I stare at the paper in my hands, the numbers and letters blurring together until they don't even look like words anymore. Failed. Again.

This is my third attempt at the ASVAB, and I thought for sure I had it this time. I studied for weeks, staying up late into the night poring over practice questions and memorizing vocab words that I'll probably never use again.

But apparently, it still wasn't enough. The scores glare up at me in stark black and white, a damning indictment of my own inadequacy. Math: 35. Science: 40. Reading: 42. My highest score is in mechanical comprehension, a measly 55. Even the guy at the recruitment office couldn't hide his grimace when he handed me the results.

"Well, you passed," he said, but his tone suggested that this was more of a technicality than a real achievement. "Barely, but you passed."

I shouldn't be surprised, really. I've never been great at school, never been the sharpest tool in the shed. But I thought the military would be different. I thought it would be a place where I could finally excel, where my physical strength and my determination would count for more than my ability to solve quadratic equations or analyze poetry.

Guess I was wrong about that, too.

I crumple the paper in my fist, feeling the satisfying crunch of it beneath my fingers. I want to scream, want to put my fist through a wall, want to do something to release the frustration and anger boiling up inside me. But I can't. Not here, not in front of all these people.

So instead, I take a deep breath and shove the paper into my pocket, squaring my shoulders as I turn to leave the recruitment office. I'll just have to try again. Study harder, focus more, do whatever it takes to prove that I'm not a complete fucking failure.

As I step out into the bright sunlight, I feel a heavy hand clap down on my shoulder. I don't even have to turn around to know who it is.

"How'd it go, son?" my dad asks, his voice gruff and expectant.

I hesitate for a moment, considering lying. But I know there's no point. He'll find out eventually, and then it'll just be worse.

"I passed," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "But not by much. The scores were pretty low."

I feel his hand tighten on my shoulder, his fingers digging in like claws. "Let me see."

Reluctantly, I fish the crumpled paper out of my pocket and hand it over. He snatches it from me, smoothing it out with quick, irritated movements.

I watch his face as he scans the numbers, watch the way his brow furrows and his mouth twists into a scowl. I know that look. I've seen it a thousand times before, every time I've brought home a less-than-perfect report card or failed to live up to his standards.

"This is unacceptable," he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "No son of mine is going to be some kind of retarded grunt, barely scraping by on the bottom rungs of the military ladder."

I feel my face heat up, shame and anger warring in my chest. "I tried, Dad," I mumble, hating how weak and pathetic I sound. "I studied really hard, I swear."

"Not hard enough, apparently," he snaps, shoving the paper back into my hands. "You'll take it again. And this time, you'll do better. I'm not going to have people thinking my son is some kind of idiot."

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. I want to argue, want to tell him that I'm doing my best, that I'm not an idiot, that maybe the military just isn't the right path for me. But I know it's no use. In my dad's eyes, there's only one acceptable path, and that's the one he's chosen for me.

"Yes, sir," I say instead, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

He nods curtly, like he's dismissing a subordinate rather than his own flesh and blood. "Good. Now let's go home. Your mother's got dinner waiting."

I follow him to the car in silence, my shoulders slumped and my head bowed. I feel like a dog that's just been kicked, slinking along with my tail between my legs.

But beneath the shame and the humiliation, there's something else too. A spark of defiance, a flicker of rage that refuses to be extinguished.

I'll show him, I think as I slide into the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing streets. I'll show them all. I'll be the best damn soldier this country has ever seen, and then they'll have to respect me. They'll have to see that I'm not just some dumb kid, not just a disappointment or a failure.

I'll make them proud, even if it kills me.

----------------------------------------

I feel like I might throw up.

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My lungs are burning. My legs are shaking. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my eyeballs. But still, I keep running.

Left, right, left, right. One foot in front of the other, over and over again. I don't know how long we've been at it – an hour, maybe two. All I know is that I can't stop, can't slow down, can't show even a moment of weakness.

Not if I want to survive.

Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes and dripping into my mouth. It tastes like salt and desperation, like all the times I've pushed myself to the brink and then kept going anyway.

I never expected boot camp to be easy. But this… this is something else entirely. It's like being broken down and put back together again, piece by agonizing piece.

Wake up before the sun, run until you puke, drop and give me fifty, maggot! Faster, faster, you call that a push-up?! I've seen girlscouts with more balls than you! You're just like your daddy ain't ya; a nameless loser. Maybe you belong on a register at a K-Mart somewhere, fucking cashier.

Six weeks of it so far. Honestly, I had a grin on my face for the first two weeks, loving every second.

Eight weeks to go. I'd better learn to grin again.

Every muscle screams in protest as I force myself to keep going, to match the relentless pace set by the drill instructor. He's a machine, tireless and unforgiving, barking orders and insults in equal measure.

"What's the matter, Johnson?" he shouts, his voice cutting through the pounding of my own heartbeat. "You getting tired already? You think the enemy's gonna go easy on you just because you're a little winded?"

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. I want to snap back, to tell him that I'm not tired, that I can take whatever he dishes out. But I know better. Talking back is a one-way ticket to pain and humiliation.

