Chapter 14

Hunger games

-/-/-/-

Cramps tore at his chest. Draco shook loose from the the tangled white sheet. The nightmare was gone, but from the stabs knifing down his arms, it must have been Potter's sectumsempra five hundred feet up with nowhere else to go. Sweat slicked his skin, so he snuck a quick shower. Alternating hot and cold was a trick he learned from the Wesen when they had an especially painful transformation. Another heavy dose of healing potion slid down his throat. Nausea swelled and a rancid burp hit his teeth before it tapered into gnawing hunger.

Draco's mouth watered from the scents of the various Wesen. Of course, the reason was obvious enough. Triple doses of various healing potions were working. He was recovering from the daily onslaught of injuries, but damn. Hugon was so close. The scent of the wild boar-like Malin Fatale tickled his brain over and over and left his chin slicked in drool. Dupont's kick shook him out of it. "Hey stupid, I can't sleep over your stomach!"

He wiped the saliva and chewed on a piece of leather. Really, anything to get his mind off food. At least on night exercises, he could catch cicadas. They weren't much on taste, but they did have a decent crunch.

Luckily, things had settled down since that crazy night. Training had stepped up. Hand to hand combat was going well with the extra practice. He could now hold his own against all but the biggest of them. It was impossible not to feel the stares of the other battalions marching in crisp, white uniforms while they shambled past, splattered with mud and blood. Earlier today, they had passed perfect rows of tidy men standing and firing on bullseye targets while they made their way to the warren of pocked concrete and splintered wood. They ran and tumbled and shot at moving targets through tiny gaps while bullets whizzed over their heads and pinged cement dust into their faces. Next had come helicopter drills, where they slid down ropes, dropped into a field, and crawled through tall grass while flares and machine gun fire chopped the brush into their eyes.

They had a short break to gulp down more healing potion before dinner and then back out on the march for night fighting. Every single one of them was now on triple rations, even Koszjek. The other battalions stared as they ate like animals, shoving food down their gullets as fast as it would go. Not a single scrap of bone or gristle was left when the command to stop came. DuPont laughed when Draco ate his napkin by mistake, but it all evaporated into the same abyss of gnawing hunger.

Black and brown grease paint smeared his face and hands. His pack was lashed tight onto his back while his rifle nestled into his arms. Of course, they were trying to be stealthy, but one hundred twenty-seven can only be so quiet, especially when the paths between concrete bunker compounds were strewn with dry leaves, acorns, and twigs.

The itch in the back of his skull said "Ambush." It always said ambush, and it was always right. They had been ambushed them ten-times... By the "Real" soldiers. It was their job to regroup, recover, and press on into another. Hairs prickled on the men's necks and a hush drifted over their group. Every single one of them had grown tired of being the punching bag. Their freshly minted commanding officer seemed like the well educated rule follower who viewed his penal battalion as one step below pigeon turd.

The silver of a quarter moon was all they had. Draco was trying to remember the specific wording of the night eyes charm when his vision erupted in stars. he ducked behind a wall and scrubbed his eyes. The world came into focus, bright and clear, like a normal day.

The chemical reek of cheap aftershave and spicy deodorant drifted through the bushes. Koszjek and four of the other Bludbaden flared their eyes fiery red at him, and he returned a nod. It was so blindingly obvious that even he had picked it up. They should have sniffed them out ten minutes ago. He was going to have to have a talk about paying closer attention on point. For once Draco was thankful. Not a single man of theirs stank like that, if only out of fear of the canid Wesen. They definitely had a pack mentality, and after taking one for the team on Werewolf night, Draco was an honorary member.

They flicked hand signals up and down the line. He whispered to Captain Butterbar, "Sir, the point has spotted an ambush ahead."

The man rustled his maps and squinted at the directions. "Excellent. This will be a perfect opportunity to charge ahead and catch them off guard."

His teeth gritted. They may have been the dregs, but they were HIS dregs. You never sacrifice men for the sake of sacrifice. You always goad the other side into that sort of foolishness. He fought his emotions back and steeled his calm. Strategies raced through his head, but the officer waved a hand. "Ready the men."

With a flourish, the officer marched to the front and commanded the men forward. Silently, most of them melted back. Around the next bend, gunfire and grenades erupted. Two men hauled the officer back out, griping while his casualty beacon flashed searing white into the night. They took him to the rear and called for medics with the other wounded. Draco's group silently skirted left while the other group skirted right. Soon, they were behind the ambush force. Gunfire exploded again at the front, marking their signal. They rushed in from behind, popping in and out with their laser rifles and training grenades. They weaved and bobbed, ducking behind concrete to cut off retreat pathways and quickly subdued the remainder of the larger force. Half an hour later, they met with the general for debriefing. Glee flickered in the black depths of LeClerc's eyes as the junior officers bickered and griped about not following the exercise plans.

