Untitled
Title: Detention
Word Count: 545
Author's Note: This came from a half-formed idea floating around in my head, in which the protagonist feels like the cocky love child of Chris Pine's Captain Kirk and Tyler Durden. We'll see if any more of it comes to me.
The lecture's been going on so long, I'm starting to lose the feeling in my legs. When they told me that our training would include three hours of wargame instruction, I'd assumed it meant we'd be taught tactics and logistics, perhaps get to play with some of the holo-scenarios I'd seen my father use when I was growing up. Clearly I was mistaken. Our instructor, a retired runner who outweighs me three times over, is droning on and on about treaties and negotiations and diplomacy - none of which I signed up for. At this point, if there's any chance of ending things peacefully, I'm not interested. Neither is anybody else in the class, I think.
Iain is starting to shift foot to foot beside me, and I elbow him in the ribs to get him to stand still. I thought I was being subtle about it, but it's enough to get us quickly noticed - the instructor waddles over to us and stares up at me from the lower end of the six inch height difference between us.
"There a problem, Cardiff?" he asks me. There's sweat beading on his lip, and he's wheezing slightly. He stinks of sweat and alcohol, overpowering enough to make my stomach roll. How the hell was this guy ever a runner?
"No sir," I tell him, being sure not to look him in the eye. "Just wondering when the lesson is going to start, sir."
"Instructor Gottin warned me that you'd be a problem."
"I'm not sure why she would say such a thing, sir. I like to consider myself a model student." I can't help but grin as I hear a few snorts of laughter down the line.
"That so?" he muses. He scratches the patchy beard on his face and looks me over. "How much do you weigh, son?"
"Sir?" Have to admit, I've never had that question before.
"How much do you weigh?"
"I'd say a buck sixty, sir. Give or take."
"Hmm. Bit large for a cabin boy, aren't you?"
There's no snorts this time - the line straight up laughs, perhaps because it's safe for them to do so now, now that it's the instructor handing out the jabs. Iain at least has the decency to keep a straight face. And every pair of eyes is on me, waiting for me to say something, perhaps for the infamous Cardiff temper to show through.
"Seems you're confused, sir," I finally say, digging the nails of one hand into the wrist of the other to keep me from punching the old bastard in the face. "I'm shooting for squad lead."
"You think so, hmm?" he asks, chuckling. "You're a long way from filling those shoes, boy."
"It's good to aim high, sir. And if I fail too terribly, I could always just be a runner." I look him in the eye and smile, then, and keep smiling even when his meaty fist slams into my stomach so hard I'm pretty sure a few organs are permanently displaced. Even when I'm on my knees, my nose broken, my lips split, my ears ringing, I just grin up at him like this is the best fucking day of my life.
After five minutes of that, they all stop laughing.
Word Count: 545
Author's Note: This came from a half-formed idea floating around in my head, in which the protagonist feels like the cocky love child of Chris Pine's Captain Kirk and Tyler Durden. We'll see if any more of it comes to me.
The lecture's been going on so long, I'm starting to lose the feeling in my legs. When they told me that our training would include three hours of wargame instruction, I'd assumed it meant we'd be taught tactics and logistics, perhaps get to play with some of the holo-scenarios I'd seen my father use when I was growing up. Clearly I was mistaken. Our instructor, a retired runner who outweighs me three times over, is droning on and on about treaties and negotiations and diplomacy - none of which I signed up for. At this point, if there's any chance of ending things peacefully, I'm not interested. Neither is anybody else in the class, I think.
Iain is starting to shift foot to foot beside me, and I elbow him in the ribs to get him to stand still. I thought I was being subtle about it, but it's enough to get us quickly noticed - the instructor waddles over to us and stares up at me from the lower end of the six inch height difference between us.
"There a problem, Cardiff?" he asks me. There's sweat beading on his lip, and he's wheezing slightly. He stinks of sweat and alcohol, overpowering enough to make my stomach roll. How the hell was this guy ever a runner?
"No sir," I tell him, being sure not to look him in the eye. "Just wondering when the lesson is going to start, sir."
"Instructor Gottin warned me that you'd be a problem."
"I'm not sure why she would say such a thing, sir. I like to consider myself a model student." I can't help but grin as I hear a few snorts of laughter down the line.
"That so?" he muses. He scratches the patchy beard on his face and looks me over. "How much do you weigh, son?"
"Sir?" Have to admit, I've never had that question before.
"How much do you weigh?"
"I'd say a buck sixty, sir. Give or take."
"Hmm. Bit large for a cabin boy, aren't you?"
There's no snorts this time - the line straight up laughs, perhaps because it's safe for them to do so now, now that it's the instructor handing out the jabs. Iain at least has the decency to keep a straight face. And every pair of eyes is on me, waiting for me to say something, perhaps for the infamous Cardiff temper to show through.
"Seems you're confused, sir," I finally say, digging the nails of one hand into the wrist of the other to keep me from punching the old bastard in the face. "I'm shooting for squad lead."
"You think so, hmm?" he asks, chuckling. "You're a long way from filling those shoes, boy."
"It's good to aim high, sir. And if I fail too terribly, I could always just be a runner." I look him in the eye and smile, then, and keep smiling even when his meaty fist slams into my stomach so hard I'm pretty sure a few organs are permanently displaced. Even when I'm on my knees, my nose broken, my lips split, my ears ringing, I just grin up at him like this is the best fucking day of my life.
After five minutes of that, they all stop laughing.