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| - Laera Reyolé tucked a lock of medium-length auburn hair behind her right ear, then slammed the plasteel traveling case shut and cast one last look around the small space. Aside from her bed, now stripped of blanket and sheets, there was a small chest of drawers that had been constructed of binka wood and, placed on a shelf underneath the equally-small window, a whittled carving of a Praetorian-class frigate. The piece bore little resemblance to the capital warship it had been modeled after, and its carving had caused more than a few cuts to her digits and even a gash across her wrist that had taken months to fade completely away. Grabbing the handle of her case, she turned toward the door of her tiny bedroom and nearly ran headlong into her father. “Easy there, Lilly,” Daddi Reyolé said, taking advantage of the momentary silence to use his daughter's childhood nickname one more time. A doughy-faced man of middle years, he was only a few centimeters taller than Laera herself; she knew that, by the time she stopped growing, she would surpass him in height. “The transport doesn't leave for another two hours, we'll be at the spaceport long before then.” Laera blushed slightly with embarrassment. “Sorry Dad,” she said apologetically. “It's just...this is it, huh?” “Yeah,” her father replied wistfully, placing a loving hand on her shoulder.. “My little girl is going off to see the galaxy.” “I'm nervous,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “I've done all the reading and exercising I can, but what if it isn't enough? What if the other recruits all laugh at me? What if I screw up and flunk out?” Her father smiled indulgently, the expression he always used when he sensed genuine distress in another person. It usually worked, too. “Now look, kiddo,” he said mock-sternly. “Don't you go fretting about what may or may not happen once you get there. You're fast, strong, and sharp as a whip. They'll be mightily impressed with you, don't you worry.” “I know, Dad—I mean, yes, I understand, but still...” Laera paused in her rambling as she stared off into space, looking back at her father after a few moments' silent contemplation. “It shouldn't be like this.” A shadow seemed to cross the room as the two Reyolés' expressions darkened. Laera knew that her parents had once owned a beautiful three-bedroom house on the other side of town. She also knew that it had been leveled during an attack by a group of bad-tempered raiders in fancy armor who had called themselves Krath. And she also knew that the Jedi had shown up just after the Krath had left Agamar, though they had only stopped for just long enough to assess the damage and deny requests for aid before following the raiders' hyperspace trail. In the wake of the attack, the Reyolés had been forced to move into a succession of cheap apartments in the city center, with Laera growing up amongst other kids whose families had also suffered similarly. The word “Jedi” was only spoken with contempt among them, if it was ever uttered at all. But Daddi wasn't about to let his only child leave on a downer note. His expression was the first to shift back to normal as he strode to Laera's tiny window and picked up the wooden warship. “There's probably as much of your blood in this thing as anything else in this apartment,” he said with a chuckle. “Are you sure you want to leave it behind?” Laera snapped out of her momentary funk as she turned toward her father. “Definitely, Dad,” she said decisively. “There won't be room to put it on display. And besides, I don't want it reminding me of how badly my first attempt at woodcarving went, or I'd never try to get better at it.” “That's my girl,” Daddi replied, once again chuckling. “Never say die, eh?” Laera nodded, and her father put the frigate back in its place. The two of them left the room, Laera in the lead as she carried her packing case with her into the small living room. Her mother, Ceylon, sat tall and upright in their battered old nerf-hide three-seat sofa. It was the only piece of furniture that had been salvageable from their old house, wrecked when Laera had been barely two years old. “Almost time, then?” she asked, a worried look sliding onto her visage as she tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Laera idly wondered when she had inherited that specific nervous motion. “Yes, dear,” Daddi replied. “Laera and I were just...talking a bit.” “I'm ready to go, Dad,” Laera said, nervously holding her case in both hands and gazing at the floor. “We'll go in a minute, Lilly.” As though on cue, Ceylon rose from her seat and strode into the kitchen. A tall, lean woman, her height was easily at least a head greater than her husband. While Laera's father tended to be jovial and open, her mother was mostly quiet and dignified, though there were times when she could be direct and stern. The two complimented each other well, and arguments had been rare. Both were hard-working, and had done all they could to support their daughter. Laera loved them both dearly, and she knew that she would miss them terribly while she was away. Her mother returned from the kitchen, bearing a small bundle. “Your father and I want you to have this,” she said, handing it to Laera. Wrapped in cheap flimsiplast, it was shaped like an amorphous cuboid and gave way as she squeezed it gently. Ripping open the paper, Laera extricated what turned out to be a red tunic—the upper part of the Republic Marines' signature dress red uniform. Tucked into the folded shirt was a pair of trousers, which were a lighter and less intense shade with a broad gold stripe down the outside of each leg. She let out a gasp of wonderment, then came close to tears. “Mom...Dad...you shouldn't have...” “Of course we should have, dear,” Ceylon said, sounding as though she too was about to