Draco and his men gloated in stone faced silence while the general stomped up and down the line of officers. He ground his fingers into the chest of one. "Why do you think an enemy should politely follow your plans? What was your contingency? Did you fail to consider that if an enemy discovers your position, they will adjust their tactics." He marched further and singled out a second. "And you!" It was their officer. "When your men advised you of an ambush, why didn't you listen and adjust? An officer's greatest weapon is his mind. It is a sorry commentary that their most successful night of whole week was when you were killed early in the exercise."

He waved a hand back to LeClerc. "What gave the opposing force away?"

The grizzled old drill sergeant's eyes lit. "I would rather let the men tell you."

Draco nudged Benneton, one of the Bludbaden. The man gulped hard, and said, "They stank, sir. We smelled them almost a kilometer out."

The general bellowed at their officer. "They stank. Do you hear that? Use your mind."

Glares and gritted teeth answered them from the other side, but the general had already dismissed them to the next exercise. Even after chastisement, their officer would not adjust his tactics. He was mired in a rule/plan following rut which once again resulted in him being killed early. Draco again took the reins and this time, led a tactical retreat which baited the opposing force into a series of death traps. By the third stage of anti-personnel mines and withering crossfires, his enemy was reduced to chaos and the remnants surrendered when his men poured out like bees and surrounded them.

He really couldn't claim credit for the design of the various ambush stages. That had been LeClerc's work. The old chief sergeant truly was a master at the art of death. Not only that, but the Wesen, when working closely under the old Grimm, achieved superhuman feats. There truly was something about the old warhorse's encouragement that unleashed and focused the beast within.

Unfortunately, no good deed goes unpunished, and Draco ended up with triple night watch duty. Even worse, these watches weren't like regular night watch where he was to inspect empty buildings or man a guard shack on the back of base and hail anyone coming. Nobody bothered you on those. Instead, Draco was grinding push up's and squat thrusts while reciting his full chain of command and the standing orders. Three different drill sergeants yelled questions into his ears while kicking his thighs and arms. His mind separated from the body grinding away on autopilot and focused on answers. Suddenly, the soldiers shot up straight and announced, "General on deck."

He jumped to attention and saluted. The general eyed the drill sergeants for a minute. "When you're done with your fun, the recruit has an errand." And then to Draco, "Meet Corporal Rodier in thirty minutes at his office, in your summer whites."

With that, the general disapparated with a crack. The instructors ground him into the concrete for another five minutes before running him back to the barracks. The remaining drill sergeant yelled questions, punched his stomach, and ordered push-ups in the shower while he washed. Draco only got a break for long enough to gulp down half a dozen more vials of potions. Nausea flooded his gut, crested, and tapered into gnawing hunger. The porcine scent of the first drill sergeant floating around his head had him drooling. The man was definitely a bauerschwein. Euphoric visions of crunching down on the rich marrow and savory bone danced through his mind.

The drill sergeant slammed him into the shower wall and froze stiff. White and orange sparkles slithered and spiderwebbed over the man's arms and up his sleeves. Draco fought for control against the magic clawing for a meal. He scrubbed off in cold water and gulped down a couple mouthfuls while tinny fear exuded out of the paralyzed man's pores. A quick obliviation and a pinch of Legillimens cleaned up five minutes of catastrophe and had the sergeant pacing back and forth, demanding he hurry into his dress uniform, but now, he kept his distance.

Rodier groaned. "If there's one thing I hate about the job, it's babysitting idiots. Well, come on, lets get this over with."

He wondered at the corporal's wrinkled camouflage compared to his crisp summer whites. They headed out towards the motor pool. Rodier asked, "You ok to drive?"

"There's always a first time for everything. I can probably figure it out."

A snort coughed out of Rodier. "Did you grow up in some sort of cave?"

He had already been through this dozens of times with his men. "If you want to take a broom, I'm your man."

"As in fly a broom? Like on the cartoons?"

"They're loads of fun."

"You've got to be shitting me."

"We've got whole sport leagues playing Quidditch. It's sort of like football mixed with darts and cricket, but flying on brooms."

"Qui-what?" As per usual, not a single soul in The Legion had heard of it, not even the wizards.

Rodier escorted him to a dirt colored, four door Peugeot sedan. Draco slid into the passenger's seat, fighting the urge to turn his nose at the brown, muggle plastic interior. The seats were squashed flat on the edges and bore the butt prints of a thousand soldiers before. White threads poked through peeling chunks of the seat cushion. His shoes skidded across the worn patches on the stippled rubber floor mats.

The Great Lucius Malfoy had sneered and refused Lord Greengass' gilded carriage because it was merely horse drawn, and here he was, settling into the plastic seat of a clapped out muggle car. A lot of good that pompous effrontery had been in Azkaban. An estate and title granted by William the Conqueror and winning wars for each successive sovreign hadn't so much as earned Draco the luxury of a bucket to piss in, much less a blanket in the place.

At least he had a blanket here. Life in the lap of luxury, and all. Draco said, "You know, this is my first time in a car."

The corporal stopped and stared, then laughed. "You really did grow up in a cave. Did you have electricity or running water?"

"No electricity, but we had running water."

"Internet?"

"Pretty amazing, that world wide web thing. I first learned about it three months ago."

