So, uhh… based on the feedback, this story I decided to write just for funsies ended up becoming a masterpiece. I think I accidentally set the expectations bar pretty damn high. Hooray?
Moving on, this chapter exists for two reasons. Reason one is that I want to give Alcatraz a more fleshed-out backstory that ties together some of what we already know – his family, his reasons for enlisting, stuff like that which was touched on but never really discussed in-depth.
The second reason is because I want to keep last chapter's cliffhanger dangling a little longer. :P
Also, I have decided the pairing. The chosen raifu is… SF's lovable demolitions expert, Architect! (Nah, just kidding. But I did make a decision.)
(Beaufort County, South Carolina, USA)
(October 5th, 2020)
Thump.
It's the jostling of the old vehicle as it runs over a pothole that yoinks me out of dreamland. My eyes immediately snap open; my whole body tenses like a coiled spring, prepared to make a move the moment my brain gives the signal. It takes a second for me to remember where I am and what all the noise around me is, but when I do, I allow my muscles to slacken.
I'm with maybe about two dozen other guys – all ranging between seventeen and twenty-nine, all hailing from the east side of the Mississippi – inside a beat-up, propaganda-laden bus, packed together like sardines in a can.
Stifling a yawn, I stretch as much as I can afford to in my cramped spot between the window and the dude sitting next to me who fails to pay me the slightest bit of attention. Figure I must've fallen asleep at some point. The clunker's gotta be pushing fifty and doesn't seem to be slowing down at all, so I reckon we still have ways to go before we reach our destination.
I glance at my reflection in the window. No Sharpie dicks on my face. Good.
My eyes wander over the bus's other occupants next. Short guys, tall guys, slim guys, wide guys, guys with charcoal skin squeezed next to pasty white guys who must've only crawled out of mom's basement when it was time to leave for the airport. Guys with arms like toothpicks sharing dirty jokes with total brickhouses who could snap those arms in two without breaking a sweat. Guys from all walks of life seated together on this bus, chatting and joking and laughing about anything and everything, now all united for one singular purpose.
To become United States Marines.
Sometimes I overhear specific snippets of chatter, typical male subjects like Here's a photo of my girlfriend, isn't she hot or You gonna get the new Halo over the holidays? Things like that. Conversations where I could throw in my two cents and sound smart while doing so, and I probably would have if I still cared about any of that stuff.
As it stands, I continue my observation in silence.
One thing that makes me stick out like a sore thumb compared to the others is how I'm dressed. Every guy in this bus is wearing something smart, businesslike; freshly pressed shirts and shined shoes, perhaps meant to impress our DIs when we meet them. Someone up front's even applying hair spray. Fucking dumbass. Doesn't he realize where we're headed?
By contrast, I must look homeless: greasy hair, badly faded jeans, and sneakers that really weren't designed to handle the amount of abuse I've put them through. All of these are overshadowed by an ancient hooded sweatshirt that would've fallen apart ages ago if Alice hadn't been kind enough to keep sewing it back together. A lot of the original fabric is gone, replaced by clumsily placed yet durable – and more importantly, warm – patchwork.
My chest involuntarily tightens. I'm reminded of the reason I signed up in addition to what I told my recruiter last month. I push those thoughts aside – what's done is done, I remind myself.
I learned at a young age that people are more malleable than they probably realize. Don't enjoy flipping burgers for minimum wage? Hand in your resignation letter and find a new job. No one but yourself is keeping you in a stagnant workplace. Not satisfied with your hair color? Dye it pink or something, do whatever the hell you want with it. It's your choice. It's your life.
What's that? Don't like your life in general? Join the Marines. They'll break you down and build you back up into someone that might just be worth a damn.
Here's hoping that's what happens to me.
Eventually the bus begins bleeding momentum. The excited background chatter breaks down into hushed whispering, and by the time the rolling relic grinds to a stop with an ear-splitting scree, everyone's lips are sealed tight.