cry. “You're going off to join the Marines, you should have a uniform...” A lump formed in Laera's throat. The uniform had to have cost a good deal of credits, credits the Reyolés could ill-afford to spare. How could she ever make this up to them, when they had so obviously gone to such an effort to support her decision? “I'll make this up to you,” she said, swallowing hard. “Recruits still collect pay even while we're in training. I'll send it back home, you'll need it more than I will.” “You don't need to—” Daddi began, but his daughter cut him off. “I do,” she said. Her tone was not that of a defiant teenager, but for the first time it was that of a young woman, making her first mature decision. Surprise flushed within her mind as she realized that this had quelled her earlier urge to weep. “I'm not joining the Marines to run away or to prove myself. I'm joining up to help support my family.” — — — Daddi walked Laera to the spaceport; it was only about a kilometer away, the day was nice and warm, and they had time to kill. They exchanged few words, though, with Laera mostly taking in the sights and committing as much as she could to memory in case things changed while she was away. She knew from her reading that, if she was fortunate, it would be a whole two years at least before she was given any significant time off from her duties as a Marine. And she had done a lot of reading, including every publicly-available document regarding the Republic Marines, their history, their doctrine, and their training methods. She had also watched every holodocumentary she could lay her hands on, and even a few war holodramas that featured Marines in combat situations. Despite this, becoming a soldier had not been her original goal in life. Laera had wanted to be an artist, someone who worked with her hands to produce beautiful objects, which was why she had set out to carve that warship in the first place. Binka wood was far too hard for that sort of thing, but it was the only kind readily available, for free, and in small pieces suitable for such projects. As she followed her father through the small commercial district, she mulled over what it would be like to sink her carving blade into something soft. Perhaps she would be able to get hold of some halsa wood, or the neck of a Krath warrior... She swatted this last thought away as though it were a kisquo, a blood-sucking insect native to Agamar that was considered a pest by everyone except the nocturnal birds which fed on them. Laera had had such idle thoughts before, but they were rare and typically only showed up after someone had brought up the topic of Jedi or the raid. Determined then as now not to let her past rule her—a past she did not even remember—she began to recite a number of Marine Corps axioms she had learned while reading. Close the distance, close the kill... Center mass equals a sure kill... The more you sweat in training, the less you will bleed in combat... “We're here, dear,” her father said mildly. Laera nearly jumped when she realized that she had not only been led through the terminal gate, but right up to the waiting area just outside the landing pad where her ship was being serviced. It wasn't her ship, of course; it was in fact a roaming recruit transport, the kind that was sent out every so often on a prearranged circuit to pick up those entering the military and deliver them to their assigned training depot. According to the acceptance packet that had been sent to her family, this particular transport would leave Agamar with her and three other recruits aboard before continuing its route and taking the lot to Corulag, a bustling, metropolitan planet in the Core Worlds. Looking about the terminal she thought she could spot the others; they were wearing plain-looking, well-made coveralls of a utilitarian nature, which was quite different from her own outfit: a loose-fitting faded blue blouse, a dark gray knee-length pleated skirt, and a pair of well-worn brown canvas shoes. The nervousness she was feeling broke through her concentration, and she felt a shiver run up her spine. Her father must have seen something, for he smiled meekly at her. “It's okay to be nervous,” he offered. “You're starting a new life and you might not be back for a while.” Laera nodded tremulously in reply, the motion exaggerated by nerves. “Looks like I picked the wrong outfit...” “Don't worry about that,” Daddi replied. “I want you to know that your mother and I love you, and that no matter what happens, we are very proud of you.” “Thanks, Dad,” Laera said. “I won't forget you. And I'll keep my promise.” Silence descended between them as they looked at one another, drinking in each other's appearance. An unseen announcer spoke through a microphone, informing those in the waiting area that the transport was ready for boarding. Laera rose nervously, clutched her case tightly in both hands, then put it down again before throwing herself into a hug and squeezing her father for all she was worth. “Ooof!” he grunted, the force of his daughter's squeeze driving the wind from him. “Take it easy kiddo,” he said when she finally let go and tousling her hair. “I may not like the Jedi, but there's no denying the Force exists. For what its worth, may the Force be with you.” Her throat too tight for words, Laera simply nodded, took up her case once more, and scampered to the boarding ramp. — — — Three days of hyperspace jumps and groundside pickups later, the transport was inbound to Corulag on the final leg of its journey. The time had passed in a haze, a jumble of comings and goings throughout the tight quarters aboard, and endless, circular conversations about what would happen to them and what the training would be like. Laera, too nervous at first to join in, found that when she did so the others seemed to be disinclined to take her seriously. Though she had