The Cadet Chapter 4, a ncis fanfic

Chapter 4

Mark Golan woke up well before "Reveille" sounded, like he always did. He rolled out of bed, wincing a little as his feet hit the cold floor. This was an old school, and the radiators that still heated each room never quite seemed to get the job done. It was a little better having your own room, where the radiator had less air to warm up, but not too much.

The blond teenager liked getting up early, especially here at Remington. It meant you would have time to yourself before the day started. You were getting up on your own terms, and you had some leisure time before the schedule that someone else controlled inevitably began.

This morning, though, Mark needed some time to think about the great fuckup they'd had go down yesterday. Veteran's Day, for God's sake. They'd had a pair of idiots pull a prank on Veteran's Day. Right in front of a whole bunch of alumni who stayed for dinner, in front of the whole school. A quick reaction by Mark had saved Alex's father any direct embarrassment, but General St. Esprit had not been pleased. Alex had stayed up well past "Taps" trying to write the essay his father demanded, and was no doubt up already, looking it over.

Someone knocked on Mark's door. From the sound, Mark had an idea who it was, so he just said, "It opens!"

The door opened, and Marshall let himself in. "So yesterday was fun, huh?"

"Don't remind me."

"My brother says we should just get rid of him. Solves the problem, right there."

"Well, LeBlanc is finished. He's got a file big enough that old Fussy won't put up with him anymore after this. And he'll have some people telling him it's for the best. He's gone."

Marshall had a towel around his waist; clearly, he was wanting to take a shower before the day started. There was a funny thing about Marshall and showers. Here at school, he never took one alone. Ever. It was a habit he'd picked up… years ago. Back when the Class of 1987's Honor Corps members were just a bunch of little kids. It was kinda weird that Marshall would apparently never take a shower by himself, at least at school, but then, he had a dozen quirks and habits that were just as odd and inexplicable. He was a great athlete and a great friend, and one of the best leaders Mark knew. It was easy to forgive Marshall's little quirks when you added up everything he did so well, so often.

"Oh, all right," Mark said, giving an exaggerated sigh. He had been starting to get his winter PTs on, but he gestured and took off his underwear while Marshall turned around a second. Mark grabbed one of the neatly-folded white towels he had in his press, and followed Marshall out into the hallway. Both boys took their razors and shaving cream cans with them. The rooms had their own sinks on this floor, but it was a habit of the seven boys on this hall to do things together.

St. Esprit stepped out of his room as they started down the hall. "Damn," he said. "I think it's colder out here than it is in my room." He also had a towel around his waist and shaving cream and a razor with him.

"Shall I wake the staff, sir?" Marshall asked.

St. Esprit laughed. "Nah. They'll all be up on time, so it's fine."

The three boys headed down the hall to the latrine. The lights stayed on all the time, making it easier for sleepy cadets to make their way to and from the latrine and their rooms at any hour. Marshall would probably have insisted on that, regardless, even if it were not a rule. The last time someone had surprised him and shut the lights off while he was taking a shower, the redhead had screamed bloody murder and immediately taken up a defensive posture, shoving away anyone who was near him.

He'd laughed it off, insisting he was just fucking with them, but Mark wondered about that sometimes. Marshall was the only one of the Honor Corps boys to have been adopted, and where he was really from and who his parents were was largely unknown, even to him. Maybe there was some bad memory from way back that had been brought up by the startling event of the lights being shut off while he was in the shower. Mark knew it wasn't from anything at Remington- Marshall had assured them all of that quite plainly. But he didn't want to talk about it, so the guys left that alone.

On this floor, as with all the others, there were no partitions between the showers. The toilet stalls had no doors anywhere in the Academy. It was something you learned to live with, as deprivation and a lack of luxuries was part of the traditionally spartan way of life at a military school. Golan had learned a while back how to handle being around a bunch of other naked boys, and mainly you just avoided looking at certain things and so did they. It wasn't that hard. And besides, Honor Corps kept watch for any faggots in the Corps of Cadets, and put them in their place or shipped them out if they found some. So the chances of somebody trying some gay shit with you were fairly low.

The brigade staff boys often laughed about the fact that, if anyone at this school were gay, the brigade staff floor would probably be their dream residence around here. Seven lean, athletic boys, all in peak physical condition, all of them handsome, strong and young- shit, it was a gay kid's dream, probably. Mark didn't know, since he didn't go that way. No one did who got picked for Honor Corps.

Mark threw his towel over one of the racks near the shower area, then headed up to one of the showers and stood aside as he turned it on. The water that came out of those old pipes was cold as ice in the winter until the damn boilers got some warm water going. Only a fool or a new cadet would stand directly in front of the shower head around here and turn it on.

Marshall hung up his own towel but took his time, and while St. Esprit was messing with his own shower's setting, impatiently trying to get warm water out of it, the red-haired boy came up behind both teenagers and pinched them on the ass.

"Fuck!" St. Esprit exclaimed, jumping and turning around. "You asshole!"

"I told you, the whole Corps is gonna know you're gay if you keep grabbing guys' asses," Mark said. He took pride in the fact that he hadn't even flinched. Really, with all the stupid little grab-ass games that went on in the locker rooms and the latrines, you got used to it, and Mark had known what Marshall was gonna do, anyway. You didn't usually have a little smile on your face before you took a shower.

"I think they know the truth," Marshall said confidently. He patted his six-pack abs. "I mean, with the record I have-"

"All of which is lies," St. Esprit broke in.

"I have tapes," Marshall said, grinning. "I can bring 'em and put 'em in the VCR if you need proof."

"Oh, wow," St. Esprit said. "No, that's okay." After checking the water, each of the boys took their place under the spray. As he was rubbing shampoo in his hair, St. Esprit said, "So I thought about what you said, Chris."

"And?"

"You better make a pitch on that idea of yours at the meeting tonight. I'm not convinced but you should tell it to the guys."

"Aren't we giving Piggy some special attention today?"

"Oh, yeah," St. Esprit said, nodding. "But, uh, Dad is fucking pissed about that shit that the Wop and the Frog pulled. I'm gonna have to answer for it this morning when I give him the essay. I'm short on sleep and I'm pissed off myself, and I don't see why the fuck we should let one shithead stay here when the other is leaving today. You talk about it at the meeting and we'll see."

"All right, Alex," Marshall said. "I'm not arguing with you. I just think-"

"At the meeting," St. Esprit cut him off. "Not now."

"Okay. So for today?"

"Put the freeze on him. Nobody knows him, nobody talks to him. The basketball team's a little harder to control, but… fuck it. Let them throw their orange balls around for all I care."

"I'm the captain of the guys that throw the orange balls around."

"I guess that's why the girls find you so irresistible," Mark snickered.

"I thought it was the fact that I look like a model, I'm charming, and I can fuck like a champ."

"Hey," Mark said, "you know what? Maybe the girls just feel sorry for him, with that little worm he's got."

"Are you looking at it, Mark Golan, buddy?"

"Hell no."

"Then let's not get into talking sizes, because the evidence to refute your claim is right here."

Mark groaned. "I'm the Chairman of the Honor Court, not you."

"Whatever. So, okay, we marked up his locker door, his room-"

"Great touch with his sweater," St. Esprit said. "I mean, that's the key thing, you know? Gotta fuck with a man's sweater if you wanna get to him."

"Yeah, well, I painted up his fucking locker door like you told me. And Long took care of his room door. The sweater was a nice extra. You know it was."