Doors creak open. Boots stomp on metal. A walking representation of the hell we're about to go through appears, boarding the bus with a commanding presence similar to an alcoholic father with a belt in hand.
And the first thing that comes to mind is Aren't you a little fat to be a drill instructor?
The thought evaporates when I take a closer look at him, though. It's easy to miss, but underneath that pudgy outer layer of dark skin is pure steel. Dude probably divvies up his time eating donuts and screaming himself hoarse at idiot recruits to burn off the calories. The wide-brimmed hat perched atop his bald head makes me think of a police chief, even though I'm fully aware he's five times more badass and ten times less forgiving.
He sweeps his gaze across the crowded interior. It might just be the sudden rush of nervousness talking, but I swear his beady little eyes linger on me specifically for a moment; I greet them in turn with my best poker face.
"All of you look at me right now!" he thunders. Right, because we're not already doing that.
There's a hectic response of "Aye, sir!" and "Yes, sir!"
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
"YES, SIR!"
"AYE, SIR!"
"You are now a part of Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island, South Carolina, Building 521 receiving company! From now on, the only words that come out of your mouth are 'Yes sir, no sir' when somebody asks you a question! When somebody gives you an order, you respond with 'Aye sir'! Do you understand?!"
"Yes, sir!" My acknowledgement can't be picked out through all the yelling.
The stony expression of the man who now dictates our lives doesn't budge an inch. I wonder how many times he's seen this all before. "Get up, get out, all of you!" he booms. "GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"
We obey because what other choices do we have? I hastily grab my paperwork folder, the only item in my possession besides my wallet and the ratty clothes on my back, then join the others as we rush out of the bus like it's about to explode. Sheriff Oorah's right outside, hollering at us to move our asses as we emerge into the cold night air.
The guys ahead of me are already lining up in a typical military formation, the Depot's front gate to their right. How did they-? There. Yellow footprints painted on the asphalt, signifying where we need to stand. I haul ass to a spot that looks appropriate and promptly root myself in place.
No sooner do my sneakers kiss the paint where God-knows-how-many men stood before than I hear the bus rev up and drive off to greener pastures, leaving us poor suckers to our inevitable fate. Too late for second thoughts now. Too late to chicken out.
Once we're all lined up like eggs in a carton, DI waltzes up front and begins pacing back and forth, hands behind his back, boring through us with a predatory glare.
Then he shouts again, although he pauses frequently, likely saving his breath for when he'll need it later. "You! Have taken the first step! In becoming a member! Of the world's elite fighting force, the United States Marine Corps!"
Really? I thought the first step was when I signed my life away back at the recruiter's office.
"The Marine Corps' success depends on teamwork!" he continues. "Teamwork is an essential part of your training! Here! At MCRD PI! From now on you will live, sleep, eat, and train as a team! Now! Put your folders on the ground!"
We achieve this totally random objective with a chorus of Aye, sir's.
"NOW PICK IT UP!"
"Aye, sir!"
"PUT IT DOWN!"
"Aye, sir!"
"PICK IT UP!"
"Aye, sir!"
This goes on for about a minute.
"Now!" DI says after our impromptu workout. "When I tell you to, you're gonna turn your heads and face my building!" He points a meaty finger at the receiving building. "FACE MY BUILDING!"
"Aye, sir!"
I jerk my head to the side along with the other – recruits? No, not yet. Not until we're on the other side of those silver doors – and drink in the view of Parris Island Depot's imposing entranceway. It honestly resembles a classic movie theater entrance more than the gates to what will hopefully be the start of a better life for me. It's even got a sign above the doors where lists of new movies are usually displayed, complete with a message:
THROUGH THESE PORTALS PASS PROSPECTS FOR AMERICA'S FINEST FIGHTING FORCE
UNITED STATES MARINES
Though in my opinion it may as well say "HAHA YOU'RE ALL FUCKED".