nothing to back it up, she asserted to herself that this was caused by two things: the fact that she was only sixteen years old, and that she was dressed in a fashion that was as un-military as it was possible to be. Everyone else, it seemed, was at the age of majority and beyond, and most couldn't be bothered to give her the time. When the vessel finally landed on Corulag, Laera set off alone, making her way through the arrival gate with no new friends to accompany her. She felt more lonely than nervous by this time, trudging through the facility at the back of the pack of recruits as they made their way to the mag-lev train which would take them to the Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot. She didn't even have her case with her any longer, so she didn't even have its worn rubber handle to worry over. A droid had instructed all recruits to leave their baggage aboard the transport, stating in its monotone Basic that it would be taken separately. For the first time doubt began to creep into her mind, a queasy sensation that formed at the base of her stomach and threatened to make her nauseous. When the train halted at the depot and the recruits piled out, she was once again the last in the gaggle to depart. Laera didn't really mind, she was too busy looking for where she was supposed to go next to care about the others. She took the guide flimsi, which she had been poring over for days now, out of her blouse pocket and scanned it once again, confirming that she was supposed to report to Seven Eighteen Blue Barracks. Someone had had the helpful idea of painting multicolored lines along the walls, and she followed the blue one as it led deeper into the station and down an underground passage. After what seemed like several kilometers she arrived at a junction in the corridor, where seven paths branched off. Each new hallway corresponded to a color, and Laera seemed hardly surprised that the blue line she was following led down the furthest one. Turning where indicated, she followed this new course. All along both walls were scattered durasteel doors, each with large numerals emblazoned in blue next to them just above the guide line. The even numbers, beginning with 2-1, 2-2, 2-3 and so on, were on her left while the odd ones, beginning with 1-1, 1-2, 1-3 and so on, were on her right. A small note on her guide flimsi told Laera that she was to follow the lines until she saw her number, but it didn't say what the numbers meant. As she walked, however, she eventually saw doors marked 2-18 and 1-18, with the following ones marked 4-1 and 3-1, respectively. “Oh great, more walking!” she muttered to herself. “At least the pattern is clear and I won't be completely lost!” Still quite alone in the barracks complex, Laera proceeded onward, though she determinedly picked up the pace. When she finally did find the door marked 7-18, she was hardly surprised to see that it and 8-18 were the last in the kilometers-long corridor before it ended abruptly in a ferrocrete wall. With a sour look on her face, she scanned the walls and door for a way to access the room beyond, but there didn't seem to be one. As she touched an innocuous-looking pad next to it, a droid's voice barked at her. “Name and service number!” Laera let out a gasp, then scrambled again for her guide flimsi. “Um...Laera Reyolé, um...six eight zero three dash two two nine three Isk Trill?” “Voice recognition accepted,” the droid replied, its tone inexplicably friendly. “Your bunk is marked four two Besh. Please find your uniforms and possessions in the locker marked four two Resh. Have a nice day.” Before Laera could react, the door slid almost instantaneously into the wall with a loud hiss. Not taking any chances, she bolted through the portal and into a vast room stacked on each side with lockers and bunk beds. Recruits, most of them dressed in what Laera recognized as the standard-issue battle-dress uniform, looked up at her; a few of them laughed when they caught sight of her. Blushing furiously she slowed her pace and walked the length of the room, glancing left and right as she passed each bunk, looking for hers. Once again the Corps seems to be ranking you dead last, she thought to herself as she arrived at Bunk 42B, which was the uppermost bunk on the last set to her left. Only it and the locker, marked 42R, stood before the ferrocrete wall that was the far end of the barracks. Growling under her breath she opened the locker to find that it was hung with three sets of BDUs, with a set of drawers ensconced in the bottom third of the floor-to-ceiling storage space. What was surprising was that they appeared to have been tailored just for her, and when she opened the uppermost of the three drawers, she saw comfortable-looking, if modest and unflattering, underwear in her size. The next drawer contained a set of gray sweatwear and several T-shirts which went, Laera assumed, with the BDU pants and jacket. The bottom drawer contained a sturdy pair of leather combat boots along with three metal boxes. Taking out the boots and setting them on the floor, she examined the contents of each box: the first contained cleaning and maintenance supplies for her uniforms; the second was filled with assorted toiletries; the third was empty, marked only with a big fat P on the lid. “That's for any personal effects you came with,” said a friendly-sounding female voice. Laera nearly dropped the box in surprise, but managed to set it aside as she turned to look at her greeter. She was easily three years her senior, taller but also somewhat thicker, a longtime athlete's build. Fair-skinned, her hair was the color of obsidian, which complemented her hazel eyes. The name tape on her uniform indicated that her surname was Cenchu. “Th-thanks,” Laera replied, stuttering slightly. “I just got off the...” The woman's smile caused her to falter. “That