0430 Hours, September 26, 2517 / Spartan-II Bunkhouse, Reach Military Complex / Training Day Two
The screaming starts again.
Same time. Same sound. Same nightmare.
"ON YOUR FEET!"
Boots. Batons. Crying. Movement.
Some kids are faster today. Not all. One poor kid forgets to stand at the foot of his bunk—he gets cracked across the leg and drops like a sack of bricks.
I'm already up. Standing stiff, eyes front.
I didn't sleep much. Too much thinking. Muscles still sore. Knees stiff. Doesn't matter.
Chief Mendez walks the rows like a warden inspecting his cells. The instructors follow behind like executioners with cattle prods.
"This is not a dream. This is not a phase," Mendez barks. "This is your life now."
The words don't sting. They settle.
"Showers. Uniforms. Move."
We scramble.
Same grey sweats. Same stencil: Leonidas-151.
My fingers are slower today. My hands are cold. I fight to keep the tremble out of them. No one else looks any better.
The showers are colder. Someone cries again. No one says anything about it.
By the time we're back in the main yard, the morning air has fangs. Breath steams from our mouths. Feet slap concrete in rhythm. No sun yet—just stars fading into gray light.
"FORM UP!" someone bellows.
We line up. Better than yesterday. Straighter. Faster. Less fumbling.
The programming is working.
Mendez stands on his riser, hands behind his back like he's always been there.
"Jumping jacks. One hundred. Then sit-ups. Then leg lifts."
No hesitation.
We count in our heads. Sam next to me counts out loud—until an instructor glares him into silence.
I glance sideways—Kelly's pushing hard. Jaw tight. John's behind us somewhere. He's not in front anymore.
We don't talk about yesterday.
Not yet.
The sit-ups burn more today. Muscles tight. Less adrenaline. More reality. The instructors walk the lines, watching for cheaters. You miss a count, you restart.
Leg lifts feel like a personal vendetta against existence.
One girl collapses mid-set and tries to crawl through it. They let her. Barely.
No one's laughing.
We finish.
Mendez nods once. "Water."
The same warm, salty mix. Tastes like licking an old circuit board. But it works. Muscles ease. Shakes fade.
There's no praise.
There's no rest.
Just the next thing.
And the unspoken understanding—
This is normal now.
By noon, I can't feel my legs.
Or my shoulders.
Or my soul.
The only thing keeping me upright is momentum and spite. I'm pretty sure I'm running on electrolytes, trauma, and one mean survival instinct.
They march us back into the Naval Academy building. Same long halls. Same sterile air. The seats of the amphitheater-style classroom still have that faint synthetic smell—polished but not comforting.
We file in. No one speaks.
There's no crying today.
That died in the mud during morning PT.
Dejá is already waiting for us—flickering softly in blue light, arms folded, robes flowing in a breeze that doesn't exist. She watches us like a mother owl sizing up her hatchlings.
Or prey.
Crackers and milk again.
I eat mine without tasting it. Everyone does. Even the kid who got stun-batoned for fainting yesterday. He's chewing with a blank stare and a twitching left eye.
The lights dim.
Dejá's voice is smooth but not warm. She's not here to comfort us. She's here to mold us.
"Today," she says, "we study the nature of wolves."
A hush falls.
The holotable lights up with a mountainous landscape. Snow. Pines. A pack of low-poly wolves ripple into view—gray, lean, fast.
"They are not the strongest creatures in the wild," Dejá continues. "They are not the fastest. Not the largest."
The wolves run across the projection, chasing a massive stag. It moves faster. It's bigger. Alone, any one of them would lose.
"But together…" Dejá continues.
The wolves flank the prey. One distracts. Two drive it toward a ledge. The last delivers the kill. The projection freezes with a dramatic pause—the stag down, the wolves triumphant.
"They work as a pack. A unit. A family."
Some kids shift in their seats. Others lean forward.
Dejá turns slightly, her head tilting just enough to look… real.
"Alone, they would die. Together, they survive. They dominate."
She lets that settle.
"The Spartan program is not built on strength alone. It is built on unity."
I glance sideways—Sam is wide-eyed, soaking it in. Kelly stares like she already knew it. John… is watching the screen. Hard.
Like he's seeing his own mistake in motion.
Dejá continues, voice a little lower. Almost conspiratorial.
"Even wolves test each other. Nip. Snap. They learn their place in the pack."
Her eyes drift across the room.
"Some lead. Some follow. But none survive alone."
No one says a word. Not even the cocky ones.
Because it's clear now.
Yesterday wasn't punishment.
It was the first bite.
The room goes dark again. The projection fades.
Then, almost too casually, she adds:
"Next is the playground."
A few kids shift, unsure whether to be relieved or afraid.
I already know.
It's not the kind of playground with swings and slides.
It's the kind where the wolves learn to hunt.
The playground again.
