Chapter Text
The drizzling rain was so damnably cold that the young man thought he could feel his bones freezing as he and his fellows stood shivering at attention in the muddy field under heavy grey skies. Clouds of steam rose from their combined breath and the curlicues of vapor that ascended from their sweat soaked heads following the ten-kilometer run. That grueling excursion had signified the first of many challenges to face them during their time in basic training.
The sergeant major who strode onto the mockery of a parade ground glared at the collective rabble, a mish-mash of conscripts, recruits, and a few unfortunate souls who'd been Shanghaied out of Murial's seedier drinking establishments. "What a sad assortment," he assessed gravely. "To think that the empire's future rests in the hands of you shit-heels makes me queasy."
The grizzled giant walked down the line, making the occasional pointed observation about a recruit's size or physical characteristics. Eventually he came to a stop in front of the young man. "Poet, you're still with us? I didn't think you'd survive the run."
The young man barked reflexively, "Sir, yes sir!"
"Did you compose a moving sonnet for the brigade during your leisurely jog?" the sergeant major asked, leaning in so close to the young man that he could smell the rank scent of eidleberry tobacco on the non-com's breath.
"Sir, no sir!" he repeated, now shivering so hard his teeth were chattering.
The sergeant raised an eyebrow, staring deep into the young man's eyes. "You don't like me, do you Poet?"
"Sir… uh… yes, sir!" The recruit blinked, realizing his error. "I mean no… uh… no, sir!"
The sergeant major laughed heartily as he stepped back to address the rest of the formation. "Poor Poet! He's come to us because he has nowhere else to go. Someone ate his planet, isn't that terrible?"
There was a smattering of laughter from down the line as the sergeant continued, "His people were so busy painting and singing and studying the wonders of the universe that they couldn't be bothered to arm themselves. When the hordes finally arrived on their doorstep, his people tried to talk their way out of being annihilated. And what do you think that got them?"
"That got them dead, sir!" was the unanimous reply, save for the young man who held his tongue.
"Let that be your first lesson," the sergeant major roared. "What you do not control and cannot defend against will kill you!"
He leaned in toward the young man again and the sergeant major growled, "Your people died because they were weak, Poet. Just like you."
The young man forgot himself as he replied hotly, "That's not true!"
"No?" the sergeant major asked with mock dismay. "It's not?"
"Sir, no sir!" the young man managed to blurt, working mightily to rein in his churning emotions.
"Tell me, Poet, do you think your whore of a mother and that pathetic coward who called himself your father died clinging to each other in the wreckage of their house? Or do you wonder if perhaps the cyborgs didn't take them?" The non-com raised his hands dramatically towards the horizon, as if painting a picture with words. "Can you see them now, soulless zombies with wires and tubes sticking out of them, shuffling around their mighty ships, forever enslaved as they lay waste to countless other worlds?"
The young man snapped, letting loose a guttural cry of rage as he charged the instructor. He'd barely moved a foot before he found himself sailing through the air to land heavily in freezing mud, unable to breath from the lightening-quick strike the sergeant major had delivered to his midsection just before flipping him up and over his shoulder.
The recruit lay in the cloying mud, gasping for breath and clutching at his stomach. As his vision cleared, he could see the sergeant major looking down at him. "You're angry, Poet. That's good. Anger is something I can work with." He gestured for two other men in formation to come forward and pull the young man to his feet. "Welcome to the Hekosian Royal Army, Mister… "
"Lar'ragos," the El-Aurian croaked, still fighting for air.
The sergeant major shook his head. "I prefer Poet, don't you?" Taking the young man's silence as approval, the instructor turned his back and began moving down the line. "Remember, Poet, always cheat, always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose. The advice comes too late for the rest of your people, but you just might be salvageable."
"Sir..." the young man coughed, "yes sir!"