was kind of obvious,” she said with a chuckle. “Miranda Cenchu at your service, I'll be your bottomer.” “My...what?” Laera asked, nonplussed. “Your bottomer,” Miranda replied. “You've got top bunk, I've got bottom. Simple enough, right?” “Yeah, really simple,” Laera mumbled distractedly. “I'm Laera Reyolé.” “Interesting name,” Miranda replied. “Don't think I've heard that surname before, where are you from?” “Agamar,” Laera said. She was still uncertain what was going on, but she was grateful for at least one friendly face. “Out in Lahara sector.” Miranda whistled. “Backrocket sector, that. I'm surprised the Republic accepts recruits from there, but then the HoloNet does go pretty far.” She paused for a moment. “Oh, please don't think me crass,” she apologized. “Back on Alderaan we're used to a lot of people being from well-known planets. C'mon, I'll show you around and then you can change. I expect the DIs will be here soon, and they won't want to see you in your civvies...” — — — “The only reason I know all of this is because I was the first to arrive,” Miranda said as she and Laera reentered the main room of the barracks, Laera having changed in the communal refresher stations separated from the sleeping area by a hinged half-door. “That was three days ago, and recruits have been arriving in waves every day since. It's not surprising you're the last of them, being from so far away.” As the two walked back toward their bunk, Laera realized that this was an entirely female platoon; her reading had seemed to indicate that training was co-educational in nature. Though she shouldn't have been surprised by it, when she realized that humans were actually in the minority among the other recruits, she had to work hard to resist the urge to stare. There were at least four Bothan females, all clustered around a pair of bunk beds, and a pair of gray-skinned Twi'leks chattering in their own language around a third. Among the other species represented in the platoon were Duros, Nikto, Weequay, an Elomin, a surly-looking Aqualish, a pair of grim-faced Gotals, and an emerald-green Rodian who was idly plucking at her sleeve. The two recruits returned to their bunk, where Laera began to look for her case. She found it sitting atop the drawers, half-hidden beneath the hanging sets of BDUs. Opening it, she began transferring the contents to her personals box, only barely managing to get everything to fit within; the clothes would be full of wrinkles if she ever got around to unpacking them. Putting the box away, she closed the drawer, tucked the case back where it had been, stood up and closed the locker. As if on cue, the barracks' main door hissed open. “RECRUITS, FALL IN FOR INSPECTION!” a loud male voice shouted. Turning around smartly, Laera strode forward and placed herself precisely two paces in front and to the left of her bunk's end post, precisely aligned with her locker doors and facing the wall opposite. By the amount of noise that rolled through the room, she guessed that the rest of the platoon was doing something similar. When everyone had done as the unseen voice had commanded, two pairs of feet began to make their way down the middle of the room, stopping occasionally. Casting a brief glance out of the corner of her eye, Laera saw that Miranda had taken up a similar position on her side of the bed. Beyond her bunkmate, she could see that other recruits were not quite as precise. “Eyes forward!” another male voice barked from the other end of the room. More footsteps, then the first voice muttered something that Laera couldn't hear before moving on. “Stand up STRAIGHT!” the second voice roared again after a few minutes' silent pacing. “This isn't market day, recruit! Get that load off your shoulders and SQUARE UP like you've got some GUMPTION!” After that, Laera kept her focus fixated forward, determinedly blinking so as not to appear glassy-eyed. Eventually the voice assigned to her side of the room arrived at Miranda, grunted, then appeared in Laera's field of view. For a human he was positively enormous, though his bulk was well-proportioned and muscular in nature; the left collar of his BDUs bore the stripes of a staff sergeant. He looked down at Laera, crouched onto one knee, then passed a mammoth hand in front of her gaze. She blinked to indicate acknowledgment, and the noncom rose with a noncommittal grunt and walked silently back to the head of the room as his opposite number did the same. “Nerf to taopari in ten seconds flat, eh?” Miranda whispered. Laera inclined her chin a few degrees, but otherwise ignored her. Then a new pair of footsteps began to echo through the room. Though they were precisely-measured, Laera thought that she could hear the slightest bit of a limp in them. The strides weren't as long as the DI who had just come by, which suggested the newcomer was significantly shorter. The sensation of curiosity was so palpable that Laera could imagine that every recruit, including her, was straining to have a look at him. When she finally did catch a glimpse, her heart sank. “What is he supposed to be?” Miranda asked, whispering again. “If you value your skin, shut up,” Laera hissed through clenched teeth. “I've heard of this guy.” Wisely, in Laera's opinion, Miranda shut her mouth and adopted the closed expression she was supposed to have when being faced down by one of the most infamous drill instructors in the entire Republic Military. Tuffass the Gand was a few centimeters shorter than she was, but he was no less a presence than the burly sergeant who had come by earlier. He continued to pace the room, doubling back and heading for the door when he reached Laera's bunk, only to turn around and stride up the barracks once again. This time, though, he had a lot to say. “This is Gunnery Sergeant Tuffass, your senior drill instructor,” he said in a high, loud voice, hot