Penitent-Chapter 18: Grit

The next morning started similarly to the previous ones. The lights in the barracks went on, and everyone got up and got into their uniforms. Kline came in, and inspected everyone’s uniforms. If he found anything out of place, he would have them do some number of pushups, or squats. Michael had forgotten to close his collar and so had to start his day with twenty push ups. They weren’t too bad, his new body was in good shape. Then they were taken to the infirmary.

Michael was greeted by the medics there while he waited in line for his shot, and one of them asked to borrow him from Kline so that he could quickly heal a broken toe. Kline agreed and Michael healed the recruit, who unlike most others, managed to give him a thank you before getting his socks and boots back on to head to breakfast. He’d become a regular fixture in the infirmary, and as he talked to the medics, most of whom were women, he could feel the eyes of the other takers bore a hole into the back of his head.

Marcus went to get his shot before him, and he couldn’t help but notice that the alchemist seemed to take extra time with him. He couldn’t quite hear what either of them said, but there was some shared laughter and when she placed the leaf bandage on his arm she did so slowly, her finger delicately checking how secure it was at the edges in a long slow motion. His own shot was quick and clean with no fuss, though she’d mentioned before that she appreciated that he didn’t flinch at all.

Michael had realized that the mixtures in each of their syringes in the morning seemed to be different from what they usually were as well. Sometimes they had a slight reddish hue to them, other times they were clear like usual, and sometimes they were even slightly blue or purple. They weren’t just different day to day, but they were even different person to person. He assumed that maybe everyone’s doses needed to be adjusted on a case by case basis.

They were then escorted to breakfast, but it quickly became clear they weren’t heading to their usual mess hall.

“It would be very bad if they weren’t planning on feeding us,” said Davi.

“We’re an investment. It wouldn’t make sense to starve us at this point,” replied Michael.

Davi was in luck, they were being fed, but instead of the smaller more private mess we were led to the general cafeteria. Kline looked at everyone before leading them in and said.

“There was a kitchen fire last night, and the usual dining hall is closed for repairs. You’re all large enough to defend yourselves at this point if there’s trouble. Don’t be stupid.”

The general mess was much the same as what they were used to, just bigger. Long tables, receptacles for trash, benches, humans had communal eating pretty much locked down across worlds it seemed.

The cafeteria was loud, with chatter echoing off the walls and dispersing everywhere, but there were pockets of silence as they entered. Michael could see hate in the eyes of many of them, most of whom were larger than their group. The average age was around fifteen from what he could tell, with only a few being maybe around eighteen. He imagined they were near leaving for the front, or were focused on specialties that needed additional training. He remembered hearing that sixteen was considered an appropriate age to be sent to war. That didn’t seem any less arbitrary than the age that was considered acceptable back home in the states. Though most of those he knew that enlisted at that age had spent all their time blowing money on ugly cars and uglier women. The recruits in the cafeteria with him then were actually expecting to fight a war.

Han, a taker Michael didn’t know very well, tripped and fell as he got nearer to the food, and Ollie went to help him up. There were snickers from the nearby seats indicating that they’d tripped him on purpose. Michael didn’t think it would be wise to make a scene, but he could feel a few of the others bristle. Still, they all managed to get their food and find seats without any more trouble. They wound up scattered, but all of the little cliques they’d formed managed to sit together at least.

Halfway through their meal, a few of the regular recruits approached them. One of them leaned against their table and grabbed a piece of bread off of Ollie’s plate.

Davi flipped the fork in his hand around quickly, but Pyotr gave him a light tap under the table, and he put it down.

“Makes me sick that we have to eat with you fucking murderers.”

Michael wasn’t certain the word was an exact translation for ‘fucking’, but it definitely had the same feel to it as it came out of the recruits mouth. He looked at him. He could understand why he was doing what he was doing. He was fifteen, had everything to prove, and a fresh target had appeared in front of him. The two next to him were his friends, and they’d all likely egged one another on to make trouble.

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Michael was able to pull up the boys titles and deeds. There was only a name.

“Klint. Why don’t you give Ollie back his sweetbread,” said Michael.

The boy stepped back suddenly. “How do you know my name?”

“Your mother told him in bed last night,” replied Ollie with a sneer that looked incongruous on his still youthful face. He was still hovering around being physically nine or ten due to his delayed inoculations.

“Not helping,” said Michael.

