Basic Training
(Meta note: this is a writing exercise based upon characters created by [geneseepaws](%5C), and used with permission).
Basic Training
"Well, well well," the dalmatian heard caustically from behind him, "what have we here?"
He looked up from his book to find his bunk was surrounded. A rather vicious-looking rotweiler was the one his eyes first landed upon.
"Looks like Bobbie's got his nose in a book again," answered another voice from mockingly.
"Again? He must read slow, if it takes him 3 hours a day." This got throaty laughter, all from chests and frames bigger than his. He hadn't though about basic training when he joined, or he would have built more muscle than was needed to type on a keyboard.
Bobbie put his nose back into it, refocusing on the chapter title: Error Detection and Correction Schemes. Concentrate, he told himeslf, and they'll go away. Be un-teasable, and they'll start picking on each other instead.
"What's in it, Bobbie?"
No answer.
"Let's see!" The book was snatched from his hand, and his eyes followed it, right up to the chest of the rottweiler.
"Look here, boys! Hamming code! Like how big a ham can he be!"
They laughed. As he looked around, the dalmatiain could see that "they" consisted of all five of his bunk mates, including a weasel who had been a kindred spirit in the lunchroom. But his eyes did a very good job of hiding his inner geek, and his frame, almost half a foot taller than Bobbie, made him fit right in with the other tormentors.
"What else has he got?" he heard a voice growl as he heard the loud clank of a footlocker opening. "What'dya know. More books! Let's see what else is in here..."
The thought of them touching a very special picture, however, set off a flash of rage. He got out of bed, and when the rotweiler stood right up in front of him, the dalmatian pushed him with all his might.
The rotweiler, not expecting it, tumbled back into the next bunk, and hit his head on the railing.
"Don't touch my stuff!" the dalmatian yelled.
The rotweiler just sat, and held his head, making the dalmatian amazed he had auctally caused someone to back off.
"Oh c'mon," insisted the buff panther looking through the footlocker, "you wouldn't mind a little snap inspection, would you? You think a general wouldn't look thr--"
"No he wouldn't, you sick --!" But his statement was cut off by a pair of hands around his neck.
"Now boys," growled the rotweiler from behind with malice, "I think we need to teach Bobbie here a lesson about pushing. Empty the footlocker."
Bobbie's throat was eased a little, but not released. He wheezed through a half-open airway as he watched in rage -- unable to do anything about it by those hands which closed whenever he tried to struggle.
Clothes, books, and his diploma in a plastic frame, were all tossed out carelessly, as if there were gold at the very bottom. The only thing they reached in the end, however, was the most precious picture in the world.
"Ho ho! Who's this?" asked the cat gleefully, holding up the picture of the dalmatian with a large lion's arm wrapped around him. The way they held each other, even someone of the intelligence of these future soldiers could tell. They couldn't tell that Kyle had been killed on a GDF mission a year ago.
They all oohed at him, laughing and pointing.
"Well, isn't he cute!"
"What's his name?"
"I bet you'd like to screw him, huh?"
But the rottweiler was intent on Bobbie's fate. "To the stairs!"
"The stairs!" they all repeated with glee.
The hands flexed on his neck again. "Into the footlocker!" growled the voice behind him.
Bobbie was pushed toward it, choked when he resisted, and forced to at least stand in it. Revenge was on the rottweiler's breath.
"Down the stairs! Down the stairs! Down the stairs!" they chanted as five pairs of hands pushed him down.
He resisted all he could, but that just got his head banged into the bedframe, just as the rottweiler had been. It disoriented him for just long enough that they eased him flat.
"Down the stairs! Down the stairs! Down the stairs!"
Pushing with his neck, shoulders, and arms, Bobbie did admirably keeping the lid from being closed -- until the black panther sat on it. But just as he heard the lock being fiddled with, a voice interrupted.
"Boys!"
The chanting stopped instantly, but the weight on the lid increased.
"It's time you all went out for shooting practice. Now let's see -- one, two, three, four, five -- one missing. Any idea where he is?"
A sea of calm negative responses, smooth as silk, piped out from the crowd above him.
"I see. Well, I guess he'll be back sooner or later, so I'll just wait for him."
The dalmatian silently smiled. Surely he was about to be discovered. Did his savior know what was going on?
When some significant time in silence passed, the weasel volunteered, "uh, are you sure we saw him this morning, guys?" Suddenly, everyone was far less certain of whether they saw him or not.
"Well he must be here. All of his stuff is still here on the floor."
Bobbie was getting impatient, despite his enjoying the squirming he could imagine. He chose to give the dense officer a hint, and knocked rhythmically on the wall.
"What was that?" asked the rottweiler. The chorus of voices reflected ambiguity of having heard anything, much less what it possibly could have been.
"I guess we'll just have to leave without him, then. I'm sick of waiting. Atten-tion!"
Bobbie dismayed; they were going to leave without him -- until he heard them form a line, and realized that they were no longer sitting on the lid of the locker.
He pushed the door open with a bang, and stood up with a mixture of fear and anger on his face.
"Ah, there you are," announced a rather large lion calmly, whose uniform showed he was a Sergant, "did they put you in there?"
The dalmatian just nodded, unable to speak.
"I thought so," he sighed. "Step over here, Private Dalmatziener."
Bobbie walked over to the lion, surprised that his name was known. The lion then stood in front of the doorway, and calmly drew out is sidearm and pointed it at the remaining five.
"Now!" he barked in his drilling voice, as fear filled the eyes of the others, "all of you are worthless! Being in the GDF is about being a soldier, not a dim-witted body builder who has a good time! It's about time we had a change! And You! Are! Going! To! Get It! Understand!?"
