‘Caveman’.
The word had been in use for decades to refer to the J’halan immigrants flooding the Halehearth Empire; introduced at a time when there was a low certainty that those residing in caves were even capable of ‘civilized’ speech.
Garrot's homeland held many living communities enclosed in such city-sized caves, earning them the none-so-respectful term. By now, its inflammatory meaning was almost completely divorced from its origins, being nothing more than a personal stab—a declaration of superiority by birth.
It was easy enough for Garrot to pass the slur off when the remarks were delivered from denizens on the street, or drunken patrons at a bar protesting about their severance. But Lady Phaeriga, as well as the other Scions, represented little less than the voice of the Emperor himself. She had spat the word at Garrot with barely a glance—and not even covertly under her breath.
Any day Bran patrolled together with Garrot, or even traveled the streets of Imbral off-duty, they’d run the risk of some anti-J'halan sentiments passing them by. Bran still felt guilty that he hadn’t defended Garrot from the ire of the steelworkers at the foundry. At the time, he’d resolved that the next person to make his friend feel unwanted would find themselves crammed facefirst into a snow bank. Needless to say, he had not held this resolution upon the Third Scion’s remark.
Lowering his salute, having raised it too late for the Scion to notice, Garrot patted Bran’s shoulder—he had already sensed the internal conflict of his patrol partner.
“Bran...! Don’t worry! I’ve told you so many times before. Those problems are for me to deal with. Besides, it doesn’t bother me.”
“It should bother you, though,” muttered Bran.
“Bothers ME.”
The cutting jab had come from their Sergeant, who had stomped his way up to them after observing their disrespect of a superior officer.
Williams looked them up and down with a sneer.
“Hathorne! Sternen! There’s snow on your coats. Clean it off.”
Bran sputtered in protest. “We were just...chasing-”
“NOW.”
Frustrated at the invented excuse to humiliate them, Bran started patting off the snow on his friend’s shoulders. Williams raised a finger.
“No - He can do it himself. You too. Take your coats off, you look like delinquents that got in a damn snowball fight.”
Begrudgingly, the two removed their outerwear, feeling a chill through their tunics. Under the Sergeant’s eye, they endeavored to find every last speck of snow on their clothes lest they give their Sergeant further excuses to berate them.
When the Scions’ carriages had returned to the road and exited earshot, Williams continued.
“You don’t give a shit about those three, do you? The whole reason your kind invaded the Halehearth was to sit under their protection. They’re the very heroes that make this country safe for your kind, and you can’t even deign to salute them?” said Williams, bending down to Garrot’s level.
The Sergeant was speaking loud enough to be within earshot of the heroes he was referring to—making Garrot think he wasn’t really the subject of the remarks. Williams made it sound like being a Scion was a wholly sacrificial affair, but any person in the street would have gladly traded places with them.
Few knew about the process by which a member of the three Scionic families became one of the Emperor’s chosen Scions. But the fact of the matter was that the positions had afforded each of them great benefits—though beholden to the word of the Emperor himself, few else outranked them. With the Emperor becoming far more reserved in recent years, all three held some of the strongest influence in the Western Halehearth. Besides possessing wealth beyond imagining, each held an office of no small renown within the Empire. Though it was dangerous for either of the ensigns to reply to Williams, one could hardly consider their heroism altruistic.
“I wasn’t thinking, sir” insisted Garrot, swiping at the back of his coat. “It won’t happen again. I hold them in the highest esteem, sir, I promise.”
“Didn’t seem like it when you were smirking at the Lady Phaeriga. Were you fucking staring at her tits? Worthless hellspawn. Shits like you are the reason I’m transferring out of Chaser and its fucking pansies. Her Lady shoulda just fucking torched you. I’m sure besides this worthless faggot, no one would miss a cave worm like you.”
“You KNOW-…!” started Bran.
Garrot held a hand to his side, anticipating and cutting off Bran’s advance. He straightened, looking Williams in the eye.
“Sergeant? Is something bothering you today?”
Williams blinked.
“You mean, besides you??”
“Yes. Is anything the matter?”
Williams stared back at Garrot, having no retort at the ready. Garrot shrugged.
“We caught that bomber in the end, sir. We’re both sorry for letting him get out of the foundry’s grounds. But since you still seem so upset, it...feels like there’s something else that’s troubling you. Is it about your transfer?”
“Are you f-…? The fuck do you know??” bellowed Williams, his threats gradually losing luster.
He huffed and turned away from them.
The squadron’s motorsled, a klysten-driven steam vehicle, arrived on the street, tied to a slick trailer-sled; with a wooden seat for each squad member.