So instead, I just push harder. I find some hidden reserve of strength, some last scrap of determination, and I pour it all into my burning legs and heaving lungs.

I am not weak. I am not a failure. I am a warrior, forged in the fires of my own will. And I will not break, no matter how hard they try to shatter me.

The other recruits are struggling too, their faces red and twisted with effort. Some of them have already fallen behind, their bodies giving out under the relentless strain. Others are barely hanging on, stumbling and gasping like fish out of water.

But not me. I refuse to be one of them. I will not be the weakest link, the one who holds the rest of the platoon back. I will be the best, the strongest, the most unbreakable.

I have to be.

Because this is my chance, my one shot at proving myself. At showing my father, my family, the whole damn world that I am not a fuck-up, not a loser, not a waste of space.

I am Richard fucking Johnson, and I am going to be the best soldier this country has ever seen.

It doesn't matter that I scored a goddamn fucking 35 on the goddamn fucking math section of the fucking ASVAB. It doesn't matter that these weapons are ten times heavier than they were when I was buying M-16s as props on my weekly comic book allowance. That was a lifetime ago. It doesn't matter that my skinny ass couldn't even bench the bar last year.

What matters now is the burn in my muscles, the fire in my lungs, the steel in my spine. What matters is that I am still standing, still moving, still pushing forward, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much I want to quit. No matter how badly they want me to do so.

My drill instructor spits at me while I run past. Tobacco juice and mucous mingles with the sweat and tears on my face. Lactic acid circulates throughout my body, slowly crystallizing. I'm halfway through my 15 mile run with boots that don't fit me, a rifle above my head that I can barely hold, and I have a canteen half-full of a mystery substance that I have to carry above my head too without spilling a drop. Everyone does. But somehow, I feel like people are looking at me, looking for me to fuck up. Looking for me to fuck up real bad.

I'm already behind the others, the elastic band they're following with getting further and further away while my legs ache and creak in ways I can't describe. I'm not out of energy but my body just won't move correctly anymore. My lungs burn from trying to pull in seawater air. Four other guys have fallen behind with me

My drill instructor screams next to my ear from a truck running parallel to me, at a pace faster than my sprint.

"I DID NOT SPEND TWO MONTHS MAKING YOU INTO A REAL MAN SO YOU COULD CHOKE ON THE FINAL EXAM, JOHNSON!" he screams into my fucking face. I wish he'd just get it over with. I'm already a failure.

"YOU'RE LETTING YOUR MOMMY DOWN! YOU'RE LETTING YOUR TROOP DOWN! YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN BECAUSE YOU CAN'T HACK IT, JOHNSON? YOU HEAR ME?!"

I don't respond. We're not allowed to speak unless spoken to.

"YOU JUST FUCKING KILLED THEM, JOHNSON! YOU JUST SENT ALL THEIR MOTHERS FOLDED FLAGS BECAUSE YOU COULDN'T HACK IT! BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T STRONG ENOUGH, FAST ENOUGH TO KEEP PACE! YOU DIDN'T TRAIN HARD ENOUGH, JOHNSON!"

People are… people are jeering at me, shouting at me and throwing things from the truck, if I fall behind. I… I wanna cry. I can't… I can't fucking cry. I'm not a pussy. I…

I can see the trail of blood I'm leaving as my boots tear against my skin. My whole body is weak. I can't take a step.

I can't take another step. I can't do this. My lungs are on fire and burning! My muscles are screaming at me, saying I can't do this!

I try to breathe in through my nose, but it's a wheeze, asthmatic and pained. Did I… did I used to have asthma? Do I have asthma?

"C-C-CAN'T" I gasp out, desperately. My DI's eyes narrow.

He knows.

He gets off of his truck and knees me in the back, sending me stumbling forward. My mystery mix splashes a bit and lands on my skin, and it immediately burns wherever it hit me. Battery acid? Lemon juice? Water and salt? I have no idea. All I know is that it burns.

"KEEP MOVING, JOHNSON! I WILL CARRY YOU ON MY FUCKING BACK IF I HAVE TO, YOU LIMP-WRISTED--"

I can't take another step. I can't. My back is hunched. My knees are bending more under my weight than they ever have in my life. My canteen sloshes wildly, its mixture spilling all over my head and face and chest, bathing me in acid and sweat and tears and tobacco spit.

My foot slides forward. My foot slides back. My other foot slides forward. My footing slides back.

I breathe in.

I throw up. Sea-green bile mixed with battery acid comes hurtling at terminal velocity into the morning air, projectile spewing onto the dirt, the grass, onto the hard leather of my DI's boots, speckling and sizzling.

They're screaming something in my face, but I can't hear it. My ears are blurry. My vision is blurry. Everything is…

Everything goes black.

"Thank… thank you for th-the opportunity…" I whisper, breathless, before I fall forward.

Grass tickles my cheek. There's mud in my mouth. Something's beeping. Something's bweeeeeoooo. weeeeeeoooo. weeeeeoooo.

weee oooooo.

weeeee-eeee-eeeeeee

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

beeeeeeeeeeeeee eee e e e e e eee

I'm cold.

I hurt.

I can't move.

I'm being moved.

And then I… get sucked down.

Down, down, down.

And then everything stops.