Expedited training. That’s what the captain called it. What really filled John’s days was an unending circuit of total exertion prodded by the speartips of unmerciful hazing. 

        If John thought himself exhausted before, he was now pushed to the reaches of his limits. Before the sun rose, he was ripped from his sheets to begin a long morning of monitored calisthenics, running, and a deep cleaning of the base’s endless floors and bathrooms. He would go without breakfast, given only water to supplement the groan in his stomach, only to upend it all mid-way through another round of laps before noon. 

        When his legs finally dropped out from under him, his tongue swollen, and his mind sick, he was given a meal to eat under strict surveillance. Utensils were withheld, probably for fear of hurting himself or others, leaving John to paw fistfuls of mashed potatoes, chili, and overstuffed omelettes into his gullet. The moment his fingers were licked clean, he was wrenched to his feet and marched back to the training grounds for weightlifting and practice in hand-to-hand combat with the rest of the unit. 

        Overeating would come to be avoided. Enough vomit found its way onto the front of his clothes to earn him the nickname ‘baby-sick’ on day one. He was prohibited from washing the chunks from his shirt. The foul stains were an award he’d rightfully earned and should proudly display until he was allowed a shower in the evening. The stench would quickly putrefy under the sun, warranting disgust and deeper scorn from those forced to train with him.

        The daily drills must have been a way of keeping him completely engaged and withdrawn from his own mind. Not a moment could be spared to think on his predicament or to bring up enough willpower to try for an escape–an impossibility under his constant supervision. John found himself without thoughts of home or what he’d been through. He was a shell–a body that consumed and burned the few portions of food allotted to him.

        After the first few days of exercise and regular meals, John’s strength returned. To the surprise of his entourage, John’s endurance surpassed that of the men running adjacent in the early mornings. His reward was longer sprints and later meals. As soon as a spark was caught in his eye, he was made to fail–to collapse into a spitting, dry-heaving mess. That’s when he realised the purpose of his ‘training’.

        The captain, or George as the others in his unit referred to him, had become a constant presence by the end of John’s first week, as did the intensity of his routine. German had first overseen John's hellish introduction to life behind Javelin walls, pushing him until John could finally collapse onto his cot, his body thrumming with strain.

        George was worse. 

        Pausing for a moment, either during exercise or cleaning out the blackish brown behind one of many American toilets was met with a shrill whistle and an upward slap to the base of John’s skull. The mere seconds between John’s movements were marked and reduced, keeping him in constant motion. 

        John hated him. 

        The feeling surprised him one night as he fumbled his way through the pitch-black barracks back to his cot. His sleep had been interrupted by running laps under the moon while George watched on, smoking cigars and muttering to several men busy configuring a radio atop a table of unfolded maps. Each glance John tried for as he passed by was met with the blinding beam of the captain’s flashlight.

        The physical stress and fatigue were only half of it. German had simply worked John as one did a mule, pushing him until he fell gasping for air, the occasional threat of violence or obscure Russian insult coaxing him back to his feet. George demanded more.

        While John ran, George ran too, drilling him in lessons of survival, combat strategy, weapon assembly, local fauna and flora, and even astronomy. When the captain had had enough, John was ordered to run circles around him as he continued his lectures. Each word had to be memorized and repeated back to the captain as he ran. No breaks were afforded to him unless he did so without error. Several afternoons had dragged on pitilessly as John was forced to name all the parts of an M16 rifle, the steps to disassemble one, and how to put it back together, all while running loops around the captain with a fifty-pound pack on his shoulders. Once listed correctly, George allowed him a break, but not before additional sit-ups. 

        There was a greater depth to all of this, John knew. The captain had been pushing into every corner of his fortitude, seeking the limits of his spirit and capabilities. It was either to measure his worth or to see what kind of threat he was. John understood Javelin as a whole wanted to prove his danger to them. To them, he was a cornered animal, one that would ultimately turn and strike with bared fangs. 

