Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for violence and discussions of death.
…
Walk Softly and Carry a Big Gun
Enoggera Barracks, just outside of Brisbane Coast's CBD, was practically a second home to Regan. As she climbed off the troop transport and saw Gupta Patel waiting for them, a grin unbefitting a Private (Third Class) of the Commonwealth Alliance Forces split her face. The Major's expression softened slightly, mostly a deepening crease around his dark eyes, but still he remained stern.
She listened to the welcome speech she'd heard a dozen times since starting her training here, the words given new meaning by the fact that when she was done with boot camp, she would pick up the sword and the rifle to take her oath. Patel was hard but fair, happy to show anyone with drive how to do new things and endlessly patient with recruits who were genuinely trying. Slackers, timewasters and those who pissed around got short shrift and a boot up the backside out of the barracks.
Once dismissed to find lockers and beds, the other soldiers scattered as Patel approached her, expression neutral. "So you've finally enlisted formally," he noted.
"Yes, Major," she responded with a salute.
Patel smiled slightly. "I want to ask some questions about your plans after boot camp."
Regan's eyebrow arched. "Figured I'd be sent to wherever grunts are needed, sir."
Patel brought up some files on his omnitool. The Major was a soldier but in the Alliance, every officer had an omnitool. "You scored high on your aptitude tests, Shepard. If you'd be willing to dedicate four years at Duntroon and get a university, you could graduate as a Lieutenant instead of a Corporal."
Regan's lips pursed. That would extent the mandatory period of enlistment to ten years, as Anderson had calculated it to begin when she finished boot camp. "Why?" she asked as bluntly as she dared of the man who would control her life for the next six months.
"Better pay grade, a certain amount of freedom to plan a battle as you choose and the fact that you are the highest-scoring leadership candidate on the aptitude test." Patel dismissed the file and regarded her sombrely. "You have six months to decide but once you're in the ranks, the only way you'll be able to go for officer is either getting into the ICA or a field commission – or a break between tours of duty to study."
More responsibility and if shit goes wrong, you're blamed, her brain pointed out. Regan doubted she was N-School material but during Cadet training, she wound up taking charge most of the time because she saw what needed to be done and just did it instead of pissing around waiting for someone else to do so.
"I'll do it," she answered.
Patel smiled, this time looking a bit smug (did he have a bet riding on it with someone?), and nodded. "Good. You just need to get through boot camp first."
Regan snorted. "Sir, I've been training for this for the past two years. Think I'm good to go."
"Oh, wonderful. I need someone to show the recruits how it's done."
"I can handle anything you throw at me, sir."
…
"Kill me."
Regan rolled onto her cot as two members of her squad, Tay Duke and Helen 'Hotshot' Houlihan, entered. They were all exhausted and aching thanks to Patel taking her confidence as a 'Challenge accepted' and putting them through literal hell.
"Gladly, once I've picked the shrapnel from my ass," Houlihan replied. "What crawled up the Major's arse and died?"
"Me," Regan admitted with a groan. They'd all showered and changed as was appropriate but she still wanted to die. "Kiddies, never ever tell Patel that you can take anything he throws at you just because you were a Cadet. Just don't."
"Fuck you, Shepard," Duke groused.
"Thanks for the offer, but fraternisation is frowned upon." Regan rolled off her cot and rose to her feet as she heard the familiar footsteps of Patel's combat boots heading in their direction.
"Still standing?" The Major sounded a little surprised.
"You didn't give us permission to die, sir," Regan answered, saluting him.
"I'm so glad you're going to be Duntroon's problem in three months," Patel answered dryly. "Your squad's earned some leave so long as you're back and ready for another day of training your arses off by 06:00 tomorrow."
Praise the fickle gods above, Regan thought as she nodded and the faces of Duke and Hotshot brightened.
Patel nodded and left. He knew better than to tell her squad to behave.
"So, you're from the Brisbane Coast," the Cairns-born Duke said cheerfully. "Know anywhere good we can drink?"
"I'm from the south end but I hear Mick O'Malley's is good," Regan replied. Funny how a chance to get off base and have a drink perked her up. "Tell the squad to get ready, we're getting moderately tipsy."
"'Moderately tipsy'?" Duke sounded disappointed. Then again, up in Cairns, drinking was a sport because there was fuck-all else to do.
"Training tomorrow. If I get shit for you sucking at whatever delightful entertainment the Major's got planned for us, I'll kick your arse and make you scrub the loos with a toothbrush."
"His toothbrush, I hope." Hotshot had as dry a sense of humour as Regan.
"I was thinking the Major's," Duke muttered, showing more guts than was wise.