"Okay, guys," St. Esprit said. "LeBlanc made it easy for us with all the trouble he'd been in already. Long's gonna pass along what he saw, and I'll go by and tell them the same kind of thing."

"Think Colonel Fosse will buy it?"

"It's easy, because it's the truth," St. Esprit said. "There's no need for lies when the truth works just as well."

"And DiNozzo?" Marshall asked.

"Like I said, scare him. Maybe he'll run away or something. Otherwise I guess we can hear the fucking Marshall Plan this evening."

"Okay," Mark said.

"God," Marshall suddenly said, "I haven't had sex in weeks! Can we please go on Thanksgiving break already?"

The other two boys cracked up, slapping Marshall on the back. As some of the other guys woke up and the highest-ranking boys in the Corps began their usual morning routine of mercilessly teasing each other- an excellent way to demonstrate how much you cared about someone- the problem created by DiNozzo and LeBlanc faded into the background somewhat. The guys all knew it was an issue they would have to handle. When LeBlanc was expelled today, HC would be put on his door. The word would go out: do what LeBlanc did and you'll get his reward.

And as for DiNozzo… Mark was interested to see how that situation played out. Marshall had not said much, but he wanted to do something besides just kick DiNozzo out. Given how opinion within the group was near-unanimous on getting rid of him, it would sure be interesting to see what Marshall had in mind.

Alex walked up to the first floor of Aubrey Hall with a sense of dread. He didn't look forward to facing his father after yesterday. Dad was going back to West Point today, but as he had planned to stay overnight in Tiverton, he was making a stop at Remington before he departed. It was supposed to have been a pleasant addition to a pleasant visit yesterday. DiNozzo had no right to have ruined it, or to have forced Alex into the unenviable position he was in now.

His father, The General, stood facing the windows in the meeting room Alex had been ordered to report to before breakfast. He wore his Class B greens, three stars on his shoulders. Alex walked in, snapped to attention and saluted. "Cadet Colonel St. Esprit, reporting as ordered, sir!"

Dad turned around. He stared hard at his son, leveling against him the same piercing gaze that had stared down countless men who had tried and failed to kill him in the jungles and rice paddies, the mountains and hillsides of Vietnam. His father, Alexander R. St. Esprit, II, had not been so lucky. A communist antiaircraft gun had shot down his Huey mobile command post in 1966, killing one of General William C. Westmoreland's most able commanders and most trusted classmates from West Point's Class of 1936.

Against that horrific pain and loss, Dad, then a young officer still learning his trade, had fought back with tremendous courage. He had spent years at war over there, and kept his nerve. He had kept his courage, his honor, his soul, through decades of service in the Army, doing what the St. Esprit family had done for generation after generation.

And Alex had let his father down, and that was shame beyond words.

"Do you realize what happened yesterday?" General St. Esprit asked quietly, but in a voice that carried so Alex heard every word. "Do you understand the position this puts me in? The Governors don't know if my own son can control the Corps of Cadets he commands. Alumni are asking me what the school's coming to. I find myself asking that question as well."

"I have the essay, sir," Alex said, still rigidly at attention, still holding the salute. "I have explained my failure and the actions I will take to correct the problem with my command."

"Let me see it," General St. Esprit said. He returned the salute, but let his son remain at attention. Alex stiffly took out the two pages of paper, unfolded them, and handed them over as his father approached. After a minute or two, General St. Esprit said, "All right. But you had better handle this, Alex. Get control of the situation. Use your influence. Never let this happen again. This will not be the last opportunity for the less-than-loyal to make trouble. We are at war, Alex, even if the politicians call it peace. The communists may attack in Europe at any moment. But every minute where they do not is a minute they spend trying to corrupt the soul of this country. You need to keep the situation under control here."

"I'll keep them in line, sir."

"Like you did yesterday."

"No, sir. I will do it effectively with no slip-ups, sir."

"I'm counting on it. Never again, Alex. Never again."

"It won't happen again, sir," Alex said. "I promise."

"See to it that it doesn't." Finally, the General said, "At ease."

Alex relaxed his posture, but only a little. Despite the trust and affection, he had always been afraid of his father, had always felt that he walked the earth with a heavy burden on his shoulders, the burden of knowing that the last three men to bear his name had all become generals, all had become West Pointers of great distinction, and two had received the Medal of Honor for extraordinary courage in the face of the impossible.

"Alex, I'm still proud of you. You're still my son. But I expect you to do better than you did yesterday. I know you can. All you have to do is handle this."

"I will, sir."

General St. Esprit smiled. "I'm counting on it. Come on. See me out to my car."

The two of them walked outside, and General St. Esprit returned the salute of his driver as he came down the steps towards the black Cadillac limousine.

"Tell Mom I love her," Alex said.

"I will, but make sure to tell her yourself when you come home for Thanksgiving."

"Yes, sir."

Alex hesitated, then embraced his father, allowing himself to briefly dispense with all the formalities and just tell his Dad he loved him. Through that hug, he tried to say that he was sorry, that he was proud to bear his father's name, that he was going to live his whole life trying to be even half as great as he was.

That DiNozzo had such disrespect for Alex and his family, for Alex's father- that was something to be pitied. DiNozzo had clearly been raised quite poorly. His father was surely a laughable excuse for a man. But he had crossed Alex's family and embarrassed Alex personally- and that was something that could not be allowed.

The morning started with the usual stuff. Getting up, hygiene, prepping the room, putting on the stupid Class B dress grays, and so on. But at the morning formation, at breakfast, Tony was surprised at how different everything suddenly was. No one seemed to want to talk to him. Most of the boys spoke around him in conversations, ignoring things he tried to interject with or comments he made. Long, the Alpha Company commander, barely gave Tony a glance, and Park ignored him as well. Collins barely did more than grunt if Tony talked to him.

Coach Tanner had been pretty annoyed about the big HC painted on Tony and Phelps' door. He'd called some people in school maintenance and they'd come up and painted it back over with the standard gray, and Tanner had talked to everyone about the importance of not vandalizing school property.

Last night, Tony had asked Piggy what the hell Honor Corps was. Between the fat boy's response and his talk with Coach Tanner as he made the call to Maintenance this morning, Tony was able to learn a few things.

They were the most feared and powerful cadets in the school, so the stories said. An elite and intensely secretive brotherhood, sworn to uphold the highest standards of the school. They defended tradition, and everything held sacred by the school's ideals. Coach Tanner said that, all the tall tales aside, the group was a kind of cadet fraternity- or maybe just a glorified gang.

Phelps, or Piggy as a lot of guys around here called him, said they were "Not a nice bunch of guys," and mostly left it at that, but Tony had prodded him to get more. They policed substandard cadets and kept things under control. Way back, they had formed to protect the school against communists, Japanese, and Nazis after Pearl Harbor had been bombed.

Getting selected for membership was supposed to be the highest honor a cadet could aspire to at Remington. The secrecy and the elite nature of the group was a big part of its allure, but Tanner pointed out that plenty of staff and cadets alike believed the group did not exist. It was just a bunch of stories made up to scare cadets. "And besides," Tanner said, "everybody loves a good story."

Tony, as disgusted as he was with the gang of bullies he was coming to notice called themselves the highest-ranked cadets at this school, wondered if they weren't even worse than that behind the scenes. Golan, in that little confrontation last night, had been firm in seeming to say that Honor Corps was real. St. Esprit seemed to believe him. That may have all been a show to scare Tony. But he wondered. That big HC on his locker door, on the back of his sweater, on his room door… none of that seemed like a made-up story. It looked damned serious.

