The Cadet Chapter 3, a ncis fanfic

Chapter 3

Even with afternoon classes cancelled, it was anything but a normal day ahead.

Up on the fourth floor of Hull barracks, the members of brigade staff were getting ready. Even with their zealous attention to every aspect and detail of military dress, they still were up an hour before reveille, running through final checks of their rooms and uniforms. All of them were responsible for their own uniforms, their own rooms, but they also took care of each other, looked after each other's rooms, uniforms and personal appearance. And to allow the staff to better do this as a group, each of them focused on something.

Mark Golan had emerged as the shoe-shining specialist, and he moved around each of the seven individual rooms granted to the brigade staff members, a can of parade gloss shoe polish and a shine rag in hand, making sure every one of the top-ranked cadets' shoes would shine like grounded stars.

St. Esprit, with his seemingly-endless supply of Brasso, was the favorite for shining brass. Like Golan, he moved from room to room, buffing up everybody's dress hat badges and belts, and carefully wiping down every officer's saber and, in Marshall's case, his NCO sword.

D'Arbanville had ironed everyone's dress shirts last night, making sure everything was perfect. He made sure everyone's shirt stays- elastic bands with fastening devices that were fitted to the bottom of the dress shirt on one's left and right, and to the top of your black dress socks- were properly in place, so the shirt tucks they'd all have would be immaculate.

Cadez swept the hallway while Chandler ran a white glove over every edge and surface, from door arches to desks, that could possibly collect dust. Anytime he found something, a spray bottle of cleaner was applied and a cloth used to wipe the surface down. Edwin, meanwhile, was working on the latrine, scrubbing down, cleaning and polishing every surface he could find.

Marshall, who had been in charge of making certain everyone got up early as planned, got out a contraband coffee maker, a bunch of Folger's coffee packets, and started stirring it up in contraband mugs. Captain Raymond Cosworth, the Brigade Staff TAC, knew about Marshall's coffee making talents and was always trying to catch him in the act. But so far, he hadn't managed it, and he seemed to enjoy the game itself more than any possible outcome of it. The same went for the compact color television that Marshall- always looking out for the morale of his boys- had hidden away somewhere.

It also helped that Marshall had figured out which type of coffee was Cosworth's favorite- black and piping hot- and would often turn up at the captain's office one floor down with a mug of it, a peace offering with no explanation of where it came from.

Cosworth knew the brigade staff hid cigarettes, a coffee maker and mugs, a color tv and 'reading material' from him, but as long as they were clever enough that he didn't find it, he let it go. It helped that the boys on staff were as sharp as anyone on campus when it came to discipline and attention to detail. The captain's job almost did itself sometimes, but, like all TAC officers, he had to stay on his toes and make sure the boys never got too complacent, never started assuming that they and their contraband was safe.

In each boy's room, there were certain personal decorations to spruce up an otherwise spartan and plain environment. Marshall had pictures of his older brother, Captain Joshua Marshall, and his father, Sergeant Major Bruce Marshall, both in Marine dress blues, and a Marine Corps flag. St. Esprit had a picture of his father in full dress blues and an Army flag. Golan had the Air Force flag, a West Virginia flag, and a picture of his father in Air Force uniform. Chandler and D'Arbanville, of course, each displayed a rectangular Confederate battle flag.

Flags and uniforms were big stuff with this group, but it was only natural, given where most of them had come from, and where they intended to go.

After finishing his inspections of everyone's brass, St. Esprit was back at his room, and Golan headed in to help him get his Class A uniform on. That consisted of a gray blouse, white trousers, white shirt with black tie, dress hat with white cover, black shoes with black socks, officer's belt under the blouse, white waist belt outside it, white gloves, and an officer's sword.

And of course, there was his class ring. Each ring committee for each graduating class chose a unique design for the right side of the ring, always displaying the class year, while the traditional feature, a stylized version of the RMA coat of arms, was displayed on the right with the school's year of foundation, 1921, on display as well. On the inside was an inscription of the cadet's name or initials- the Honor Corps boys had gone for full name only since the group was started in late 1941- and a motto or phrase if they so chose. Alexander the Great had chosen his family's motto, "Animus Vincet Semper," or "Courage Always Conquers". It was also translatable as "The Spirit Always Conquers," a meaning St. Esprit loved.

"This isn't the first time Dad's come here like this," he said, his voice shaking. Golan saw he was trying to keep cool and having some trouble with that. His hands were nervously jumping all over the place as Golan helped him get into uniform. "This isn't the first time I've seen him in uniform. Shit, what am I talking about? He's been in uniform my entire life." He reached for his sword, dropped it, and Golan caught it and handed it to him. St. Esprit grasped it, secured it to the Sam Browne belt it went with, and fixed the small silvery chain to the hilt.

"I'm scared, Mark. Something's going to go wrong. It's gonna go wrong and- I just know it."

"Don't be," Mark Golan assured him. "You're just worried because this is the first time he's coming here since you became the big boss. You got three diamonds, he's got three stars. You're the best of us, Alex. There's a reason you got picked to run things. I trust you. Just stay calm and do everything the way you've done it a hundred times before. You'll be fine."

"My, but that was a mighty, highfalutin speech," D'Arbanville drawled from the doorway.

"Shut up, Darby," St. Esprit and Golan said at the same time.

"Oh, hey, hey, watch it, boys," D'Arbanville laughed. "You might just hurt my feelings."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm trying to do," St. Esprit retorted. "I got you as my third in command? If me and Golan drop dead, the Corps is so fucked."

"Don't you worry your little head about it. I'll have it all under control."

"I'm sure," St. Esprit said, in a voice that said he wasn't sure at all. "Hey, Darby, how 'bout you be a good operations officer and go bring me my fuckin' coffee so I can get operational? No Army man's worth a damn until he's had a good cup of coffee."

D'Arbanville laughed. "Yeah, all right. Sir." He sketched out a salute and headed back down the hallway to Marshall's room. Or at least he tried, because the door to the stairwell opened with a bang, D'Arbanville screamed, and everybody knew Captain Cosworth was on the floor.

"You're so jumpy, you aristocrats!" Cosworth laughed, pulling the door shut behind him. "I heard all kinds of thumpin' and bumpin' and knew there was a pillow fight in progress. Day's about to start, boys. You ready to see Jesus Christ Himself come to campus?"

"Please don't talk about my father that way, sir," St. Esprit said, coming out into the hallway still fastening his necktie. "It's a legacy, sir. I'm Jesus Christ IV, he's Jesus Christ III. It's kinda our thing, sir."

