\o/
Recoil
Part 3-0: Another Brick in the Wall
January 1993
Life in the PRT, decided the recruiting sergeant, was not all that it was cracked up to be. Previously a corporal in the Marine Corps, he had been attracted by the promise of a straight-up promotion to sergeant, as an incentive to transfer from one service to the other. There had been glowing words about 'forming the core' of the Parahuman Response Teams, of 'being at the forefront' of the 'brave new service'. He'd be working with the Protectorate, he'd been told. Associating with the superheroes.
Yeah, like that had happened.
The closest he had come to even saying hello to any of the members of the Protectorate, much less getting an autograph, was a distant glimpse of someone who may or may not have been wearing a costume, as he was walking from one transport aircraft to another at some airbase in the middle of god-knows-where.
Join the PRT and meet the superheroes. Right.
He hadn't even met an officer in the PRT yet; his entire experience had been of senior NCOs, giving orders. Pack your duffel, be on this plane by oh-dark-thirty. Transfer to that plane, on the double, hut, hut, hut!
And now he was in Brockton Bay, which equated to the ass-end of nowhere, as far as he was concerned. He strongly suspected that he was the PRT presence in Brockton Bay, right at that moment. One very lonely recruiting sergeant, a Parahuman Response Teams soldier without a team.
They had given him a sedan, recently repainted with the PRT logo on the doors. He also had the recruiting booth, a folding chair, and a couple of folding tables, one of which was to act as his desk, and the other to hold the information booklets. And as he was a serving NCO in the brand-new Parahuman Response Teams, they had issued him one duty sidearm, nine-millimetre, self-defence, for the use of. That was it.
He'd heard that there were two ongoing parahuman-led criminal gangs in Brockton Bay; if rumours about this new guy called Marquis were true, then a third was on the rise. Gloomily, he wondered what his chances were like if any of these parahuman criminals decided to object to the presence of the PRT in Brockton Bay. Not good, he suspected. Even with the pistol.
But, as per orders, he had set up on the campus of the Brockton Bay College. No-one had bothered him, parahuman or otherwise. Oh, he'd had a few people wandering up to see what it was all about, and to leaf through the literature, but no-one had shown much in the way of interest. Except for a few screwballs who had somehow gotten the idea that if they signed up, they could be given super-powers of their own. Like that was even possible.
He was leaning back in the chair, reading one of the leaflets, and learning more about the PRT than he had to date, when he heard someone clear their throat.
"Excuse me?"
Dropping the leaflet back on the table, he sat up straight. "Yes, can I help you?"
Even as the reflexive question left his lips, he was looking over the trio who now faced him. For a split second, he thought it was two guys and a girl, but then he realised that they were all female. A tall blonde, broad in the shoulders, an equally-tall brunette, skinny, with glasses, and a shorter redhead with a cheeky grin.
The blonde would be joining, he guessed; she had height and heft, and unless he missed his guess, serious muscle under that coat. The tall brunette and the short redhead were probably along for moral support.
But to his surprise, it was the brunette who stepped forward. She held herself with a certain air of confidence and poise, and he found himself straightening in his seat. "I'm here to sign up," he heard her say.
"Uh, certainly, ma'am," he agreed, not entirely sure why it was that he used the honorific, rather than 'miss'. He glanced again at the blonde. "Are your friends joining as well ...?"
The blonde nudged the brunette. "I could," she murmured in an undertone.
"No, Gladys," insisted the brunette, in a tone which made the sergeant suspect that this was not the first time that this subject had come up. "Be a teacher. Be with Franklin."
Gladys sighed. "Okay, fine." She jerked her thumb sideways at the brunette. "She's joining, I'm not."
The sergeant nodded. One recruit was better than none, and while he'd have preferred the blonde, her friend seemed at least to be fit and healthy. "Very well. I've got a recruitment form right here -"
"Uh, one thing?" interjected the brunette. She put her bag on the table and took out a sheaf of papers. "I'll be wanting to apply for officer training, please."
He stared. "Officer training?"
"Sure," she replied, putting the papers down before him. "ROTC grading papers. Field exercise scores. Graduation transcripts."
He took the papers and leafed through them. They were meticulously organised, and painted a rather impressive picture. Good marks in physical training, excellent marks in shooting and hand-to-hand, outstanding marks in tactical and strategic planning.
As for the academic transcripts, the material was over his head, but all bar one showed glowing reports. The one exception was for Criminology; the sergeant had read enough grudging progress reports that he could tell that the teacher had not much liked the student, although he'd still given her good marks.
But that wasn't his business; this girl, Taylor Snow, wanted to apply to join the PRT, and it was his job to accept the application and send the paperwork in.
He watched her as she filled out the form. Short-sighted, he guessed, from the rectangular-lensed glasses she wore. Right-handed. Neat penmanship. A serious look on her face, which he guessed was habitual rather than assumed. And something else. A focus, an edge, in her expression, in her stance. A glint in her eye. He'd known people like that in the Green Machine. Those were people he'd learned not to cross.
As she handed over the paperwork, and gave him the pen back, she nodded. "Thanks, sergeant."