Trepidations aside, however, I'm getting pretty psyched. This is it. All I have to do is pass through those doors and all of my past mistakes won't matter anymore. Over the next thirteen weeks, I'll shed my shell of antisocial behavior and self-loathing to become the bigger, better, and more responsible person I should've been from the beginning. It's too late to change my home life but I still have an opportunity to make amends. This is the best I can do now, it's the best all of us can do.
Most of us standing here signed up for the same reason. I doubt there's a soul in this parking lot that isn't aware of the planet's slippery slide into Shitsville. We hadn't taken the tree huggers seriously before and humanity is now paying for its collective ignorance, and paying hard. Last I heard on the news, Mother Nature was in the middle of reclaiming Venice as her own. It's still practically a footnote compared to some of the other crises happening around the globe – fresh water shortages and increasing numbers of riots, to name two off the top of my head. Oh, and Australia's on fire again. That's three.
Funny thing is, nobody's really sure why it all started escalating just at the end of August.
Me? Eh, that's part of why I joined. I wasn't lying when I told my recruiter I want to help restore some semblance of order in this fucked up world we live in. But that's not the main reason I decided to throw my old life away. Nah, it's… a bit more personal than that, something I'd never freely admit.
What I really want out of the Corps most of all – above the shiny medals and cool guns and all-you-can-eat crayons and everything else – is to find the courage needed to look my baby sister in the eye and tell her "I'm sorry".
"FACE ME NOW!" Oh, right, DI's still talking.
"Aye, sir!"
"Not loud enough! FACE MY BUILDING!"
"Aye, sir!"
He circles around us as easily as a shark swims through water, sniffing for blood in the form of weakness. I guess he doesn't find any since he completes his inspection without chewing anyone out.
"Now when I tell you to – AND THIS GOES FOR ALL OF YOU – you're gonna follow me through those doors and find your drill sergeant, understood?!"
"Yes, sir!"
"SCREAM FOR ME!"
"YES, SIR!"
He ushers us in one column at a time, constantly yelling at us to hurry it up, hurry it up, not keep 'em waiting. We very narrowly avoid the domino effect when some dude in the back trips into the guy ahead of him. Hoo boy, that would've made for one hell of a first impression…
And just like that, I'm on the other side, and James Carlos Rodriguez the civilian transitions to James Carlos Rodriguez the recruit.
We're given the opportunity to phone our next of kin, inform them of our safe arrival and my hands are shaking and my palms are sweating and fuck fuck fuck why am I so nervous?
Oh. Now I remember. Alice doesn't know I signed up for the military. Is she worried about me? Mad at me? Should I call her? Let her know her big brother's doing okay for himself, ready to turn his life around and start a new career?
Or do I call Ron? My dad's best friend (a Vietnam War veteran and former Semper Fi alumni himself) let me chill at his place after Child Protective Services took my sister into foster care, thereby giving me no reason to stay at home with my lunatic of a mother. Ron's a PTSD-ridden, drunken pervert at the best of times, but I still feel like I owe the guy, especially after he graciously introduced me to the joys of drowning your sorrows in a bottle of alcohol.
He's also the one who talked me into joining the Marines and not one of the other branches. To quote his exact words: "Navy's fucking gay. Chair Force doesn't do jack-diddly-shit. Army's lying when they say they'll give you a Porsche and if you so much as utter 'Coast Guard' within earshot of me then Manny's son or no, I'll kick your Hispanic ass to the moon."
What my old man sees in him, I will never know.
It doesn't occur to me that my feet are moving on their own while I'm busy panicking over what to do. Almost before I realize it, I'm next in line, still no closer to reaching a decision and still on the verge of freaking out and goddammit do something-!
The phone nearly shakes itself out of my grip as I reflexively dial Alice's cell number.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. Maybe she left her phone to charge and isn't around to hear it. Or maybe she's simply ignoring the unfamiliar number. Maybe-
"Hello?"
My whole body goes ramrod straight, stiff as a board. The reception's not great but there's no mistaking that meek voice: dear sweet Alice, my precious younger sister, the girl I worked my fucking ass off to support after Mom went crazy and Dad's meager pension failed to keep up with the bills. The girl I failed to provide for in the end, no matter how much paying work I managed to scrounge up between extra shifts at my part-time job.