enough to melt wax. “From this moment forward, the first and last words out of your diseased mouths will be SIR! He sees that he has been given charge of a platoon of female maggots this time around. That's right, he said MAGGOTS! You are all maggots, pond scum, ground worms, pieces of filth that Tuffass scrapes off his boot after a long march through the wilderness. You are worthless globs of gornt shit, smears of stains of bodily fluids from creatures whose very names turn Tuffass's stomach. From this point on, you are nameless. Whatever fancy surname you think you possess, it no longer exists! Rip off your name tapes! RIP 'EM OFF NOW!” Laera glanced down at her chest and noticed that her own tape had been affixed to her uniform with a hook-and-barb arrangement which, ironically enough, permitted easy removal. Doing as she was told, she ripped the identifier from her uniform and tossed it onto the floor. Miranda looked hesitant, but Laera shot a meaningful look at her and she too complied. “Good, at least Tuffass doesn't have any deafness in his platoon.” the Gand said from the doorway. “Sergeants, collect the maggots' tapes. You know what to do with them.” As the other two DIs made their way up the barracks, plucking the names of the recruits from the floor as they did so, the senior drill instructor reached behind the doorway and brought into view a large wooden plank. At a meter and a half in length it was taller than he was, but he held it aloft with a deft and decidedly intimidating hand. “This is Tuffass's Clue-By-Four,” he began once the sergeants had departed. “With this instrument, he will beat clues into the skulls of those maggots who need them so very badly. You have all taken the oath to serve Tuffass's beloved Corps, but Tuffass will only let those who he deems worthy to join as full Marines. The only way you maggots can do that is to earn your name back, because only named maggots get to be Marines!” Somewhere, someone let out a noise that might have been a cough, or it might have been a laugh. Whatever it was, Laera's heart bulged with sympathy, because— “DID TUFFASS SAY SOMETHING HUMOROUS?!” he yelled at the top of his voice, stomping over to the offender. “EYES FORWARD, MAGGOT! Do not look at Tuffass! He will NOT have scum looking down on him and he will NOT look up to scum! DOES TUFFASS MAKE HIMSELF CLEAR!” “Sir, yes sir!” a human woman replied, clearly terrified. “What was that, maggot?” the pint-sized DI demanded. “Tuffass thought he heard slime bubbling, but he isn't too sure!” “Sir, yes SIR!” the woman repeated, managing to put a bit more beef behind the words. “Do you think Tuffass is funny?” “SIR, NO SIR!” “Then why did you laugh at Tuffass, maggot?” “Sir, it was a cough, SIR!” the recruit said, half-begging for the gunnery sergeant to believe her. “Well then, are you sick, maggot? Perhaps you should be sent to sickbay, then you can put on some makeup for the trip back home! Maybe you'll even find a mate among the other tailless mynocks unfit to join Tuffass's beloved Corps!” The sergeant turned away, disgust evident in every motion though no one was quite sure how to read his body language. “Mists of the homeworld, what a pathetic excuse. From now on maggot, your name is Virus. Do you like that name?” “SIR, I LOVE THAT NAME, SIR!” the recruit fairly screamed. “Kriffing hell, that was the absolute worst attempt at sucking-up that Tuffass has ever heard in all his life!” He turned and swept his gaze across the room. “Tuffass reminds you that until he says so, you have no names, and that means NO IDENTITIES! You will not refer to yourselves using personal pronouns of any kind! You are to use the nickname Tuffass gives you until you have earned the right to your true name and the privilege of joining Tuffass's beloved Corps!” He strode up the barracks once again, heading in Laera's direction as he continued to bark general orders. “Tuffass is tough but he is fair. All species are equal within his beloved Corps. Humans, Twi'leks, Bothans, Rodians, Zabraks, Duuuuros—” he seemed to deliberately overdo the first syllable “—they are all equally worthless until the individual proves themselves otherwise. You will learn the methods and doctrines of the Marine Corps, Tuffass will teach you. You will become lean mean organic fighting machines! You will be killers! You will be instruments of death, begging to be let loose and make those who would dare threaten the Republic run away, screaming for their mamas!” The short sergeant stopped before another recruit a couple of bunks over from Laera, on the other side of the barracks. “What's your excuse, wormhead?” “Sir, the recruit doesn't know what the senior drill instructor means, SIR!” the Twi'lek yelled in response. “You don't know?” Tuffass asked incredulously. “Do you mean to tell Tuffass that you cannot explain the constant twitching of those ugly worms sticking out of your skull and hanging disgustingly over your shoulders?!” “S-sir, they're called lekku, sir!” the recruit replied, clearly as terrified as the previous one. “They twitch of their own accord, SIR!” “Of course you can't control them!” Tuffass replied mockingly. “DO YOU THINK THEY WOULD LET TUFFASS TEACH TWI'LEKS WITHOUT KNOWING ABOUT THEM?” The browbeating continued for some time, with the drill instructor bobbing from bed to bed, delivering the most masterful series of put-downs that Laera had ever witnessed. The range of nicknames that he could come up with, based on his first impression of the various recruits, was impressive in the extreme. Virus's bunkmate was named Phlegm, the Twi'lek and her bunkmate became Tapeworm and Ringworm, respectively, and everybody else got something that was just as derogatory if not worse. A couple of the others had even had to do push-ups as a result of their inability to satisfactorily meet the demands hollered at