"You're very welcome, ma'am," he replied. The redhead, who had not spoken, gave him a mischievous grin, before tucking her arm through the brunette's.
As they walked away, the recruiting sergeant reflected that he might just have met his first PRT officer.
That kid's going far.
-ooo-
February 1993
"So this is it." Andrea looked away.
I nodded. "I got the letter today. I'm to report for induction at midday tomorrow. Bus leaves tomorrow morning."
She breathed deeply once, and then again. "Fuck." Her voice was tight.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Fuck." Stepping forward, I folded her in my arms.
For a moment, she was rigid, tense, but then she relaxed and leaned against me. I felt hot tears soaking through my shirt. "It's not fair," she told me, face still buried in my chest.
"No, it's not." I held her close, resting my chin on her head. "I thought -"
She paused, tilting her head. Turning her face so that I could see her. "Thought what?"
I breathed deeply myself, trying to get over the lump in my throat. "Thought that this would be easier. Wouldn't hurt so much."
She chuckled, or tried to. It sounded too much like a sob for my liking. "Whatever gave you that stupid idea?"
Tears were flowing down my cheeks now. "Didn't know I loved you so much."
Her arms were wrapped tightly around me. "Well, I knew. Gladys knew. I think everyone knew. Just like they know how I feel about you."
I tilted her face up and kissed her; there was salt on her lips, from my tears or hers, I didn't know. Didn't care. She kissed me back, fiercely.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I'm really, really sorry."
"What – hup! - what are you sorry about?" She was hiccuping now, between gulps for breath.
"Got you into this. Made you love me."
She snorted laughter, tears still on her face. "Made me love you? You moron, I fell in love with you all by myself."
My eyes overflowed with tears; I couldn't see any more. I could only feel. And my heart was breaking. "I wish there was another way. I truly do."
"Me too, Taylor. Me too. But we can't be together, not if you've gotta do what you've gotta do."
We had discussed this matter, numerous times. Andrea didn't know my exact plans, but she knew that we had to separate our private lives once I entered the PRT. We could still be friends, but no more than that.
Because there were things I was planning to do that she was better off not being associated with.
But knowing the truth of the matter didn't make it any easier.
I clung to her, the bastion of stability who had kept me sane for more than a year. My girlfriend. My lover.
We clung to one another, and cried.
Somehow, we ended up in the bedroom. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and we moved together. For the first time, I submitted to her needs without demur, because just for this night, they were my needs too. Slowly, softly, gently, we made love for the last time.
And that too, in its own way, was a goodbye.
-ooo-
"Snow! Drop and give me -"
I was already on the ground, pumping out the first push-up, by the time the drill completed his shout; " - twenty!"
I had done push-ups before; our ROTC instructor had been very big on them. Due to him, my upper-body strength was better than it ever had before. And with Gladys to compete against, I had not slackened off since leaving college, and with it, ROTC.
I was already halfway through the allotted number when the drill's boots – so shiny I could admire my face in the mirrored surfaces, had I a mind to – came to rest in front of me. I kept cranking them out; this sort of harassment was so minor that it barely made my radar.
"Snow!" shouted the drill. "Are you trying to be smart?"
"Sarge, no, sarge!" I shouted, timing it so I didn't lose my rhythm with the push-ups. "Trying to do push-ups, sarge!"
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
"Twenty, sergeant," I reported, bouncing to my feet.
He eyed me grimly. I took the time to catch what little of my breath I had lost while he decided on his next angle of attack. The winter breeze whistled between the buildings, and chilled my scalp.
My scalp. It had bothered me more than I had thought it would, losing my hair to the barber's clippers. For years, I had considered my hair to be my best feature; I even wore an open-backed mask as Skitter and then Weaver so that my hair could hang free.
Entering Boot, all recruits had their hair cut. Men were trimmed down to the cue-ball look, what the drill called 'mighty fine'. Women – not that there were very many of us in that first intake – got the option of a shoulder-length trim instead of having it all taken off. I had opted for the all-over look; I didn't need anything else differentiating me from the men.
This had the odd effect of bringing me closer to the male recruits, but distancing me from the few female recruits. All the rest had accepted the modified cut; they seemed to think I was 'butch' for having the lot taken off.
The only regret I had was not having been able to save the hair. I had thought maybe I could have parcelled it up and sent it to Dad, before recalling that 'Dad' was no longer someone who really existed, here and now. But even that wasn't something I wanted to try. I was already marked out enough as it was.
My gaze was fixed at a point over the drill's head. He gave me a grudging nod. "Back in formation, Snow. On the double."
"Sergeant!" I replied, moving off 'at the double', to catch up to the formation, which was still marching away, and had been ever since I was called out to do push-ups.
I knew exactly what the drill was trying to do, and I wholeheartedly supported it – for other people. He was trying to break us down, to knock civilian modes of thought out of us, so that we could be built up again into soldiers, men and women who would, if necessary, stand against parahumans in the defence of civilians.