At breakfast, he tried to spot LeBlanc, but the other boy didn't seem to be around. By the end of lunch, Tony had managed to find out that the kid had been shipped for committing one disciplinary violation too many. He'd had a bad record already, and the end of the line had come when he'd tried pranking General St. Esprit with the paint.

But another, more sinister rumor was making the rounds as well. That story held that LeBlanc had crossed a serious line by humiliating the Brigade Commander in front of his father, and by causing so much trouble on the day of the General's visit to the school. More than once, Tony heard someone speculate that Honor Corps had moved in and made sure the Commandant's Office made the decision to kick LeBlanc out. "HC" was found painted on his door an hour after LeBlanc's father came to the school and picked him up.

Heading downstairs amongst a crowd of other cadets, all jostling to get to the same social studies classes beneath the chapel, somebody shoved DiNozzo hard, sending him sprawling. He flung his arms out and caught his right on the railing, and hung on, his heart racing. He looked around, trying to find the assailant, but saw just gray uniforms and short haircuts. A few boys looked at him curiously. Someone laughed.

At lunch, a boy passing by in the crowded mess hall slapped the underside of Tony's tray with force, sending everything on it into the air. Tony was so startled that he completely missed the opportunity to retaliate. He didn't know the boy who did it, and he wasn't looking directly at him, wasn't paying attention to him until it was already too late, so there was no way of looking for him. It was like an explosion had taken place. Mixed vegetables, a cup of Jell-O, mashed potatoes and ham went everywhere, and a fair bit the stuff went straight into Tony's face and the front of his uniform.

It was the same as the incident on the stairs. A few boys laughed, some looked at him with brief interest, but nobody really did or said anything.

After getting another tray and rushing through the meal at lunch, Tony came back to his room and found it utterly destroyed. His things were everywhere, mixed in so thoroughly with Piggy's that it would take forever to sort it all out, which was probably the point.

It was not as if someone had yanked a few things off the shelves, or tossed the mattress off his bed. This was the work of someone who had done it a hundred times before. This was a professional job. Whoever had destroyed this room had taken it and made it look as if it were the inside of a well-shaken snowglobe, after all the little flakes had settled to the bottom of the water. A tornado could not have more thoroughly wrecked the room and thrown everything around.

Golan showed up with a pair of solemn-faced boys wearing the big black armband with white lettering indicating them as MPs just as Tony was surveying the full extent of the damage. He pointed to Tony. "Cadet DiNozzo, under orders from the Commandant of Cadets you are hereby placed under arrest. You are to accompany me to the office of the Commandant, Colonel Fosse, immediately. You-"

"This is some fine fucking work you did, Golan!" Tony shouted at him with sudden, explosive anger.

Golan calmly took out a pad with some kind of form on it. He marked a thing or two, wrote a thing or two. "Room in Disorder," Golan said. "Gross insubordination."

Then he looked at Tony and smiled.

"Are you coming to the Commandant's office or not, Cadet DiNozzo? If you refuse I will place you in this room under guard and the TAC officers will handle this. They're not all as patient as I am. I think you've met Gunny Ellison, and he's on duty down there right now."

"You son of a bitch," Tony said, shaking with rage. "You little-"

"Well?"

"Fine," Tony said. He stormed out of the room, or started to, but Golan held up a hand. "Not in that," he said. "Change that uniform on the double, mister."

Fuming, Tony yanked off his necktie and pulled at the collar of his shirt so hard it popped some of the buttons off. Golan laughed, and one of the MPs chuckled. Tony quickly put his nametag on another gray Class B shirt he pulled off a coat hanger, buttoned it and tucked it in. He pulled a necktie off the piles of stuff and put it on, tying it in a decent half-Windsor knot.

"That'll do," Golan said. "Let's go."

Once they reached the first floor of Aubrey Hall, Golan dismissed the MPs and stood there in the hallway outside the office. It was an old building, and it looked like someone with only a ruler and not a lot of free space had designed it. Well, the main hallway had space. Room in the offices seemed to have been sacrificed so the entrance hall behind those big white doors would look nice and impressive.

There were old pictures of the school and its cadets, some brass trophies, a whole Class A uniform with medals and cadet colonel's diamonds and the nametag St. Esprit in a case hung on the wall. Tastefully decorated, this quiet, austere place was the headquarters of the school and was designed to make a good first impression. Along one wall in the hallway Golan and St. Esprit stood in was a series of portraits. They were big, several feet high and wide, and each one was a distinguished-looking old white guy in a uniform. Each one had a brass plate fixed to the bottom center of the gold-painted frame stating the name, rank, and two years with a dash in between.

"Heads of the school," Golan said.

"I figured that out," Tony snapped.

Golan shrugged.

At the end of the hall, through the windows of the closed door, Tony saw light. Peering, he spotted glass cases, tall ones. Medals, loads of them, displayed in groups under the lights behind the glass.

"The Hall of Honor," Golan said. "If you want to know about better men than you, that's the place. But I wouldn't go there if I were you. It's not a place you belong."

"Maybe this whole school is that."

"Even you can be right sometimes. Amazing."

"Shut the fuck up."

Golan shrugged again.

General Blake emerged through the door that led downstairs, the one opposite the front doors. He turned left and Golan said, "Atten-shun!"

Golan drew himself perfectly to the position of attention. After hesitating, Tony followed him.

"At ease," Blake said. "Mr. Golan, I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time. Colonel Fosse is on the phone, but he'll be with Mr. DiNozzo in a minute."

"I dismissed the MP detail, sir," Golan said. "I should stay with him since he's under arrest."

"Captain Tanner will be here in just a minute," Blake replied. "In spite of what happened yesterday I think we can trust Mr. DiNozzo to remain here on his honor."

Golan looked like he disagreed, but he said, "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. On to my office, then, Mr. Golan." He headed further down the hall, opened a door, and headed in.

Before following him, Golan leaned in and whispered to Tony. He did it so suddenly that the brown-haired teen didn't have time to flinch or push him away. Golan just leaned in and said in a quiet voice, "I hope you had fun yesterday, because I'm gonna get you, DiNozzo. I'm gonna get you and there's nothing you can do about it."

Then he walked down the hall after General Blake, turned right, and headed in.

Colonel Thomas G. Fosse, nicknamed "Fussy" by the cadets for his precise, detail-oriented manner as much as for his name, was a tall, lean man with graying brown hair. As he got up and summoned Tony into his office, Tony got a look at the immaculate green Class B uniform he was wearing, the rows of ribbons and the silver eagles adorning each shoulder and either side of his collar. Fosse's office walls were lined with neatly-filled bookshelves, framed diplomas with not a speck of dust on them, and pictures of exotic places where the colonel had presumably been during his Army career.

"Mr. DiNozzo," he said, shaking hands, "Colonel Thomas Fosse. Please, have a seat."

Tony sat down in one of the two armchairs placed in front of the Colonel's desk. It was loaded with paperwork, and a green garrison cap with a silver colonel's eagle was sitting on top of one pile in the OUT tray.

Fosse didn't say anything after he sat down. He just stared at DiNozzo, which was somehow worse than anything he could have said. The silence went on and on. Just when Tony was about to break the silence himself, Fosse said, "You're in some trouble, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Am I?" Tony asked, keeping his voice light and careless, expressing a cavalier attitude he didn't entirely feel at the moment.