        It was true–John wanted to, but he couldn’t. 

        George coaxed out the fire John thought hidden within him. Flares of John’s anger, grit teeth, or searing glares, the captain caught and sought to amplify. George did not hold back, and neither did his men. Hecklers taunted him from the sidelines of his drills. Deeper aggression was permitted against him during sparring matches. He was thrown to the ground, openhandedly slapped, and shoved by elbow or shoulder at every turn. This continued outside of training. 

        Even the girl, Murphy, joined in his torment. At the beginning, John searched for safety in her through some innate need lost on him. But he repulsed her, and her addition to the invective inflicted on him cut deeper than expected. He twisted under her perception. 

        The unit’s pointed aggression swelled the heat in his heart, begging to erupt. It was all he could do to keep his hate from tearing out by the time his head fell heavy on his pillow–another sunset long passed.

        If John felt a want of purpose, it was to prove that he wasn’t the bloodthirsty animal they thought him to be. He rose each morning, performed his duties, and subdued the hate inside. Even if for spite, John was determined not to break or burst into flames. It was the only way he could fight back, the end of this holding either his respite or death.

        Accepting this gave him a small amount of peace. His routine was no less terrible, but surrendering to the painful hours of the day became a burden of purpose. But with it came the feeling of a mental unthreading. His body might sustain under the pressure, but his mind was marking its limits closer than expected–and far too soon. 

        The first mark began with his dreams. As he woke, they carried on into the waking morning. Sleep-draped conversations with ghosts bit at his ear as he trudged out the door. Once it was Moisey, mimicking the berating John received the previous day. Another time, his father pinched at his side with thumb and forefinger, nagging him about his duty to the village. 

        They all wanted something.

        Nuria pursued him today, but dreams of her were often pleasant. Soft, muddled words kissed his inner skull as he pushed through the half-dressed soldiers rising for their postings. Her voice was intoxicating–dangerously so. Twice, John collided with passing men. His eyes had been closed as he jogged sluggishly by, thinking the tighter he squeezed them, the tighter his hold on her was. She could slip away so easily. 

        So real was her presence that he found himself responding aloud to her. Yesterday, he’d earned an additional set of pushups when he let a lover’s remark slip instead of the answer to which constellations were visible from Kabul in winter.  

        John’s attentiveness was fading. Early on, he could shake the voices out like a daydream and return his focus to the captain’s lectures. But the voices persisted, turning from a pleasing warmth to a sudden rattle at any hour, sending his heart thumping into his throat. In the moment, they were real, and he was plunged into the throes of chatter with whichever spirit he thought beside him. A few seconds would pass, and he’d realize no one was there besides the captain or an accompanying attendant–usually German.

        His outlook was slanted. This curse he carried stunted his capability, cutting out his legs from under him with an intent to drag him into the dark. Every day was a fight not to succumb to it. All this could have been so easy before this rot in his mind had taken hold. 

        Why did I deserve this?  

        A feeling touched him then. The scent of olives filled the air, and a girl hummed softly somewhere close by. A formless comfort had heard him, understood him, and soothed his anguish. It lingered for a moment longer, then quieted. Like a warm blanket had fallen from his shoulders, he became cold and alert.

        John lifted his head from the table, unaware he’d been dozing. George had turned to speak with someone, leaving John to a rare, peaceful moment alone. 

        They’d been talking for some time. George spoke with a man, a pilot who had known the captain long before his time with Javelin. 

        Pieces of their talk fit to form a picture of the captain’s past–how the pilot saved George from a sinister affair, the two of them escaping to the East, where he found himself at the helm of Javelin’s top unit. According to the pilot’s hyperbole, George owed a life’s debt to the man. Even if partly in jest, John noticed the captain shift his footing during the story–especially when Cecilia’s name was mentioned. A daggered gaze turned all away who listened then, pushing the conversation to other matters. John nearly found himself at the end of that devil’s glare before snapping his head back down to today’s assignment.

