DAY 2
0433HRS
At precisely 0430 hours, the lights are turned on without warning and Frank Faulkner comes running out of the showers, fully dressed in his exercise outfit; the standard-S.H.I.E.L.D. grey jumper and sweatpants, his dark hair slicked back with water and the spikes of his track shoes clicking violently against the concrete in an efficient, well-practised cadence. He's flanked on either side by Caesar Shevchenko and Nanami Nakano. The latter also stand in their exercise gear, wearing almost identical expressions of grim recognition.
"Out of bed, now!" He shouts without commencement. "Get dressed into your exercise gear. Kirkland and his ugly mug will be gracing us with his presence in less than fifteen minutes, people! I want you in formation before he arrives. So get up! Get moving! Go, go, go!"
"What about breakfast?" Somebody asks.
"I don't want anybody throwing up when Kirkland has his way with us. That's assuming he'll let us eat in the first place."
Another voice. "Can we at least take a leak first?"
"No more than half a centiliter."
Those who hadn't slept naked rushed to shed their sleepwear, grasping for their lockers to put on their gray sweats.
Daniel Bonaventura spits against the ground. "What the fuck!" He complains. "Inspection isn't until quarter to five!"
He's right, of course, and many other members of Squad 6 glance over and around their lockers in direction of where Daniel is standing, either waiting for an explanation, or to see what will come of this blatant comment. Without pausing for emphasis, Frank leans in close, teeth bared and he slams his hand against the top of the bedframe, his fingers curling around the edge.
"Do you think Kirkland gives a crap about timing?" He barks. "Give that man the slightest chance of catching us off our guard and he'll set on us like a shark to Chrissie Watkins's tender ass!" Some of the cadets who had seen Steven Spielberg's Jaws snicker. "Get moving!"
Glowering, Daniel pushes past him towards his locker and starts rooting around for his gear. His bunkmate, Rose, gives him an inquisitive glance, but wisely says nothing of the confrontation. It is indeed a wise decision from Matthews; Frank is still watching Daniel. Through his expression does soften on the athlete's back. Despite the change in approach, however, he is still alert. He makes his way down the middle of the squad bay, hands tucked securely behind his back.
"Ordinarily, we're on the morning schedule, straight to practice after breakfast." He calls. "I don't know about you, people, but I don't think think Kirkland is going to be very willing to allow us our free hour period. Best we prepare for any surprises now."
Reg Decker, who had been on the bad side of Kirkland before, stands just past his locker. He's already dressed, and while his hair wasn't combed, he managed to amplify the same sense of fresh professionalism his name is known for. Despite that, he's bouncing from heel to foot with that constant thrum of energy that doesn't quite run thin. "I know Kirkland." He states. His tone is only slightly above that of conversational, but his face is screwed up into a semblance of thought. "Why us?"
"He's right," Sadie Castillo, who shares her bunk with Reg, stands beside him. Reg doesn't turn to regard her, but his eyebrow quirks upwards when she speaks up again. "Kirkland started grilling Will on the bus, too."
"And me," Gracie calls. "He caught me lingering behind the rest of the group after yesterday dinner."
Inhaling sharply, Frank watches the rest of them change in his peripheral and turns to set a hand on Reg's shoulder. The smaller cadet doesn't startle, but he clearly wasn't expecting the physical contact. He tenses slightly with the approach. "It doesn't matter why he's doing it," Frank says, looking at them both for an equal amount of time. "Only that he is."
A moment of reflection.
"But we're not about to make it easy on him."
And Frank at least, wasn't, apparently, because he assembled the Squad into a neat, tightly packed column with the intention of catching Kirkland off guard when he finally did show up. Two rows of nine. Ceaser brought up the end with Jamie, with Frank and Nanami bringing up the front. It wasn't a decision made lightly. Frank had no idea, at this moment in time, who had experience in a military setting and who didn't. He chose Caesar because he had been Pre-Operations. He had some sense of the system. Frank had caught Nanami doing stretches the night before, and when Frank had inquired, she disclosed to having martial arts training. That was close enough. Jamie was a behemoth compared to the majority of the Squad. While he might have no military training, he certainly looked the part, and that was the only thing that mattered, for now; while Frank will come to learn more about his Squad as time goes on, he needs immediate results.
He needed to create a facade until the Squad itself could sort itself out and reorientate itself into S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy life.