"You are," Fosse confirmed. "I'm afraid you and Mr. LeBlanc were both seen in your antics yesterday. Veteran's Day is a day you may not be used to taking seriously, Mr. DiNozzo, but we at Remington-"

"Skip to the part I care about," Tony said. He wasn't up for this guy's games. If they were kicking him out he wanted it to happen already.

Fosse stopped and looked at him. The silence resumed. After a full minute, he said again, "You're in some trouble, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Is that right?"

"Your attitude is quite central to that."

"So I've heard."

"Try adding a "Sir" to that, mister," Fosse said, picking up a pen.

"So I've heard, sir," Tony said.

"Mr. DiNozzo, I am well aware of your history prior to coming to this school. It is not one we normally wish to associate ourselves with. Six prior schools in the past four years and not a good word from one of them." Fosse nodded. "Yes, I spend quite a bit of time on the phone when it concerns a special case like yourself. You see, here at Remington that's one of the things that we teach. Giving it the whole nine yards when it's anything that's worth doing. And I get an application for a boy who clearly makes it a habit of getting kicked out of his boarding schools- I'm not about to just let him in, no matter how charming his father may sound."

Tony gave a derisive laugh. "I knew he wouldn't bother to show his face at this dump."

"That's enough, Mr. DiNozzo," Fosse ordered, his lean face set in stone. "I am not paid to sit here and listen to your wisecracks. General Blake is a patient and understanding man. His recommendation-" Fosse suddenly looked up and smiled. "Gerald, I'm glad you could join me. Please, come on."

"Always a pleasure, Thomas," a familiar deep voice rumbled. Tanner walked into the room, dressed in Class B greens himself, but with no ribbons and three silver dots instead of one eagle on each of his shoulders. He sat down in the other chair in front of Fosse's desk.

"Through his extraordinary powers of negotiation," Fosse said, "Captain Tanner has convinced me to stay your execution." He chuckled. "Sorry, not entirely appropriate given the gravity of your situation. But- not untrue, either. So, yes. We let you in despite some misgivings. It seems like you want to prove to us that we made a mistake in doing so. What I brought you here to ask you, DiNozzo, is, if you are expelled from this, your seventh high school- a feat you are quite close to achieving by the middle of your first week here, I might add- where will you go next? Does your father have an eighth school lined up and ready to go?"

"Not exactly," Tony grumbled.

"I didn't think so. Your father seemed to hope that, with our reputation, we would be able to do what the others had failed to. In my call to him this morning he seemed quite frustrated. He was not expecting you to be dismissed this quickly."

"Am I being dismissed?" Tony asked.

"You're close to it." Fosse tapped the pen on his desk. "Gerald?"

"Some people are very unhappy with what happened yesterday, DiNozzo, and I mean alumni, parents… General St. Esprit is a highly respected man and what you and LeBlanc did was extremely embarrassing to his son, and thus to him. I believe you should stay here, DiNozzo, but you're making it hard on those of us that want to make that happen."

"So what?"

"This is your last year of high school," Fosse said. "Somehow you've stayed on track to graduation despite changing schools so many times. If you don't graduate from here… where will you graduate from? If not here, where? How many more schools is it going to take?"

"Why do you even care, man?"

"I care," Fosse replied, "because it is my job to care. I care because I am paid to care. My job is handling disciplinary matters, to be the boss of all the TACs and security staff we have here. But when I get a young man who is trying to get expelled and has a history of getting expelled, it's my concern because I am not paid to stand by and watch that young man burn his own life down because he feels like it."

Tony didn't say anything. He just sat there, not sure what the hell he wanted to do or say now.

"You owe Colonel Fosse a lot of tours," Tanner said. "But I convinced him to let you start Friday."

"Assuming I make it that far," Tony replied.

"That decision is in your hands," Fosse said. "You think about it, Mr. DiNozzo. Good morning."

After being shoved into a locker twice between classes and getting gum stuck in his hair, Tony decided he'd better go and try talking to Golan. The guy seemed to be a big player around here, and not just in being the brigade XO. Piggy mentioned that Golan liked to hang out in the Shark's Lair, the cadet officer's club, in the first floor of Blakefield Hall barracks.

After classes ended, Tony went to the Shark's Lair straight away. Sure enough, Golan was there, talking with Long and a few other boys Tony didn't recognize. Park was there, too, shooting pool with some cadet major and a cadet first lieutenant. They all noticed Tony walking in, and a boy called out, "You can't come in here."

"I wanna talk to Golan," Tony said.

"Go get some rank and then come back," the major cracked, and the cadet officers all laughed.

"Oh, whatever, let him in," Golan said, waving a hand. "Give us a minute, Long. Take the LTs with you."

"You got it," Long said, and he and the other boys accompanying him went over to the color TV sitting in front of three different couches and switched it on. They soon started arguing over what channel to watch, while Park and the boys he was playing pool with resumed their banter over the game.

Golan had his gray garrison cap in hand, and had a small rag out and some Brasso. He resumed polishing the two silver diamonds mounted on the forward end of one side of the cap. "You got some nerve walking in here uninvited," he said. "What do you want?"

"We should make a deal or something."

Golan looked up at him, expressionless, then resumed polishing the two diamonds. "Too late."

"I know you're in that group," Tony said.

"What group?"

"Honor Corps."

"There's no Honor Corps."

"Then why'd you tell Supreme Commander they'd "deal with" me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, DiNozzo. You sound paranoid."

"Look, what do you guys want?"

Golan looked up again, and while his face was blank, his stare was cold. "You, out of our school."

"Maybe I'd rather stay."

Golan gave a contemptuous laugh. "I don't care."

"Come on. My Dad's in Europe and if I get kicked out-"

"I don't care. Did you miss that?"

"Look-"

"Fuck you, DiNozzo," Golan said. "Beat it."

"Well, at least let me punch you in the face first," Tony burst out, louder than he meant to. Park's group and Long's group turned around, and a group of cadet officers running in, seeming to be having a race or something, skidded to a halt.

But Golan looked interested now. He stood up. "Are you challenging me?"

"You bet I am," Tony said.

"Boxing match?" Golan asked.

"If you're not too scared. And I get to stay here if you lose."

Golan laughed. He raised his voice and addressed the rest of the room. "It's been two years since I've been challenged!"

Park whistled and the other boys clapped, whooped and cheered. Tony stared at them, wondering again if they weren't all crazy. Golan, meanwhile, turned back to Tony and said, "I look forward to reminding people why."

Basketball practice was the only thing Tony liked about Remington Military Academy, the only part of it he wanted more of. The team, consisting of varsity, junior varsity, and middle school players, numbered more than thirty in total and had six coaches, one for each team, with Tanner being head of the whole show as well as lead, and three assistant coaches.

"Good to have you back," Marshall said as Tony arrived for practice. He offered his hand and Tony shook it. "Hurry up and get changed. We're gonna put you through your paces today, see how you do. I want to see your best, you got me? Give it all you got and maybe you won't get shot at dawn tomorrow."

"Who was gonna shoot me at dawn?"

"A firing squad arranged on orders from Sergeant Major Ambrose," the redhead said with a grin. "You're in one of his classes, you have to have heard him say that. Anybody who does this, that, or the other thing will be shot at dawn."

"Why dawn?"