        John was treated with a special task: cleaning rifles for the company Quartermaster. John admitted some eagerness in this, and not just because he was allowed to sit in a chair. His heart had been beating to get his hands on a weapon and join the fight, but it seemed destined that he would only ever be put to use as the unit’s defunct squire. All the same, it felt a small privilege to handle the weapons. Hope held it was a sign of the captain’s growing trust in him. Maybe this task was a doorway.

        John frowned.
        More likely, it was a taunt–a test to see what the ‘Butcher’ would do when thrown a bushel of blades. How quickly would he try to kill everyone, they’d wonder. He chewed his cheek. It didn’t matter; the rifles were unloaded, and John was still under probation of coming within ten yards of the firing range while the unit practiced. He would never hold a loaded gun.

        At the least, today’s task was simple. These weapons were the M16’s he was extensively lectured on, he learned. With this, John’s hands fell into a rhythm of work that let him slip out of the captain’s eye as his friend yammered on.

        The friend’s name was Kai. Contracted with Javelin, the pilot wore an aura about his shoulders like a lavish robe of cool air. His chipper presence permeated the training grounds and even the captain’s gruff temperament. Kai was the kind of man who caught your stare with a smile and had a joke ready the second time you came around. Men meandering about the concrete square kept finding ways to shuffle by and interject some loosely connected anecdote into their exchange. The infection of his self-satisfaction had everyone at ease, including George, to John’s relief.

        It was a blessing to have the captain so preoccupied, though, as their chat carried on, it appeared more that the pilot simply had a way of not letting a conversation die, even if George hadn’t added anything to the conversation for several minutes.

        George had mentioned how useful a plane would have been to ferry him and a squad around the country to defuse some ongoing concern of Javelin’s, but Kai had only nodded distractedly and proceeded to ramble for several minutes about the company’s need of updated equipment and maintenance to their fleet of vehicles–particularly his own plane. This devolved into a rant over the company’s reimbursement policies which was completely lost on John. Daydreams soon found him again and pulled at John’s eyelids.

        The warm blanket rested on him once more, settling gently against the back of his neck. A richness sweetened the air.

        “Is this not what you wanted?” said Nuria. Her lips opened against his ear, her whisper flooding into him. “So far from home?”

        John turned from the captain’s conversation. His hands found the parts of the rifle he had been reassembling, sliding the two receivers carefully together. His mind became thick and muddled.

        “No,” John admitted, his voice low. Nuria knelt close enough to brush against his face. A thread of red hair curled over his nose. John blinked, but it remained–more real than ever. “It’s not the same.”

        She spoke directly into him, “It could be. If you wanted.”

        There were words then that formed behind his eyes. Reach. Touch it. 

        John’s chest sank, overcome with sudden despair. “Leaving home–I wanted this, but–” John muttered absently through the side of his lip. His fingers lifted towards the red twine in his face. “I’m stuck.”

        “You’re so close.”

        Take hold. It is yours.

        Her voice merged with another. Her sweet taste became tart, and he realized the self-serving cloying was too thick for his stomach. He only missed her, and it ached. 

        She really wasn’t here. 

        “It’s my fault,” John’s voice cracked, speaking to his guilt. Boots shifted. Eavesdroppers tilted too near–their silhouettes crowding his peripherals. They would hear him. “If I hadn’t made us go back…if we had just run–”

        Olive oil smoked in his nose. He felt weightless, unable to focus.

        No. What you seek–

        “Mm-mm,” Nuria shook her head. “What you seek–”

        It’s not out there.

        “It’s not out there.”

        It’s here.

        “Here.” John heard her sticky smile.

        He felt it beside him. It was not her, but something else. A curtain of shadow draped the corner of John’s eye. His skin chilled, and his joints locked. He couldn’t–he wouldn’t look.

        Liquid dripped onto the ground. John moved his boot from a dark pool seeping out in front of him. His eyes unfocused, remaining forward and unblinking. 