Cosworth laughed, brushing a hand through his graying, short-cut hair. He accepted a mug of coffee that Marshall came up and handed to him. "Such prompt service, it makes me think you knew I was coming."

Marshall grinned. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

Cosworth laughed and drank some of the coffee. "Okay. Morning inspection time. I'm disappointed I didn't get to wake everybody up, but there's always tomorrow. And watching the Prince of Charleston jump ten feet in the air and squeal like a girl- ah, it's things like that which make my job worth doing."

"Well, I'm glad to help, sir," D'Arbanville said, glowering as he fixed some imperfections in his shirt tuck. "I wish you'd find someone else to scare like that."

"After this year, I'm gonna have to," Cosworth admitted. "I got to get my laughs in while I can."

"That sounds great, sir," D'Arbanville replied with thinly-veiled dread.

"Yep. Now let's get to those room inspections."

Travis Phelps was a better roommate than Tony had expected. He had already cleaned up the room before taps last night, and once they got up, he helped Tony with the basics of getting his full dress uniform prepared and his shoes shined to an acceptable degree.

William Henry Long, the Alpha Company commander, looked like yet another overzealous military dick in all that gray and white. His brass shone like a golden mirror, and his shoes gleamed like stars where the lights reflected off them. He walked in and immediately found mistakes in Tony's uniform, and in Travis'.

"You guys know a general is coming, right? Not the head of an animal shelter or something? Suck that gut in, Piggy. More. More. And shine those shoes up, both of you. They're a frigging disgrace. I'm honestly worried about Alpha Company right now. We're gonna look like- DiNozzo, what are you doing?"

Tony had taken his chair, turned it around, and sat down facing Long with a look of exaggerated interest.

"Oh, don't mind me. I can't wait to hear the rest of it."

Long frowned. "I heard you got an attitude. I guess I heard right."

"Well, at least you figured that out."

"DiNozzo, this is a military school."

"I noticed."

"Well, are you gonna get with the program?"

"Not really."

"I don't need a wiseass in my company."

"That's not my problem, dude."

Long was about to say something else, but Tanner walked in just then. "Ten-hut," the cadet captain said, coming to attention. Travis did too, but Tony just continued to sit there, dress uniform partly assembled.

"Mr. DiNozzo," Tanner said. "Just the man I was looking to see. We got a big day ahead of us. Good news is I managed to talk Gunny Ellison out of having you shot at dawn. That's a favorite of his. But the grace period's short around here."

"That's fine, Coach."

"I'd recommend against it, DiNozzo."

"I'm fine."

Tanner looked uncertainly at Tony for a few moments. "I can't keep you on the basketball court if you wanna go looking for trouble, DiNozzo. Marshall's impressed with how you played yesterday, and so am I. But to have any chance of being on the team, I got to have you staying outta trouble. Just keep your head down and you'll be fine."

With that, the big man turned to Long. "All right, Mr. Long. Let's start room inspections."

"Yes, sir." Long glanced at Tony, but said nothing. After a moment he followed Coach Tanner out into the hallway.

At breakfast, a boy behind Tony whispered to him. "Hey, man. You're that new guy that wants to make trouble, right?'

Tony suppressed a laugh. This was the first time somebody seemed genuinely cool with that. "Sure."

"I got a plan you're gonna like, DiNozzo. You want in?"

"What's the plan?"

"I got a whoopee cushion I filled with paint. I'm the brigade guidon corporal. Put the cushion on The Great's seat up at the High Table. Guess who's gonna sit next to him at Mess II and Mess III today."

"The General?"

"Bingo."

"So the General's gonna get sprayed with paint."

"Right on those beautiful Class A blues, baby."

"You're gonna do that to a three-star general?"

"Right in front of that brat son of his at lunch, you betcha."

Oh, that was gonna go over so well. Tony had been thinking of volunteering to do the cadet prayer- at lunch, oddly enough- but this was just beautiful. It would be embarrassing for so many people, and if the rendition of the prayer that Tony was planning didn't do it, the paint cushion sure would.

"So you in or out?"

"Well-"

"In or out?"

Tony thought about it. "In. But let's do both things at dinner, not at lunch. I want 'em to think the day's over and everything went great. Then bam. We hit 'em."

The boy snickered. "I like the way you think. Okay. Deal."

At the breakfast table, Collins generally ignored Tony, and Travis didn't seem to want to talk very much. With afternoon classes all called off, the boys were in a good mood.

"Look at Jesus Christ IV up there at the High Table. He looks like he's about to blow a gasket if you know what I mean," Jimmy Peters, one of the boys on the varsity basketball team, said with a nod.

Tony glanced. The blond looked like he'd walked off an Academy recruiting posted. Everything about him was perfect. It was obvious even to Tony, who was hardly the greatest expert on these things. He looked like Cadet Captain Long. No, better. And he did indeed look nervous, though he was trying hard to act like he wasn't. As easy as it was for Tony to figure all that out, this guy was not doing a very good job.

"What's his problem?" Tony asked.

"His dad," Peters answered. "Alexander the Great worships the ground he walks on." Peters shrugged, brushing at his black hair before turning back to his toast. "His dad's done a lot of cool shit. He won the Medal of Honor for holding off an entire platoon by himself when the VC hit his unit's line during the Tet Offensive in '68."

"God, Peters, you sound like such a nerd," Andrews, a private first class who lived across the hall from Tony, said with a laugh.

Peters shrugged again. "It's right in his CMH citation. It's in the Hall of Honor where it always is. It's just the facts, Andrews."

"Yeah, well, do the facts entitle his son to walk around this place like he owns it?"

"I never said that."

"Peters, if you could handle a ball like you can recite facts about the Army brat's dad, maybe the varsity basketball team wouldn't be in such shitty shape."

Laughter and guffaws went around the table, and even Collins, who had been glowering at Tony again, cracked a smile.

Peters leaned back, eyebrows raised. "You just showed up here, DiNozzo. You think you can play better than me?"

"I took on Marshall."

"And lost. You remember that part? He let you walk right up to a win and then yanked the football away like he was fuckin' Lucy."

"He's fucking Lucy?" Tony asked incredulously, deliberately misunderstanding.

The boys at the table laughed again, and Tony felt a sense of satisfaction that his amazing sense of humor was working, especially after yesterday.

"He probably is fucking somebody named Lucy," Peters answered. "I mean, Marshall… look. He acts like a nice guy. And he is. But-" Peters hesitated. "You got a sister, DiNozzo?"

"Nah."

"Okay, well, good, because if you'd said yes, you'd have a problem. Especially if she was good-looking."