I'd done that. I was right there with that mindset. It was, in brief, the reason I was there, the reason I had joined the PRT. I had faced more cape menaces than the drill ever had, and probably ever would. They gave us lectures about the potential opponents we might face; I could have added examples that would have had the entire cadre collectively wetting themselves in terror.
I had faced Lung. The Nine. Leviathan. Echidna. Behemoth.
Against Behemoth, I hadn't won, but I had faced him and I'd survived. Which put me light-years ahead of anyone else in the PRT, when it came to 'knowing your enemy'.
So I didn't need toughening up; mentally, I had been as tough as I'd ever get, before I ever turned seventeen. Physically, I was probably not at my peak yet, but that would be a matter of growth rather than exercise.
However, there was no way I could convey this to the drill in such a way that didn't either totally blow my cover, or make him think I was nuts (washing me out) or sound like I was complaining (which I really did not need). So I accepted, and endured, and kept track of things around me. Kept track of my fellow recruits.
Such as one that Lisa had informed me would be coming in with the second intake. She was on officer track, like me, but also like me, she had to do the boot training.
Like me, she had opted for the cue-ball haircut. Her name was Emily Piggot.
-ooo-
"Red Five! Bogey at your six, E-plus!"
I spun the agile little singleship on its axis and dived into the tumbling rocks that made up the gas giant's rather elaborate ring system. The Brak ship streaked past my stern in a stutter of laser fire that vaporised three rocks, but missed me by a whisker. Through the ring layer, I pulled hard upward, feeling the inertial compensators struggling to keep up. The Brak ship would be through the rocks in a moment, and I had to be lined up …
"Red Three. Got your six, Red Five."
I keyed my mic. Roger, Red Three. Let's take out the trash.
"Now you're playing my song."
Abruptly, as the Brak ship burst into the E-minus – the half of the stellar system below the ecliptic – I yanked at my controls; my singleship yawed and then tumbled away, moving erratically and apparently out of control. Brak were descended from predators; the pilot would not, could not, ignore a wounded, weakened foe. It turned after me, its tracking system seeking to lock me up.
Red Three – Lisa – dropped out from behind a tumbling rock the size of a Brak cruiser, and tucked in behind the fighter. She gave him just long enough to realise exactly how boned he really was, then she blew him into very small pieces.
Radio messages began filtering in from the other fighters of Red Flight. The Brak had been destroyed or driven off. It was time to return to base.
Red Three formed up alongside me on the flight back. She pushed up her visor and gave me a thumbs-up and a victorious grin; I grinned back.
Back in the hangar, we climbed out of our fighters, turning them over to the tender mercies of the mechanics. I nodded to her. Nice work out there, partner.
She nodded back, her helmet under her arm. "Nice work yourself. If we hadn't arranged it between ourselves, I would have fallen for your dying-duck impression."
I grinned. Thanks. Now, other matters. Emily. How should I approach her?
Lisa rubbed her chin. "Direct approach usually works with her." She raised an eyebrow. "I still think you'd make a better Director."
Except for all the other stuff.
She sighed. "Yeah, well. Except for that."
The lighting flickered; I glanced around. What's that? An attack?
Lisa shook her head. "No. They're rousting the barracks for that midnight pack march."
I rolled my eyes. Figures. Okay, gotta go. Leaning in toward Lisa, I kissed her. Her lips tasted of dust and blood. Night.
"Night."
The lights flickered again; I blinked.
-ooo-
Lisa had forewarned me about the pack march; I'd been careful to retire as early as possible, while wearing most of the clothing I would need on the march. My pack, already prepared, was waiting in my locker. And so, as the fluorescent lights flickered on down the length of the barracks, I sat up, turned, and put my sock-clad feet right into my boots. Then I grabbed my glasses from where I kept them beside the bunk.
"Pack march! Up you get! Rise an' shine! Show a leg! Let's get you out of those bunks, you scummy patch of … "
The drill, shouting as he went, banged with his baton on each bedframe that he passed. In his wake, sleep-confused recruits tumbled from their beds and began to hazily fumble on their uniforms. By the time he got to me, however, I was already shrugging into my pack, and tightening the straps.
Two bunks down, Emily Piggot was also more ready than most, although she was still climbing into her uniform. I saw her glance sharply at my state of readiness, but then the drill was stopping at my bunk.
"SNOW!" he bellowed.
I went to attention, and bellowed right back at him. "SERGEANT!"
He took a moment to look me up and down. "Snow, are you trying to be funny?"
"Sergeant, no, sergeant!" I replied, matching his tone.
"Snow, who told you there would be a pack march?"
"You did, sergeant!"
He paused. There was dead silence in the barracks. I couldn't even hear anyone breathing.
"When. Did. I. Do. That?"
"Just now, sergeant!"
I could see his face beginning to turn purple. It may, I realised belatedly, have been a bad idea to bait him.
"Pack inspection, Snow! Now now now!"
"Sergeant!" I removed the pack and passed it over to him. He unbuckled it, dropped it on the bed, and began to pull out the contents. They were, one and all, what was expected on a pack march. I'd made sure of it.