        S-severed. Beholden…catalyst-t. 

        Wet words entered John’s skull, sliding their fingers down the curve of bone, plucking at the cords of his brain as they passed.

        Go away, he thought loudly. His own words fought against the swell in his head.

        John bit his tongue.

        “Rycroft,” a voice hammered against John’s ear. 

        John jolted, his chest pounding. The fog in his head vanished, as did the vision. Wind and clattering metal pushed out the silence. Sweat rolled down his face and sides.

        “You hear me, kid?” George put a hand on the table, lowering himself into view. The man’s moustache twitched with anticipation of a reply.

        “Captain,” John managed after a moment, avoiding his gaze. He nearly forgot the man’s title. All that mattered was that it was gone, and he was alone again. 

        John swallowed and attempted to breathe steadily.

        “What the hell were you grumbling about?” the captain said. The man rose from the table, glowering down from behind his folded, veiny arms. “Quartermaster Dunn just gave you a compliment. Pay the man some respect.”

        John moved slowly, shifting in his seat to see this person who had approached without his knowing. A man with dark skin and darker hair was inspecting one of the rifles John had cleaned from a narrow table behind them. John fumbled to recall the man’s words, if he’d indeed heard them at all.

        “Said ya’ did fine work on these,” the Quartermaster said. He turned to John, tilting a rifle in his hands to look down the sights. Above his elbow and up to the rolled-up sleeves of his t-shirt was a mirage of faded tattoos. He wore a short goatee, and atop his closely shaved head was a circle of curled fuzz. His feet were laced with sleek, black boots over a set of drab overalls. A zippered satchel was sewn to the chest and pouches along the waist, like a tactical harness fused into the clothing. The look appeared hand-sewn, customized by the Quartermaster himself. 

        “Thank you,” John said. His words were distant, empty.

        “Sir,” George pressed.

        “Sir.”

        “Don’t need ta’ sir me,” said Quartermaster Dunn. His voice was a blown-out horn, unable to climb above a strained whisper. The veins in his neck clenched with stress as he spoke. 

        “This one does,” George said. He flicked his nose with his thumb. “Still training him. Finished a crash-course in weapons manufacturing, but we’re still working out how to address superiors.”

        “Shoulda potty-trained him first,” Kai said in a tone that denoted the sub-par nature of the joke. He wiggled his brows over a set of gold aviators above his nose. “Least, as I heard, he was hardly more than an animal when you got him. Where’d ya pick ‘em up again? San Fran?”

        “We’re getting there, and yeah–close by,” the captain said with indifference. George made his way to the table of guns, trying one for himself. He mimicked the Quartermaster’s movements, looking through the sights, checking the ejection port, and then the magazine. “If these have Dunny’s approval, let’s try them out. Rycroft! Firing range–move.” 

        John stood from the table, leaving the halves of his rifle behind as he followed the group of three to the east side of the training grounds. The grounds were defined by a large concrete square and a bordering chain-link fence. While most of the court was used for any activity other than shooting, each side had a particular purpose. To the north were rows of brutalist exercise equipment: bench presses, dumbbells, and several iron-rod contraptions whose use John was clueless about. The south side contained tables, seating, and storage containers for miscellaneous training or class instruction. In the center of the court was where most of the men practiced hand-to-hand combat on sunbleached mats that ripped at the seams. 

        The firing range was to the east side, a rectangular, sandbagged area aimed away from the grounds. Ten shooting rows were marked with targets at varying distances along the range. Here, with great envy, John had watched his unit hone their marksmanship skills from a distance.

        George set the rifle on a chipped, wooden table that marked their shooting station. A few loiterers from their unit made their way over to witness the weapons check. Most everyone dressed simply in shirts tucked into their fatigue trousers and dusty boots, except Kai, who wore straight pants and a cuffed, navy jacket with a short collar.

        “Got some rounds for me?” George asked Dunn when they’d gathered. 