Within the hour they were in civvies and on the airbus to the northern CBD. Using her omnitool, Regan found Mick O'Malley's, which was packed full of uni students from QUT, and belting out Irish punk rock songs. In short, it was her kind of place.
Regan commanded a five-person squad: in addition to Duke and Hotshot, she had Leila bint Mohammed al-Sahrawi, who came along for the company because as a Muslim woman she couldn't drink, and Faramir Smith, a calm, scholarly man who could drop a bull with a single punch. With a name like his, he'd need to be.
"Alright, don't embarrass me – I mean, don't embarrass the Alliance," Regan informed the grinning group. "One drink an hour and no more than five. Leila, if we do get a bit tipsy, you're in charge of getting us home."
The sturdy Western Saharan woman nodded and Regan smiled at her. "Tell 'em you're the designated driver and that will get you free soft drinks all night."
"I can do that," Leila, who was one of those disgustingly cheerful morning people, agreed.
Inside, Mick O'Malley's was as faux Irish as you could get, complete with emerald-green shamrocks and a leprechaun statue. But it was relatively clean and despite being loud, there was no undercurrent of trouble that Regan could sense, so she walked and played dodge the uni student to get to the bar while the others went for seats. "Four Fourex beers and a Coke, thanks," she said to the harried bartender once she was served.
"Yeah, sure, that'll be 40 credits," the man replied.
Regan winced and handed over the credit chit to be scanned. Next round was Duke's or Faramir's round.
Juggling the beers and soft drink, she did the dodging grabby hands dance pretty well… until she tripped over someone's outstretched foot. The nearest patron, some dark-haired muscular sports type, wore four very expensive home-grown beers and a Coke. As he turned, Regan began an apology that died on her lips as she realised that despite being older, it was fucking Finch from the Tenth Street Reds.
"Don't fucking try nothing," she advised as realisation dawned on that passingly handsome face.
"Serving drinks in a bar, Regan?" Finch hissed scornfully.
"Actually, running drinks to my squad over there," Regan responded, slanting her chin to the group of buzz-cut (but for Leila, who wore an Alliance-blue hijab) individuals nearby. "Now you can walk away and I'll pretend I never saw you despite you being a scumbag baby-seller. Or I can plant you on your arse here and now, spend a couple weeks confined to barracks, and see you in Wacol for gang-related activities."
"Do you know how much it fucking cost me to make it up to Cerberus?" he hissed furiously.
"I don't fucking care, Finch. You're what – twenty now? You could be in the military doing something with the skills the Reds taught us, but I wager you're still trying to stay on top of the shit heap back in High Street." Regan stared down her first commander with an icy glare she'd learned from Matilda.
Finch sneered. "You've gone jarhead, Regan. I wonder what your squad would say if they knew you were a-"
"Gangbanger?" Regan interrupted loudly. "Jesus, you been snorting red sand, old boy? Everyone fucking knows I chose military service in lieu of prison time, you daft bastard, and I don't regret it one fucking bit."
She jabbed Finch's chest, forcing him to step back. "Go back to Southport. Maybe you'll make it to thirty. Or maybe not. I don't give a shit because that life's behind me for a better one."
Finch glared at her but wisely chose caution as the better part of valour. He took himself off, reeking of beer and worse, as Hotshot came up to see what was wrong.
"I swear, once I'm done with Duntroon I'm getting the fuck outta here," Regan vowed softly. "This place is too fucking small."
…
A shot ricocheted over Regan's head and she swore vividly. Crawling under barbed wire with live fire going on wasn't a pleasant thing to do with a hangover, but she had to get her squad across the course and beat the visiting Kiwi team led by Ngaire Parata or sing the New Zealand national anthem in their underwear at the mess hall. Damn her for running into Finch last night and damn her for making a bet with Parata today.
"Now probably isn't the time to ask, but what exactly did you do in the gangs?" Hotshot suddenly asked behind her. "I thought the Cadet programme was for non-violent criminals."
"It is, but they made an exception for me because I blew the lid open on some really nasty drug and human trafficking operations," Regan answered, not looking over her shoulder. Hotshot had lousy timing but Regan owed her the answer. "Before that, I did security – mostly hung out in a high spot with a sniper rifle watching for rival gangs."
"And you let that guy walk?" Hotshot's voice was disbelieving.
"Because until I graduate from boot camp, I'm on a suspended sentence," Regan replied. "Finch doesn't know that, so I was able to bullshit him into leaving. I'm not a cop, Hotshot."