"This is Recruit Rodriguez; I have arrived safely at Parris Island!" My mouth is already reciting the words before my brain can process their meaning. God, why am I getting so lightheaded all of a sudden? It's just a fucking phone call! "Please do not send any food or bulky items to me in the mail!"
"James? James, is that you?! Where are you?"
It kills me to have to talk over her. "I will contact you in seven to nine days by letter with my new address! Thank you for your support and goodbye for now!"
"James, what are you-"
The phone slams back into place, probably with more force than needed. I wipe my sleeve across my eyes as I leave to follow the other recruits down a hallway to the right. It comes away moist.
"Turn off the waterworks, recruit!" a female DI hollers at me. "You knew what you were signing up for, so suck it up!"
"Aye, ma'am!" I shout in reply, hustling forward just a bit faster.
Lady raised a good point despite her attitude. For better or worse, joining the military was the best option at my disposal if I don't want to spend the rest of my years a pathetic, woe-is-me piece of shit who sits around whining about how life is cruel while the world crumbles around him.
It's about time I start dedicating my existence to a greater cause. It's about time I start feeling good about myself.
(Chow Hall, Three Days Later)
Know what the military does with recruits who are almost up to standard, but are kind of on the skinny side? Give 'em double servings at mealtime to help fatten them up. Just my luck that I'm the only motherfucker in Omega Company who showed up to boot camp eight pounds underweight. Just my luck that I've become the 'double rat recruit'.
Just my luck that the rest of my platoon has all-consuming black holes where their stomachs should be, and how they noticed I've been getting two baked potatoes instead of one.
Makes me think of the Last Supper, you know, when Jesus broke some bread to share with his loyal apostles. Except I'm not nearly as charismatic as the J-Man, my 'apostles' are a ragtag bunch of jarheads-in-training, and the only miracle here is how none of us have conked out yet after three days of paperwork, medical tests, vaccines (suck it, you anti-vaxx Karen types), and no sleep whatsoever.
The other recruits' initial image of me as some kind of food messiah was only strengthened by the fact that I also get extra packets of cheese sauce. I quickly discovered that in the military, whether at home or abroad, he who controls the flow of sauce controls everything.
But I'm not these men's Lord and Savior. I give nothing away. The DI monitoring the lunchroom was quick to catch on to my newfound (and admittedly unwanted) popularity, and he made it crystal fucking clear what would happen if I were to be caught building up a cult centered around broccoli and Cheez Whiz.
So, yeah. I eat everything on my plate like a good little soldier.
Most of the other guys ditched the cult lifestyle once they figured out I had no intention of sharing, DI's warning notwithstanding, so I'm left mostly alone as I eat my dinner tonight. Tomorrow's Friday, or as some are calling it, Black Friday – which is when we'll be meeting our senior drill instructor. The whole boot camp experience will really kick off after that; best to enjoy what respite I have left before my schedule is swallowed up by drills, classes, and PT. I figure it's also worth trying to put on as much weight as possible before I inevitably lose it all over the following weeks.
I take the time as I eat to indulge in my new favorite activity of people watching. The cafeteria's noisy as usual; I notice that much right away. Some dudes are still stuck on the subject of girls and video games, even after three days, talking through mouthfuls of beef. I'm lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along a table with my platoon, and the sounds some of them are making as they dig into their food reminds me of pigs at a trough. Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what we are: Livestock on a fixed feeding schedule, with the owners keeping a careful eye on us in case one of the animals gets out of line.
I learned other things over the days, too. I learned the 'everyone stops eating when your DI finishes' rumor really is just a rumor. I got confirmation that most of the others in my platoon signed up for the same reason as I did, because they weren't satisfied with the direction their lives were headed. Okay, cool, so I'm not alone there.
Something else I learned is that the mess sergeant doesn't give a flippity fuck about your gluten-free diet. I thought he'd ruptured a blood vessel, I never saw a man's face turn that red before. Kinda had me worried for a few moments.