        “Yeah, Cap’n,” Quartermaster Dunn replied. The man set a handheld, metal crate on the table, flipping the lid open to a collection of brown cardboard boxes. “More’n what’s needed for an inspection. Just note what you use.”

        The captain scrounged for one of the ammunition boxes, lifting one and flicking its flap open with his thumb. He turned passive in thought, then set the ammo pack on the table.  

        “Load this,” George said, facing John. The rifle was extended to him.  

        John’s fingers fidgeted at his sides. Caution held him, but one look at George’s face told him not to dally. His gaze leapt from person to person, to each of the onlookers, looking for the trap that surely lay in wait. 

        He was urged on by an invisible force at his back. 

        John took the rifle in hand, eyeing the crowd once more with his head drooped to his collar. The hair on the back of his neck stood. George remained close by, arms folded.

        The weapon was heavy as stone now, leaden with the intent of its use. John set it gently on the table after releasing the magazine. He dared not move an inch faster, fearing that any one person from the crowd might cry havoc and tear him down from this moment. His fingers trailed the grain of the table to the ammo box George had left for him, dipping into the open flap and feeling the coolness of the brass inside.

        He loaded five bullets into the magazine, each time pausing for a sign to continue or stop. The captain gave no order, but seemed content once John slid the magazine into the rifle again with a click. He pulled the charging handle back, priming the first shot.

        Five shots. A tickle ran up his vertebrae and seeped into the back of his head. A pleasing feeling warmed him. 

        “Hand on the grip, one on the guard,” George ordered. His voice nearly shattered the sensation building in John’s body. “Keep the stock to your shoulder–yep–keep it steady down the range.”

        John followed each instruction. The motions stoked the tingle rising on his skin, inducing a greater hum to the base of his skull. His eyes fluttered for a moment. This is right. It feels. Right.

        “Feel it,” a girl’s voice licked the edge of his ear. “It is yours to feel.”

        It is yours to feel. Voiceless words entered him. John swayed slightly. Maybe a hand trailed his arm–or he’d imagined it. Reach out.

        “Keep it in single fire–” a distant voice spoke, its words an echoing bellow somewhere above the lake of John’s mind. He was sinking inward, but his thumb found the safety switch, guiding it to his desire. He aimed, his pupil rolling into the pinhole of the iron sights. His vision tunneled as he pulled the trigger.

        Crack! 

        The rifle bucked, beating into his shoulder. His hands quaked, his face recoiled, eyes alight. His eardrums rebounded from the explosion of the first shot. Breath held still in his lungs. All around him held too, for a moment–then the rush struck.

        Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. John pulled the trigger, filling his head with the weapon’s splitting roar. He froze, hands tight and sweaty on the gun. A satisfying stench wafted from the end of the barrel, teasing his nose. John’s body hummed.

        A hand fell on his arm.

        “Give it here,” George said.

        John slacked, dropping from the feeling he was so nearly overcome with. His grip loosened, and he relinquished the rifle to the captain’s hold.

        “Whaddya’ think?” the captain’s raised voice passed over John’s head.

        Dunn’s hoarse reply entered John’s other ear, “Good. Clean. Didn’t explode anyway.”

        “Really wanted ta’ see if he’d blow hands off?” Kai chuckled. 

        “Something like that.”

        John turned, his brow pressed together. His exhilaration blurred, turning sour. He felt like a fool. 

        “Surprised he got all the pins right,” someone chimed in. 

        They expected a show, one which John failed to deliver. People were shuffling off now, returning to their drills and practice. What had been one John’s greatest opportunities of reassurance to those around him had instead been a disappointment. 

        No one cared that he did it right.

        “Need help taking these back?” George gestured to the table of cleaned guns. Quartermaster Dunn held his chin as he took the weapon from the captain. 

        “Nah, dolly’ll be enough. I like the walk.” The dark man trudged with a slight limp, placing the rifle with the others before rounding a corner beneath a netted canopy at the south side of the grounds. 