"Why's that?"

Collins laughed. "Marshall fucked half the cheerleader squad his sophomore year here. Literally half. We've got, what, twenty-four on there, usually? He got through twelve in one school year. He should honestly run for President. You could never have a sexual harassment scandal with Marshall because he has fucked everybody."

"Oh, so he goes for guys, too?" Tony asked with a laugh.

"I got no idea," Collins answered. "What about you, Peters?"

"At some point he probably has. I mean, his brother's a Marine and Marines will fuck anything."

"Hey, look, as long as it hasn't got a penis, I'm good," Andrews answered, and everybody laughed.

"God, why did they make us put on full dress grays hours before the big shot even turns up?" Tony grouched, pulling at his necktie and then his collar, because both seemed to be trying to strangle him. "Seriously, I don't care if somebody says this looks good. It feels like crap."

"Yeah, better get used to that," Collins remarked dryly. "Rule of military dress uniforms, DiNozzo. The better it looks, the worse it is to wear it. Plain fact."

The last breakfast Tony would ever have here- hopefully- passed quickly and easily. The food was actually pretty damn good, but then, this big-shot was coming and it was a holiday, so it made sense the school would actually try for once. Tony couldn't wait for the last supper. He'd play this dumb game for a while longer, then call Dad and just give him the heads up that things at Remington were not working out.

It was gonna be a wonderful day.

At precisely 12:15, he arrived.

There was no need to specify who; everybody knew who was coming. Over a hundred veterans of all services would be coming, veterans of peacetime service, and more often, of service in war. Men were coming who had served in the world wars, Korea, and Vietnam, and a significant number were relatives of cadets. The special parade today was honoring all of them, not just General St. Esprit, but he was the star of the show by far.

Lieutenant General Alexander Rosh St. Esprit, III. RMA Class of 1955, West Point Class of 1959. Recipient of five Bronze Stars, three Silver Stars, two Distinguished Service Crosses and the Medal of Honor, plus over a dozen other decorations from the United States, South Korea and South Vietnam. He was the most highly decorated man ever to graduate from Remington, and was argued by more than one person to be Remington's greatest graduate.

Tony was greatly annoyed to learn all this from the little cadre of boys at RMA who seemed to have built a damn shrine to this guy. It wasn't like the whole Corps saw him with such reverence, but the dude's son was far from the only person who adored him.

"Hold the Line," they called him, a nickname he earned during the fierce night battle that earned him the Medal of Honor. While serving of the executive officer at Firebase Ripcord in the highlands of Thua Thien province, South Vietnam, the then-Major Alexander R. St. Esprit, III was abruptly promoted when the first mortar round fired at the base on the night of January 30th, 1968 killed the commander of the 3rd Battalion, 502nd Infantry Regiment. Taking command of the battalion, St. Esprit had raced from position to position, firing his M-16 rifle, coordinating defensive action by his company commanders, and calling for air support.

He helped patch up wounded men, hurled back four enemy grenades and threw plenty of his own, and during a particularly severe point in the fighting when the enemy broke a section of the line, took on what was estimated to be an enemy infantry platoon of 25 to 35 men. By himself. He held the line until a platoon could be moved into place to cover the breach, and the whole night was heard screaming encouragement to his men, most often the phrase, "Hold the line, men! Hold the line!"

The man had to be just about insane to have done something like that, Tony decided. Assuming it hadn't been exaggerated beyond recognition by all these stories being told about him. But so what? So the guy was brave. Big frigging deal. Tony wasn't here to give a crap about moldy old military heroes riding out their last years until retirement. He wasn't here to give a crap about anything.

When they called the Corps to formation some ten minutes later, Tony groaned out loud. He had been lying on his bed, wishing he didn't have to wear this stiff, uncomfortable uniform that made him look like he was trying to be King of the Penguins, for crying out loud. That dumb gun they'd handed him when all the companies drew rifles from the armory didn't help. So he was a penguin with an old wood and steel bolt-action rifle. Was all this stuff designed to look stupid? It sure as hell did.

But he and Kevin LeBlanc had made a deal. They were going to each play it cool and not cause a bit of trouble until the time was right. So that meant showing up for stuff and acting like a good little cadet.

For now.

A black Cadillac limousine bearing two red flags with three red stars each, accompanied by two more identical long black Cadillacs, was parked along one side of Lansing Road. A bunch of Army officers were standing nearby, talking with some of the school's top brass.

Before the battalions formed up, Tony watched a few boys, led by none other than Jesus Christ IV, approach a distinguished-looking man in Army dress blues who had to be Hold the Line himself. Son saluted, and father saluted back. They briefly embraced, after which the general shook hands with each of the other boys.

"Look at that," a boy called Michaelson whispered from two spaces over- Travis was on Tony's left.

"What?"

"I didn't know the Pope wore Army blues."

A few boys laughed. "No, no, that's too low a rank," Peters whispered back. "You guys got it wrong. That's God."

"I knew it," Tony whispered. "Explains why St. Esprit thinks he's the Son of God."

"You people better cut it out," Long hissed from up front. "If Gunny Ellison comes by-"

"All right," Coach Tanner rumbled, walking over. "Cut the chatter and get ready to march, boys. Parade's about to start."

"Do we hafta, Coach?"

"Come on."

"My feet are killing me already."

"I don't wanna."

At least half a dozen boys were all voicing complaints and requests to be allowed to go to the infirmary. Tanner just laughed and waved them off. "You boys have done this before. Even you, DiNozzo. This isn't your first military school so don't even pretend you don't know how to march."

"But I really don't, Coach," Tony insisted. "I, uh, never showed up for that part."

"Just match you footsteps with the boy in front of you. Keep in step. When they say left face that means 90 degrees turn to the left. Simple stuff, DiNozzo. I know you can handle it."

"Gee, thanks, Coach," Tony said sarcastically. Several boys laughed.

"Anytime, DiNozzo."

"Brigade!" St. Esprit the Lesser called out.

"Battalion!" Park and two other idiots called.

"Atten-shun!"

The whole Corps straightened its ranks.

"Right-face!"

Tony executed the motion easily. He had indeed done this before, although he hated to admit it. The knowledge was going to come in handy as he placed nice for the next few hours.

The brigade staff marched down the steps of Aubrey Hall and took their place at the head of the long gray line of cadets. With them was the brigade color guard, made up of a cadet carrying the Remington Military Academy flag, the Rhode Island state flag, and the United States flag, with two boys wielding rifles on either side.

"For-ward- MARCH!" St. Esprit called out.

