I'd be lying if I said I was feeling a lot better by the time I started my classes for life skills. I was less sore, but that didn't stop the dull pain that occurred every time I swallowed from being a nuisance. I can't even pronounce (much less remember) all the medications I'm on for my throat and my arm, but I know they have a hand in making me feel woozy and tired all damn day.
I had to be up early to grab breakfast and paperwork before heading down to another building with an escort-that being Wierzbowski. Now, I really don't know if Apone told him to go with me or he volunteered (I mean, I'd never volunteer to be an escort for somebody, because it means you have to trail them the whole time they're visiting another part of the base where, say, another unit lives, or the bank or on-site store, and that can take all fucking day), but I had a gut feeling it was because Wierzbowski and I really don't talk that much to each other. Perhaps Apone figured that would prevent me from flying off the handle, since Wierzbowski has a knack for, well, not pissing people off.
I learned from Ferro that Apone is now fully aware of what happened in sick bay regarding me, Hicks, and Ariker, and he had a long chat with both Sergeant Foster and Ariker a few nights ago about how these kinds of shenanigans won't be tolerated. Overall, he found it really childish and petty, and the three of us were going to be punished for it. Hicks wasn't allowed to leave base for three days. I wasn't allowed in the lounge for two days, and Ariker's leave privileges were revoked for a week.
And when Apone found out that Hudson threatened Ariker, he performed a surprise inspection on Hudson's rack, uncovering a pretty substantial stash of goodies taken from the lounge, as well as from off-base. He also looked over every single photograph that Miranda had ever sent Hudson, making sure that she wasn't sending him anything inappropriate. It was hilarious for everyone watching, but not for Hudson, who ended up getting his lounge privileges revoked for five days-two for hiding contraband in his rack, and three for threatening Ariker. As far as I know, he's trying to get Spunkmeyer to bring him free candy bars.
I frankly don't care that I can't go in the lounge for the next two days. I'm in one of those moods where I don't want to socialize, and with a whole other unit sharing the lounge with us, that means more people. More people means I can't talk to someone intimately in the lounge.
Wierzbowski walked alongside me down the winding hallways to a pair of sealed doors that led to the "public" building of the complex. All bases have one, and the basic rule is that you're not allowed to go alone if you're under the rank of corporal; privates can, however, have another private as an escort, if that private has a good behavior streak. The public building contains the banks, a call center, post office, classrooms, and a small store selling basic hygiene items and spare uniform pieces. The uniform pieces are important, but us grunts have managed to get away with avoiding the hygiene items here. Why? They're crap. There's a reason why the prices are so low. I'm willing to pay more, and go off-base for something that's gonna last me a long time rather than keep wasting time getting permission and an escort to go all the way back down to the on-site store for another crappy toothbrush because the first one broke and doesn't get the job done.
The public building could also use a café or two. A good one. Just so we don't have to deal with rations every single day.
We had to wait in a narrow hallway for someone to get me for the classes. I could hear several other classes were already underway. I glanced at the wall, seeing your typical "wash your hands and avoid such-and-such disease" signs, signs with information regarding domestic abuse, and substance abuse, and signs with all the suicide hotlines.
I really wasn't paying attention to much of anything when a sergeant I didn't know walked up to us, and started laying into me for some reason. "Hey! Sit up straight! Eyes forward! Who the hell do you think you are, Private? Broken arm's not an excuse to look like a lazy civvie!" He took my papers, and then thrust them back in my hand. "Life skills, huh? Too much of a wuss to learn on your own? You need somebody holding your hand so you can figure out how to be a fucking civilian again?"
"Sergeant?" Wierzbowski said, raising his hand a little. "He . . . He's got post-traumatic stress-"
"That's not an excuse, either. Full of excuses, aren't you? What's your name, piss-face? I'm gonna have a talk with your sergeant about this."
I swallowed, struggling to maintain my composure. "Private Drake, Sergeant."
"Private Drake. I can't believe we're wasting our time keeping people like you in here. You can't even sit up straight! That's the least you could do, Private Drake. Least you could do before getting into your wussified-"
"Sergeant Henley! Get away from my patient, and mind your own beeswax!" Ranelli shouted as he stormed over to us. "I don't recall a Goddamn soul telling you to bother anyone waiting outside my classroom."
The sergeant immediately looked like he regretted his actions. "Doctor, my apologies, I-"
"Don't apologize to me, son. Apologize to Drake. I heard what you said. How dare you accuse any Marine of being a waste of time and a wuss? He's not even in your own unit."
"I'm aware," Henley replied. "My apologies, Private."
I didn't say a word, because I didn't accept it.