        “Bring the rest of them by, then, in another couple of months for another cleaning. Can put the kid to work again,” George called.

        Dunn waved a hand in acknowledgement as he dragged out a wheeled cart with a wooden crate. He set out to load the rifles on his own.

        John remained where he stood, held in disbelief.

        Months? Was that it–his one taste of possibility? Just to be set back into his circuit of suffering again? A pack mule, that’s what he would be–made to march up river until he gave out. There was no possibility he would survive, not while this sickness haunted him.

        “You said you’d help me,” John found himself saying. He glowered, lip drooping. 

        A soldier gave him a passing glance, but meandered off. Kai had his hands in his pockets, his glasses lowered as he made meaningless conversation with the captain while they walked. Quartermaster Dunn was setting the lid to his box of weapons, beating his palm on the corners to force it shut.

        John’s hands became wet with heat.

        “They don’t see you,” she said. An arm caressed John’s side. “Not like I do.”

        Not like I do.

        “Make them see.”

        Make them.

        “Help me!” John yelled. His fists snapped tight at his side. Inside him, his stomach burned. His voice spat like hot bile behind desperate teeth.

        The crowd stopped, awash with looks of bewilderment. George turned, a snarl in his brow and an arm raised to silence his outburst. The man drew towards him, crossing the dusty pavement in an instant.

        The words shot from John’s mouth before he could falter under the captain’s charge, “You said you would help me!”

        “If you made this easy!” George roared in his face. The veins in his neck stuck out. “If you cooperated!” He took hold of John’s shirt, wrenching the fabric so John could not flinch away. He was pulled so the man could chase down John’s darting eyes. The captain’s voice dropped, but became no less hostile. “You’re acting like a fucking brat–proving to me why I gotta babysit you every goddamn hour. You’re a waste of time!”

        George shoved him away. John stumbled, his nose curling with a mix of disgust and shame. His hands found themselves raised.

        “Think I don’t see it?” George batted one of John’s wrists aside, backing him against the shooting station. “Every day you fight back–with that pissed-off look. No obedience–no discipline, other than to your fantasies. I figured it out the minute you got here–what you really are.”

        John found his balance against the shabby wooden table behind him. It creaked with warning that it would topple under his weight, but the captain pressed on. He rammed a finger into John’s ribs.

        “A child–shit out of luck. Caught in the wrong place at the worst time.” George leaned back. He shook his head, parting one look to the distant circle of men. Some wore jeering grins. Kai watched with a fused look of uncomfortable amusement. Dunn was nowhere to be seen. The captain met John’s eyes again. “Give me a reason you’re worth my time.”

        The captain pushed off with his finger, swinging the brawn of his back around to march to the center of the grounds. John caught himself before the table completely tilted, rebounding to his feet. His face was flush, filled with fury. He had no place else to direct but at the captain–which was welcomed with a beckoning hand over the man’s shoulder.

        “Center square. Now,” George hollered back. 

        The lingering soldiers stepped aside for their captain to form a new circle. They all looked at John now. He’d earned his audience, for better or worse. 

        “Go,” a voice said, more distant now. 

        A warmth inside guided John forward. A feeling not of his own making hardened his resolve to face the captain. He stepped into the circle and stopped several feet from the man. George then fell into a martial stance, hands poised in a starting position.

        “You want to fight? Show me,” George said between his primed fists.

        Fire coiled in John’s gut. Without thought, he lunged, diving beneath the captain’s guard, swinging towards his side. A wide set of hands clapped over John and pivoted him into a hold–his neck falling into the captain’s elbow. A cheer rose as John was flipped backward onto the ground. Rock clacked against his skull, and the wind left his lungs. 

        A boot rammed him onto his side as he sucked air. John spun up onto his hands and knees, narrowly dodging an upward flying fist as he backed up onto his feet. His eyes still blurred from the shock, then filled with tears as a second impact thrust into his side. 