With one cadet calling cadence in each platoon of each company, they marched down Lansing Road, headed to Ryland Field, the wide-open, well-mowed grassy field that was used as RMA's parade grounds. Band Company's drums kept up a steady staccato cadence of their own, and Tony found it easy to keep pace with everybody else around him. The rifle on his shoulder was not even a big deal. He was a strong boy, after all, more than ready to handle some old gun on his shoulder for a little while.

As a member of the lead company in the lead battalion, Tony got to watch the brigade staff and color guard lead the entire Corps down to the field. They knew their stuff, all of them. Even Tony, with his contempt for military drill and all the puffing and posturing, knew some sharp marchers when he saw them.

It was sad knowing that was all they did with their lives, march and shine things. It had to be interesting to them somehow. To Tony it was repulsive and boring. Up with them, carrying the American flag, was Tony's secret ally, his conspirator, who was doing a wonderful job playing nice as well.

Everything was going to plan.

All along Lansing Road were civilians. Parents, probably, and no shortage of alumni from the number of class years Tony spotted on those baseball hats bearing the school seal. Kids of all ages and, no doubt, plenty of people from the town of Tiverton, Rhode Island as well.

Jesus, Tony thought with amazement, they all came to watch this? Is there really nothing better for any of them to do?

Off to the left was a reviewing stand, and a bunch of steel bleachers just behind it. Alpha Company marched to a spot that Long, or somebody, apparently had already designated, halted and turned so the reviewing stand was ahead of them now, at the opposite end of the field. 2nd Battalion, as Tony could see from the guidon, marched down behind them and halted on 1st Battalion's left, then 3rd Battalion on their left.

"Okay, boys," Tommy Williams, the Alpha Company first sergeant, whispered from up front. "If you got to shit- it's already too late."

The boys laughed.

"Jesus, shut up, Williams," Long hissed.

"You know you love me."

"Yeah, in a strictly fraternal, non-gay manner. So help me out and shut your hatch."

The banter went on, with the rest of the company trying to keep quiet and not laugh, until a Marine sergeant major in dress blues came up to the front of Alpha.

"Williams, Long- I have a bet with Captain Marshall. See him on the reviewing stand?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major," the two boys answered.

"Good. Now, he says he can cross the parade field before I kill the first man that starts playing grab-ass in the ranks, and that includes first sergeants and captains. I say I'd already be through ten slackers before he got near me. You wanna find out how fast I can go to work?"

"No, Sergeant Major," Long answered, his voice shaking a little.

Ambrose leaned in close, that deep, gravelly voice of his taking on an even more menacing note. "If you got any hope of living to see tomorrow's sunrise, boys- any hope at all- you're gonna be good as angels the rest of this parade."

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

"And Williams, Long- I'll be watching you."

With that, Ambrose turned and headed the way he had come, disappearing from sight. During the ten frigging minutes that the Corps stood there, waiting for all those chumps to make their way to the stands, nobody in Alpha Company moved or made a sound. Even Tony didn't feel tempted to try his luck with a man whose voice sounded like a tank engine turning over. Not right now, at least.

With General Blake, General St. Esprit, and what looked like a thousand-other people, military and civilian, all gathered at the stand and the bleachers, Coach Tanner ran through some announcements and a general explanation of how the parade would go. Then, at long last, St. Esprit IV called the Corps up again, sending the words across the parade ground: "Pass in review!"

Finally, Tony thought.

The parade took more than an hour. Every single company commander, plus the brigade and battalion staffs, called "Eyes right!" and the cadets commanding each unit raised their saber in salute while the rest of the boys turned their heads a fixed forty-five degrees toward the reviewing stand. Each boy farthest to the right in each rank kept his head straight, and so for 2nd Squad of 1st Platoon of Alpha Company, that meant Collins was there, with Peters, the corporal, to his left. Tony didn't enjoy having to stare at either boy's face, but neither was he all that interested in the star-spangled big-shots up on the reviewing stand. Even so, he couldn't help but to notice the bright blue ribbon with the golden star-shaped medal hanging from it that was draped around the three-star general's neck.

It was actually kind of cool. Tony had never seen anybody who'd won the Medal of Honor in person before.

After the parade ended, the cadets went straight to the armory and turned in their rifles by company. The drawling boy with three silver dots on his shoulders was there again, working alongside the boys who had to be his staff.

"All right, step up," he called out. "Next!"

"That's me, handsome," Tony said with a grin, holding out the rifle.

"That's interestin'," the boy said in a bored voice. His nametag read CHANDLER. "Read that serial number off the weapon for me."

"What, you can't read, sweetie?"

A few boys laughed at that, but they stopped when Chandler snapped his head up from his clipboard. "Now, I asked you nice the first time, boy," Chandler said, his drawl taking on a menacing note. "I didn't become Brigade S-2 to talk with ya. Now gimme that serial number."

Feeling the heat of the boy's stare, Tony abruptly realized he had overstepped himself. Time to play it cool, cool. He wasn't trying to start anything. Yet.

"4858000," Tony said simply, reading off the top of the rifle just ahead of the bolt.

Chandler smiled mockingly at him. "See? Was that so hard?" He snatched the rifle and handed it to one of the cadets standing behind him, waiting to place incoming rifles on the long, long rows of storage racks. "All right, DiNozzo, get out of my face. Next!"

At lunch, Tony gratefully chowed down on the chicken cordon bleu that was available, amazed once again that this place was capable of serving up real food. He was working on the second one they'd handed him when a boy came up behind him and said, "Boom!"

Tony jumped, but Travis jumped more. The boy laughed and took an open seat to Tony's left. It was the grinning redhead, Christian Marshall. "So. How was the parade, honey?"

"Oh, it was just great, darling," Tony replied immediately. "I think I loved it. I think I'm turning into a military dick."

"That's good," another voice, similar to Marshall's but slightly deeper, said from behind both of them. "Maybe you should join the Marines."

"Josh!" Marshall was on his feet in an instant, embracing the tall, formidable-looking man in Marine dress blues who had come over to the table. He wore two silver bars, a handful of medals, and despite his extremely short haircut the resemblance was obvious. This had to be Captain Marshall.

"Uh, is this your dad, Basketball Captain?" Tony asked with a smirk.

Both Marshall's laughed. "No," the officer replied, "I'm Joshua Marshall, this bum's older brother. I also went to this school, so, if I were you all I'd think about suicide. It'll save you a lot of time."

The boys at Tony's table laughed appreciatively. Tony found himself liking the older Marshall, much as he found it easy to like the younger one.