When the pack was empty, he turned to me. "Get that pack filled, Snow! On the double!" He turned to the rest of the barracks, and added, "And if any one of you finishes after Snow, you'll be running laps!"
I packed it again, under his gimlet eye, exactly as I had been shown in Basic. Around me, others were working to complete the task ahead of time, but it didn't bother me. I knew I could get it right.
Buckling the straps and pulling them tight, I swung it on to my shoulders. "Done, sergeant!"
The drill glared around at the rest of the barracks. Most of them stood at attention, their packs on their backs. Several still frantically worked to fill their packs; they stilled at a bellow from the sergeant. He began to describe their shortcomings in great detail, covering their parentage, habits and general appearance in one sweeping appraisal; Skidmark might have been able to improve on his descriptive capability, but not by much.
Glancing around, I noted that Emily was not one of those still getting ready. As my eyes fell on her, she returned the gaze. It was steady, discerning. Appraising. I nodded to her, very slightly. She nodded back. Then we both turned eyes front, because the drill had finished lambasting those who still had to fill their packs, and was marching back up between the beds.
"Everyone!" he shouted. "Because some of you are not. Yet. Ready …" He paused ominously.
We waited. Some of the others looked apprehensive.
"They'll be doing extra punishment duty when they get back. But for now … we can't have you standing idle. So, you will be doing push-ups, with packs, until they have finished packing their damn packs!"
Most of the recruits were still staring at him in shock by the time he finished. I was on the ground, cranking out the push-ups.
"What are you waiting for?" he shouted. "Go!"
So we did push-ups, while the tardy recruits hurried to fill their packs, and get the rest of their uniforms on. With a pack on, it was a lot harder than doing it unencumbered, but I could do it. Before I'd entered ROTC, I would not have been capable.
Privately, I resolved to find the guy who finished last, and have a chat with him about getting his pack filled faster. But then, I figured, I was not the only one. So I shelved it, for the moment.
We did push-ups. The last pack was filled. We started on our pack march.
-ooo-
I was moving along steadily, swinging my arms, working out the kinks of the push-up session, when Emily Piggot moved up alongside me.
"Snow."
"Piggot."
"Fuckin' push-ups," she muttered.
"Fuckin' push-ups," I agreed.
She paused for a moment, then went on. "You were fast, getting geared up."
"Mm." It was true; I didn't waste my breath.
She didn't give up; nor did I did expect her to. "How did you know?"
A half-shrug, hard with the pack on my back. "Had an idea."
I could tell she was looking sideways at me. "You have a lot of ideas."
"Could say that."
"And you use my full name."
"It's your name."
"Not everyone thinks so." The bitterness in her voice was well hidden, but it was there.
Nicknames were a big thing in the recruit cadre. It was rare that a recruit got to choose their own. I had been saddled early on with "Ice Queen"; partly because of my name, and partly because I hadn't shown any interest in bunk time with any of the male recruits.
This was not to say that 'fraternisation' between male and female recruits was a permitted thing; it was most definitely out of bounds. But because the vast majority of PRT recruits were male, they couldn't justify opening another barracks room just for us. So we all slept in a section, and changed behind hung blankets, or in the toilet cubicles. Some of the women slept with the men; I just hoped they were being careful.
The nickname didn't bother me; it was both accurate and totally misleading, both of which I could make use of. Emily's nickname, on the other hand was another thing altogether.
She was shorter than me, and a little heavier. Most people were shorter and heavier than me. Emily wasn't skinny, but nor was she fat by any reasonable description, not like she would become in twenty years. At most, she was chunky; there was more muscle there than fat. Without her unfortunate name, no-one would even have noticed it. But the weight was there, as was the name, and some unkind souls had capitalised on it. So now, to a certain section of the barracks, she was "Pig" or "the pig".
I always called her Piggot. She professed not to notice those who used the other names. I could sympathise; she wasn't going to complain, or go through channels. She was going to simply prove the bastards wrong. It was the single-mindedness that would get her through the battle with Nilbog, and thereafter, serve her well over ten years as Director of PRT ENE.
But up until now, she hadn't made any overtures. This was a break. I turned my head partially toward her. "I'm Taylor."
Her reply took so long in coming that I thought she hadn't heard me. Then she replied. "Emily."
"No talking in ranks!" bellowed the drill, three files back. It wasn't us he was talking to; others were also snatching conversations in the middle of the pack march. "If you've got breath to talk, you've got breath to go faster! On the double! Hup, hup, hup!"
We broke into a trot, and after that, there wasn't any more breath to talk.
-ooo-
"Officer track, huh?" asked Emily; we sat side by side on my bunk, shining our boots and buckles. I was a better hand with the buckles, while Emily could bring out a deeper shine with the boots.
"Yeah," I replied. "What are you going for?"
"Infantry," Emily responded, rubbing at a difficult patch. She spat on it, and rubbed again; it seemed to work better. "You?"
"Intel." I worked away at the buckle with a fingernail, picking off a piece of dirt. Slowly, I registered that she'd stopped working at the boot. I turned my head, meeting her stare. "What?"
"The fuck, Taylor?" she demanded. "You've got 'senior officer' written all over you."