Not all of us are interested in what could be considered normal conversation topics, though. There's this one guy in particular…
"Y'all hear about the cover-up at the Lingshan Islands? Word on the 'Net is that our military was testing some kind of top-secret super-soldier project over there, and that something went wrong enough to send the planet's climate into a frenzy!"
…Yeah.
Ellsworth, I think his name is. Dale Ellsworth. Some farm boy from the Georgian boonies where the only form of entertainment is listening to conspiracy theorists hawk their claims over the radio, which is exactly what this guy ended up doing. The worst part is that some of me is convinced he actually believes half the shit he regurgitates during mealtime.
Details on the circumstances behind this particular rant are scarce, but even us recruits are aware that something big went down over in the South China Sea. You don't lose three aircraft carriers and a couple hundred marines and not expect anyone to ask questions. It just doesn't work that way. The media's been tight-lipped about the incident, which I'll admit is suspicious, but it's nothing worth fretting over in my own humble opinion. We've got more urgent things to worry about now.
Still. Some people can't resist the lure of a good conspiracy.
"Cut the crap, Ellsworth." The recruit sitting to my left snorts in derision. "It's total bullshit if you ask me. Even if the military was creating super-soldiers under the media's noses, how does prototype hardware fuck up so badly that it throws the whole world off-kilter?" He elbows me in the side. "Tell this nutjob how it is, uhh… What's your name again?"
I'm tempted to say Food Jesus but instead answer honestly. "Rodriguez. James Rodriguez."
"Nice to meetcha, bro. Robert Garcia."
We shake hands.
I turn back to Ellsworth once the introduction's over with. "For the record, he's right. Society's falling apart all around us and all you can think about is some military fuck-up in the ass end of nowhere? C'mon, man. Get your head in the game."
Ellsworth's not having it. "That's just the thing! It wasn't the military that fucked up; ours or the KPA's!" Now he's grinning like a jerkass older sibling who knows a particularly embarrassing secret of yours. "It was something else, man. Rumor has it the Koreans dug up an artifact; something we were never supposed to find. Something ancient." He tilts forward, his excitement growing by the second until he can't hold it in anymore. "Something alien."
"The script for Battlefield Earth 2?" a fourth guy interjects. This one I'm sort of familiar with already: Henry Pletsch. Real smart guy, almost scarily so. He could've gotten enrolled in a prestigious college on an academic scholarship if the Double Dip hadn't put most of the industry through the wringer. Multilingual, too, and in the rare case that he knows more than just the dirty words.
He's also watched all one-thousand-something episodes of One Piece, if I heard correctly.
My lips curl into a microscopic smile as half the table breaks into amused chuckling.
Ellsworth takes it all in stride. "Close, man. But no: I'm talking literal alien relics. Real men from outer space came to Lingshan in the distant past, left their technology behind, and the U.S. deployed those carriers alongside elite black ops teams to make sure it didn't fall into Korean hands."
"Why Lingshan, though?" Garcia asks. Pletsch, meanwhile, rolls his eyes and returns his attention to his sandwich. "Like I said, it's in the middle of fucking nowhere. Those islands are barely a blip on the radar. Why would space aliens choose to set up shop there?"
"For discretion's sake?" Wait, that's me who's speaking. Crap. I'd been hoping to take a page from Pletsch's book and not get sucked into all the stupid happening around me.
"Precisely!" Ellsworth nods approvingly at me as though he's a teacher and I'd just answered a particularly difficult question. "And that's why I signed up, fellas. Not for patriotism – naw, nothing like that. The way I see it, since we know for a fact there were marines involved at Lingshan, the best chance I have at solving this mystery is to become a jarhead myself."
I struggle to wrap my head around his logic. Struggle, and fail.
"…That makes no sense whatsoever." My words come out dry as dust.
"Just make sure you have a dildo on standby if the aliens come knocking," Garcia chips in. "You know, so they can't probe your anus."