Crisp, military appearance. That's what he wanted when Kirkland came strolling through those doors. He can bully them and make things hard on them―and Frank is not stupid, he knows that is what Kirkland is setting out to do; why else would he deliberately alienate them by putting all the smallest, apparently weakest cadets together?―but today, he'll see that Frank and his Squad are ready, and he'll remember, no matter what he says to them and to others in the future, that on their first real day at the Pitch, he saw them in neat formation. Ready and waiting when he intended to catch them with their pants down.
When Kirkland does come swaggering in, his expression tightens at the sight of them, if only slightly.
"Well then, Cadet Faulkner," He greets with malicious enthusiasm. "Have something to say, do we?"
"Yes, sir." Frank matches the Agent's false hearty cheer with his own, identical passion. "Unit 6 standing by for your orders, sir!"
[STALINGRAD]
If anyone held any mirth against Frank for Kirkland's response, they did not say nor show it. Even Daniel, who had made it quite clear that he did not like Frank in any shape or form, was silent as they assembled with the rest of the Class outside.
"You want to keep up," one of the boys from a different Squad, a large, red-haired fellow who could easily pass for one of the qualified Agents, tells them. The way he words the statement makes clear that it's not a suggestion, and he smirks at them all from his place among the ranks of larger cadets.
Daniel spits against the grass. Marley snorts. Frank stares.
Ata frowns. She understands what is going on here, but profoundly dislikes it.
And when it comes to running, she and the rest of the Squad do better than expected. Far better.
She cannot speak for her fellow cadets, but Ata is no stranger to long distance running. As they make their way down the paved roads of the Pitch, she recalls as the sun beats down on them, her homeland. It's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky a co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to soften the harsh rays. In the United States, it is cool, but in Ata's mind, the day is hot and dry.
Salty sweat rolls off your nose and stings your eyes. Your clothing is overwhelmingly hot and sticky. The stiff, dry desert breeze blows sand into your eyes and makes your hair stiff with salt. Your tongue feels as if it's coated in fur and your lips are chapped and dry. You long for crystal, cold water.
But this is Syria in war time. Clean water, cool or no, is very hard to come by.
They've been running in one direction since they started. Kirkland does not slow down. So far, nobody has managed to fall behind.
Ata runs in the middle of the Squad, and Kirkland, she sees, is no more than a dozen yards in front of her. As far as she can tell, he is not breathing hard―some, if not most, of the cadets are. Another Class passes them, and the cadets in that year run in perfect synchronicity. Class 1942 on the other hand, after reaching the tenth solid minute of running, is a loose formation of coughing, wheezing and gasping recruits in various states of misery.
Finally, Kirkland departs from the straight line he has been running. There is a large grassy field surrounded by a tartan track, and he veers onto it, skipping over the curb in a sickeningly light-footed fashion. The Class follows, some of them only barely managing not to trip over as they do so.
Kirkland slows down to a trot and comes to a halt when the bulk of the Class is in the center of the grassy oval.
"Two rows, boys and girls. This is S.H.I.E.L.D., not recess. Fall in!"
They shuffle around to line up as ordered.
"Leave plenty of space between yourself and the cadet in front of you," he instructs the back row, and Ata knows what's coming next. She risks a glance at Sun-Li, who's expression tightens with dread.
"Push-ups," Kirkland announces with cheer. "I count, you follow. Don't work ahead of me or we'll start back at One."
He drops into position on his hands, and looks at the Class as they follow suit.
"One."
He lowers himself until his chin almost touches the grass.
"I want to see good form here," Kirkland shouts. "Noses touching the ground with every count."
"One," he starts again. "Two. Three. Four. Five."
They get to the mid-thirties before the first cadets start wavering. As soon as it is obvious that some of them have begun to struggle, Kirkland starts shouting again.
"If you can't do thirty little push-ups, there's really no point in sticking it out for the rest of the training," He screams. "Do yourself a favor and just drop on that fat gut of yours."
The cadets struggle through a few more push ups on shaking arms, and then a few of them fall in a wave of groans.
Ten more push ups later, very few of them are still keeping pace.
"Those who are still on their hands, get back on your feet," he orders.
When they do so, Ata is surprised. Out of the dozen or so cadets standing, more than ten of them are from Squad 6. Ata, Jamie, Shevchenko, Kimble, Frank, Lena Tarasov, Castillo, Gracie Brook, Nanami and Marley are still all on their feet. Even Reg, much to Ata's surprise, is on his feet; but he's wavering. Sadie Castillo leans over slightly to keep him upright. Thankfully, Kirkland does not notice; he's too busy looking at Frank.