I shook my head. "I don't want to command. I like to work with the big picture, figuring out what it all means."
To be honest, that was Lisa's thing rather than mine, but the plan we had evolved required me to go down this path.
Emily shook her head. "Christ fuck. You'll be wasted as an intel weenie. I've seen your initial tactical scores. They're likely to try to talk you straight into a command bracket."
I shook my head. "They've got field officers already. They're weak on analysts. Especially ones with degrees in parahuman studies, psychology and criminology."
She blinked. "You've got all those?"
I nodded. "Had an idea I might need them."
"Fuck." Slowly, she began to rub at the boot again. "Well, all I can say is, if you keep having these ideas of yours, you'll be able to go wherever you like."
I grinned at her. "That's the idea."
She finished with the boot, and picked up its mate. "Fuck, do you look for mud puddles to wade through?"
I shrugged. "Blame the drill, not me."
"True," she agreed. "Say, just between you and me … "
I waited. "Yeah?"
"If you ever happen to have any of your little 'ideas' that I'd be interested in hearing … "
I nodded. "You'll hear."
"Thanks." And if I can ever do you any favours, she didn't have to say, consider them done.
We went back to polishing and cleaning.
-ooo-
March 1993
"Aim!"
They aimed.
"Fire!"
Nearly every rifle spoke at once.
"Aim!"
They aimed.
"Fire!"
This time, the barrage was a little more ragged. The drill noted with irritation that several recruits had fired before he gave the word.
"Safe weapons!"
There was a series of muted clicks as each recruit snapped over the safety on his or her M-16.
"Weapons down!"
Each recruit placed his weapon on the ground and lifted his hands clear of it.
Hands clasped behind his back, the drill went strolling down the line. "When I say 'Fire', you sorry sacks of shit, I mean fire when I say so, not when you feel like it! Got it? Not half a second before, and not fifteen seconds after! Do you understand?"
A ragged chorus of "Yes, sergeant," answered him.
"I said, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"YES, SERGEANT!"
He nodded. "Good. Now, let's see what sort of sorry showing you've made here."
Without even waiting to check to see if the weapons really were down – there was a corporal, observing the recruits from the side, to ensure that – he strode downrange, to the targets.
"Good … good … abysmal … fair … fuck me."
He stopped, opposite one target, and tugged down his sunglasses so as to get a better look at it. At first glance, it seemed that only one or two shots had hit; however, on closer examination, he saw that the X-ring was a cluster of overlapping bullet-holes. He turned to face the firing line. "Whose target is this?"
A recruit raised her hand, from where she was kneeling on the ground. "Sergeant, that's mine. Recruit Snow, sergeant."
He had taken note of her before; she was serious, intent, and never needed telling twice. She also worked well with others, but tended to take charge in group situations. But this … holy fuck.
He tugged the target free of its clips, and walked back up to the firing line with it. "Where the fuck did you learn how to shoot, Snow?"
"JROTC, sergeant. Winslow High, Brockton Bay."
"Who's the instructor there, Snow?"
She frowned for a moment. "Uh, Campbell, sergeant. I think his first name was Joseph."
He nodded slowly. "Joe Campbell. I know him. He was a good drill, in the day. I'm gonna have to send him a case of beer. Seems he's been doing his job right." He waved the target sheet. "Look very carefully at this! This is what you have to aspire to! And Snow!"
"Sergeant?"
"I want to see this every fucking time. Got it?"
Snow nodded. "Got it, sergeant."
-ooo-
April 1993
"Taylor!"
I braced myself; Andrea was petite, but she leaped at me as though she was trying to bring me to the ground. I caught her, and she promptly wrapped her arms and legs around me, and kissed me soundly.
I grinned and kissed her back, in a somewhat more restrained fashion, although I was very glad to see her. "Wow," I observed. "It's like I was away for two years, not two months."
She giggled and put her legs down, although she kept her arms around me. "I missed you so bad," she told me. "Have you grown? It feels like you've grown."
Gladys, grinning broadly, shook her head. "No, she hasn't grown. But it looks like she's bulked out a little."
"Pack marches and push-ups," I informed her. "I can now bench more than my own weight."
Gladys snorted. "I've been able to bench your weight since forever."
"Yeah," I responded, letting go of Andrea with one hand so I could poke her in the ribs, "but that's because you're a musclebound hulk. I'm a skinny waif."
Andrea let go of me, but took firm possession of my arm. "Yeah, but you're my skinny waif."
Grinning, I turned to Danny and Anne-Rose; they seemed to be staring at me in a state of slight shock. "What?"
"Wow," Danny told me. "You've … you're a soldier."
I nodded. "That's the way of it," I informed him. "Join the armed forces, and they tend to do that to you."
I thought that Anne-Rose was staring at my face, then I realised what was going on. "Yeah, they took it off."
"All that beautiful hair," she murmured, unconsciously touching her own tresses. Mine had been darker than hers, closer to Danny's shade, but our hair had still been very much alike.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It was a bit of a jolt to part with it, but that's the way it is." I touched my scalp beside the cap; a couple of months in, the hair was starting to grow back, but it was still not much more than a buzz-cut.