        John flung a fist with wild rage, grazing only air. His extended arm was snatched, and he found himself flung knees over head again. John tumbled hard on his shoulder. Wetness ran down his forehead. He wiped the smearing red from his eyes as he clambered to his knees. Spit fumed through his teeth, hate bubbling up from his stomach.

        The anger distracted him for a moment too long.

        The full weight of a stone fist drove into John’s cheekbone, splitting pain around his skull and down his spine. He twisted, blind to the force at which he’d been struck, and ground into the rough pavement below. A deafening roar filled his ears. His jaw popped as his mouth flapped meaninglessly. 

        Gravity set its hand on him. He was still.

        Rage bled bitterly from his body, unable to be spent. Blood mixed with the stinging tears in his eyes, seeping in from his cheek and brow. His fingers tingled as they clawed for some sense of place down along the concrete. An anguished, senseless groan was all he could muster from his frustration in defeat. 

        Eyes of judgment hammered down from the crowd of looming, spinning faces. He could feel their glee at his humiliation. John hated them–every one of them.

        Some time passed, and he knew it was over. He tried to open his eyes, but found he could only open one. The other had swollen shut, and the side of his face that had been struck was now thick with searing pressure. 

        Above, the afternoon sun cried over him, drying his face and adding to the healing warmth building beneath his skin. He rolled to his side and spat hot, black spit onto the pavement. His stomach turned at the sight of it.

        A figure stood over him, eclipsing the sun, its hand offered to him. John blinked the haze from his one good eye and found the crowd was gone. Only George remained, his hand still extended, waiting.

        Someone else slid out from behind the captain, resting an arm on his shoulder. Red hair caught the sun and drifted in curls over the captain’s shadowed brow.

        “When a hand is offered–take it,” Nuria said in a muted tone. Her words surged into John, drumming with the pounding ache in his head. She could not be ignored. John snatched the captain’s hand, if only to appease the head-splitting urge behind her voice.

        “Up, come on,” George said. His voice felt both near and miles away. “This is what I’m talking about. Blind rage.” John found himself leaning against him. Vertigo sent his balance in circles, like he was turning over and over. His stomach fought to hold down a rising sickness. His arm was lifted over George’s shoulder, and they walked some distance before John was lowered onto one of the sun-cooked sparring mats. 

        “I get it,” the captain continued. He crouched to be level with John. There was a stern look in the man’s eye, but the hostility was gone. John turned away, steadying his staggered breathing. He glanced about, searching for Nuria, but she was gone–as was the feeling of immense pressure in his head. 

        “You want out. Whatever for–revenge, justice–but it’s not gonna fly here. You want to be trusted, cut that shit out. Loyalty earns your place. Consistency. You wanna be let loose to tear into the Russians or God knows who else, be my guest. But it’ll be without any help from us–and regardless of whatever you’ve got going on–this thing that keeps you alive–you’ll still end up dead or in the hands of people much worse than me.”

        John forced himself to look at him from under his seeping brow.

        “That’s a promise–don’t know how many times you gotta be told that,” George nodded, pressing his lips into a line. He clapped his hands onto his thighs and stood. “You want a real chance to earn some trust, you can come with me into the field. Got a meeting with a local contact–need to widen our scope of operations. Might help to have someone along who knows something of the area. Help ask what I wanna know–next steps. Meeting’s near where we picked you up.”

        John lifted his head, bewildered by what he was hearing. A surge of energy filled his bones. Hope. He tried to stand, but was stopped by the captain’s sharp gesture.

        “Swear to me,” George stuck a finger down at John. The weight behind the motion pushed into his soul. John listened, already prepared to accept. “You’ll obey. Behave and follow orders. I want you a civil saint–hands clasped, heels together, and your eyes to God–” the captain stuck a thumb back to himself. 

        John blinked, then nodded. 

        “This is it, kid, don’t blow it.”