Frank stands at parade rest. While he is all calm and collective Agent on the front, Ata can see his hands at the back. They're bone white. Tightened into furious, shaking fists.
"Well, well, if it isn't the formidable Unit 6!" Kirkland calls, and waves his hand at them. "Unit 6! All of you, up on your feet. The rest of you sit down."
Slowly, the rest of them get up laboriously. Ata looks around at the ashen faces and surging chests. This doesn't look good.
"Pathetic weaklings, that's what I've got in this Class. Pineaded little morons. Only one-sixth of you have the capacity to withstand a little work, and they're the smallest of the lot!" Some of the other cadets are looking at them with bloody murder. The resentment on their faces is clear. Ata swallows, and a risks a glance at Frank. He's impassive, but when he can, he looks at the rest of his Squad and a flash of concern surfaces on his expression before it's quashed. He shares her anxiety too, it seems. Kirkland meanwhile continues on his rant. "There's only one Squad here that can do anything, and it's made up of this lot! Take a good look at them, little boys and girls. This Squad is going to beat you all and pass through basic while you're all here, squatting like overfed sea-lions on my pristine lawn."
This wasn't the way the show was supposed to go. Kirkland was supposed to pick on them, not set them up as the best.
"Most of you are going to ice out. Get used to that, little boys and girls. Most of you are going to end up back home, because you don't have the brains nor the skill to handle a morning jog. Most of you aren't worth the price of bringing you up here because you don't have what it takes. Some of you might make it. Some of you might be worth something to humanity. But don't bet on it."
He looks at Squad 6 then, grinning.
"So let's see if Squad 6 really is the best." He claps his hands together in mock cheer. "Squad 6. Line up in formation at the track starting line. One Lap. On the double! Go!"
The Track is a fully fledged Olympic-sized one. Daniel and Will exchange a glance, Ata sees, and despite the exhaustion, Will just about manages a smile.
The Squad shares one collective glance as they make their way.
This'll do them. Ata thinks. No way they'll make this.
And it is difficult. Very difficult. The sun has barely come up over the nearby hill, and they're all drenched through with sweat by the time they've made a quarter of the distance. They're groaning and coughing as they try to keep the pace. It takes them ten minutes to get around the track, but when they get to the last quarter, they're forced to run through the middle lanes because the rest of the Class is surrounding them on two sides. Finley Powell falls afoul of someone's track shoe, and he stumbles; but much to Ata's surprise, Kimble grabs him up from under the armpits at the last second, and forces him back up.
"Watch your footing." She growls, but she's glaring at the cadets on either side of them, not Powell. The rest of the Squad pushes on.
Once they pass the finish line, the first ones to cross stagger to the edges and heave, double bent. Daniel throws himself against the grass on his back, and Frank makes his way over to him, half limping on stiff legs. Ata follows him.
"Lesson learned, I trust," she says when she gets within a suitable distance for conversation.
Frank tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a gasping cough.
"Oh no," he pants. "We're just getting started, Gahba."
[STALINGRAD]
Straight after, they are taken back to the middle of the grassy oval where they learn the basics of moving like soldiers. "Drill", it's called, and it takes three seconds for William Yoshita to make the conclusion that "Drill" sucks.
Franklin, Caesar and some of the other Pre-Operations students all visibly relax when they are told what is coming up next. That is, until they are informed that they will be the ones teaching their respective Squads.
Will smirks when Frank slowly, laboriously makes his way back to them, his hands shoved dejectedly into his pockets. It's a hilariously pathetic affair. It takes all of Frank's effort and Caesar's terrifying presence to get them all to respond to their movements commands at the right moment. Daniel and Will in particular get a kick out of keeping deliberately half a second out of sequence. The third time Frank notices, he leans forwards and yanks on his hair, squatting with his head between his knees.
"I swear to God!" He very nearly screams. "If you don't start moving properly, Bonaventura, I'll stab you up the ass with your own bayonet!"
"Ooh, Kinky." Will grins. Daniel laughs out once, loudly and freely. It's the first time Will has seen the moody prig actually smile.
Caesar sends Will and Daniel to opposite ends of the line.
"That sounds like shit," Frank opines when they all march across the space, trying to maintain unison. "You people march like a herd of spastic goats! I've seen crippled pensioners move faster!"