It would, I noted with inner amusement, make it a lot easier to tell us apart.
"I like the uniform," Danny noted, "but isn't it a little … ornate?"
"The uniform's cool," Andrea stated firmly.
"It's dress uniform," I informed him. "Not to be worn in the field." I shared a glance with Gladys; she knew what that was about.
"So when do you officially finish boot camp?" asked Gladys.
"Already finished," I told her. "We got two weeks of leave, before I go on to officer training. Catch up with family and friends."
"So who are we?" he asked with a grin. "Family or friends?"
"Yes," I replied with an answering grin.
Andrea laughed out loud.
-ooo-
"It'll be fine," Danny assured me.
I wasn't so certain. I hadn't spoken to Dorothy, or seen her, since I started college. Since I had met Andrea. Eighteen months, more or less. "Maybe this is a bad idea."
He shook his head. "No. You've got to bite the bullet, sooner or later. Find out, one way or the other."
Stepping forward, he mounted the steps and rang the doorbell. It was audible from inside the house; a few moments later, the front door opened.
George Hebert stood there; stolid, solid, as craggy and grey-bearded as ever.
"Dad," Danny told him. "Taylor's back from training."
George looked past him. "So I see," he observed.
"Good afternoon, Mr Hebert," I greeted him politely.
He frowned. "Do you intend to stand there all day?"
I swallowed. "I don't know if I'm welcome … "
"Hmph. Well, come in. This was a Christian household, the last I checked."
I nodded briefly. "Thank you."
He stepped back, allowing Danny to enter. I followed on. Andrea had chosen to stay away, with Gladys and Anne-Rose; I had agreed at the time that it was probably best with just me and Danny there, but right then, I wished I had my friends for support.
"Dot!" called out George as we entered the living room. "Company!"
Dorothy Hebert entered from the kitchen; her eyes flicked from her husband to her son, and then fixed on me.
"Who -?" she began, before she recognised me. Her face changed. "Taylor. Is that you?"
I nodded, wanting to retreat. There were few things I was scared of, but I did not want to be there.
"Yes, Mrs Hebert," I replied softly. "It's me."
She frowned sharply, looking past me. "You haven't brought that girl with you, have you?"
By which she meant Andrea, of course.
I shook my head. "No. I broke things off with her when I left for basic training."
She snorted. "A simple thing to do, when you wouldn't be seeing her anyway."
Again, I shook my head. "No, ma'am. It's over between us."
Gradually, a smile crept across her face. "Good. I've always felt that you had the makings of a good Christian girl in you, Taylor. Now, you'll be coming to Sunday mass with us ..."
"No, ma'am," I stated firmly.
She stopped, and looked harder at me. "No? Well, some other time will do as well, I suppose."
"No," I repeated. "Dorothy, there is something you need to understand."
She stared at me. "Taylor?"
I took a deep breath. "I broke up with Andrea for my own reasons, not yours. I've come back to try to make peace, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to bow down to your every whim. What I had with Andrea wasn't what you thought, but you never asked, merely assumed the worst. What it was is between Andrea and myself, and that's none of your business. So we've got a choice. You can accept me for who I am, what I am, with all my flaws. Or you can tell me to go, and never see me again."
Dot was staring at me, her eyes wide. "Taylor Snow!" she gasped. "How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice!"
Danny was frozen, apparently stunned by the turn of events. I glanced at George; he did not seem inclined to intervene.
"Dorothy," I responded. "Mrs Hebert. You took me in. You sheltered me. For that, I will be forever grateful. But I have grown, and I have moved on, and I no longer live under your roof. I choose the rules I live by, and I choose not to let your approval, or lack thereof, dictate the way I live. While I am your guest, I will abide by your rules. But once I walk out that door, I am no longer bound by them. Now; do I stay, or do I go?"
Dorothy continued to stare; it was George Hebert who spoke next.
"Well said, young Taylor," he told me, clapping me on the shoulder. "Sit down. I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about."
Dot's stare flicked to her husband. "George!" she protested.
He gave her an irritated glare. "What, Dottie? The girl is our guest. Are you going to throw her out for being plain spoken? She obviously knows her own mind, and has chosen her own path. There's precious little you can do to change that, now."
Dorothy stared at George, then looked to Danny. "Do you -"
"Mom," Danny cut in patiently. "Taylor's my friend. I've liked her ever since we met." Ever since I saved her life, was what he didn't say, and didn't have to."I had a crush on her for the longest time, but that's over with, ever since I met Anne-Rose. But I don't let who she sees, who she keeps company with, dictate whether or not I like her. I like her for her."
Dorothy opened her mouth, then shut it again. She was strong-willed; she would have to be, to maintain her way in a household of two males, especially where one of them was George Hebert. But nor was she stupid; she could see which way the wind was blowing. She could order me out, and I would go, but it would not stop me from seeing Danny and George outside the house, not if they chose to do so. So she chose the lesser of two evils.
"Very well, Taylor," she allowed. "Please stay; I'll put the teapot on."