"Now, go run along with whatever it was you were originally doing," Ranelli said. "I'll be informing Apone of this."
Now Henley was flushing red. "He's with Apone? I used to be his corporal before-whatshisname . . . oh, Corporal Hicks came along." A smile blossomed on his face. "Jesus, I really am sorry, Drake. If I had known you were with Apone, I wouldn't have said anything." He looked at Wierzbowski. "And I can't remember your name because you were always so quiet, but I do recognize you now."
"Wierzbowski, Sergeant." I could tell Wierzbowski wasn't pleased with what had just happened, which made me wonder if I could start opening up to him.
"Right. Again, I'm sorry, gentlemen." Henley walked away.
I let out a sigh. "I'd rather suck another man's dick than believe a word that guy just said."
"Relax, Drake. Henley really does mean well. He just got back from a class at training command, so it's no surprise he's not quite himself."
"Oh, of course. He must be pitied for that." I rolled my eyes.
"Drake, you're already in trouble. Don't heap on anymore. Get in the classroom and leave your papers by my desk."
I stood up to follow Ranelli into the classroom, and noticed Wierzbowski giving me a small smile from the corner of my eye. A part of me wanted to thank him for trying to stick up for me, but the door closed before I could open my mouth.
Setting my papers on the front desk, I took a seat at one of several kitchenettes installed throughout the room, and I was beginning to regret this. The anger at Henley was melting into my usual self-beating. He's probably right. I could learn all this on my own. Eventually. I started thinking about what life would be like when I restart life as a civilian. I'd probably forget to eat for a few days before ordering pizza or takeout, and if I didn't feel like doing that, I'd eat one apple or something like that. I'd probably slim all the way down to what I looked like in prison. Then again, if Vasquez and I leave the Marines together, and get married, she wouldn't let that happen. She'd nag in my ear all day about how I need more in my system before I finally cave in and eat an entire box of Ritz crackers. And then she'd nag me about how I'm not eating right.
Basically, I don't know what's worse: going back to being a skeleton, or having a nagging wife. I figured, all wives nag at one point or another, so, that's unavoidable. I'd rather put up with the nagging on a full stomach, because then I'm less cranky and less likely to start fighting. Less fighting for stupid reasons means a good marriage.
So, this entire class is to ensure I have a happy marriage. I can get behind that. I stared at Ranelli as he explained the common-sense stuff, like safety. I really wanted to point out that no one in the room was under the age of five, but I knew that would be really unnecessary, and mean, given all he's done for me.
Our first task was to follow a really simple biscuit recipe. I was surprised that Ranelli was giving us all something to do considering it's the first day, but he explained that it's best to learn as you do. His challenge was for us all to at least try and help each other in some way, so we can get to know each other.
You may as well have tied my right arm behind my-oh, wait.
I didn't have a choice but to get help, so I raised my hand.
"Go ask one of your classmates, Drake," Ranelli said.
But I don't know anybody. I rolled my eyes again. My God, it was so nerve-wracking to go out there and try to talk to some of these other Marines. I couldn't figure out who to go to or what to say. I couldn't even attempt to do much of anything with just one arm.
In all honesty, I felt useless. I don't want to feel useless anymore, so I slunk out of my station to talk to the guy behind me, who was already in the process of putting his dough together. "Hey, um . . . can I . . . have some help?" I gestured to my injury.
"Bring your bowl over here. I'll let you use some of my stuff," he replied.
Is it natural for some people to be helpful? Is that why he's helping me without asking any questions? I will admit I didn't exactly do much of anything, aside from holding something or getting something. I didn't bother asking for the guy's name or what unit he was in, and he was doing a good job at alternating between his dough and mine. He would explain things to me whenever he turned his attention to my dough, and in all honesty, that was mounting guilt on me pretty bad.
"Are you alright? You look a little lost."
At least what I told him wasn't a complete lie. "I'm fine. Just . . . the meds I'm on . . . feel kinda sluggish."
He grinned. "I've broken plenty of bones before. Doesn't make you feel too good, physically or mentally."
"Yeah. It's just a bone bruise, but I'm out of action for a month. And I had to have my tonsils out."
"Now that's the definition of shit luck, there-what's your name?"
"Drake."
"Drake. I'm Garen." He held out his hand, and I shook it. "I heard Sergeant Henley out there yelling at you. Don't take what he says too personally. He just got back from-"
"Class at boot camp. Ranelli told me as I was coming in."
"Yeah. He's really a thoughtful guy. Atmosphere's just a little different at training camp than here. Drill instructors never say that, though."
"He said he used to be Apone's corporal before Hicks. Is that true?"