"Did Dad make it?" Christian Marshall asked.

"No, he wanted to but being division sergeant major for the 2nd Marines means sometimes you gotta say no to stuff, even family stuff. Besides, they got a whole big show for Veteran's Day going on down at Lejeune. You know how it is."

"Josh, when are you gonna come and see me before a parade?"

"Never, little brother," Joshua Marshall answered. "I don't ever do that. I want you to have your game face on." He clapped his brother on the shoulders. "You're looking good, Sergeant Major. How'd you pass up commanding this overgrown zoo? You remember when I was the guy with three diamonds? 1978, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth," Christian Marshall needled him. "Hey, Josh, meet Dead Man, he's been making friends all over Remington." He gestured down to Tony.

"Captain Joshua Scott Marshall, U.S. Marines," the young man said, bowing and giving Tony a rakish smile. He held out his hand, but when Tony reached out to shake it, he took Tony's hand and kissed it like he was greeting some princess.

"I think he likes you, DiNozzo," Collins said, and the table cracked up laughing.

After lunch, there was a service in the chapel. The chaplain, Lieutenant Commander Ronald Clark, led them in singing each of the Armed Forces songs, aided by General St. Esprit and Captain Marshall. They then launched into "Onward, Christian Soldiers," "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" and then "Faith of Our Fathers".

Christian Marshall, Golan, St. Esprit, and several other boys wore the white robes of the boys' choir, and Tony was surprised to see each of them becoming moved to tears by the service. They seemed especially attached to "Faith of Our Fathers," singing that one with special strength and fervor.

Then, when the last note of that song finished echoing from the huge pipe organ and the voices of the thousand-plus attendees in the chapel, Commander Clark said, "Please, be seated."

Tony gratefully took a seat, sick and tired of standing up after so much time on his feet today. But the wooden bench was only so much better.

General Blake approached the lectern.

"Thank you all for coming today, ladies, gentlemen, cadets, alumni, and other distinguished guests. Welcome. For those of you who don't know me, I am Brigadier General Blake, President of Remington Military Academy. We go by the motto 'Verum, Animus, Officium,' and for those of you who don't speak Latin, that's 'Truth, Valor, Duty'. Those are words well known to not just anybody who's attended here, graduated from here, but anyone who has served. It was words like that which enabled the United States of America to emerge from the devastation of Pearl Harbor to cross the Pacific and the Atlantic to bring victory to the Allied Powers, and in the process become the strongest nation in the world. We are incredibly privileged to be Americans. More so than most of us know in our lifetime. Veteran's Day is a day of celebration, of giving thanks to all who are serving or have served. I would like to express my sincere personal thanks to every veteran we have in this room today. You have all given up something, whatever service you were in, whatever length of time you were in, whatever role you had. Thank you, gentlemen. If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't have even half of what we have today as American citizens."

Blake paused, and applause rang out across the chapel.

"At this time, I'd like to invite Lieutenant General Alexander R. St. Esprit, III, distinguished member of the Class of '55, to say a few words. General St. Esprit needs no introduction for most of us. For those not familiar with him, he is Remington's most decorated graduate from the Vietnam War, and currently serves as the Superintendent of the United States Military Academy at West Point, also his alma mater. General."

General St. Esprit stood and walked to the lectern to the tune of more applause. He was quite a sight in that black dress blouse, blue pants with yellow stripes down either side, and loads and loads of medals displayed in all their glory. Tony found himself wondering how this three-star didn't jingle like a piggy bank when he walked.

The General was an impressive man who carried himself with tremendous confidence. He had the same blond hair as his son, the same cool blue eyes, although his brush cut was turning iron gray as he began to age. His eyes swept the rows and rows of people, and he began to speak.

"Thank you, General Blake. And thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming out today. But most of all," he gestured to the rows occupied by the boys, "thank you to the Corps of Cadets. Remington has emerged as a leader among this nation's schools, and in the world, for the men of character it produces, the leaders it creates, the heroes it has forged. Veteran's Day is a moment of incredible pride for this school. Our alumni have fought in every war the United States has waged since Remington's foundation in 1921, and received the highest commendations the United States gives for meritorious service and valor on the field of battle."

"Every Veteran's Day, someone comes up to me and thanks me for serving. Very often far more than just someone. But why thank me? What did I do that was so special? I have asked myself that many times. My father did, too, and his father before him. My family are not strangers to military service. But when someone tries to thank me, I always want to tell them, "Don't thank me. Thank my father. Thank West Point. Thank Remington. Thank all the veterans who served before I did, some of whom taught me so much of what I know about serving and about leadership."

"Ever since I was a child, I have never wanted to be anything else but a soldier. I have always believed it was the sole purpose for which I was born. And while we must cherish the fact that the modern American must choose to serve, I believe it can be truthfully and rightly said that there is no higher calling than military service. No other profession demands so much and gives so much in return. No other profession shields so many from evil, treachery and deceit. Veterans stood up to the threat of disunion and said, "No". Veterans stood up to the tyranny of an expanding Germany in two separate wars, to the machinations of Imperial Japan, and said, "No." And they have said the same to the forces of Communism for some forty years. Ladies and gentlemen, on this day, think of everyone who is serving or has served. Take a moment to thank them, without embarrassing them, for what they do and have done. This is their day. But we cannot let only November the 11th be the day we have a love of our veterans in our hearts. Every day we must strive to make Veteran's Day. Thank you."

Applause filled the chapel, and a whole bunch of people were standing up. Tony reluctantly went with it as he saw everybody going along, and that kid St. Esprit looked like he was crying, for God's sake. This whole place was nuts.

Before the dinner formation, DiNozzo was standing around in the lounge he'd discovered in the bottom floor of Aubrey Hall, killing time. Well, it was really just a white-tiled room with some vending machines and a couple ground-level windows and nowhere to sit, but that was basically a lounge at this place.

A small, skinny cadet called Mazursky was jamming quarters into one of the machines and then growling in frustration when it spat them back out. It was actually pretty funny listening to him swear.

"It's not gonna happen, my man," Tony said.

"Shut your fucking face, buddy," Mazursky shot back. He put the quarters in again, went "Yes!" as he put in an order, and then exclaimed in disbelief as the little spiral thingy spun only partway forward and left the candy bar hanging.

"I told you."

"And I said shut up!"

"Okay," Tony laughed. "Fine."

Mazursky got on his knees and stuck an arm under the little door that you pushed inward to get the snack. He twisted so he got his arm inside the machine and started trying to reach for the bar he'd tried to buy.