Klint took the sweetbread and crumbled it in his hand over the middle of the table. “My brother was taken. I remember my mother crying as his body was taken away. I hope he died the second he made it to the front. I would even shake the filthy Tussi hand that killed him.”

Michael and Pyotr exchanged a glance. They didn’t want any violence. Marcus, Davi, and Ollie on the other hand seemed ready to throw down.

Another recruit approached and placed his hand on Klint’s shoulder.

“Hey, mess with some of the other ones. Leave them alone.”

Klint looked back at him. “They insulted my mother.”

“Don’t care, pick someone else.”

Klint shook his head. “Fine. They aren’t worth it anyway,” he walked away with his friends in tow and the recruit that had asked them to leave exchanged a nod with Michael and left.

“What’s that about?” asked Marcus.

“I healed his hand,” said Michael. “He apparently plays the viola in his spare time and if it had healed regularly then he likely would’ve lost some dexterity and been unable to play. He didn’t thank me at the time, but I guess he felt he owed me.”

“How many favors do you think you’ve collected?” he asked, his eyes glinting a bit.

“None. I healed them because they were hurt and it’s what I should do. They owe me nothing.”

“That many, huh?” said Marcus with a raised eyebrow. He slipped a small orange-like fruit into his coat, Michael assumed he was saving it for later.

The rest of breakfast went by without trouble, and from there Michael went to his usual diviner training, but after that he joined the rest of the group for physical conditioning. They were all wearing heavy backpacks and walking up and down a large hill. Even from a distance, Michael could see they were all already drenched in sweat and panting heavily.

Kline smiled at him and the other specialists as they arrived.

“Alright everyone. You all can take a short break, get some water. I have to catch these boys up with you.” He looked at Ollie, the other two mages, Marcus, Han, and Michael. “I want you boys to put on these packs, run up that hill, walk down it, and run back up. You’ll take a break when I tell you to, and if you fall I’m adding more weight to your pack.”

“Come on, I’m half their size,” muttered Ollie.

“You and the other mages are permitted to use magic to carry them, but if I hear another complaint I’ll make you drag two up that hill.”

Ollie shut up for once.

“Now, the longer you can keep this up, the longer a break everyone else gets. Keep that in mind.”

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Michael looked at his exhausted fellows who were just returning from getting water and were still panting heavily, exhausted.

“What’re you waiting for? Go!”

Michael ran and grabbed one of the packs, whispering “corto” to cast a tightening spell and adjust the straps for himself automatically. He had felt exhausted from all the morning’s healing, but he was mostly recovered by the time he’d arrived at the field. He ran up the hill, arriving at the top just before Marcus who’d had to adjust his straps manually since he lacked magicka. Michael walked calmly back down, forcing himself to take deep breaths into the pit of his stomach. When he reached the bottom, he turned back around and bolted up the hill again, dodging around Ollie and a backpack that floated a foot behind him. This repeated several more times, with him running up the hill, resting on the way down, passing by the others, and then doing it all again. He was tired, but he just stayed focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He saw the others stumble a few times, but he managed to keep his footing without issue. At one point he realized that Ollie and the other mages were no longer on the hill as he’d stopped passing them. Next, Marcus wasn’t on it anymore, then even Han was gone. He didn’t care, he just kept running up and climbing down. It felt good to be so focused on a singular mindless activity. It reminded him of doing data entry, it was almost meditative.

“Michael,” yelled Kline from the bottom of the Hill.

Michael shook his head, as if coming out of a daze. He was very unused to Kline using his name directly. He looked down to see everyone else at the bottom of the hill, no longer looking tired or sweaty.

“Come down here,” said Kline.

Michael did so, sliding a bit at the foot of the hill as he came down it.

“Take that off and get some water. Take ten and meet us at the training field for sparring.”

Michael nodded, and went to the nearby barrel to ladle out some water. There was a guard there watching him, and Pyotr lingered behind.

“Do you know how long you were doing that?” he asked.

Michael shook his head as he finished the first ladleful of water. He felt exhausted, probably the most tired he’d ever been in his current body, but with even that bit of water he was already beginning to feel better.

“Nearly an hour.”

“What?” he asked, choking on his water.

“Pyotr! Get moving!” yelled Kline.

Pyotr nodded and started running after the rest of the group.

He knew he’d been doing it for a while, but running uphill for nearly an hour at his current physical age seemed beyond what he should be able to do. There was something else going on.