"Yes, and Hicks used to be my corporal under Sergeant Trevors. How's he doing?"
"Who, Hicks? He's . . . OK."
"He was a bit of a wreck when he finally got transferred, poor guy. A friend of his committed suicide, and he sunk into this messy depression. Some form of manic depression, I believe. He was hyper-organized and angry for a week, and then sad and unmotivated the next."
"Yeah, he's been doing . . . a lot better. I entered the unit two years ago."
"First unit?"
I nodded.
"Enlisted?"
I shook my head. "Juvie conscription."
Garen was quiet for a moment. "So, you're trying to avoid going back to prison."
"Pretty much. I'm really not . . . you know, a bad guy or anything. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's not something I like talking about."
"That's alright. I can't imagine it'd be something you enjoy talking about. General Paulson actually put that program together several months before he died."
"Really?"
Garen nodded. "It was still largely in development when it was implemented. He was drafting rules when the first busload of inmates arrived at boot camp. Unfortunately, some of them managed to use this semi-freedom to wreak havoc all over again. I don't know the entire story, but I know a sergeant was strangled to death, and two recruits were stabbed in the showers. Paulson was ultimately infuriated at how careless this started out, and there were people-both civilian and military-accusing him of wanting to put criminals in charge of keeping us safe. Even after all the changes were made, he still had these horrible accusations thrown at him."
My stomach dropped as though someone yanked open a trapdoor under it. "Did Hicks know about this?"
"I have no idea."
Holy shit. I know Hicks has no clue as to why his friend killed himself. I know that's one of the reasons Hicks blamed himself for what happened.
He has to know. There's no excuse for him not to know.
The class only lasted an hour, so as soon as my station was cleaned up, I rushed out to join Wierzbowski, who was reading a newspaper. "Let's go," I breathed. "There's something I gotta tell Hicks, right now."
"Are you OK?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
Wierzbowski raised an eyebrow. "You looked completely frazzled, Drake."
"I'm fine. Seriously, Hicks needs to hear this, now."
Shrugging, Wierzbowski got up, following me out of the public building. "How'd your class go?"
"It was OK. I-I'll tell you later." This could give Hicks the closure and healing he needs. This could end all the pain he's still suffering.
Wierzbowski gave me a concerned look. "I . . . Alright. Whatever makes you happy."
I turned to face him, and sighed, knowing that I still owed him for standing up for me. "OK-" I grabbed the big man by his shoulder, pulling him over to a large storage closet holding shelves upon shelves of spare blankets and sheets. "You cannot tell a soul. Can you do that for me?"
"Sure."
I explained what I learned from Garen as best I could, ending with, "Hicks is finally gonna know why his friend committed suicide. He'll finally know it wasn't his fault."
"Drake, I wouldn't . . . rush into this head on. One, you don't actually know if this is why Paulson offed himself. Two, getting Hicks's hopes up only to find later on that wasn't the case is ten times worse than never finding the real reason at all."
"I'm not saying this is the definitive reason why."
"No, but-"
"He deserves to know it was a possibility."
Wierzbowski gave up. "Just be careful with this, alright? None of us want to see Hicks more hurt than he already is. He's been doing fine for the last four years, and we don't want to see him spiral out of control. I also don't think you want to feel like you're the one responsible for sending him backwards. It wouldn't be good for either of you."
To tell you the truth, I felt like crying. Why? I had something that could both help and hurt Hicks, but I didn't know which. He deserved to know this, but what if it wasn't true? What if this seriously damaged the progress he's made for all these years? What if it damaged our friendship? What if it completely screwed me over because it'd be my fault that he gets set back?
I kinda felt like I got picked up in a tornado, and thrown several miles away from where I should be, leaving me lost and confused as to where I should go.
Question: How would Drake's response be different if he wasn't aware of what Hicks was going through?
Author's Note: Yes, Serene Fairy, I have considered doing an AU story where most of the Marines survive. It would be a challenging and ambitious project, because the biggest problem would be where to start. As much as retelling the movie from Drake's perspective would be interesting, I feel like it would come out too cheesy. Now that, yes, I am seriously thinking about writing this after wrapping up Hudson's story, I think the best way to start would be immediately after Ripley shoots the queen out of the airlock, working in Drake's thoughts as he and what remains of the crew prepare to go into cryosleep. That being said, I don't want to include any spoilers as far as the pre-"Aliens" series goes into that story, not to mention it'd just be a fun little alternate universe project that could be interpreted as a continuation of the Drake series if the reader so chooses.
And perhaps there'd be a part two from Hicks's perspective, just to have some humorous bits where Ripley is introduced to his nervous habits.