Outside the Steel Legion, few were afforded the privilege of motorsleds, thanks to the Legion’s privatization of the technology. Their engines boiled snow to steam using the radiant heat of its klysten-ore battery. Even in the city center, supplying its snow tank was never an issue.
Williams took his seat in the sled’s front car next to their Corporal in the driver’s seat.
“Just for that, you two get to walk back. Enjoy the cold, you back-talking...cave-...”
Williams trailed off, power from his verbal lashing fading into confusion after Garrot’s question. The two Privates watched as the rest of their patrol squadron drove off down the street, leaving them alone.
“Ohhh nooo,” lamented Bran, in a high pitch. “You mean we have to converse with ourselves, instead of spending a sled ride listening to our Sergeant?”
“Sounded like he had something on his mind. Maybe he’d...just prefer to talk it over with someone else, instead,” suggested Garrot. “Someone he trusts a bit more personally.”
Bran raised an eyebrow dubiously. It took Garrot several seconds to process.
“OH. It-...that...you were being sarcastic,” he realized. “Sorry, it’s...a vocal inflection I don’t-…"
“Right...yeah, sarcasm’s one of those things that doesn’t translate well,” admitted Bran, deciding to withhold his mockery. “Honestly, aside from the accent, I sometimes forget Imperial’s your second language...”
The two of them strolled back in the direction of the Steel Legion’s home base at Fort Ortmeyer, knowing there was little they could do to avoid being marked late upon their arrival.
“I have to work on that, though. Someday I need to be a respectable Imperial...work out how to fix my accent, and-”
“Hey...” remarked Bran. He stopped on the sidewalk, forcing Garrot to turn and face him. “You ARE a respectable Imperial. More than assholes like the Sarge. Rhile would back me up on that.”
Garrot smiled. It was true—Bran’s husband Rhile had quickly taken a liking to Garrot when he’d stayed at their residence in the Scholars’ Quarter for Salute Week.
“Even Rhile needed a bit of time together to warm up to me, remember!” remarked Garrot. “You could think about that next time we’re talking with the Sergeant.”
“I-…!” Bran stuttered. “Don’t compare Sergeant Asswipe’s months of degrading you to Rhile’s one-time reaction...!”
“Why not?” insisted Garrot.
Bran didn’t have an answer ready. Garrot patted his shoulder.
“Bran, I’m not trying to make you feel bad for your husband. I just mean...don’t be afraid to acknowledge things about yourself, or the people you care about, that aren’t so perfect.”
Bran growled in frustration.
“Even he shouldn’t have had that reaction when he first met you! I mean...I shouldn’t be warning him beforehand! What, do I preface this idea of a house guest with ‘Oh, and by the way, he has dark yellow skin, so hide the valuables in your sock drawer first’?”
“That one was sarcasm,” recognized Garrot, attentively.
Bran stepped out across the street, and Garrot trotted to catch up, unsure of their direction.
“Is Market Street the fastest way back...?” he asked.
“No. It’s not. I’m just giving us a short detour.”
“But-…!” protested Garrot. “Aren’t we already running late?”
“Yeah. And they’re gonna chew us out anyway, which is why I’m not bothered about taking another minute or two.”
“That...seems a bit dishonest,” concluded Garrot, lumbering along anyway.
Market Street was still occupied with the morning bustle of traders from the surrounding farmlands offering their wares. A minute later, Bran had spent one sen coin, the Empire’s smallest currency, on a pair of Steelfruits for the two of them. The oblong, seedy fruit was not so sweet, or as tough as its name implied, but served as a satisfying, crunchy snack as they walked.
“Our Sergeant is dishonest. But anyway, now that I have you as a captive audience...” muttered Bran. “Garrot, you do know why Williams was transferring, right...?”
Garrot shook his head. As Bran continued, he picked some snow off a wall, and used it to scrub at some juice that had bled onto his glove.
“There’s a few rumors going around that Breaker Company is going to be...at the forefront, so to speak. When the Dark Spawn decide to show their faces, or we locate their main force, Breaker will be the ones stepping in to annihilate them.”
He paused to pat the hide of a stopped reindeer, its harness fastened to a cart behind it. Garrot stepped back, pleading him.
“Bran, we have to be getting to Fort Ortmeyer. We’re late as it is.”
“Just...listen, Garrot. We still have to throw the pits out anyway before we show up to the Census Officer, and I know from experience all they do the week after Salute Week is remedial lectures.”
He let out a sigh, leaning against the idle beast.
“I’m not trying to prescribe how you deal with racist assholes like him. Hells know that...I never even realized how many klyskins deal with every day until I started hanging out with you. But you're a soldier. Your life is dedicated to hunting down the worst of the world.”
Garrot shook his head.