A series of stiff and submissive nods silently eminated from the line on trainees.
"Now! Private Dalmatziener!" the lion continued without moving his eyes or the gun, "You are officer material! No question! You will illustrate firearms technique for these misfits!"
"Sir, yes, sir," answered the dalmatian far more weakly than any drilling instructor should accept.`
"Take that pistol out of my back pocket."
Bobbie's fear, somehow, was transformed the moment he took hold of the metal. This weapon, one of legendary ability to cause fear and harm, gave him power. He was still afraid -- but now, he could do something about it. This was re-inforced by further unease of those before him.
"Dalmatziener! You will find a safety switch on just above your thumb!" he commanded in his drilling voice, "switch it off!"
As the dalmatian's thumb made the metal click loudly, he wondered silently what this example would bring.
"Now! You will find rear and forward sights! These are aligned to take proper aim!"
Bobbie held the gun up, pointing it at the ceiling, as he looked down its body. The notches were tiny, but prominent when held at this angle.
"Now! Discipline!" shouted the Sergant, "is the most important thing! If a solider cannot follow rules, and orders, he is nothing! Punishment is needed here!! Private Dalmatziener, select a target!"
Bobbie was a little surprised, but based upon what the sergant said, looked around the room. He selected the rottweiler -- because he was the most afraid. When his eyes looked at the bigger, bulkier dog, the gun barrel followed them unconsciously.
"Oh Gods, Bobbie!" the dog called out, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! It was just a joke!"
These protestations, however, only hardened the dalmatian's heart.
"You can't do this!" yelled the weasel.
"You will remain silent, or be next in line!" barked the Sergant. "Private Dalmatziener, get ready!"
Bobbie held out the weapon, and glared at the dog, who now had tears streaming down his muzzle and his ears held back. "Please!" he cried, falling to his knees, "please don't kill me!"
"Take aim!"
Everyone else stepped to the sides of the room, leaving the rottwieler to face his fate alone. "Please!!" he wailed, "I'll do anything you want!"
But Bobbie lined the up the silts, right between the tear-stained cheeks of the dog. His heart accelerated and his teeth clenched, as he knew now the taste of revenge, and anticipated the next command.
"Fire!!"
BANG.
Bobbie was just as unprepared for the sound as anyone else in the room. He blinked and flinched -- but before he could open his eyes, he realized in terror what he had just done. Regret flooded him as he slowly opened his eyes -- to see the rottwieler unharmed, still in an expectant wince.
Heart still pounding, he let his hand go limp, and started shaking. The gun dropped to the floor, as everyone in the room slowly realized that it had been loaded with blanks.
"Very good, Private Dalmatziener! You pass for today!" The lion stepped out of the door and put his sidearm away. "Everyone else, three laps around the compound! Now!"
Still in shock, everyone else stumbled to their feet, and were out of the door and running down the hall at top speed before Bobbie noticed they were gone.
The lion led the dalmatian down the hall in the opposite direction to his office. Bobbie just followed where the hand on his shoulder led him, still shaking. The hand was reassuring, but it was not nearly enough. He has just shot someone in the head.
"Just take it easy," the lion reassured, voice still gruff but gentle through its gravel, "you learned an important lesson."
But the dalmatian was struggling not to cry. "I can't -- I can't believe I did that," he whimpered. "If that had been a real bullet, I --"
"It wasn't, Bobbie," growled the voice firmly. "You really are officer material. This is why."
He found a way to look past the large mane into the hard blue eyes. "What?"
"If you showed no fear, no regret, -- you would be unfit to carry one of these. You've got intelligence, I could see that a mile away. That's why they put you in that locker, isn't it?"
"I guess so," he answered, heart slowing down as they arrived at the office door marked Sgt. James Liuwenhirt.
"Stan," interrupted the lion, to a rather anxious private at the desk, "it was a blank. Tell whoever's on their way to turn around." The husky nodded, and picked up a small radio on the desk.
"C'mon in, sit down, Bobbie," gestured the lion as he walked behind the heavy metal desk, covered with paper, and sat in a rather thinly-covered chair.
The dalmatian sat in a completely uncovered metal chair, but didn't pay attention to any soreness it caused him.
"I was saying, you're certainly smart. Computers?"
Bobbie nodded.
"Great skill to have, I can tell you. Biggest computers on Giaya are owned by the GDF. I picked firearms. But it takes more than computer skills, or shooting skills to be a good officer. Anyone can follow orders, but knowing which orders to give will do more harm than good is the biggest part. And I can tell you, using one of those does more harm than good ninety-nine percent of the time."
Bobbie didn't answer. It made some sense to him, but was mostly was soothing to listen to that voice.
"Do you have anything to say?" the lion asked after the silence had hung a moment.
"No, sir," he hesitated, "except -- I request to be excused from firearms training."
"I'm afraid you can't do that," he explained, "but your request not to carry one is granted."
"Thank you, sir. And -- may I get a new room assignment?"
The lion smiled. "I don't think you'll need one. But if things get worse instead of better, just let me know."
This thought got the dalmatian to smile at last, as this new idea -- that someone was looking out for him -- worked its way into his head.
"Thank you -- uh, sir," he remebered.
"Now if that is all, you're dismissed."
He saluted, and walked out with the smile still lingering.
He returned to his bunk, and as he put his footlocker back together, spent some time staring at Kyle. He was so reminded of the protected feeling, that he couldn't help but feel it was Kyle in that office.
More importantly, for the remainder of his training, none of his room-mates ever teased him again.
The End.