is...nor do I plan on findin' out who any of you are. You are given an order by me...you better make sure you see it through."

His eyes scanned over all of them and then he stepped to the side. James envied the fact that he was wearing a rain coat for cover. But he saw what he should have been looking at a minute too late. Behind him, there was no clear field that they had been on just yesterday. There was a several new obstructions. It took James a moment to realize it was an obstacle course.

There was two large twelve foot wood walls with three ropes hanging off and reaching the ground...then there was rows of tires put together to jump through...and finally there was a very long and high set of bars that they were to climb.

"The best recorded time on this course is three minutes and thirty seven seconds!" Bishop called out. "My expectation from each and every one of you is to beat that record or you will match it! You will repeat this course consecutively until that is done. There will be no water breaks...there will be no rest until I say so. If I have to keep any of you out here until the peak hours of tomorrow morning, I will do so. Is that understood?!"

There was a resounding chorus of 'Yes, sir!' that James half-heartedly joined. Was this guy serious? Yes...Yes he was. Because a few moments later, he was having them all get in four lines of seven. James was only somewhat reprieved that Balthazar was in his line, just ahead of him.

"He's asking for the impossible," James murmured.

"I know...How are we supposed to do better after the first try if we get tired?"

"I don't know,"

Bishop had positioned himself ahead of the lines, holding up a stopwatch. As the first four got into position, he plucked a whistle from around his neck and blew into it to signal the start. The first four raced towards the wall blockade and began to - or attempt to - scale to the top. He could hear Bishop yelling over the sound of the storm.

"Come on! Move it! Get your asses up that wall! This isn't play time. Wake the fuck up!"

Anxiety caused a tightening in James's chest. He was never athletic. He always sat out for gym...and barely had time to excercise aside from a few runs he did recreationally after school on certain days. There was no way he was going to beat the time of 3:37.

The first recorded time was 3:32, with the recruit jogging from the last bars to stand to the side where a few others began to join him. How were they doing this in the pouring rain...and fresh out of bed?

He felt a pang of jealousy at watching Balthazar's run. The young man had no problem getting over the wall, even having time to throw his fist up in the air for victory before he was easily leaping through the tire obstacle and expertly climbing through the bars. His recorded time was perfect, just shy of two seconds from the record that Bishop wanted them to beat.

Then came James's turn.

He approached the wood blockade with great apprehension, just staring all the way to the top where the clouds lit up with a bolt of lightning in a foreboding sort of way. He inhaled deeply, expelled a short breath and heard Bishop shout at him. The other three who were in the run with him had already begun climbing.

"Hurry up, private!"

Yeah, his voice wasn't helping. James started to climb the rope that was in front of him, using it as a support. Even then, when he managed to climb up to the top, he was faced with the daunting prospect of jumping down from the other side.

Why wasn't there a rope on this side?

The prospect of falling...coupled with James's overwhelming fear of heights...yeah this was just not a good situation. But the clock was ticking as Bishop was consistently reminding him, whether it was verbally or by gesturing to his stopwatch.

James already knew he wasn't going to pass this course. He knew as soon as he made the jump down and instead of landing gracefully, he hit the ground on his side. The pain was instantaneous...and he knew he was adding a bruise to all of his side on top of all the others he had.

Bishop was not done with him, just appearing on the other side to leer down at him.

"You done fuckin' around, boy? Get up! Get the hell up, Private. I gave you an order. You get up off that ground right now."

James struggled to do as he was told and not just remain motionless in the cold wet mud. He placed both hands flat and stood again, nursing his side as he made his way towards the next obstacle. The tires were almost flawlessly done, except on the last one, he felt a sharp sting in his ankle and lingered too long in the tire, forcing him to the ground.

He knew there was no time...that there was almost no point in finishing the course. It had to be over five minutes now. But Bishop didn't give a damn. As he said earlier...just didn't give a damn. Once again, he was hovering over James as he put up a great struggle this time in getting back to his feet. Halfway up, he crumbled and groaned, flattening once more.

Of course Bishop didnt like that, coming close to kick James in the stomach. The force hurt more than anything. What, were those boots made of steel? He doubled over on his side, clutching his stomach with both hands, feeling something sour burn on his tongue.

Another kick.

"Get up! Get the hell up! WEAK. You are WEAK. Get up, Private!"

Another kick. Blood burst through James's lips before he could stop it. He brought his knees up to his stomach in an attempt to shield himself. It didn't deter the Lieutenant who placed his hands flat on the blockade for support, preparing an assaulting barrage of kicks.

But he was stopped, the hits never came. James chanced a glance to see another figure above him and a familiar voice was heard.

"That's quite enough, Lieutenant," Sergeant Winchester's hand was tight on the Lieutenants elbow, knuckles turning white as he pulled him half a foot away from James's position.

"Boy, you get your damn hands off me," Bishop snarled.

"Not until you get the hell away from my recruit, Lieutenant," Winchester retorted, his jaw clenched tight.

There was a stalemate for a moment until Bishop seemed to relax. Even then, Winchester didn't release him. Bishop had an eerie smile on his face, never looking away from the Sergeant. After a minute or two, he stepped back and Winchester relinquished his hold.