“Williams, and all the rest of Breaker Company...they’ve had your ‘I know you don’t mean that’ treatment a hundred times. A hundred chances for them to be the better guy. People like that just...aren’t going to change. Even if they spend time around you.”
Garrot tugged at Bran’s hand, removing it from the reindeer’s coat, then rubbed at it in the opposite direction.
“Stroke with the fur, not against it. It bothers him when you go that way,” he instructed.
The reindeer gave a dissatisfied grunt, curling its neck to shake them away. Taking the motion as a dismissal, Garrot stepped back to address Bran as they continued walking.
“How well do you know the Sergeant?” he asked.
“I know him as well as I need to.”
Garrot pointed accusingly.
“He’d probably say something very similar if you asked him about me, you know...?”
Bran rolled his eyes, and continued moving in the direction of the Fort.
“...Now you’re comparing me to him? Just because I want him to stop calling you a ca-...to stop treating you, his own Private, like that?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Bran slammed the pit of his steelfruit into a nearby bin to emphasize the point.
“Everyone is how they are for a reason. Everyone,” emphasized Garrot fervently. “Even the Lady Phaeriga. I’d rather believe in that, than invent reasons to hate people.”
Bran shook his head.
“Just...make sure the day WE get called to fight the Dark Spawn...you can find reasons to pull the trigger on that musket.”
“Late! And...late!” announced First Sergeant Grazey, as the two Privates . “This isn’t Salute Week anymore, you cold-toed pansies, Emperor needs you doing more than lollygagging around.”
“Sorry, ma’am!” whimpered Bran. “Our Sergeant left us out in the city with no transport. We had to walk.”
After arriving at Fort Ortmeyer, the two of them had been intercepted by one of Chaser Company’s senior officers. They remained at a tense salute, their eyes distant to the far wall of the entryway, unable to shake the snow from their boots. The First Sergeant snarled at him.
“Whose pace were you walking at, a glacier on crutches? Any Chaser Company reject of mine woulda sailed back in here not 3 minutes after the rest of 25th squad did.”
Grazey was an older veteran; one of the ‘grannies’ trusted by most of the ensigns. She seemed to respond almost more pleasantly to insults than she did to compliments; and doled them out in equal measure.
“Hathorne. You’re scrubbing down the entry course tonight before you get any grub.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“But first, both of you are reporting to the Command Building. Sternen here doesn’t have time to sweep ice shards from the musket range.”
“Doesn’t...have time...?” confirmed Bran, holding his salute.
“CAN IT,” shot Grazey.
Settling her gaze, Grazey let out a sigh.
“We’re doing a cycle of promotions now that Salute Week’s done. Lieutenant needs to see you at the command building. Act surprised when you get there; the decision was made earlier, so you’d best hope they’d rather get your reassignment over with, rather than find a replacement that’s not perpetually tardy off his ass.”
“Yes...ma’am...?”
“And Hathorne. Before Mr. Bad Influence here becomes Sergeant, I think Lieutenant Kendall will want to hear why a bomber walked straight through your arms. A word from you on what happened today could keep your friend’s advancement from getting vetoed at the last minute.”
“Understood, ma’am,” agreed Garrot.
“Dismissed. Get your skinny asses over there,” concluded Grazey.
As the First Sergeant continued on past them, Garrot raised his eyebrows expectantly at Bran.
“Bran, are you...getting promoted?”
Bran shrugged.
“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have let us be so late...”
“You know...!” called Grazey. “On second thought, it’s obviously a mistake...! I think Officer Millings needs-”
“Sorry, ma’am! We’ll get going right away!!” said Garrot.
As they hurried off, Bran flashed him a dissatisfied look that said Oh, and of course with her, you recognize sarcasm.
Bran stammered, examining the state of his uniform before heading in the direction of the multistory command building.
Ortmeyers’ grounds were a wide-open space, with room for training regimens, vehicle pass-throughs, full cafeterias and even classrooms for infantry training. The command building sat at the back, and Bran was left with a myriad of thoughts stirring as he went to go meet his sudden appointment.
There had been rumors rising that the Legion was preparing for a full offensive against the Dark Spawn—but the how, and where, remained unknown to infantrymen like himself. Grazey’s remark about a ‘cycle’ of promotions suggested he was hardly the only person being put up in the ranks, to account for new formations.
When he finally arrived at the steps to the command building, the sentries, Legion Police, or LP’s, in dark protective leather vests, stopped the two of them with an eye of suspicion.
“Has someone summoned you?” they asked.
“Um...yes! The Lieutenant,” answered Bran.
“Lieutenant. Which Lieutenant?”
“Uhhh....”