Same mud. Same ropes. Same smell of metal, sweat, and failure.
We're marched into position by the instructors. Same teams.
John falls into place beside us, quiet this time. No cocky grin. No bouncing on the balls of his feet like he's racing the course solo.
Kelly's not having it.
She steps in front of him—taller by an inch or two, blue hair clinging to her sweat-damp neck, bright eyes narrowed.
"You better not leave us this time," she says flatly.
John blinks. Then nods once, calm.
"I won't."
That's it. No arguing. No defending himself.
For a second, I think Kelly might shove him anyway. But instead, she exhales and turns toward the course.
"So… what's the plan?" John asks.
He's not just playing along. He's asking. That's new.
I look at the far end of the obstacle maze. There's a pulley system now—different from yesterday. A reinforced basket suspended by rope, hanging under a vertical frame near the bell platform.
We all see it at the same time.
"If we all fit," I say, "and lift together, it's faster than climbing solo."
Sam squints at it. "It'll hold four?"
"I've seen heavier gear hanging from thinner lines," I mutter. "If it breaks, we swim. No worse than yesterday."
"I'm fast," Kelly adds, stretching her legs. "I'll get to it first. Save it before someone else tries to steal it."
Sam shrugs. "If you say so."
Kelly doesn't argue. She just nods like it's already fact.
Mendez steps up on his riser again.
"Same goal. Ring the bell. Then back here. Together."
His gaze drags over us.
"Go."
We launch forward.
And Kelly flies.
She doesn't sprint. She cuts through the course like she was built for it. Her long legs clear the first pit, then the rope crawl, then the monkey bars without a single slip. She's ahead of everyone by ten meters before we even hit the wall climb.
"Holy crap," Sam breathes, winded.
"She wasn't bluffing," I say, grinning despite the fire in my lungs.
Up ahead, Kelly reaches the pulley platform. Grabs the basket. Anchors it. A kid from another team—one of the cockier ones—tries to shoulder her out of the way.
He's bigger, but Kelly doesn't budge.
Then Sam slams into the kid like a tackling dummy.
The kid drops.
John gets to the platform next. Then me.
"Go!" Kelly shouts, already climbing in.
We pile into the basket. It groans, creaks—but holds. John and I grab the side ropes and start pulling. Sam helps. We rise fast. Not smooth—but faster than four bodies scrambling up a wet rope wall.
Clang.
All four of us slap the bell.
Down we go, less graceful, more yelling.
We hit the dirt and run. Legs like cement. Wind like glass in our lungs.
Back across the course.
Third place.
But we're not last. Not even close.
And this time—no one's waiting at the end, confused.
We're together.
And it counts.
Dinner is real.
I mean real food.
Not ration bars. Not chalky milk. Not mystery crackers.
It's ham.
Thick slices, steaming and pink with crispy brown edges. Gravy poured heavy over mashed potatoes. Corn on the cob with real butter. Brownies that smell like cocoa powder and rebellion. And ice cream.
Actual. Cold. Ice cream.
Sam lets out an audible moan when he sees it. No one judges him.
We sit together—me, John, Kelly, Sam. Not by design. It just happens.
The other trainees are too busy inhaling their food to notice us. Even the instructors look vaguely human for once. No yelling. No batons. Just forks and knives and blessed silence.
We dig in.
First few bites, no one says anything. Just food. Just chewing.
Then Sam breaks the silence. "Okay, I don't care if we lose tomorrow. This? Worth it."
Kelly rolls her eyes. "We're not going to lose tomorrow."
John swipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, actually looking like he means it. "We won't. I'll stick with you guys next time."
We all nod.
And then it happens.
The question hangs in the air like a grenade someone forgot to throw.
Sam says it first: "So… are we friends now?"
Kelly snorts into her potatoes.
John shrugs. "Sure."
I hesitate.
The word friends doesn't feel like it fits here. Feels like a word from another life. One with cartoons and school and hot chocolate on snow days.
But I nod. "Yeah. We're friends."
And I smile.
Like a real smile. Not a calculating mask or a tactical grin. Just dumb, full-face, six-year-old joy.
Sam raises his plastic cup. "To friends."
We all clink our drinks—lukewarm water never tasted so ceremonial.
Someone cracks a joke—I can't remember who. Probably Sam. We laugh. Kelly snorts again. John does that half-smile thing like he's still learning how.
And for a few precious minutes, we're not numbers stenciled on gray sweats.
We're not assets.
We're not property.
We're kids.
When the trays are cleared and the food's gone, we walk slow back to the barracks.
Bellies full. Muscles aching. Eyes heavy.
Inside the massive bunkhouse, 76 cots wait like always—one foot apart, too close to be private, too far to be comforting.
We don't talk as we crawl into bed.
But before the lights shut off, I glance down the row at John, Sam, and Kelly.
We don't say goodnight.
But we don't need to.