"Military efficiency," Marshall said. "Blow your brains out first thing in the morning so we all get it over with."

"Oh, can I sign up for that? Your brother recommended it."

"Actually, he recommended doing it yourself."

"Boys, gather round!" Tanner called out, his voice booming across the cavernous space of the basketball gym. "Move yourselves, all teams, move and gather around me! Marshall, DiNozzo, stop planning your next date and get moving!"

The basketball team had boys from every company, and it was a surprising relief that they didn't seem influenced by much of the frostiness, even hostility, that had suddenly turned against Tony starting today. Some of them were a little distant or found excuses to avoid talking with Tony, but that may just have been his imagination.

Christian Marshall, the captain, was amazing. Lean, muscular and energetic, he moved fast and talked fast, and on the court he could clearly think fast, too. The more intense a game was, the harder his side was pressed, the happier Marshall seemed to become. Mouthing off to the coaches could earn pushups, but Tony noticed that Marshall would do it on purpose, just so he could be told to do some. He pushed buttons but only up to a point, and the coaches, by the way they reacted to his antics, were clearly used to Marshall and the way he behaved.

Because tryouts had long since ended, Tony was the only one earning his place on the team, so many of the boys ragged on him and gave him grief for being new. Tony used a generic team uniform, one featuring no number or last name on the back, and some of the boys called him "Null" or "Noodle," a play on his name. "DiNoodle" emerged as they improved it, and Tony protesting only made them say it more.

Tanner was a relentless drillmaster, and from the way he circulated amongst the teams in the enormous gymnasium and gave direction to them and their coaches at appropriate moments, he could have been a circus ringmaster instead of a basketball coach in Tony's opinion. His deep, impressive voice could be heard anywhere in the gym, and if he shouted for everyone to stop, the command was noticed immediately. He criticized the boys constantly, but he also offered praise and encouragement. Tony, to his chagrin, learned he'd been doing a couple things wrong for years, but was able to correct himself and start getting used to the new method. Tanner seemed impressed by how Tony did during the games, and the problems he had off the court seemed far away as long as he was out there, racing around and hearing the thud of the ball and the squeak of boys' shoes under the blazing lights.

Marshall, as the varsity captain, was effectively the highest-ranked member of the basketball team, and he would disappear for periods so he could help out with the middle schoolers, who seemed delighted whenever he joined them. Actually, all the teams did. It was like a celebrity showed up whenever Marshall rotated to a new team. Tony found himself envying how fit the boy was. How did he even have shoulders like that? And it honestly looked like he had a six-pack chiseled into his abdomen. Tony looked good and knew he did, but this kid might just show him up if they went to the beach together.

Maybe. It wasn't like Tony was just gonna give him that kind of credit. This Marshall kid clearly thought he was the biggest ladies' man in this school. Tony began considering just how he'd prove him wrong.

Towards the end of practice, when Tony was sitting out and watching the game, arms resting on his knees as he caught his breath, Marshall came over and sat down beside him. "That was pretty good today. Not as good as me, but good."

"You haven't seen anything yet," Tony promised.

Marshall laughed. "You should take it easy, man. You're doing good here but elsewhere… you're making things hard on yourself."

"I know."

"So stop," Marshall said, lowering his voice. "Make it easy on yourself."

"What are you, my babysitter? My Dad or something?"

Marshall held up his hands, frowning a little. "Hey, man, cool it. I'm not the bad guy here. And I told you: you better get used to me and my face because you're gonna see 'em both a lot if you wanna play basketball here."

Tony didn't immediately reply, and they both sat there a few minutes, watching the two JV teams that Coach Franklin had picked out.

"They're not very happy with you."

Tony started. "What?"

"You embarrassed them. They're angry about that."

"Who?"

"The guys who painted the shit on your locker door, and your room door, and drew on your sweater."

"Honor Corps?" Tony asked.

"Those are the guys."

"I'm not scared of them."

"If I were you, DiNozzo, maybe I would be."

"So you're scared of them?"

"I keep my head down and my nose clean. I stay out of trouble." Marshall shrugged. "Well, except for girls. Then I go looking for it."

"Oh, you, too?"

Marshall laughed. "I bet I've got more notches on my belt than you, DiNozzo."

"How do I know that?"

"I give you my word of honor."

Tony laughed. "Really?"

"Really." The red-haired boy stretched his arms over his head, then brought them back down again. "By the way, it was eight cheerleaders on the team I got in one year, not twelve. People exaggerate. The legend is getting bigger than the man."

"Something sure isn't getting bigger."

Marshall laughed again. "Oh, yeah, you're funny, wise guy. So you gonna box Golan or what?"

"What? How do you know about that?"

The redhead looked at him almost pityingly.

"Oh," Tony said. "What, did he tell everyone?"

"You had about a dozen guys there when Golan said you challenged him. I'd be surprised if the entire school didn't know. I mean, they're not all gonna be there, but- nobody's officially challenged Golan to box in a while." Marshall grinned and rubbed his hands together. "I got money riding on this, so you bet I'll be there."

"You do?"

"Yeah, a lot of guys throw down some allowance money when something like this happens. It's a chance to boost your income. Or try to get back what you lost last time. I mean, it's against the rules around here but we're not supposed to set up boxing matches like that, per se. But they let us use the ring down in the weight room when the room's open."

"Is Golan really that good?" Tony asked.

"One of the best at this school," Marshall answered. He got up. "Good luck at the match. Don't drop the soap in the showers."

A moment later Tanner blew his whistle, and called the teams together. After a few more comments and a briefing on tomorrow's scheduled practice, Tanner dismissed everyone, and they crowded into the locker room.

As Tony pulled his sweaty jersey over his head and approached his locker, he noticed that a lot of guys were crowded around it. He pushed his way through and saw it painted on the new one he'd moved to, 253. In red letters just like last time: HC.

The boxing match was set up in a corner of the weight room, and normally it was just one part of a busy and noisy room during the free time before study hall started. But after word passed that the newcomer and the brigade XO were going to go head-to-head in a match, a lot of guys showed up just to see the game.

Mark Golan was already there, lazily standing in one corner, talking with Marshall, Park, D'Arbanville and St. Esprit. When he caught sight of Tony, he called out, "Well, look who it is! The girliest boy in school!"

A few boys laughed. Tony just strode resolutely to the ring, climbed under the ropes, and started pulling off his winter PTs. Once he was down to his uniform shorts and t-shirt, Tony stood and faced Golan, who had two feet planted on the padded floor of the ring and was smiling confidently at him.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," Golan remarked, and Tony realized he meant more than just the boxing match.

"Trying to scare me?"

"You're already scared."

"Nah, man," St. Esprit said, "he's a wop. Wops are too dumb to understand fear." He caught Tony's glare and grinned in return. Tony felt momentarily annoyed and ashamed, realizing he'd let the other boy provoke a reaction.

When Tony looked back at Golan, the other boy reached down and slowly pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his buff upper body. He met Tony's gaze as he tossed the uniform shirt aside, that smug, confident look still on his face.

Tony responded by doing an exaggerated imitation of what Golan had just done, provoking some chuckling and guffaws. Golan didn't change his expression at all. He just laced up his gloves.

Marshall climbed into the middle of the ring. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and morons, I give you Tony DiNozzo! Someone toss him his gloves for Chrissakes!"

Somebody threw a pair of red boxing gloves in, and Tony barely caught them before they would have hit him in the face.

"And in the other corner, Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Mark Golan!"

