Author's Chapter Notes:

This part contains crude language and racial slurs that are used in a joking way, not meant in offense.

I make a departure from my usual style by introducing a first person point of view for a new character.

OOO

It had been eight years now, and he'd lost count of the men who had been designated as his commanding officer. They were never particularly friendly, but they were often very nervous around him, and they had a tendency to disappear rather quickly. Jack found it amusing, true, but just another banal detail of life beneath ground. Besides, he had far more important things to worry about, his work, mainly, and occasionally throwing a surreptitious wrench in the proverbial gears of someone else's pet project.

Things were so boring in the Underground when everything went according to plan.

He'd been six years old the first time he'd ever made his teacher scream (he'd managed to do it a few times after, just to see them crack). He never knew when to quit, she ranted to his mother, he always had to push, just a little bit farther. It had driven her up the wall, but it was an excellent quality of mind to possess as a chemist: he pressed his experiments farther in their parameters than anyone else would even consider safe, and this method had led to many of his greatest achievements and discoveries.

Of course, it had also led to some of the most spectacular explosions the Underground had ever seen outside of the Munitions Department, but even those were a blast when you got right down to it. It didn't even matter when they began to insist he clean up his own mess (that had taken, what, five times?), he could always amuse himself by recalling the chaos that inevitably ensued: the smoke, the fires, and the alarms, people running about and screaming their heads off, soaking wet from the sprinklers and sloshing through the hallways. Every shard of glass, bit of motherboard, every shattered computer monitor he'd lug out of the demolished laboratory, it all just made him laugh harder.

They began to insist that he keep his findings in a notebook until later in the day, because after that they gave him his own separate office to store his computers in (they were getting just an eensy bit tired of having to replace the them every two or three weeks, when one or the other piece would end up bombed-out, though that did nothing to save the rest of the laboratory's equipment).

Jack didn't mind the change in the least, he could write far faster with pen and paper then he could type, and it was much easier to simply pause and scribble something down in his own personal form of shorthand than it was to turn on the computer. The notebooks never lasted long, he had such a prolific mind it wasn't difficult to fill them with pages and pages of ideas. His mind worked unceasingly, sometimes he would even wake in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea and would have to go running to his laboratory in nothing but his pajama pants just to see if it would work.

Those sorts of ideas were always the best. And of course, working over night made it terribly easy to rummage about in other people's things which, really, was what had brought him to this situation in the first place.

It wasn't as though he actually believed he would never get caught. They weren't dumb, after all, he doubted there was a single person within the facility with an IQ of less than 150, someone was bound to put the pieces together eventually. They always had before and, accordingly, he had also lost count of the times he'd had to take the elevator up to ground level to get his monthly (sometimes bi-monthly) ass-chewing. It was bound to be a good one this time, with Moynihan in the infirmary.

It had been worth it just to see that fat old fuck white as a sheet and blubbering like a little girl, just to be able to jab the needle in as deep as he could when he delivered the injection of anti-venom.

Jack recalled every detail in a state of bliss as the elevator dinged and whirred up past floor after floor, finally jolting to a stop, the doors sliding open. Every hallway in this place looked exactly the same, plain and whiter, more sterile even than a hospital.

Jack absolutely hated hospitals.

OOO

See, in the beginning, it took a little while for the boys to warm up to him.

"Who in the fuck is that scraggly looking son of a bitch?"

"That, I'm imagining, is probably who we've been hearing about." I rolled my eyes at McCall pointedly, throwing a leg over the mess hall bench and sliding beneath the edge of the table. "They only told us six times we're getting a new one. Last one was sick of us, remember?"

"Yeah," McCall said happily, grinning and sitting down beside me. "How long you think this one's gonna last?"

"I'll give it a week." Owen replied as he sat down across from us, smooth black skin gleaming underneath the overhead lamps. "Thirty bucks says he's asking for a transfer by next Monday."

"I don't know," I hedged. "He looks pretty tough."

"They all look tough in the beginning," McCall said, pulling out the little notebook he always carried in his back pocket. "I've got Marcus for thirty, anybody else wanna place their bets?"

"Fifty bucks says he'll be gone by Friday," says Israel, who's on McCall's hip about as often as the notebook is.

"Friday," Four-Eyes scribbled down, glancing back up to me. "What about you, Benny, what's your bet?"

I considered for a moment, mulling the thought over, looking back over to the bearded man across the room. He was hunched over his tray, shoulders brought down defensively He had blonde hair that fell to the tops of his ears, a grown-out buzz cut that was madly curly. He had a cowlick that automatically made it part off-center and his skin and hair looked grimy in a way that spoke of too much sand and not enough shower. His DCU'S had a kind of empty look to them, like he'd lost some weight recently. "Hundred bucks."