The corporal peppered him with the usual ten thousand questions as they drove, until his growling stomach interrupted. Rodier quirked a bushy eyebrow. "LeClerc's being rough on you guys."

"Preparing us for war."

He nodded. "You embarrassed first battalion pretty bad the other night, flanking their ambush and taking them from the rear."

"Anyone could have done that."

"Perhaps... Nobody has ever baited them like that."

His stomach was talking again. The car's interior was starting to smell edible. Rodier snorted. "Don't even think of tasting anything under the seat. Lucky for you, President Chirac is a generous old man."

They stopped at a small Chinese noodle bar. Rodier laughed as Draco gulped down every single thing they brought out. Each bite was an explosion of flavor. Not only could he smell each thing before it came out, he could identify each spice and seasoning. "Ok, this is strange. How do I know the lo mein was prepared by a woman, but the dumplings were rolled by a man?"

"It's pretty obvious. How many women were involved?"

"Three."

Rodier nodded. "Wesen?"

"I'm pretty sure two of them were. Some sort of feline wesen, but different kinds."

"You're doing pretty well for a wizard."

"It has to be all this healing potion, but I can't even walk most mornings without it."

"Did they ever get the bullets out?"

"Doc said they were too close to my heart. The silver will probably help on the next full moon."

"Or hurt like hell. You're lucky, Grimms don't usually miss."

The men had repeated the same refrain dozens of times. Twenty minutes later, they stood outside the Aubergne Municipal police department. Rodier winked at him. "Three legionaries got arrested for drunken disorderly. I'm assuming you know the drill with the judge."

Draco nodded. More times than he wished to admit. He rolled back his shoulders, put on his best command arrogance, and marched through the wrought iron fenced entrance with Rodier two steps behind. The sergeant on duty shuffled papers across the worn steel desk. The man wiped through his greasy hair. "Can I help you?"

Draco drummed a manilla folder and returned an equally bored look. "I'm here to pick up a couple of my boys."

The man's slow groan rumbled out. Draco caught the familiar wild dog scent of Bludbaden. Rodier nodded at the man and flicked red fire into his eyes, which was returned equally quickly. The officer complained, "Stupid fuckers get a couple bars and think they own the whole town. You know it's good our boys got there before they got planted in a hole."

Draco gently took the reins. "I do appreciate your consideration in the matter. I can assure you, they will be taught a lesson. Perhaps I can save you some paperwork."

The police officer groaned and shook his head. "Oh no, the big men know their rights. They're French Army Officers, you know. Demanded lawyers and a judge. Extremely rudely. My shift is up in twenty minutes but because of them, I've got to stay another two hours. If it were up to me, they'd be your problem, not mine."

"I apologize for the inconvenience as well as the conduct of my men. When is their arraignment?"

-/-/-/-/-

Three men slurred as they sung the French National Anthem and argued with the exasperated bailiff when Draco and Rodier marched in. Rodier barked an order, but Draco's Imperius snapped the men to attention. There they were, second lieutenant rule-follower and his two academy comrades from the exercise, each sporting a single, dull gold bar on the collar of their rumpled uniforms. They stood like boards as Draco apologized to the bailiff. He paced back and forth, grinding fingers into their chests and berating them for embarrassing The Legion like this.

Draco waved off the two grumpy public defenders, much to their apparent relief. They had shuffled in, complete with unruly hair and heaps of paperwork stuffed under their armpits. The bailiff snickered when Draco pointed at the rusty folding chairs behind the brown formica bench, gave a snap, and the men sat without a single word.

The tired judge shuffled papers and peered over his bifocals. "What's this all about?"

-/-/-/-

Police officers crowded around, pointing and laughing, as the three amigos scrubbed the jail bathroom on hands and knees. Draco warmed his bored aloofness around the police chief. The gray haired man was clearly enjoying the spectacle. Draco pointed. "Porthos, get under the toilet. Athos, scrub the inside of the urinal again."

The judge laughed and nodded at the one squeezing gray water out of an old mop. "I suppose that makes that one Aramis."

The chief asked, "What are you going to do with the musketeers?"

"They're going to be attached to our Penal Battalion until they prove they are ready to serve in the French Army. They're also being busted to second lieutenants."

A glitter of mirth rippled beneath Rodier's eyes, but he kept up the act. Once complete, they hauled the men back to the car and stuffed them into the tiny back seat. The corporal burst out laughing. "Ok, how did you pull that off? You got the judge to drop everything."

"Give them what they wanted. Everybody there wanted to see the fools brought down a notch. The judge wanted us out of his hair and the police officers wanted the paperwork gone so they could go home."

"You made the whole thing sound so official, talking about busting officers and reassigning them, but there's no change in anything."

Draco shrugged. "Happy ending all around, I suppose."

"It would be happier if you drove while I drank a bottle of wine."

Draco eyed the officers in the back seat. The normal gnaw of hunger pangs had turned into screaming behind his eyes. The muggle officer smelled rich and savory beneath the bleach residue, which meant it was time for dinner. "Perhaps we can turn up something."