A bunch of boys whooped and cheered. The blond prick had a little group of fans, all right. Tony noticed with some discomfort that more boys seemed to be cheering for the brigade XO than they were for him.

"This is a match a bunch of us broke rules to bet on," Marshall said as the two fighters approached each other. "So fight like you mean it."

"That won't be a problem," Golan said, looking at Tony with disgust.

"Yeah, sure," Tony replied.

"The rules are these: no hits below the belt, no use of the feet or legs for attacks. If there's something else, whatever, who cares? Let's go. On my mark, boys."

Tony braced himself, getting ready to go.

"Three! Two! One!" Marshall blew a whistle and brought his arm down, backing out of the ring.

Stepping forward, Tony moved in to swing first, but Golan was faster. One gloved fist shot out and struck Tony in the jaw, snapping his head back. The next blow was to his chest, and Tony staggered backward, trying to trade space for time.

"Yeah! Yeah!" a boy shouted.

"Get 'im, Gollum!"

"Take him down!"

Tony lashed out and scored a hit, but Golan just brushed it off. He punched Tony again and again, then backed away, motioning for him to adHalverson. The moment Tony did, he took a powerful blow to the chest. He managed to stay on his feet and began trying to block, but it didn't go as well as he'd hoped.

"Don't look at my hands!" Golan said suddenly. "Don't look there! Look at my shoulders! That's where the hits are coming from!"

Tony tried that, but Golan continued to strike at him, brushing off and blocking Tony's attacks. Tony landed some hits now and then, but he hadn't had the practice at this that Golan had, and the difference showed. Golan feinted left and struck from the right, and Tony was retreating again.

"You remember what I said?" Golan said, his eyes alive with a kind of savage glee.

"I don't even remember what day of the week it is," Tony gasped out.

Golan laughed. "Funny." He punched Tony again.

Tony spent a minute or two moving around, focusing on blocking and trying to watch how Golan moved. He was good, no question of that, and his reflexes were outstanding. He seemed to sense what Tony was going to do just as Tony thought of it. But Tony watched and started to think of how to imitate some of his movements, and at a moment when Golan paused to talk, Tony shot a fist out and hit Golan right in the face, then followed up with a blow to the chest.

The blond staggered back, surprise plain on his face, and Tony threw himself into the attack. He launched a flurry of blows, striking again and again while Golan was still caught off guard. The other boy fell back, and shouts of surprise came from some of the spectators.

Golan tripped and stumbled to the left, and that was when he retaliated. While Tony took a moment to enjoy himself, Golan gathered himself and hit back, and the rapid-fire series of hits Tony was subjected to drove him back and made him trip over himself. Golan planted a foot on his chest and grinned.

"And that's the match," he said.

Marshall blew his whistle. "All right, guys, that's it! I give you our reigning champion, Mark Golan!"

Boys all around them cheered, and money was traded between some of the spectators. Marshall collected money from a couple boys, then gave money to a few others. Tony couldn't even tell who the redhead had bet on. It seemed like he'd decided to handle bets with or for a couple guys.

Tony lay there on the mat, dazed, and Golan stared down at him unsympathetically. "Thanks for the exercise, Tony," Golan said sarcastically. "I love boxing."

"So what?" Tony demanded, struggling to his feet. "You think you're gonna teach me so I know what's good for me? Huh? Gonna teach me something? You can't make me do shit!"

Golan looked at him, amused. "Whatever you say, DiNozzo."

He left the ring and walked away with his friends. The other boys soon turned back to lifting weights, and Tony was left by himself.

Travis Phelps, nicknamed "Piggy" for his poor shape and weight, hurried toward the barracks, hoping they'd forgotten him this time. He'd been told to be at the basketball gym after study hall ended, but no one had been there. They always seemed to do this to him when he needed sleep and rest the most. Just as Travis thought he'd made it, they surrounded him, seeming to come out of nowhere.

There were a bunch of them, about ten if Travis had counted right in past encounters. It was dark and they wore their garrison caps low over their eyes. Their nametags had been removed and pocketed, and they surrounded him, converging all at once as he made a doomed, pitiful effort at hurrying on towards the barracks.

"The gym," the one in front said simply. "Hurry up, Piggy. About-face. Let's go."

"We better hurry, guys," a boy said with mock concern. "Now, if we're not careful, Fat Ass here could be late."

The boys chuckled.

"Don't worry about it, Piggy," a boy to his left said. "It's nothing personal."

That brought chuckles, and a heavyset, strong-looking boy to Travis' right enthusiastically curled his left hand into a fist, punching it into his palm. "It is with me. I like making you miserable. It's fun."

"Look at 'im," another boy said in a soft-spoken, almost effeminate drawl. "Goddamn fat slob in a uniform. No way would he have made it in the old Corps."

Finally, the boy standing directly in front of Travis pointed towards the gym. "You gonna go yourself, or you want us to keep you an extra hour?"

Travis turned and started walking himself. He knew there was no choice here. It was go, or be forced to go. That was what they offered him.

There was nobody in the gym's basketball court; the wood-floored room was completely dark. Travis was escorted to the center of the room, told to stand at attention, and the boys left him suddenly. Their footsteps faded away and Travis could see nothing in the darkness. Even when his eyes adjusted he couldn't. They'd taken his glasses.

Footsteps off to the right, to the left, behind him. A few, many all at once, then nothing. A smacking sound, something hard hitting the wooden floor.

Two boys approached him, and from behind, one called out, "What's wrong, little Piggy? Can't you read rank? Salute the Commandant!"

The moment Travis rendered a salute, the gym exploded. The lights were thrown on, blinding him, but he could've sworn he saw the boys standing around all shielding their eyes, caps still low over their faces. Then the lights went off again and they charged, shouting and screaming, and as they circled like wolves surrounding prey, one kept a flashlight jabbed right in Travis' face.

Then it stopped. Flashlights snapped off, the footsteps of dress shoes fading into the dark.

A boy stood right in front of him, holding a rifle of metal and wood in his hands at port arms. Travis felt a terrible sense of dread, knowing this was just the beginning.

The boy addressed Travis, speaking in a low, urgent voice, his words coming rapidfire. "Say what I say, mister. This is a Smith-Carona-manufactured, thirty-aught-six caliber, Model 1903A3 Springfield rifle made in 1944."

Stuttering, struggling to remember all the words and say them in order, Travis managed to repeat it.

"This weapon weighs 8.0 pounds empty, 8.5 pounds fully loaded, 9.5 pounds when fitted with a M1903 bayonet."

Travis stammered some more, straining to say the words back, but he finally did it.

The boy threw him the rifle, and by simple, panicked reaction and nothing else Travis managed to catch it.

"Port arms!" the boy shouted, and Travis did it.

"Right-shoulder arms!" shouted another.

"Left shoulder, arms!"

"Order arms!"

"Pre-sent arms!"

At first Travis was able to keep up, but they simply quickened their pace. Multiple boys shouted different commands at once. It went on, going faster and faster, Travis breaking into a sweat as he tried to do the impossible and keep up. It went on until the inevitable happened- Travis' arms, never especially strong, were simply unable to hold the Springfield any longer. He dropped it, one of the boys catching it just as the metal butt plate hit the floor.

That was all it took. They were on him. They swarmed in, screaming and yelling again, and this time one command rose clearly above the noise.

"Drop! Drop, you faggot!"

"I said fucking drop!"

"You piece of shit, this is school property!"