I'm almost relieved when a drill instructor cuts off whatever my conspiracy nut squadmate is about to say next.
"Chow hall closes in two minutes, recruits! Finish up what's on your plates and report to the squad bay immediately! And if we find so much as a crumb not properly disposed of, then y'all better start praying to the Virgin Mary!"
"Aye, sir!" comes the collective reply. I'm almost used to it by now.
(Black Friday)
We're herded into… well, it's not a meeting room, that's for sure. Actually, I don't know what this room is used for outside of contractually binding us idiot sheep to our shepherds. No comfy chairs or rugs for us to sit on; we're all piled in and politely instructed at a volume of one hundred decibels to sit down cross-legged on the cold bare floor. We're children at an elementary school assembly waiting for the puppet show to begin.
Let me tell you, what enters the room and stalks in front of us a minute later is way fricking scarier than any Antichrist hand puppet.
Four dudes, one African-American, the rest Caucasian. All of them are built like tanks: Even the meanest sons of bitches on the bus earlier don't hold a candle to the overwhelmingly macho aura these guys give off. I like to think I'm in pretty good shape – spent a few years before signing up doing manual labor, but… damn. I feel ashamedly small in their mere presence. It's like watching four Dwayne Johnsons assigned as our personal trainers get themselves ready to unleash absolute hell on our sorry grunt asses.
Not only are they beefy motherfuckers, they're disciplined to boot. They march to the front of the room in flawless sync, never breaking focus, never showing the slightest bit of individuality. They don't even acknowledge the rows of awed younglings eye-raping them as they get into formation against the far wall.
I wonder if Pletsch is also having Attack of the Clones flashbacks.
One of the men – I think he's the company captain – doesn't form up with the rest. Instead he turns to face them and raises his right arm at a perfect ninety-degree angle, holding his hand skyward. The three other marines imitate the gesture.
"These recruits are entrusted in my care!" he announces.
The DIs are quick on the response, having recited their oath countless times before. "These recruits are entrusted in my care!"
"I will train them to the best of my ability!"
"I will train them to the best of my ability!"
Not gonna lie, this is pretty epic. I watched videos of boot camp before my departure, tried to familiarize myself with what to expect and how to cope. One vid filmed in the San Diego Depot had the exact same oath carried out as the one being pledged right in front of me. It's one thing to see it online – sitting here, actually witnessing it in person, knowing that I'm one of the recruits they're talking about? Totally different feeling. It's indescribable.
"I will develop them," the captain carries on, "into smartly disciplined, physically fit, basically trained marines! Thoroughly indoctrinate them for Corps and country! I will demand of them, and demonstrate by my example, the finest example of personal conduct, morality, and professional skills!"
Wait, what's this about indoctrination? I must've skimmed over that part…
"Senior Drill Sergeant! Take these recruits, and make them into United States Marines!" Company Captain gives one last order to one of the Caucasian guys.
Senior DI snaps into a crisp salute. "Aye, sir!"
Satisfied that we're in good hands, Cap turns and leaves the room without another word. As soon as the door slams shut behind him, however, Senior DI's stoic expression immediately drops, replaced by another that can only be described as barely restrained rage.
Here we go…
And then he just flat-out explodes at us: "SIT UP STRAIGHT! LOOK AT ME RIGHT NOW!"
"Aye, sir!" All the recruits, myself included, suddenly grow a little taller.
"My name is Staff Sergeant Kane, and I am your senior drill instructor! I am assisted in my duties by drill instructor, Staff Sergeant McConnell-" He gestures to the other pale-skinned guy, who takes a step forward, "-and drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Fowler." The black dude follows suit. "Our mission is to train each one of you to become a United States Marine!"
The corner of my mouth twitches slightly. Thank you, Mr. Kane; I never would've figured that out myself. Where the hell does he think we are? Ballerina school?
I keep my reservations private, of course. Last thing I want is to give these men a reason to scream at me not even two minutes after meeting them.