"Really?" Tony asked.

"Really," Mazursky answered. "I'm getting my fucking candy bar."

Tony was watching Mazursky's efforts with a mix of amusement and admiration when a trio of boys came in. A lean, pale-faced youth with blond hair was at their head. Another one Tony recognized as Chandler. The boy at the front of the group glanced at Tony, then lost interest and moved toward Mazursky, who was still struggling with the vending machine.

"Hey, Mazursky," the boy said lazily.

"What the fuck do you want?" the middle school cadet snarled.

The three boys laughed. Lazy, confident, in no hurry at all.

"Is that any way to talk to me?" the boy said, in that pronounced Southern drawl that made him sound like he should have been in a movie about the Civil War. Just thinking of that stupid war made Tony hate this kid even more, because with an accent like that, he probably said his prayers to portraits of his dead Confederate ancestors.

"I just did. I'll talk to you any way I want."

"I'm a cadet major, and besides, I live in a mansion. Where do you live? Some cute little rented house? Maybe an apartment? Or is it the trash dumpster behind the mess hall?"

The three boys laughed again.

"Fuck off," Mazursky snapped.

The boy just laughed. He reached out with one hand and started knocking Mazursky's head against the glass front of the vending machine. Thump, thump, thump. "Come on, boy, get me a candy bar. Hurry up."

"Get the fuck off me, bitch!"

"You better learn to respect your superiors, kid," the boy drawled. "Otherwise life's gonna be harder for you here than it already is."

Thump, thump, thump.

The other two boys were grinning and chuckling, and the one in front seemed to think this was the greatest joke in the world. Tony decided he'd had enough and pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against.

"Come on, Mazursky. You kinda suck at this. Actually, how about you su-"

He got no farther. Tony had crossed the room in what seemed like one second, and he reached out and shoved the pale boy just as hard as he could. The cadet major staggered back and almost fell over, his face twisting with surprise and rage.

"What are you doing? What's this?" he demanded, glaring at Tony as he drew himself up.

"Get outta here." Tony's voice was hard and flat.

"Oh, and who's gonna make me?" the boy asked. "You? You got a name for yourself already. You had better learn to respect your betters."

"When they come along I'll be sure to take notice."

The boy smirked. "Well, well. A new kid with an attitude, that's unique." He paused, then put on an expression of mock surprise. "You must not know who I am! That's why you're acting like this!" He gestured at himself. "I am Henry Arnoldus Moultrie D'Arbanville, and I'm from Charleston." He smiled. "I'd shake hands, but, uh, you're a little bit trashy for me. Not in my league. Below my social station. You understand."

Tony laughed. "That's seriously your name?"

D'Arbanville raised his eyebrows. "Think my name's funny, do you? It's worth knowing, unlike yours."

Tony scoffed. "Oh, well, look at this, a rich kid who thinks he's somebody! That's unique!"

D'Arbanville laughed. "I know you. Or, I know your surname, anyway. DiNozzo. Your stupid father tried to bum some reproduction art off on my father as original. Of course, he forgets that Father has quite the taste in art. He knew it was fake as soon as it got to the house, and he decided to do more of the buying himself after that."

"I don't think-"

"Lucky for you, your Daddy fessed up to it before my father and the rest of the Old Families ran him out of the business for good. It would've been for the best, I said, because then DiNozzo Senior could go back to making pizzas, 'cause it's about the only thing you fucking wops are any good at."

Tony stood rooted to the spot, shaking with rage, and D'Arbanville smiled coldly.

"Oh, yes," he whispered, "I know all about your scum-sucking 'art dealer' father, DiNozzo. What do you think he does? Sells art? Legitimate, non-stolen, non-fake art? Or did you think he was an entrepreneur or something?" The boy laughed. "You're scum and your father's scum. You aren't fit to even speak to me. Get out of my face and I won't write you up for disrespecting an officer." He reached out and pushed Tony, who immediately shoved him back.

"You want to mess with Mazursky any more, you're gonna have to fight me, asshole."

The boy stared at Tony. "My father's the Governor-elect of South Carolina. You got no idea who you're messing with. I'll remember this."

"Assuming a pampered little brat like you can remember anything."

"You can have it your way, smartass. For now." With his pale, pointed chin, D'Arbanville motioned to the other two boys. "Let's go."

Mazursky eventually wriggled a couple of candy bars out of the machine, giving half to Tony. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

As they each unwrapped and bit into their first bar, Tony asked, "So who is that guy?"

"Well, he told you his name. He's Brigade S-3, third-highest ranked cadet around here. He's from Charleston, in South Carolina. His family owns this really big, really old house there. He thinks he's better than everyone 'cos he comes from the Old Families."

"Old Families?"

"Yeah, a lot of rich old snobby assholes who all marry their cousins and shit because nobody else is 'good enough'. They go back a long way in Charleston."

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"I'm from North Charleston. The Old Families basically own the 'real' city south of us and they make sure we know they think we're just trailer trash. D'Arbanville's a little bitch. Like I said, he thinks he's better than everyone 'cos of his name."

"I noticed that."

"He means it," Mazursky said suddenly. "He won't forget you. Neither will St. Esprit or Golan."

"I don't really care, man."

Mazursky shook his head. "You're making some enemies around here, acting like this. The whole Corps has heard of you and you've been here two days."

Tony laughed. "Cool. Any of them have sisters I can go on a date with or something?"

"Well, I bet Marshall could find you somebody. He fucks anything that's got tits."

"So I've heard."

The bell rang in the hallway outside, and a voice on the loudspeakers blared across campus, "Attention, attention: Formation on Lansing Road for Mess III in fifteen minutes. I say again, Mess III formation in fifteen minutes. Uniform is Class A whites, say again Class A whites, with bowtie and black jacket."

"We better go," the boy said. "Don't wanna be late. Gotta change, now, too. Assholes always switch uniforms on us." He nodded to Tony and scampered off.

As the brigade was forming up on Lansing Road, Tony approached the brigade staff, getting a wink from Kevin LeBlanc and glare from most of the others.

"What do you want, wop?" St. Esprit asked. "I got better things to do."

"I want to make amends," Tony said. "I'd like to do the cadet prayer."

St. Esprit looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Reverence for God is the greatest and most sacred of all things," Tony said simply.

"Nice. You read that in some book?"

"Well, yes or no?"

"No. Get out of my fucking face, DiNozzo. I'm looking forward to a nice peaceful dinner and that means you stay in Alpha Company and far away from me."

"Come on, please?"

"I said no!"

Marshall chuckled. "Come on, Colonel. Let him do the prayer if he wants to."