"Pushups! Pushups! Do it now!"

As Travis went into the front leaning rest position and started to push, a boy stood near him and planted his shoe between Travis' shoulder-blades. It was the rapid-fire speaker again, but this time he had one word, emphasized as he applied pressure to the planted shoe.

"Down."

They took nearly an hour.

When it finally ended, Travis was about to throw up. He was gasping and sweating, and he could feel the menace and hatred emanating from the figures standing there around him.

"Pathetic," one of them said. "Fucking pathetic. Get lost, Piggy."

"You're lucky this isn't the old days. Back then…" the boy snickered. "Yeah. You're fucking lucky."

"You better lose some fucking weight, boy or the Corps is gonna be after you all year." The boy speaking stepped closer. "All fucking year, fatass. Looking forward to it? I am. We make men here but I'm not sure you'll ever qualify."

"Yes, sir."

"Shut up," another boy told him. "Get lost."

Travis took the opportunity and gratefully got the hell out of there. He struggled to make it to the water fountain outside the door, where he drank water until he almost puked again. Then he did puke, in the trash can a few feet away. Then it was back to the water fountain. Once he was done, and he could finally breathe again, Travis somehow worked up the nerve to turn on the gymnasium lights and look.

They were gone, of course. They had vanished just as suddenly as they had appeared.

Just before "Taps" sounded, Marshall made his way down to the TAC Office with a guitar case in his hand. He walked in and set it down, then stood at parade rest before Master Gunnery Sergeant Aaron Moore, the Assistant Commandant, and Gunnery Sergeant Ellison.

"The hell you want, Marshall?" Ellison demanded.

"I wanna sing the school song over the intercom before Haglund plays "Taps", Gunnery Sergeant."

"Nobody gives a fuck about your damn guitar, now get outta here, I'm tired of seeing your face!" Ellison replied.

"Gunny," Marshall said solemnly, "a lot of people say that. Especially my ex-girlfriends. Why do I keep getting kicked out of bedrooms, and living rooms, and cars, and cheap motel rooms, and-"

"Goddamn it, go on and play your fuckin' song, you stupid son of a bitch!"

"Thanks, Gunny," Marshall said with a grin, opening his guitar case and taking out the beautiful West Virginia-made guitar Golan had gotten for him last year. Moore smiled, and Ellison briefly cracked one, too. Having both met and served with the elder Marshalls in their days in the Marine Corps, these two men thought highly of the red-haired cadet sergeant major, but being who he was, Ellison wasn't about to admit it. If he hated you and if he liked you, his way of communicating was the bringing of pain and suffering and the endless dispensing of insults.

Sitting down inside the booth that was used when cadets did broadcasts over the PA system during the day, Marshall strung a few notes, adjusted the guitar's strings a little, and cleared his throat. Then he pressed the intercom button.

"Good evening, girls, this is your brigade sergeant major speaking. Have you ever been in love with a celebrity? Someone so out of reach, but so stunning you just can't say no? Come on, don't be shy. I feel it between us, too." He chuckled, then said, "Okay, boys. I'm gonna sing the school song, Waltzing Matilda. This one is for you."

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong

Under the shade of a coolibah tree

And he sang as he watched and waited 'till his billy boiled

"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me"

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda

You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

He sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled

"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me!

With years of practice at playing and singing and a natural talent for both, Marshall easily made his way through the rest of the song. It had become the school song after a startling number of RMA graduates, enlisted and commissioned officers alike, had served in the 1st Marine Division during World War II. Like the 1st Marines, they brought the song home with them, and ever since Remington had honored and cherished that particular part of its history. Marshall sang with something akin to joy, singing a song that had decades of history with the Corps of Cadets and with the Marine Corps, a song he loved.

Really, what wasn't there to love with a song about an unnamed swagman who committed suicide by drowning in a lake after being caught stealing a sheep as he waited for his billy to boil? It was a story about a man who died rather than give in to rules he obviously thought were bullshit. He lived and died the way he chose, and that was freedom in its simplest form.

In the swagman, Marshall saw the I-don't-give-a-shit defiance the Marines had always shown their enemies. You could kill Marines, but you couldn't make them care.

Once he'd sung the last note, Marshall played the last few notes on his guitar and then spoke into the microphone, "All right, boys, that's it. I've bought you a few minutes. Stand by for 'Taps'."

He smiled to himself and stood, packing up his guitar. There was another piece of business to take care of. Upstairs, he had a meeting with his brothers, and a sales pitch to make while he was attending it. He was confident in his ability to charm and logically persuade the other nine of the school's finest that his idea was worth the trouble. That was assuming that idiot even stayed… but Long, sharp eye that he was, had promised to sneak out of the barracks and keep an eye on the parking lot for an hour after 'Taps' sounded.

DiNozzo had seemed interested when some guys had been talking during basketball practice about that weird French car Coach Tanner drove, and how he never seemed to keep it locked. So Marshall had asked a favor and assigned Long, a sharp and duty-minded boy who was well in the running for Honor Corps membership next year, to keep an eye on the lot. After today, if he was gonna run, chances were good DiNozzo would try it tonight. If he did, the Corps would know. And if he didn't, they would know. Either way, Marshall knew they would win. They always did.

Tony hung back in the shadows near the bottom of the main stairwell for Hull barracks, backpack in his hand. He'd stuffed it with some 'provisions'- basic toiletries and some food he'd managed to get out of the mess hall and buy from the vending machines. He was about done with this place. Its creepy secret gang of cadets was the last straw. He would have hated it anyway, but it seemed like there probably was some secret outfit around here, and Tony didn't need any more excuse to pack it up and fuck off. He was just preempting what was coming anyway. He was finished around here, so better to leave while the getting was good.

Keeping his head down, Tony made his way down to Lansing Road and kept down behind the brick wall that held the lawn back, preventing erosion from drifting dirt into the street. No one could see him from the barracks, and he knew just where that funny little French car that Coach Tanner drove was parked. If those guys had been telling the truth, it was a decent chance the car would be unlocked, and that would speed up the process of getting the fuck out of here. Tony had never tried to hotwire a car made in France before, but how much different could it be?

The perks of getting to play basketball were nowhere near enough to stay. Tony didn't like this school. He had never fit in well at a military school, yet here he was, stuck at yet another one, with the same tight-assed system and the same stupid rules. It was time to fuck off and try something new.

Come on, come on. Having to stay low and creep along just in case he had to freeze or drop suddenly was agonizing. Tony wanted to jump up and run, but he didn't dare do that. The teenager knew he had to play this smart, or he'd never get his plan of escape into action.

Just a little longer…

Finally, after what had seemed like hours, but the wristwatch said was only ten minutes, Tony made it to the weird French car. It was shaped like aerodynamics had been the whole point, yet Coach had said it was just a sedan. It sat low to the ground and certainly didn't have much in common with the Mercury Grand Marquis that was parked to the left, big, square and imposing as that white car was.

Fuck the color, Tony thought as he crept up to the French car. I need a ride and this is it. He reached up and tried the front passenger door, careful to keep out of sight. His heart thudded in his chest. It had to work. He hadn't come this far only to be denied at the last moment. Tony pulled, and the door opened with a slight squeak. The noise made Tony freeze in place, but when nothing happened, he opened the door enough so he could get in, then dropped his bag and slid over to the passenger side.