Another bullet fired and Regan cursed, crawling through the mud. "Before you ask, yes I've hurt people, and I killed someone once. I turned against the Reds when they were selling little kids to Cerberus – I've heard that group does some fucked up shit – and because I shot two people, I was charged with two counts of attempted murder. Didn't matter they were dragging toddlers and babies out to Cerberus."
They passed a checkpoint and Regan tapped the light that blinked to tell the commanders watching they'd reached it. "I'm good at shooting people, Hotshot, and the Alliance saw that. I'd always planned to enlist because I was never registered for a CIN until I was arrested."
Houlihan, who came from one of those comfortably middle-class military families, remained silent until the rest of the squad cleared the checkpoint. She couldn't understand either the choices that drove Regan to become a teenage sniper or the pragmatism of the Alliance in recruiting such a person.
"I thought you'd done some hacking stuff or shoplifting, not killed someone," she finally said. "Guess I thought better of you than you really were."
It hurt to be dismissed so easily by someone who never did it tough. But Regan refused to let it show. "Well, until we're done with boot camp, you're in my squad – so suck it up and deal with it, sunshine."
Then she put her nose to the mud and crawled at a blistering place, trying to catch up on the time lost talking to Hotshot. She, and Hotshot, and everyone else here were learning how to kill people yet the Private had an issue with Regan being gang security before her enlistment.
God above but Regan couldn't understand that sort of hypocrisy. Not one bit.
…
Watching Shepard sing the New Zealand national underwear in a crop top and boyleg underpants was certainly enlightening, David Anderson thought with a wry smile. Though the scrawny brassy-haired woman didn't realise it, she and Ngaire Parata were neck and neck for the Alliance's shortlist of next-generation Spectre candidates to quietly nurture and promote to the Council. Only one could come from the Commonwealth Oceania nations and if Anderson had his way, it would be the Australian, not the impressive Maori Corporal. Ngaire had her own skills and talents, but she was essentially an arms master and drill sergeant, where Regan was officer material. Parata was more along the lines of Gupta Patel instead of… well… someone like Anderson himself.
He wasn't pleased she'd run into her old gang, though the fact she scared Finch into leaving the Brisbane Coast entirely was something to take note of. Getting into an argument with one of her squadmates was bad form and a mark against her, even if she rallied the squad to almost beat the New Zealanders. But Anderson reminded himself that for all her combat experience, Regan was eighteen and wouldn't be seeing actual combat until twenty-two at least because she'd wisely elected to go to Duntroon and pursue a university education to become an officer.
"What's Regan going to be doing at Duntroon again?" he asked Patel softly.
"A three-year Bachelor of Intergalactic Relations," he replied with amusement deepening the creases around his dark eyes.
Anderson's eyebrow shot up. Regan, when they'd picked her up off the streets, had been one of the most casually racist people he knew.
"I don't tolerate racism in my barracks," Patel continued calmly. "Most of it was ignorance on Regan's part, not malice, and she elected to study krogan as her alien language for her high school diploma."
"…Krogan." Anderson didn't bother to hide his disbelief.
Patel almost smiled. "Apparently she's prone to headbutting in hand-to-hand combat according to Matilda. It seemed… appropriate."
"I swear, if she actually headbutts a krogan, I hope she's wearing a helmet," Anderson muttered.
Still, he was impressed that she was going to make an effort to learn about Council races. Did she have some idea of what was afoot? If so, Regan was playing her cards close to her chest.
Kangaroo Squad was permitted to pull on their BDUs once the anthem was done, much to the hilarity of Kiwi Squad. Anderson, born in London, didn't quite get the Antipodean rivalry – but then, the squads had joined together to rib the King Squad from Britain and knock them (and Lieutenant John Coates) out of the competition. Good old Commonwealth rivalry.
He watched the latest batch of soldiers, all of whom would graduate in six weeks, with a sense of pride and sorrow. Within a decade, at least one out of four would be dead and another wounded to the point of honourable discharge. Regan Shepard and Ngaire Parata could be in those who simply didn't have the luck to escape that stray bullet or batarian bomb.
"How do you stand it?" he asked Patel, who trained these kids to go out and kill or be killed.
"If not them, then someone else," was the grim answer. "Most of these young people would go out into the colonies and possibly die or be enslaved if they weren't in the military. At least we give them a fighting chance so that civilians don't have to kill or be killed."
It wasn't the sort of answer Anderson was hoping for but he didn't say anything because Patel was right. If they hadn't found Regan, she'd be dead or a hardened criminal by now instead of a potential Spectre candidate.
In a galaxy dominated by the Council races, humanity had to walk softly and carry a big gun. Shepard already had the big gun – he just hoped she had the soft steps to carry her through.