"Ooh, high roller! What day?"

"Hundred bucks says he makes it." I looked back to McCall, who looked pleased as punch to write down the bet.

"I don't like your odds for a pay out, but I sure do like mine."

"We'll see," I said simply, and took another bite of food.

"Who's that?" asked a new voice.

"Question of the day," I replied.

"Eddie!" Owen grinned, reaching over to clasp the smaller man's hand. "Where you been, you little wetback?"

"Hey, fuck you, chango." Eduardo Nunez grinned setting his tray down and grabbing Owen's hand. "Nobody answered my question. Somebody ate you fuckers' tongues?"

"He's our new commander, best we can figure." McCall said, flipping his notebook back open with a flourish, dragging his glasses off of the top of his head and shoving them back onto his nose. "You taking odds, Eddie?"

"I'm Catholic. You know I don't gamble," Nunez said dismissively, sitting down beside Owen. "He's awful furry."

"You gonna tell him he need's a haircut, Eddie?" I laughed as the smaller man scoffed, pulling his head back in mock surprise. "That's what I thought. I guarantee you he just got in off mission. Look how he's eating."

I'd seen stray dogs that ate slower, neater than he did. He shoveled the food into his mouth as though he couldn't quite get enough, chewing with big chomps that made him look like his bottom jaw weighed twenty pounds. He ate with a spoon and his field knife, as though he'd forgotten to use the fork that still lay discarded on the table top. He had the perpetual quiet most of the other hardcore ones did, the really dangerous motherfuckers they didn't bother to give partners or teams, the kinda guys who did their work alone, and did it damn well. I had no idea why they would have tied him down to us like this.

"Hey! Hurry up, ese, I think it's gonna run away." Eddie shouted across the hall, and the man looked up without moving his head, spearing another piece of meat on the blade with a particularly vicious jab. He didn't honor him with a reply.

"I think he likes you, Nunez." I snorted. Eddie grumbled and looked back down to his food.

OOO

"Hey there, troublemaker."

It wasn't the voice he had expected. Jack swiftly entered the room, turning back to find a familiar face smiling at him. He had to bite back his grin in return, stiffening to attention and bringing his hand up in a salute. "Major, sir."

"At ease, soldier. Have a seat." Corian motioned to the chair in front of him. "So I've heard you've been making friends as usual?"

"Vicious lies," he said brightly, and took the offered seat. "What happened to .. uhh."

"Drummond? Asked for a transfer this morning. Apparently he was a little scared he might end up as your next pin cushion, anonymous no less."

Jack raised his eyebrows innocently, and Major Corian shook his head with a laugh.

"I don't want to hear your well-crafted denials, Lieutenant. That's not why I'm here. They're making you Captain."

His eyebrows hiked higher.

"You'll be receiving a transfer as well." He tossed a folder across the table. It landed with a quiet thump in front of him. "They're sending you to Iraq."

"Field work," Jack said, ecstatically, eyes lighting up. Corian laughed again.

"Initially, yes. But ultimately, we're giving you a team."

Jack frowned, deeply. "I work alone, you know that."

"Well, you've been given the order, and unfortunately for you, you aren't in a position at the moment to refuse it." He gestured to the folder, and Jack opened it, looking within to find the files of ten soldiers.

"Is this Moynihan's way of punishing me?"

"It's not a punishment." Corian shook his head.

"Riiight," Jack drawled, looking back to him. "These are the rejects. He's sending me to baby-sit B Company, and this isn't a punishment?"

"They're not bad kids, just misunderstood." Corian gave him a look as though to say they were just like him. "Just need the right guidance. They're all extremely talented. We've got our eye on a few of them, mainly the one from Georgia, Marcus Owen. He's a tight shot."

"So this is a recruiting mission?"

"That's part of it. We'll see how many qualify as Elite once you're done with them."

OOO

"Yeah, fucking charmer as always, Eddie," Owen snickered as he elbowed Nunez and dodged the deadly fork that was aimed his way. "You're a fucking Psycho! My brother had a Chihuahua like you once, same name!"

We dissolved into laughter, lost in our companionship as always. It was a common feature of groups like ours; rejected by everyone else we were forced to bond with what we were given. We had become family, bonds that were much closer than even blood could create. There was a movement from across the hall. I couldn't catch it entirely, only saw it in the corner of my eye, but it seemed like some representation of discomfort. Strange thought, really, but I shrugged it off, and glanced back to Eddie, nudging him under the table.