Then Tony dug out his carefully-hidden set of tools and spent a nerve-wracking couple of minutes trying to figure out which set of wires below and ahead of the steering wheel was for the ignition. Tony cut one wire before finding the one he needed on the second try. He stripped some of the coating off, and pressed the two pieces of exposed copper together.

Rrrr… Rrrr…

"Come on, come on."

He let go, tried it again.

Rrrr… Rrrr…

This piece of crap car.

Knock, knock, knock!

Tony sat up and looked to his right. Coach Tanner had just rapped his knuckles on the front passenger door window.

"Damn!" Tony sighed, more disappointed than angry or scared.

Tanner opened the door, got in and sat down, closing the door behind him.

"So what's the plan here? Steal the Coach's car, drive to Mexico?"

"Hey, maybe. Don't belong here. Not a rules and regulations guy."

"So your dad sends you to school number seven, it don't right, you cut and run," Tanner replied. "But for how long?" He paused. "You have an opportunity here. You have talent on the basketball court. You're smart. You don't like rules and regulations? Me neither. You gonna let that stop you?"

"It's self-preservation," Tony said, admitting some of the fear he'd felt earlier.

"You worried about Cadet Golan?"

"He hates me. He runs Honor Corps. It's only a matter of time."

"Honor Corps won't touch you." The black man said it with confidence, such great confidence. Tony wasn't so ready to believe.

"How do you know that?"

"Because you're a starter on the varsity basketball team, DiNozzo," Tanner replied, "and I look out for my guys. Now, there are things about this school that are gonna change. Honor Corps's one of them. This is a good place. You do belong. Don't run. Take a stand. And I'll stand with you."

Tony sat there behind the wheel of the car, not sure what to say. He was about to say something when the back right door of the car opened, and someone else got in and shut the door behind them. Both Tony and the Coach turned around.

"Hello, DiNozzo. Sir."

It was Marshall. The jokester and ladies' man was gone. Instead, there was a serious young man, looking between his coach and one of his players.

Tanner didn't even seem surprised. "You're out of bounds, Mr. Marshall," he said.

"So is DiNozzo, sir," Marshall said, briefly cracking a smile. "I didn't see it stop him."

"You saw me?" Tony asked.

"You could say that. I took a minute to make my mind up but I figured I should head out here."

"What for?" Tony asked him.

"I don't know if you noticed or not, DiNozzo," Marshall said, "but I love this school. I love the guys here. I don't expect you to do that. It's fine if this school ain't your favorite place in the world. But you're too good a basketball player for me to just let you leave without saying something to you first. And I think there's a cadet in you somewhere. Even if you don't believe it."

"Look, Marshall, you met me two days ago. Why do you even give a shit?"

"I'm doing my job. I try to help people here. I can help you. You're a good player. Give me and Coach a chance and we'll make you a great one. It's a hard school sometimes, but give it a shot and we'll help you get through it. It's a year, DiNozzo. Less than a year. Just see it through and you'll have that diploma and you'll be out of here. I guarantee you it can happen."

Tanner looked Tony. "What's been making this so hard is that you don't have any friends. Not here, anyway, and sounds like your dad's not the best friend you've ever had either. You need allies. People who will stand with you. I'll do that."

"I will, too," Marshall promised.

"I'm on the team?" Tony asked.

"If you want to be," Tanner answered. "Yes. You are."

Tony sat there for almost a minute, not saying a word. Then he sighed and said, "I cut some of these wires trying to hotwire the car, Coach."

"So I saw."

"Sorry about that."

"This thing's old and if you stole it I'd just get something better," Tanner said, chuckling. "But I'll get that fixed and I won't tell anybody who did it. I'll just say I lost my keys and got desperate."

"Yeah, they'll believe that."

"Doesn't matter even if they think I'm lying. The mechanic's not gonna know it was you, and that's what counts."

"Coach has your back, DiNozzo," Marshall said. "He means it. He looks out for every one of us."

"So, what happens now?"

"Remember what Fosse said this morning?" Tanner asked. "That decision is in your hands. Make the call."

Tony thought it over, and he was tempted to say screw it and go anyway. But finally he said, "I guess I can try it some more. Or something."

"Outstanding," Marshall said. He held out his hand, grinning, and Tony shook it after a moment. "Friends it is," the redhead pronounced as they shook hands.

"We're friends?" Tony asked.

"We already were. This just confirms it." Marshall reached for the door and got out. Before shutting it, he leaned back in and looked at Tony. "If you need to talk, I'm on the top floor of Hull with the rest of brigade staff. If anybody bothers you, tell 'em you're there to see me. If I'm not there, go to the TAC Office and they'll call me down. Anytime at all."

"Thanks, Mom," Tony said with a slight smile.

"Anytime, son," Marshall said. He grinned and winked, then closed the door and headed back to the barracks.

Tanner reached up for the sun visor in front of Tony. He flipped it down and pulled something out of it, and with a small jingle a set of keys fell into Tony's lap.

"If you change your mind and decide to leave," Tanner said, "don't hotwire my car."

Tony caught up with Marshall as the red-haired boy was heading up the stairwell. "Hey, Marshall, hang on a sec."

Marshall turned around. "Yes?"

"Why do you care what happens to me? Plenty of your buddies don't. Why do you give a shit?"

"Isn't it a little late to be sharing, DiNozzo?"

"Humor me."

"I try to help people, DiNozzo. Anyone I can, any way I can. I think it's about time someone showed you they give a shit."

Tony started. "Wait, how do you-"

"Lucky guess. I don't know anything about what home's like for you but it's either really good or really bad if you wind up at Remington, and you don't seem like the first one."

"Well, aren't you smart."

"Just the old Marshall intuition at work, DiNozzo. Did you need anything else? Or can I go to bed now?"

"Uh, so, you really wanna be friends?"

"If you do."

"I guess it'd be all right."

"Then we are."

Tony hesitated, then said, "Thanks. Really."

"Don't thank me yet, DiNozzo. I haven't done anything."

"You went outside and talked to me."

"Anybody can do that," Marshall answered. He smiled and bowed. "You're gonna graduate from here, DiNozzo. It's gonna be hard but you'll make it. I'm betting on you. Good night, and sweet dreams."

"Thanks?" Tony laughed.

"Anytime. Goodnight."

"Yeah, g'night, Marshall."

"Yeah, yeah."

A/N: 12-19-2017. Chapter 4 is done. The story will span out and cover more days than one at a time, but some of these early chapters needed the dense, day-at-a-time coverage in my opinion.

UPDATE, 1-21-2017: I made some edits to this chapter, especially to the end. I found I disliked the original ending to Chapter 4; it made Marshall come off as too villainous. He is a major character in this story, and exploring just who he is and why he does what he does will be a significant part of the plot. But he isn't really the villain that the original Chapter 4 ending made him seem like. So I changed the chapter's ending and found I like this one better. Hopefully readers will agree, or at least they will hopefully like the chapter as it now stands.

I drew some text from "The Deal", another story of mine, for the scene where Honor Corps goes after Piggy. I figured it made sense to use it, since I am now writing a full-length story about that year.

Without giving away anything, I want to say that Marshall has a reason for being the way he is. There are things about him that not even his fraternal brothers in Honor Corps know. That doesn't mean he is just or right in everything he does, but people can have surprising reasons for being one way or another.

From here, we are looking towards the days leading up to Thanksgiving Break, which will run from November 21 to November 29.

As always, feedback is welcome. No matter what your thoughts, please feel free to share them in a review.