them. Eventually, perhaps inevitably, Laera found herself chest to head before the alien sergeant. “You've been awfully quiet, shrimp,” he inquired, obviously referencing the fact that at sixteen, Laera was the shortest and smallest recruit in the barracks—even so, she was still taller than he was. “Tuffass wonders about that. He's seen you standing stock-still throughout this little session, eyes straight ahead and blinking only when necessary for your kind. Did you study up before you shipped in?” Laera suspected that the sergeant's demeanor, which was unusually civil given his earlier discourse, was bait for a trap. Still, honesty was the best policy, and she belted her reply loud and confidently. “Sir, the recruit has been studying, SIR!” “Holy shit on a repulsor stick, we have a kriffing brainiac in the barracks!” Tuffass bellowed, turning to point Laera out to the rest of the recruits. Then he snapped his molten gaze back to his newest victim. “Who was the first Commandant of Tuffass's beloved Corps!” “Sir, Admiral Sakira Tobonne, SIR!” Laera replied. “Who founded the Marine Corps Band!” “Sir, Lieutenant Commander Yen Duursema, SIR!” “What was the purpose behind the formation of Marine Force Recon!” “Sir, to gather intelligence in a hostile setting, to scout planets for enemy presence, and to carry out missions of sabotage and high-value target elimination, SIR!” “How many fighter wings does the Marine Corps possess?” “Sir, eight wings, SIR!” “With a ninth on the way,” Tuffass said proudly. “Your new name is Brain. Do you like that name?” “Sir, Brain will accept and utilize that name, SIR!” A subtle change in the sergeant's stance let Laera know that she had pushed her luck just a bit too far. “That, Brain, is not the question Tuffass put to you,” he said in a carrying whisper that seemed to radiate menace. “You're smart but you're stupid, Brain, do you realize that? No, do NOT answer, that was a rhetorical question! You just made the first mistake of your short career, Brain; you made an assumption. You assumed that Tuffass would be impressed by your knowledge and semantics, and tried to make yourself look good. But hey, in spite of all that Tuffass likes you. He likes you so much in fact, he's gonna give you some special details throughout the rest of the week.” He turned away from Laera then, who was trying desperately not to turn crimson with shame. “Tuffass hopes that the rest of you learned something from Brain's example here. Assumption is the mother of all kark-ups! IS THAT CLEAR!” “SIR, YES SIR!” — — — “Smooth, Brain, real smooth,” Miranda—now renamed Makeup—commented as she and Laera scrubbed out the refresher station late that night, using only primitive hand brushes. “I would say you got off easy, but then the rest of us didn't have to make that run with the sergeant on their backs.” Laera's back gave a particularly painful spasm at those words, and she had to momentarily rise to a sitting position in order to try and relieve it. The five kilometer run she could probably have handled, especially at the somewhat languid pace of the rest of the platoon. But with Tuffass clinging to her like a mynock, shouting invective at her and the platoon in equal measure, it had been quite a hellish experience. “Believe me Makeup, if I had only known...” “Oh, we believe you alright,” Miranda replied. “But you probably knew already why they call this 'Hell Week.'” “This isn't Hell Week,” Laera bit out. “This was just indoctrination and acclamation. The real Hell Week starts at sunup, the day after we're introduced to the DIs.” “Thanks,” Miranda replied contemptuously, bashing the floor with her brush as she tried to dislodge a stubborn bit of grime. “I so did not need to know that.” Silence passed for several minutes as the two recruits, who were clad in their underwear and shower shoes so as not to spoil their uniforms, separated to clean different parts of the communal facilities. “So, why did you join up anyway?” Miranda asked, her back to Laera. “You're young, you're tiny, and though you're smart, you don't seem all that strong.” Laera smiled to herself. “You just made my mistake, Makeup,” she replied with a chuckle. “But I did it to support my family; the Corps pays good money if you make it through boot. What about you?” “Rebellion, mostly,” Miranda scoffed, ignoring Laera's barb. “Everyone expects us Alderaanians to be either artists or philosophers, not athletes and certainly not soldiers. We do have a small defense force apart from the Republic Military, but my parents wouldn't sponsor me to join up there. So I ran away to the Corps, figuring they were more likely to see action than any other service branch.” “I take it you were impressed by the sergeant's speech,” Laera said. “Hell, why the kriff not?” she asked. “I get to see the galaxy on someone else's credits, and hopefully most days will involve a good fight. And before you ask what sport I played, I didn't play any. I wanted to be a shockboxer but there's no league for it on Alderaan.” The two finished their cleaning in silence, then made their way silently back to their bunks. Miranda stood aside to let Laera ascend to the top bunk, but Laera had no intention of using the small ladder at the end. Putting her hands a meter apart on the railing, she vaulted upward and managed to get her left foot on the far post, using the leverage to heave herself onto the mattress. “Impressive,” Miranda remarked idly. “I admit, I didn't think you had it in you.” “Ow,” Laera replied sarcastically, massaging her back. “Goodnight, Makeup. Please don't talk in your sleep.” — — — Thankfully, Makeup wasn't a nocturnal vocabulator—at least, not that Laera could tell. When the three drill instructors walked into the barracks, each banging a pair of metal pots together, everyone began to throw off their bedclothes and scramble from their bunks and into