After two hours of loud and repetitive instruction, Will finds that drill works best when you switch off your brain, and just act like a voice-controlled robot. The rest of the Squad come to the same conclusion. Jamie, Astrof, Williams, Kimble, Tarasova, Nanami and Capital seem to do quite well. They take to it faster than all the others. Tarasova and Captial in particular, who when working together, seem to become this super-duo from Hell. They work effectively together, acting in unison and earning real smiles from Ye Ole' Tryhards. Reg, Sun, Finley, Gracie, Kahala and Castillo meanwhile decide that they can't be arsed with drill, and pretty much just stand around doing nothing whenever Frank so much as takes his eyes off of them. In the end, Frank has Castillo, Finley and Sun doing some semblance of a routine, but Reg, Gracie and Kahala end up, somehow, disappearing to the other end of the field and returning just as Frank realises that he's lost three of his cadets.
They still suck like fuck, in Will's opinion, but by the end they've got better―good enough for Frank to stop self-mutilating his scalp at regular intervals and to just stand there with his hands folded, scowling.
When they all stand in front of Kirkland again, all still and pretty like, as they get chewed out for their less than spectacular drill skills, Will considers walking up to that smug bastard and announcing that he wants to quit, before he ends up sweating his ass off, only to wash out anyway without anything to show for the work.
But the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that as much as he hates getting bossed around, having to take a bus back home would be a lot worse.
Simply because he wants to see the look on Kirkland's face when the graduates as an Agent in three years time.
Hey, at least I'll be in great shape. He thinks, picturing a nice, large fist sinking into Kirkland's self-satisfied little face.
[STALINGRAD]
Ordinarily, the standard Academy of Operations and Espionage day was split between physical training and lessons. The second day, on account of Class 1942 not being fully inducted, was different, but ordinarily the cadets would expect to be awoken at six hundred hours to perform morning calesthentics before being issued back to their barracks and changing for Mess I at eight. After it varied between cadet to cadet―most of them had classes together as Squads, while others were scattered between various subjects until ten-hundred hours when they would be issued a forty-five-minute break.
In the case for Squad 6, it was in reverse. Since they were on the morning schedule, they had physical training―personal combat, marksmanship, etcetera―until ten-hundred hours. After the hour break, they had the afternoon classes with Squads One and Twelve. This could range from anything from computer programming to English literature, to Basic Espionage to person perception, automaticity and community behaviour.
Overall, they had three hours of PT and four hours of academic studies per day. Additional training was a joint decision between the Squad leader and his cadets, and the SO. Altogether, cadets were expected to put in over nine hours of work, six days a week. They had Sunday afternoons off.
Today, Class 1942 did not have classes. Instead they filed into their barracks and collapsed on their respective bunks.
Frank walked in with Caesar, wearing a slight frown.
"Okay, listen up." He calls. "I'm not going to lie, that was rough. It was beyond rough. But don't go getting it into your heads that it's going to change. It's not."
A murmur across the bunks. Frank flashes his hand up.
"I know, I know. But the best thing we can do is just chin up and carry on. You can have until dinner to relax, but don't fall asleep; we're expecting our SO at thirteen-hundred, so we ought to make a good impression, eh?"
"I swear to God," Will pipes up. "If Kirkland walks through that door, I'm hanging myself from my bunk."
Daniel snorts from his locker and slams it shut. He lies on his bed with a magazine on motorbikes. "You can certainly say that again."
At that very moment, Kahala comes running in with half her face covered by a black balaclava. There's two little spiky mounds on each side of her head. She stops, considers Frank for a moment, and bends her knees, flexing her arms inwards.
"I'm the Batman!" She exclaims in a deep, gravely voice, and the majority of the barracks bursts into laughter as she dances away, Reg and Gracie hot on her heels, arms filled with contraband that they appear to have "found" in the few minutes of freedom they've been issued. Or, perhaps, in the five minutes that they escaped during drill. Either way, they're out the door no sooner than Castillo can peak her head out from under her bunk.
Blinking, Frank walks straight to his bed, lies down on his front, grabs his pillow and screams into it.
[STALINGRAD]
I rarely, if ever, put bold in my main articles of work, but there was no way I could accurately depicture the term "Batman", so...
Shorter chapter today, only because I've got a Mock tomorrow morning and I need to cram in some last minute revision.
As for the drill, I participated in Junior ROTC for about two years. I live in a small-ish town. We sucked. We sucked so hard it was hilarious. I know how tedious it can get; so I couldn't help but reflect it here. It gives us a chance to see our more rebellious of cadets, anyway.