"Thank you, Mrs Hebert," I replied.
She gave me a dry look. "And now it's back to 'Mrs Hebert'. Am I only Dorothy when you are chastising me?"
I hid a smile. "No. Thank you, Dorothy. It will be a pleasure to stay."
So we sat, and I drank tea, and we chatted.
-ooo-
"I think Dad was impressed," Danny commented as we walked back to his car. "Even proud."
I blinked. George had given me the third degree, almost, about my time in basic training. Pack marches, hand to hand combat, shooting, even down to cleaning the barracks; he had wanted to hear about it all.
"I felt like he was testing me," I replied. "Making sure I actually went and did it, instead of just going away for ten weeks."
He shook his head with a chuckle. "No. He wanted to see how you felt about it, about doing it. Being in the military. He was going to join the Navy, once, when he was about my age, but he never really got around to it. But you're almost family, as far as he's concerned, and he's proud that you're doing it. He just wants to be sure that you think you're doing the right thing."
I nodded. "It's the right thing, all right. I'm where I've got to be, in order to do the things I have to do." I glanced sideways at him. "How are things with you and Anne-Rose?"
He smiled. "Pretty good. I don't have enough money for us to even think about getting married quite yet, but maybe by the end of the year." He paused. "She's getting heat off of her parents for letting me 'distract' her from her studies. When it's really her not being sure if she wants to keep up with her law studies."
"Talk to her," I suggested. "Ask her what she really wants to do. What she sees herself doing in ten years." I squeezed his arm. "Make sure she knows she has your full support."
He frowned. "She already knows that."
I raised an eyebrow. "Have you actually told her, in so many words?"
"Uh, no, but -"
I shook my head and smiled. "No buts. Tell her. She needs to hear it from you. More than once, if that's what it takes."
"Well, if you're sure … " he answered doubtfully.
I rolled my eyes. "Do I have to threaten to beat you up? Because I'll do it."
He pretended to cringe. "Nope, nope. All good here. I'll tell her. I promise."
I grinned, and slugged him gently on the shoulder. "Good boy."
"Ow." He rubbed his shoulder. "I think you left a bruise."
"Wimp."
"Bully."
"Want me to hit you again?"
"Nope."
-ooo-
Andrea raised her glass. "It's good to have you home."
I raised mine in return, and took a sip. The wine was dry and astringent; it still wasn't really to my taste. "It's good to be home."
I smiled at Andrea; she had put candles on the table, and we ate in their soft yellow glow.
I cleared my throat. "I hope you haven't been too lonely while I've been gone."
Giggling, she shook her head. "Nope. You're still the only one for me, but I've been consoling myself with other college girls. Usually tall brunettes, for some reason."
I raised an eyebrow. "Not Anne-Rose, I hope."
She giggled again. I got the impression that the wine was getting to her. "Oh, no. Since she met Danny, she's been silly in love. I think I was just a long-term experiment, and now she's settled down."
I took another bite of the steak, and chewed. After military rations, it was heavenly. Andrea watched me. I looked back at her. "What?"
"So, have you found anyone else yet?" she teased.
I shook my head. "Haven't been looking. Not really interested."
"What, guys or girls?" she asked, honestly curious.
I shook my head. "Before I met you, my entire sexual experience was contained to one month. I had a boyfriend, who was really, really needy. It was kind of why I became his girlfriend. We had sex a few times, but then … well, then things changed, so I had to leave him."
She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds kind of … cold."
"Oh, there's more to it," I hastened to add. "I always liked him, before, but he considered me to be more like a sister. Until just after the thing happened that screwed with his head. He confessed that he was thinking about me more than he should. And after … well, I had to leave him, because I was kind of going to jail. But I felt that he thought that I abandoned him while he still needed me."
"Wow," Andrea observed. "I'm gonna have to get the full story of this out of you someday."
I chuckled. "Wanna hear the really bizarre part?"
She grinned. "Hit me."
"He gets born in about two months."
She blinked. "Your boyfriend?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
She shook her head. "Okay, that's … really weird. Yeah. I can't top that."
I put my glass down and stood up from the table. She stood up, too.
"This was a wonderful meal, and I've really enjoyed being back with you," I told her, and held her tight. "But I'm shipping out in the morning, so I think I'll go to bed."
"Oooh."
"To sleep," I clarified.
"Awww."
I relented a little. "But you can snuggle up anyway."
"Yay!"
-ooo-
May 1993
"Cadet Snow, the board would like to know why it is that you have chosen Intelligence for your career branch."
I stood at attention, thumbs along the seam-lines of my uniform trousers. Facing me were five officers; three men and two women. It was a male officer who had spoken; he wore the insignia of a major-general.
"Sir," I replied. "It's where I feel most comfortable. I'm good with data analysis."
One of the women – her rank insignia marked her out as a bird colonel – tapped a sheet of paper on her desk. "These results state otherwise, Cadet Snow. Your tactical skills are high, and you have proven over and over that you can lead men in the field."
"Nonetheless, ma'am," I responded respectfully, "I do not feel that that is where my strengths lie."