some semblance of inspection positions. “Alright boys, time to get up!” the high voice of Tuffass belted out, deliberately confusing the gender of the recruits. “It is now 0500 hours, and time for the Marine Corps' favorite activity: physical training! Grab your sweats and pull 'em on, then follow your drill instructors to the PT plaza where you will form into four rows and ten columns. You will then do exactly as they do, maggots, exactly as they do it, and you will LOVE IT!” “SIR, YES SIR!” the recruits bellowed in unison. In the mass confusion that followed, with forty women scrambling for their PT gear and putting them on as quickly as possible, the diminutive sergeant seemed to disappear. Laera didn't have the time or energy to spare in wondering why; her back was still aching from carrying the little cuss around the previous day. Gradually the tumult died down as the training platoon got themselves together and formed a double line before the junior instructors. Somehow Laera ended up leading the left column, where she stood face to chest in front of the massive DI, whose name tape identified him as one J. Pavan. “You heard the gunny, ladies,” he said loudly, though his voice carried none of the venom of his bug-like superior; instead, it was replaced with casual sarcasm mixed with a general air of disdain. “Let's move those cute little asses!” Turning about, he began to march briskly through the barracks door, after which he immediately took a left into what Laera had previously thought was solid wall. Hot on Sergeant Pavan's heels, however, she quickly realized that it had in fact been a massive, heavily-disguised doorway. Beyond was a large earthen ramp, beaten smooth by generations of boot-prints, which led to a vast field of beautifully-manicured grass that was barely discernible in the predawn gloom. What was much more easily noticeable was the fact that they were far from the field's only occupants; at least two dozen more groups of forty-odd beings were scampering to and fro, or else stationary and engaging in various stretches and other exercises. Every one of them were yelling chants of some variety, or else counting off in unison, giving off the impression of an audience rooting for their favorite shockball team. “Platoon, halt!” Sergeant Pavan yelled once they had jogged to a spot about twenty-five meters northwest of the ramp. “Assume PT formation!” “SIR, YES SIR!” the recruits screamed as they hastened to obey. As the last of them fell into the assigned four row, ten column formation proscribed by their senior DI, despite the noise of the crowd Laera thought she heard someone off in the distance yell a command. All at once, fifty or more blaster rifles opened fire, arcing red bolts of energy over the field no more than a meter or two above their heads. “Hit the dirt, ladies!” Sergeant Pavan ordered, suiting action to words and throwing himself onto the ground. “Those blasters are not set to stun!” Taking the sergeant at his word, Laera dove for the deck, landing on her knees and open palms. The grass, only a centimeter from her nose, smelled of sweet dew with a hint of musk. “Watch carefully, ladies,” the DI belted out. “This is how you do a Marine-style push-up!” Counting off the motions as he did so, he demonstrated the correct form, which was different from the exercise most civilians thought of as a push-up. With his arms spread apart so that his elbows formed a natural pivot point perpendicular to the ground and his knees locked straight, he proceeded to do two up-down motions, after which he counted off. “One! Now let's see what you've got!” Following his lead, the platoon attempted this more difficult maneuver. Laera was able to do it, but not without more complaints from her back and shoulders. A few of the recruits were having trouble, particularly Ringworm, Phlegm, and the Bothans Hairball and Peachfuzz. Their perceived lack of effort earned a visit from the other DI, Sergeant Grimski, who yelled invective at each of them in turn. “Do you want to quit!” he yelled at Peachfuzz. “Have you proven your manliness yet, sweetheart!” “Sir, no sir!” the Bothan recruit, whose fur was a pale yellowish pink, yelled back. “I don't kriffing believe you, meat-pie! Show me a real push-up! Show me you want to earn your name and become a Marine!” “Sir, yes sir!” Peachfuzz replied, the strain of the effort clear in her voice. Laera didn't have time to see if she pulled it off or not, because Sergeant Pavan was barking for attention. “On your feet, ladies, move!” he yelled as he did the same. “Remember that push-up, because you're going to be doing lots and lots of 'em in the next six months!” For the next five minutes, as the blasterfire continued in waves, Sergeants Pavan and Grimski taught the platoon the various exercises they would be expected to perform every morning. After push-ups, they learned about Marine-style sit-ups, Jumping Jaxes, spring-leaps, quick-drop/quick-stand routines, stretches, and the accepted marching and quick-marching paces. Laera was able to keep up for the most part, though her back kept acting up. Miranda was, predictably enough, doing the best and wearing a big grin while she was at it. Finally, Pavan called a temporary reprieve. “Well now, ain't this a cluster-knock,” he said as the blasterfire halted, mockery and scorn clear in his tone. “I gotta wonder what the kriff the recruiting board was smoking when they let this bunch of weak-kneed, noodle-armed puffballs into my beloved Corps! With the possible exception of Makeup over there, I doubt a single one of you could so much as get up from a sitting position while in armor! Now hit the deck and push ten, all of you, right kriffing now!” Once again, in a beautifully-choreographed manner, the blasterfire resumed as the platoon fell into position and began grunting their way through the DI's