"Marshall, why are you sticking up for him?" D'Arbanville demanded.

"I'm not, I just think we should let him do the prayer if he wants to."

"Fine!" St. Esprit said. "Now get lost!"

"Thanks, dude," Tony said, smiling and snapping off a mock salute.

Once the entire Corps was in the mess hall, standing behind their seats, and the staff and some guests- most notably General Blake and General St. Esprit- had taken their places at the High Table, Tony went up to the far end of the room, between the rows and rows of tables, the five hundred cadets that went to this place. He stopped, turned, and caught LeBlanc's gaze from one of the tables, receiving a nod to indicate the trap was set. Then Tony said, "Let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads. Tony did too, and with a solemn voice he said, "Dear Lord baby Jesus, we thank you for these many gifts which you have seen fit to bestow upon us. We thank you for your little fists, pawing at the air, and your diaper, may it remain blessed and never soiled. We thank you for your guidance, and for your chubby little arms and legs. In His name we pray, Amen."

The mess hall exploded. Cadets cracked up laughing, some of whom were struggling to stand. At the High Table, St. Esprit, senior and junior, stood there looking like they'd just learned the U.S. had surrendered to the Soviet Union. And there were some cadets who were looking at Tony like he was the Antichrist. Then Gunnery Sergeant Ellison bellowed, "AT EASE!"

Silence.

"Take a seat!"

There was a rush of scraping chairs, and everyone sat down.

That was when Mark Golan moved faster than Tony had ever seen anybody at this school move. In the time it took for everyone to move their chairs and sit down, Golan, who had just come in from outside, sprinted forward and dove toward St. Esprit IV, meaning that when the whoopee cushion sprayed its cargo of bright red paint with a flatulent sound, it hit him right in the chest, some of it getting on the brigade commander's leg.

General St. Esprit looked stunned. Actually, all the staff and guests of honor at the High Table did. Quite a few cadets did, too.

Marshall sprang up and called out, "Honor Company of this marking period eats first as usual. Remaining order is as follows: Alpha, Bravo, Band, Charlie, Delta, Foxtrot, Hotel, India, Kilo, Lima. Rest!"

With a face as red as Marshall's hair, Cadet Colonel St. Esprit the forth stood up and strode out of the mess hall. Golan followed him. Ellison stood up and demanded that the person or persons responsible turn themselves in immediately, either in the mess hall or at the Commandant's Office, but Tony felt quite certain that neither he nor LeBlanc would do any such thing.

After dinner, there was some free time available, so Tony braved the cold and went to go shoot hoops in the basketball gym with a few of the guys. Marshall was there with his brother, who was dressed in a Marine Corps PT uniform. Both of them, Tony noticed, were in extremely good shape. They were on the lean side, but man, were they fit. Coming over to greet Tony, the two redheads grinned and slapped Tony on the back.

"That was hilarious, bro," Marshall said.

"I loved it," his brother agreed. "But, word of advice. Don't ever do that again. You pissed some people off."

Tony hesitated. "Well, I was kinda hoping to-"

"DiNozzo, come over here and talk to me a minute." Josh Marshall steered Tony away from the rest of the guys as they took shots and dribbled balls around the court.

"What? What's going on?" Tony asked.

"I asked General Blake and he told me this is your seventh high school."

"So what?" Tony said, more defensively than he meant to.

"You're trying to get kicked out. You have a history of trying to get kicked out."

"I'm not-"

"I know it when I see it." Joshua Marshall hesitated. "Look. I get that this isn't your thing. But you better make sure your Dad's got an eighth school lined up. You're gonna be headed there real fast if you don't straighten up and I don't know if that's really what you want."

Tony was confused. He didn't know who this guy was, or why he gave a crap. But he really seemed to.

"Just let me worry about me," Tony said. "Okay?"

"Okay," Joshua Marshall said. "That's not a problem at all." He clapped his hands together. "Boys! Since we got eight people now we can do four on four, nobody has to be the odd man out!"

The guys all cheered, and Peters and Christian Marshall helped run all the basketballs off the court but one.

Tony started forward, then grimaced. Something he'd eaten hadn't agreed with him, it seemed like.

"I gotta go, be right back."

"Hurry up," Joshua Marshall called. "Go, go, go!"

When Tony came back, they played a fierce game with one of the Marshalls on each side. Joshua admitted that soccer was more his specialty, but he played quite well, and Tony was surprised by how much he enjoyed himself. The game ended, a new one started, and before it seemed like half an hour had passed, almost two hours had gone by and the call to barracks was sounded.

"That was a hell of a game, DiNozzo," Joshua Marshall said, grinning and slapping Tony on the shoulder. "Coach wasn't lying about you."

"You're pretty well-informed," Tony said.

"It's my brother. He's the biggest snoop in this school." Joshua whispered it like he was sharing a secret, with his brother standing right there, arms crossed.

"Well, thanks for re-joining us," Tony said with mock annoyance. "Why'd you have to go take a dump right in the middle of the game?"

"Hey, look, Peters had to take a piss and Slade ran in to change his goddamn shoes for some reason. I don't see you getting mad at them."

"Whatever, man," Tony said. "I'm gonna go get my cute little RMA sweater and sweatpants."

"Okay," Marshall said. "I'll see you at practice tomorrow. Provided you aren't in the shit for that prayer you did at dinner."

Tony laughed. "Yeah. We'll see."

Joshua held out his hand. "DiNozzo, it was nice meeting you."

"I guess Tony's all right."

"Tony, then." Joshua smiled. "I gotta say goodbye to Chris and then get my ass on a flight back to Camp Lejeune."

"Okay. Come on by sometime and I'll take you down in basketball again."

Joshua and Christian both laughed. "Those," Josh said, "are fighting words. But I gotta go, so I'm gonna let it go. See you around."

Christian started to go, then leaned over to Tony and whispered, "Keep playing like that and you'll be starting on the varsity team in no time. Just don't do any more silly-ass prayers, man." Then he reached over and pinched Tony in the butt. "Oil check."

"You're so funny," Tony replied, half irritated and half amused.

"I try, my man. I try."

Tony headed into the locker room and went to the locker he'd stuffed his sweatpants and sweatshirt in. Number… was it 159? Same one as he used for practice. Yeah, 159. He rounded the corner, stopped in front of the locker, and recoiled as he saw something that hadn't been there earlier.

On the blue locker door in fresh, blood-red paint were the letters HC.

This was clearly something deliberate. The letters were big and bold, something meant to be noticed. Someone had wanted him to see this. Tony immediately whirled and looked over his shoulder, looked all around, listened. Nothing.