"A marine," Kane goes on, "is characterized by one who possesses the HIGHEST of military virtues! He obeys orders, RESPECTS HIS SENIORS, and strives constantly to be the best at everything that he does!"
He begins pacing down the dividing line between the platoon. The two other DIs stay put, imposing and unmovable, like mountains.
"Discipline and spirit are the hallmarks of a marine!"
And crayons. Don't forget the crayons.
"Each of you can become a marine if you can build up discipline and spirit!"
And finish a 64-pack of Crayola.
Dammit, James, quit horsing around! A tiny voice in my head scolds me. That man went through everything you're about to and more, and came out stronger for it. He'll be the one to guide you to a brighter future; the least you can do in return is show him a little respect.
"We will give every effort to train you, even after some of you have given up on yourselves! Starting now, you will treat all marines with the HIGHEST level of respect, for we have EARNED our place as marines, and will accept NOTHING LESS THAN THAT FROM YOU! We will treat you as we do our fellow marines: with firmness, fairness, dignity, and compassion!
"At NO TIME will you be physically abused or verbally threatened by a marine or recruit! If anyone should abuse or mistreat you, I expect you to report such incidents immediately or me or to one of my drill instructors! Further, if you feel I have mistreated you, I expect you to report it to your Series Commander, Captain Higgins!"
Good. Means I won't have to put up with any two-faced shitholes like my mom. While I get along with my platoon for the most part, there do happen to be two or three guys I'm still a bit leery of…
"From now on, my drill instructors and I will be with you EVERY DAY, no matter where you have to go! I have told you what my drill instructors and I will do… From YOU, we demand the following! You WILL give 100 percent of yourselves at all times; obey all orders quickly, willingly, and without question; treat all marines and recruits with courtesy and respect! You will NOT physically abuse or verbally threaten any marine or recruit! Be completely honest in everything that you do. A marine never lies, cheats, or compromises! Respect the rights and properties of others! A marine never steals! You must work hard to strengthen your body. Be proud of yourself, and the uniform that you wear!"
…What's this strange feeling emanating from the bottom of my gut? It's not the usual resigned negativity aimed at the world in general, nor the unease that plagues my every waking moment these days. It feels more… positive. It's a weird feeling – almost foreign, even – but I find myself really, really liking it.
You know what, Staff Sergeant Kane? I am feeling pretty prideful all of a sudden. I went from being a directionless nobody to a Marine Corps recruit – which isn't all that uncommon, I'm sure, but this is the most I've felt like I have a purpose in months. I'll show you and your fellow scary DIs just how much I want that EGA pin.
"Above all else… NEVER QUIT, or give up! For we offer you the challenge of recruit training – the opportunity to earn the title… of United States Marine!"
Semper-fucking-Fi, my man. Watch out, world: James Rodriguez & Co. are coming to restore balance whether you want it or not.
Kane orders us to get to our feet, shake our legs off. We comply with another round of "Aye, sir!" before we're given further instructions to report back to the squad bay for our first set of drills. I'm totally pumped; I'm ready to take whatever boot camp has to dish out. All I have to do is put in the same hard work, find the same mindset that gave me the drive to get off my lazy ass and help support the family, and I'm guaranteed to see that pin thirteen weeks down the road. This time, I won't fail.
Don't worry, Alice. Your big brother's going to be just fine.
Shout-out to my buddy Jay (a full-fledged Marine Corps infantryman) for helping me write this chapter.
I'll sprinkle these mini-chapters detailing Alcatraz's backstory throughout the fic whenever I'm either a) short on ideas, or b) feel like the main plot isn't ready to advance yet. They'll cover snippets of his life ranging from his time in boot camp to right before the events of the game.
If anyone remembers from the novel, Alcatraz turned downright murderous when he witnessed CELL killing off the remnants of his squad. At least in my opinion, they deserve to be fleshed out more, the guys in the sub especially.
That'll have to wait for now, though. Maximum Butt-Kicking is right around the corner, and man oh man, it is going to be epic.