A/N: Somehow, Gunny's adventures continue. I've got the plot arc set to end of season. It's just finding the time to put it to paper that's a pain. This chapter is mostly instructional, but some good stuff. No worries. Also, next chapter is Lay Down Your Burdens I!

"Well, bullet sponges, you've managed to pass Basic Fitness and Deportment. Congratulations," said Gunny Sims, addressing the crowd of fresh-faced recruits as he leant on his crutch on the firing line of Galactica's range. Weapons were laid out on the table for the purpose of teaching the new recruits just what weapons they would be using. Sims hoped no one put a hole in themselves, even though he had cleared them all twice.

"We're now moving into the part of Basic that everyone enjoys the most: weapons familiarization. No, you won't get to play with these today. Well, maybe you will, if you listen good and I'm feeling generous."

He gestured to a line of pistols laying at the far left side of the battered steel table, crudely soldered together by the deck gang.

"Okay, first, sidearms. Nine millimeter semi automatic, fleetwide issue. Usually, we load them with overpressure rounds for that extra bit of penetration. It's not a bad weapon, I guess, but it tries to do a lot with not much. It won't mess up a toaster any. It's more powerful than our issue sidearm, but still doesn't have much stopping power. No armor piercing capacities worth mentioning. Twelve rounds in the mag, one up the spout."

He set the pistol back down, picked up the next one down the line.

"This is the pilot's revolver, in .357 Magnum. This is, without a doubt, the shit. Nice, meaty round. Doesn't ever jam. Eight rounds that'll knock a man flat on his ass, and at least give the toasters pause. I figure if you give them one in the eye, it might take them out...but then again, I haven't had the opportunity to try. Kicks like a mule, though."

Flicking out the cylinder, he displayed the empty chambers to everyone before setting it back down.

"Okay, the Five-Seven. It's a piece of advanced frakking kit. Chambered to the 5.7 by 28 round - new introduction for the Marines, maybe a year old before the attack- it's almost specialist gear. It's meant for folks who can aim, so you won't get it for awhile. The round is small, yeah, but it's also frakking smart. Penetrates body armor like it's not there, some amount of steel, doesn't ricochet much. Mixed results against the toasters. Bonus feature- 20 millimeter underslung launcher. That WILL stop a toaster, every time."

Putting the pistol on, he eyed his students down. Not a mumble, not a head turned. Excellent. Hernandez had given them some amount of discipline.

"Alright, long arms. We have a lot of garbage here- old SA80s which jam half the time, used for parade. The .40SW sub machineguns are great for human targets, but the stocks are garbage, they don't do dick against toasters, and are generally a pain. That's my experience. The only long arms we have that are potentially effective are the P90 - basically, the Five-Seven's big brother - and the shotgun."

"Sir?"

"Yes, recruit?"

"What about the fancy weapons that the Pegasus marines get?"

"Tough frakking shit, son. The only way you're getting a hold of that kind of gear is to pry it out of their cold, dead hands."

"Yes sir."

"Okay, back to the lecture. Don't worry, we'll be doing actual exercises in a minute. Last weapon is, of course, the Remington 870 shotgun. Right now, as long as we're space-side, it's the best weapon we could ask for. Buckshot will turn a man's chest to chunky salsa, and a rifled slug will frak up a toaster's day. Only problem is that they only hold about eight shells, plus one up the spout."

Sims spent the rest of the day arbitrarily forcing the marines to do pushups, and teaching them to assemble, disassemble, strip and clean the weapons. In his eyes, they were learning abnormally quickly. It was doing him some good to teach, helping his wounds heal and keep him mind sharp. Despite this, his leg ached and he thought about Cally more and more often. Their relationship was a bright patch in an otherwise unpleasant life.

The range's phone began beeping. He looked over his class of recruits, on hands and knees re-assembling their weapons. He grabbed the phone once he was sure no mischief would ensue.

"Gunny Sims," he said into the phone, watching his men.

"Craig? It's me. Chief's got a suspicious cargo container, could you come check it out?"

Cally sounded nervous. Sims ducked as a recruit's hand slipped and something flew past him with alarming force.

"Hey, watch that recoil spring, jerk-ass! - sure, baby, be right down. Keep everyone away from it, okay?"

"Okay, see you soon. hurry."

Frakking new guys, he grumbled to himself. An apology came from the recruit in question. Two more recruits stood at parade rest, P90's assembled.

"Alright, you two...get some ammo for those things, kit up in the armory down the hall. the rest of you, finish putting those bastards together and do four laps of the ship. Meet in the gym, more PT after that. At the rate you're going with those things, we'll have found Earth before I take you shooting."

Sims watched as the recruits finished, and began their run around the Galactica. The two he had singled out were black-clad and appropriately grim. Sims fished a shotgun out of the arms locker, began loading it. He chambered a round of buckshot first, and then alternated rifled slugs and more buckshot. Either would put a human down, no question, but a toaster wouldn't even blink at the buckshot. Well, that was, if they could blink. Sims grudgingly abandoned his crutch, and set off for the flight deck at a hurried limp with his men in tow.

The time elapsed between Cally's call and Sims' arrival was only ten minutes, but by the time the marines got there, Tyrol was already inside the crate. Cally pointed wordlessly at the open doors and shrugged helplessly.

"CHIEF?"

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"Gunny Sims, what's going on?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just a stowaway."

"Tell him to come out with his hands behind his head!"

"Lords, gunny! It's a woman. A girl, a pregnant girl."

The two emerged from the storage container to the marines' leveled weapons. Sims grumbled, gestured for his men to lower their weapons.

"Alright, recruits. Escort her to Doc Cottle."

The young men nodded, and took up positions beside the trembling young women. They were exceedingly polite as they asked her to follow them. Sims turned to the Chief. He looked haggard, worn. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and his hair was a mess.

"Well, that was reckless. Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Don't know, gunny. Don't know. Didn't think it was a big deal."

"C'mon, Chief. You're smarter than that. If it had been a Cylon, just one, you and your entire crew would have been dead before we got here."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Man, you're smarter than that. And now you owe me a drink."

"Yeah," muttered the Chief, seeming distracted. "Sure thing, gunny."

Sims slapped the older man on the back, began limping off. He caught up to Cally as she worked on a Viper engine.

"Cally?"

"Yeah?"

"What's with the chief?"

"I don't know, Craig. He's just...different. I'm worried about him. He's all messed up inside."

"Keep an eye on him for me, okay?"

"Sure thing, gunny. Keep safe?"

He gave her a hug and nodded.