Just then Slade came in. "Doopa doopa doo-wah, do- Hey, DiNozzo, you're still here?"

"What the hell is this?" Tony asked, pointing at the locker door.

Slade came over and stared at it. Then he looked at Tony. "I don't know." He suddenly looked frightened, and he backed away from Tony like he didn't want to catch whatever disease Tony had acquired. "No idea, man. Just some prank, probably. I'll see you at practice tomorrow."

The brown-haired boy hurriedly grabbed a backpack from another locker and practically ran from the locker room, ignoring Tony's attempts at calling him back.

Tony sighed, shaking his head. He opened the door and pulled out his sweater and sweatpants. He spotted something black on them, smudges or something, and sighed again, sure there had been some black marker in there with its cap off or some shoe polish left open that Tony hadn't noticed. He held up the sweater, turned it around to look at the black stuff.

It was there. In big letters, once again. Drawn in black permanent marker, but unmistakably on purpose, once again.

Tony put on the sweats nonetheless and headed back to the barracks. It had gotten damned cold out since sundown, and he ducked his head down to avoid the wind. Just a little further, a little further. He hated this damn school and those creepy-as-shit letters drawn on his locker door and the-

Just as he was passing a parked RMA cargo van, a fist shot out and clocked Tony in the jaw. A boy grabbed him with both hands as he fell, spun him, slammed him against the side of the van. It was St. Esprit. His eyes were wild with rage, and he backhanded Tony twice across the face.

"You have humiliated my family for the last time!" he shouted, blowing minty air in Tony's face. Tony raised a fist to retaliate, but St. Esprit grabbed him and slammed him against the van again.

Suddenly Golan was there, grabbing St. Esprit by the shoulders. "Alex, hold it, hold it! Keep it down for God's sake!"

"Dad's furious! He said I have to write him an essay explaining why I let the brigade go all to shit, and why I'm still fit for command!" He picked Tony up and slammed him against the van, feet dangling above the ground. "This is your fault! You did this!"

"Let go of me, asshole!" Tony exclaimed, struggling fiercely.

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up when I'm talking to you!"

St. Esprit looked like he was about to lose it. Golan grabbed him again and pulled him away. "Let the Corps handle it, okay? Honor Corps takes care of scum like him, that's why they're here."

"I'll do this myself!"

"The Corps will handle it," Golan said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Did you see the back of his sweater? He's a marked man. Honor Corps is on him now."

"Honor Corps?" Tony asked. "What the fuck are you talking about? Are you the Honor Corps? Huh? Tough guys? You really wanna do this?"

"Go fuck yourself, wop," St. Esprit spat. Tony swung at him then, but St. Esprit blocked and punched Tony hard in the stomach.

"I was raised to be a soldier, DiNozzo," St. Esprit said, his breathing ragged and harsh. "All my life I've been learning how to fight. Where'd you learn? Huh? A few fistfights at your last twenty-seven high schools?"

"Alex," Golan said in a warning voice. "We got to get back to barracks. His punishment will be delivered by Honor Corps. Not by you. Not by any one person."

"Yeah, whatever," St. Esprit said. "I'm done. I'm fucking done with this."

"Don't worry," Golan said. The two boys walked away, leaving Tony by the side of the van. He caught his breath and managed to stand just as they reached the side entrance to Hull barracks. Golan turned around, grinned, and drew a finger across his throat. Then he turned and headed up the stairs.

Tony was shaken enough by the encounter that he headed right for one of the payphones in the hallway outside the vending machine room where he'd "met" D'Arbanville earlier. This whole place was getting on Tony's fucking nerves and he was ready to get out of here. He searched for some quarters in the return slots, found them, and punched in the number for the hotel Dad was staying at.

"Hilton Belfast," an accented voice answered. "How may I be of service, sir or madam?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm calling my Dad, he's staying here," Tony said.

"And his name, sir?"

"Anthony DiNozzo, Sr."

A pause.

"And you say you are his son, sir."

"Yes, yes! Just lemme talk to him already!"

"Very good, sir. Sir should know it is quite late, however-"

"Just do it!"

"Very good, sir."

The room phone rang for what seemed like eternity. Finally, just when Tony was ready to give up, a familiar voice answered.

"Yes? Yes? What, what?"

"Dad," Tony said, "You gotta send me to another school. I'm about to get kicked out and I hate it here, and-"

"Tony, you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you already got kicked out of another school?"

"Yeah, look, that's just how it happened. Now can I please go somewhere else?"

"Tony, I'm in Northern Ireland! I didn't make you do this! You've been kicked out of six schools already! This one is gonna have to work, and I mean it!"

"Dad-"

"Look, Tony, I got a lot to do over here in the UK. I'm busy. I told you I was busy. You've been playing this game of trying to get kicked out of every school you go to, well, now, you're in trouble. Because I'm running out of schools to put you in, Junior."

"I don't belong here, Dad."

"That's what you said about the last six schools, Junior. I can't keep doing this. Make it work. I'll see you when I get back for the Thanksgiving break."

"Dad-"

But DiNozzo Sr. had already hung up and the dialtone exploded in Tony's ear. Dad, he thought, you bastard.

Tony made it to his floor in Hull just as "Taps" sounded. He thought that by then his troubles might be over. Maybe he could go take a shower and then jerk off in peace. That sounded like it would be nice after a day like this. But when he stopped at his door, he saw the huge blood-red letters for a third time, painted there, plain as day.

A/N: 12-15-2017. Chapter 3 is done. Chapter 4 will feature one of the main flashbacks from S12E14, in which Tony tries to hotwire Coach Tanner's car. I am not going to feature the flashback of Tony being confronted by Golan and several other Honor Corps members in the gym, nor will I use the gray armbands, because neither is fitting to a secret society of cadets.

I cannot promise as to when the next chapter will be, but I will work on it and post when I can.

As always, all reviews are welcome. Feedback is quite rare on this site, so I will take whatever people are willing to give. Besides, the best way to know how I'm doing is to get feedback, and I'd be a fool if I was demanding nothing but positive commentary.

You've now met some of the key players at the school, and seen Honor Corps making their first moves against Tony. He's put himself in a difficult position. Tanner will try to help, as will Marshall, but will that be enough? That remains to be seen.

The notes on the parade and the day's events were as accurate as I could make them. I apologize for any mistakes.

UPDATE

-11-23-2018: Did some editing on this chapter, changed D'Arbanville's first name to Henry, like I did when I edited Chapter 1.