"Hey, guero, I'm talking to you, you're here, you might as well talk to us, we're not gonna disappear, hellooo…" he says, in one long, infinitely annoying string.

"He's gonna shoot you, Eddie, he's twitchin'" Owen sing-songed, trying unsuccessfully to hold back his laughter.

"You're a bunch of assholes, you know that?" I laughed, looking back to the nameless one across the room. "Don't mind them. They got about as much home-trainin' as a pair of damn strays." I was just short of laying my hands out palm-up as though to say, okay, routine's over, where's the answer?

There was a disgusted sound from across the room.

I kicked Owen in the shin. "You missed your cue, you ass!"

"Ow! Dammit, it was Eddie's fault!" He punched the Texan in the head, prompting an enraged yelp, and a prompt jab in the kidneys. "You low-blowing bastard!"

A quiet snicker.

"Finally!" I screamed, looking back to the blonde. "We had to resort to The Three Stooges, where in the fuck does your humor lie!?"

"Sight gags and physical humor, very sophisticated," McCall rolled his eyes, stowing his Army issue coke-bottles back onto his head after he was done peering over them imperiously, and turning back to his meal.

"Whatever the hell floats your boat," I said, grinning to the man across the room, who'd set the knife tip-down into the table momentarily. I took that for an affirmative, and advanced. "You gonna just be a loner the whole time? 'Cause I don't think you're gonna be able to accomplish your objective, if that's your plan of action."

"My only objective," the knife was out of the table now, making three swift swipes through the air, his wrist moving with each word as though he wasn't entirely conscious of its arcs through the air, the way a cat flicks its tail when it's angry, I thought, "is to eat in peace."

"Controlling bastard," Owen muttered, then laughed as Nunez mimicked the blonde perfectly, right down to the way his hairline shifted back as he'd started to sound a little annoyed.

I brought my head over, a signal to the boys, and grabbed my tray, making my way three tables over in the empty to hall to where the other man sat.

"Have it your way. You can't avoid us forever, gotta get to know us eventually, am I right?" I said, with a slight nod. The others followed me soon after, and I couldn't help but notice how the man stiffened. He seemed to take our proximity as almost a threat.

"You're the new Captain, am I right?" Nunez asked, ducking down so he could try to see into the bowed face that was still busy shoveling food.

"You've already pissed him off once," McCall said, "Shut the hell up, Eddie."

The blonde rolled his eyes, looking immensely put-upon, shaking his head slightly.

"Introduce yourselves to the Boss, boys," I said, and they did.

"Marcus Owen."

"Eduardo Nunez."

"Justin McCall."

"Israel Norton."

"And me, I'm Ben Ladue."

"Great," the blonde said, after a moment, smacking his lips after the next bite, "I've gone and joined the Mickey Mouse Club…. Where're the rest of the Mouseketeers?"

"Still out on courses," Israel said, with a nod of his own.

"So, tell us about yourself, Captain, what brings you here?" I say quickly, before the other man can say anything in return.

He smirked, the first variant of an expression beyond irritated I'd seen on his face yet.

"I'm here to serve my country."

"Oh bullshit!" Five men groaned at once, the still of the over-sized hall broken with a chorus of annoyance.

The Army is a little like prison. When you get on the inside, the inevitable question that everyone must ask is "So, what did you do?" In prison, the answer is always "I'm innocent."

In the Army, the question is "So, why'd you join up?" SOP states you're here to serve your country. The truth? Usually anything but.

"Give me a break," Owen muttered, and the blonde's lips twitched, hiding a grin.

"Honestly?" the Captain asked.

"Honestly." I nodded, tilting my head forward solicitously.

He glanced down to the knife thoughtfully, reaching up with a napkin to clean the blade with an exaggerated care that, nonetheless, did not seem to be show. After a moment, he slid it into the sheath I hoped was in his hip pocket, and looked back up to me.

"I just like to blow shit up," he finally said with a helpless shrug, hands tossed up carelessly.

There was a long moment of silence before every one of us burst into laughter, even the Captain eventually.

"Doncha know this is the Demolition Crew? You gonna fit right in, mijo." Eddie grinned, and offered his hand. He took it, after a long pause.

"The name's Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack." They all chorused, in one form or another.

See, in the beginning, it took a little while for the boys to warm up to him.

But me?

Me, I liked him immediately.

OOO

Chapter End Notes:

DCU = Desert Camoflauge Uniform

guero = a Mexicanism meaning blonde

SOP = Standard Operating Procedure

mijo = affectionate term meaning son

No, I didn't forget that I already have a character named Nunez in the story. There's a reason for it.