orders. — — — “You look terrible, Brain,” Miranda said after Laera sat at the bench across the table from her and began digging into her breakfast. The sun was just poking its head over the horizon, and after having been deposited at the nearby mess hall, the platoon had been given fifteen minutes to secure chow and feed themselves. “And you look like you enjoyed yourself,” Laera retorted in a low rumble. “I'm serious, you might want to consider going to sickbay and getting your back checked over.” Laera spitted the older recruit with a molten stare of her own. The woman's expression was sincere enough, but she had a hard time accepting such an observation from someone who had actually earned an honest compliment from their DIs. “Absolutely not,” she said in an undertone as another recruit joined them. “Now shut up and let me eat; I'm gonna need every spare calorie to make the O-Course.” “Oh come on, Brain,” Miranda said insistently. “You know as well as I do that you're still aching from yesterday's run. If you strain yourself—” “Listen here, cupcake,” Laera bit out, jabbing her spork at the athlete. “I joined up to help my family, not to impress some sportscaster when you start your glamorous shockboxing career with help from the Corps. I'll do whatever it takes to see this through, even if they break every bone in my body. Don't presume to lecture me on what I can and cannot accomplish!” “I wasn't trying to—” Miranda began, but Laera was having none of it. “I'm fine, Makeup,” she hissed. “Maybe you should hurry up and eat so you can get back to the barracks and paint your face before we run the O-Course. Sergeant Grimski might appreciate the effort.” Without another word, Laera moved her tray one table over, taking up a space between Virus and the Rodian, now named Squeak. — — — Tuffass was waiting for them when the platoon, shepherded by the junior DIs, arrived at the starting point for the obstacle course, which was a small grassy knoll overlooking an artificial cut. A permacrete line and starting marker had been built at the top, pointing down the ramp which led to the first obstacles. The marker pole itself bore a large metal sign, upon which the current times for completion were posted on flimsi. These were divided into several sections, marked MINIMUM EXPECTED, AVERAGE DAILY, AVERAGE WEEKLY, AVERAGE MONTHLY, and RECORD TIMES. Laera couldn't help but notice that the most recent record had been set some fifteen years prior, which meant that this course wasn't going to be easy. “Twenty minutes or less, that's all you gornt-punchers need to know about this O-course for now,” Tuffass explained. “Divide up by fives and mount the line! NOW!” With her upper back still prickling, Laera attempted to mosey her way into the back five group. The diminutive sergeant must have seen her, however, because he called a halt. “Belay that!” he hollered. “Maggots, back in formation! Brain, front and center!” The platoon fell back into its four rows as Laera, keeping her head locked upright and wearing a neutral expression, obeyed. “Sir, recruit Brain reporting as ordered, SIR!” Tuffass leaned in and spoke in low, menacing tones. “Still smarting, maggot? Don't worry, it gets better.” Then he switched back to his high holler. “Maggots, today is your lucky day: Brain has just volunteered to run the O-Course first. She's even going to do it solo, so that you can watch and learn that it takes TEAMWORK in order to make it in Tuffass's beloved Corps! Now MOVE THAT ASS, BRAIN! GO! GO! GO!” Laera dashed down the ramp without hesitation, her gaze locked firmly on the first hurdle... — — — Memories of that first run at the Corulag depot's course still caused Gunnery Sergeant Laera Reyolé to wince in sympathy with her younger self. Nineteen minutes and forty-two seconds of pure, unadulterated hell it had been, but she had survived the cut with only minimal bumps and bruising. That afternoon, after a healthy dose of pushing fenders—two-meter diameter cylinders made of rubber that took six recruits apiece to even move—up the ramp from the barracks to the PT yard, the platoon had gone through the course again. She had been permitted to accompany a division of four others for the run, and because of that she had managed to post a significant reduction in time. But she would never forget that first run, never in a thousand years, because it had been the first time she had ever felt true doubt regarding why she had joined up. “You know, you certainly made me work for it, Gunny,” Laera remarked idly as she and the Gand neared the recruits' barracks; it was tradition for DIs to sleep and spend their downtime near their charges. “To get this far, I mean.” Tuffass bobbed his head in his equivalent of an approving nod. “That was Tuffass's job, no more and no less. Tuffass wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he hadn't found a way to make Brain appreciate the purpose of her training.” “And the lesson was learned,” Laera replied with a grin. “No amount of study can ever prepare someone for such a life-altering experience.” “Tuffass is glad that you agree,” he said simply. She bade the elder drill instructor goodbye as the two parted company, each heading for their respective barracks. Laera had planned to take her third class of recruits, who had finished their own Hell Week several weeks prior, through Carida's own O-course for their third day of running it. This was the same course on which she herself had nearly set a record soon after arriving on-planet, though the high gravity had nearly caused her to break a leg. She hadn't planned on going for that record; the run had only been intended as a joyful vindication of all that she had learned while ascending the ranks of enlisted personnel. Starting with the event in Basic Training that had earned her name back...
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