James was starting black out, but he felt strong, warm arms under his knees and supporting his back. He leaned openly against the warmth, taking no shame in his semi-conscious state in reaching up to grasp the savior's shirt.

And then...just nothing at all.

When James began to come to, he was in a warm place again, but there was no physical contact this time. He was lying on a soft bed, covered up to the neck with a thick blanket. His eyelids flickered with coming consciousness, but then he heard some voices somewhere to his right and he immediately kept his eyes shut, his breathing even.

"...was totally uncalled for."

"I know."

"...In front of everyone. "

"I know, Dean. I know," This was definitely Staff Sergeant Winchester, the one James met on the first day.

"I'm not puttin' up with this again, Sammy. He pulls rank on me, and I'll fuck his shit up."

"You're not going to do that," said Staff Sergeant bracingly.

" Right about now? It's really fuckin' tempting."

"I understand you're upset right now...and I wish I could stay...but this situation needs to be-"

"Yeah, yeah. Go on."

James heard the shuffling of feet as one set departed, getting further and further away. He heard the other set coming closer to him and then the creak of a chair. His eye opened in a slit and he slowly turned his head to face the direction that Sergeant Winchester was sitting.

"How...long have I been out?"

"Couple hours."

Well, at least that was better than days. James started to move to sit up and Sergeant Winchester was quick to stand, placing a firm and heavy grip on James's shoulder.

"Careful. You'll fuck up the bandages."

"Bandages...," James repeated, looking down and finding his shirt had been removed and almost all of his chest was exposed. The only modesty he was given was the thick white tape-like bandage placed around his stomach.

He was suddenly very conscious of the bruises and marks that came from elsewhere. He couldn't know that Dean had searched his file...had known what to expect.

No, he didn't know that, until he saw the Sergeant's expression. There was no surprise. His gaze was hard and intense as they went over James's body. He felt a surge of heat and moved to take the blanket over himself again.

"You broke two ribs."

James felt a slight tremble at that. "...Guess that means I'm kicked out."

Sergeant Winchester sat back down slowly. "No, it does not mean that, Private Novak. The program is voluntary. If you want to leave, you're allowed to at any time. After what happened, I don't blame you. But we're not kickin' you out."

James din't understand. "...but...I don't get it. I failed. I failed the course, didn't I?"

Sergeant traced his lower lip. "Someone failed somethin' today...but it wasn't you."

James still didn't get it. But there was something grim in Sergeant Winchester's expression.

"I'm sorry...," James conceded, feeling a string of pathetic emotions, most commonly rooted with Bishop's own description. He was weak. He wasn't fit for this place. "...for embarrassing you...for failing you. I know you don't think so, sir. But...I do."

Sergeant Winchester absently scratched his neck. "I told you it wasn't you...so don't apologize."

James just shook off his attempt to comfort...or whatever it was. It was his fault. This was humiliating. He didn't want to leave this room. This day...just couldn't get any worse.

"So...," Sergeant Winchester spoke with the air of attempting to sound casual. "I read into your file. Your personal file."

Never mind. It could get worse.

"Four suicide attempts in two years. That's some information to take in, Private," said Sergeant Winchester.

Jesus, James just wanted to huddle into the bed and never wake up again.

"You don't...You dont understand,"

"Hmm," said Sergeant Winchester thoughtfully. "...Maybe not. Maybe I'll never really understand that. You see...the way I see it. You get two of most things. Two eyes...Two ears. Two feet. Two hands. Two parents...You lose one, you got another. At least you got that other, right? But you only get one life."

Sergeant leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. "...and when you choose to take away that one life...you are abandoning every alternative to escape the situation that makes you feel like you need to end it all. And I don't...believe there's not an alternative. There is always a choice. And if there is one thing we have absolute control over...it's our lives and how we want to live it."

James raised his knees up, ignoring the screaming protest in his ribs, wincing slightly as he wrapped his arms around them. When he looked over to the Sergeant, he could see a burning intensity to his eyes that he couldnt quite look away from.

"...Private Novak, I'm not kickin' you out of this program and sending you packing back to your parents. That's not on me. That's on you. You have to make that decision yourself. But what I can do is make you a promise. I'm sure you've watched a fair few...action movies in your life, right?"

"...I guess."

"Then you know what cover fire is, I assume," said Sergeant Winchester. "It's when your comrade provides a distraction to the enemy in order for you to achieve the objective. It's a method of protection. Oldest method in the book."

"Yeah...I've heard it."

Sergeant Winchester nodded. "What I can promise...is that if you choose to stay here...whether it's for the program or for the long haul, I'm going to cover you. As long as I'm around...nothing bad is going to happen to you ever again. I...will never let anyone hurt you."

"You're going to...," James paused as he repeated him. "...cover me?"

"That's right."

James sniffed. "I don't...know if..."

Sergeant Winchester stood up then, waving off James's attempt to finish the sentence.

"I don't need an answer from you now. I need you to get your rest, private. I need you to sit out Hell week and recover. I'll check in back with you. You let me know then, all right?"

James looked down at a place on the sheets, muttering low. "Okay."

"I can't hear you, private."

"Sir, yes, sir," James said with more strength, giving half a smile to the Sergeant who returned it, reaching down to give his shoulder another squeeze. James ignored the phantom pain that came from his earlier fall and watched the Sergeant place a hat back on his head and leave him.