Which was crap; it was exactly where they lay. Even after losing my powers, I had maintained a certain knack for multi-tasking, and in getting people to follow orders. A field officer in the PRT? I wouldrock.
But it wasn't where I needed to be.
I needed to be behind the scenes, managing matters my own way.
"And you believe that they lie in the field of intelligence gathering and analysis?" asked another one of the men, a general.
"Sir, yes I do," I agreed.
There was a long pause, then the major-general spoke. "Dismissed, Cadet. We will consider your application."
"Sir." I saluted, turned, and marched from the room.
-ooo-
"So, what do you think?"
The female colonel looked at the major-general, who had asked the question.
"Sir," she started carefully, "she's a natural in the field. I've looked at her scores, from JROTC up to the present day, and she's gone from strength to strength."
The other woman, who had not spoken so far, cleared her throat. "May I make a comment here?"
"Of course," the major-general allowed. "It's what we're here for."
The woman nodded. "Well, her field scores are exceptional, as are her basic combat capabilities – I have a drill sergeant who wants to send her to sniper school – but have you actually looked at her intelligence analysis scores?"
The major-general frowned. "A little, but -"
The woman pushed a stack of papers his way. "Look at this. She's able to analyse a tactical situation and find all the weak points. The write-ups of these field exercises shows that. Plus, you might want to read a paper she wrote up in her final year."
"I glanced at it," the female bird colonel stated dismissively. "Her professor gave her good marks, but her conclusions are way off."
The other woman shook her head. "You're reading the wrong paper. The one I've got is basically the diametric opposite to the one she submitted for her Criminology class. This one got published in a law review publication, and it's very interesting. She reaches some startling conclusions regarding the future of crime and parahumans in the region of Brockton Bay, over the next few years."
"Really?" asked the major-general. "And how do they stand up so far?"
"Rather well, actually," was the answer. "She's taken many factors into account, and it makes a fascinating piece of reading."
"Hm," replied the major-general. "Get a copy to each of us. We'll read it over, and reconvene in the morning for our decision."
-ooo-
"Cadet Snow."
"Sir."
"Before we make our final decision, it would please this board to know why you wrote two different papers for your Criminology class." I could hear the question he wasn't asking. Were you hedging your bets?
I drew a deep breath. "My professor and I didn't see eye to eye on certain matters, sir," I explained bluntly. "If I wanted to graduate, I had to write the paper he wanted to see."
"I see, Cadet Snow." Gimlet eyes stared down at me. "And do you intend to hide your conclusions from all your superior officers?"
"No, sir!" The protest was jerked from me. "I gave him the paper he wanted, but I made sure the real paper got seen as well."
"Hmm." He stared at me; I couldn't read his expression. Leaning back in his chair, he exchanged a few murmured words with his fellow officers. After an excruciatingly long few moments, he leaned forward again. "We have considered your application, and have decided that it has merit. You may continue along your chosen career branch."
"Thank you, sir."
"Dismissed."
"Sir."
I saluted, turned, and marched out of the room. Behind me, the doors closed.
Another step on the path.
But there were many, many more to go.
-ooo-
July 1993
"and the orders of the officers appointed over me."
"and the orders of the officers appointed over me."
"according to the regulations of the PRTCJ."
"according to the regulations of the PRTCJ."
"So help me God."
"So help me God."
The wind cut across the open parade ground, relieving some of the effect of the hot summer sun. After we finished taking the oath, I wanted to look around me, at my fellow cadets, who had just become officers in the Parahuman Response Teams, just as I had. There were far fewer than we had started out with; most of the women and some of the men had washed out, either through injury or personal choice. One woman had gotten pregnant. One man had come down with a galloping case of venereal disease, acquired off-base.
Those of us that were left stood tall, wearing our dress blues proudly. Each of us wore our career and rank insignia on our uniforms; mine indicated that I was a lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps. Normally, graduating cadets entered the military as second lieutenants; given my ROTC scores, and my overall performance during my time in training – helped not a little by Lisa's guidance and assistance – I had skipped a pay grade.
Wow, I thought. Dad would be so proud.
After the ceremony was over, I felt a touch at my elbow. Glancing around I saw it was Emily Piggot.
"Lieutenant," I greeted her, with a grin.
"Lieutenant," she replied, with a smile of her own.
We ignored the fact that she was a second looey; there would be time enough for that, later. "So, where are you going on from here?"
She considered. "Advanced infantry course, I think. Maybe counter-terrorism. Then I start climbing the ladder. You?"
"I guess I go out in the field and learn how to be a real spook," I replied cheerfully. "Hey, your folks here?"
She shook her head. "They couldn't make it."
"Come meet my friends, then," I invited her.
She tilted her head. "You sure?"
I nodded vigorously. "Sure I'm sure. Remember my rifle scores?"
She rolled her eyes. "You were always too damn good on the range."
I grinned. "Come on, I'll introduce you to my best friend. She's an even better shot than me."
"Christ," she muttered as I pulled her along. "What's she do? Army sniper?"
"Nope," I replied. "She's a high school teacher."
The look on Emily's face was golden.
End of Part 3-0