Garrot stepped forward with a smile. “It was Lieutenant Kend-”
“Didn’t ask you. Asked him,” rebutted the LP.
Bran, resisting his own retort, proferred an apologetic hand.
“Look, I’m sorry...I heard there was a...’promotion cycle’ being conducted today?”
“Those have already concluded,” said the sentry.
“I’ll handle this one,” came a voice from nearby.
A young woman at the edge of the nearby barracks was giving Bran an accusing look. Garrot could see Breaker Company’s insignia on her uniform. She had been biting on a toothpick; a common method of holding off tarbark cravings.
“Private Ellewright. Sorry, LP. You need a bit of context. These two fucked up a patrol duty that lead to a Dark Spawn bomber running free from the scene. Our Sarge was telling us about it as soon as he came back.”
Bran grimaced. Apparently Ellewright was one of Williams’ friends from Breaker.
“Yes...” admitted Bran. “And I intend to apologize-”
Ellewright cut him off, cocking her head at him mockingly.
“NOW, I only imagine he’s running to command to see if he can give his version of the story first before he gets thrown out of Ortmeyer.”
“What’s this?? Ran free-…?” came a meek call from an officer inside the Command Building.
Through the iceware door, a small, ruddy-faced officer exited the compound with a hefty clipboard in hand. He paused to adjust his iceware spectacles, staring in concern at Ellewright. Bran, Ellewright, and the two sentries snapped to attention.
“Lieutenant-General Kendall!” stammered Bran. “Sorry to disturb you, sir! Just a...disagreement.”
Though he kept up a humble, studious appearance, complete with a pencil stuffed behind his ear, the bespectacled man before them was the direct subordinate of the Second Scion, Lord Klaus, himself. Though not much older than Bran or Garrot, he was the highest representative of command their company ever hoped to see when receiving new orders.
The arriving Lieutenant gave a casual, dismissive wave.
“At ease. Please—I just need to understand...”
He lifted his glasses, peering at Ellewright.
“Private? Did you say that one of the bombers got free??”
“W-Well, yeah...!” shrugged Ellewright. “I mean, it was just one bomber, wasn’t it...?”
Kendall shifted his glasses back down to the clipboard. “The...report we're stamping said that one bomber fled from the grounds, but was ultimately brought into Red Quarter custody. Was there a second?...Am I wrong...?”
“N-...No, just the one, I mean, eventually, they got him-…But only because-"
Kendall sighed, and held up a cautioning hand, as he let tension ease from his shoulders.
“I...don’t need to hear blame games, Private. That the capital’s streets are safe is the only remaining fact of importance to me.”
“Yes sir,” acknowledged Ellewright.
“Excuse me, young man, did you need something...? General Klaus may be needing me. If not, you are both dismissed.”
On the word ‘dismissed’, Ellewright took the opportunity to slink away across the grounds, eager to be outside of the Lieutenant’s attention.
“Oh! Um...” Bran steadily called to mind his original task. “No, sir! I mean...I’m supposed to be meeting with some Lieutenant about a promotion...”
Kendall flipped some pages on his clipboard.
“I thought we already...ah, yes! There were two or three absences. Are you...Baker? Sternen? Quentin?”
“Sternen. That’s me, sir.”
“Ah, yes! Best to have this taken care of. Uh...and did you need something, Private...”
Garrot snapped to attention, offering his salute.
“Sir! I’m...a part of his squadron, I’m just here to help conclude the report on the bomber. P-Private Sternen is a close friend of mine, sir.”
The LP next to the Lieutenant shook his head.
“We don’t need you here, Private. Move alon-”
“Officer,” snapped Kendall.
“S-Sir!”
Kendall beckoned forward to Bran and Garrot gently.
“The report I got was brief, so I wouldn’t mind confirming a thing or two. We can keep it short, then. Right this way.”
The two front guards stepped aside to let Bran and Garrot through. They each snapped a salute, then quickly followed after the officer.
“Thank you, Lieutenant-General Kendall!”
Kendall smiled back, waving his hand dismissively.
“Just Lieutenant is fine. Or...even just ‘Ken’ works for me. No officer worth their station needs people to announce it every time.”
The three of them walked through the command building’s corridor, passing administrative secretaries and warrant officers all poring over logistical logs.
“Lieutenant...?” opened Garrot, as they reached the staircase to the second floor. “I just want to say...I’m sorry you need to mediate arguments like that.”
“Please understand, Privates,” stressed Lieutenant Kendall, “The other two Scions are visiting the capital today for a War Meeting together with the Emperor. Doesn’t do to look like bickering schoolchildren today—or ever, for that matter.”
“I...Yes, believe it or not, both of us heard about the Lords’ arrival...” chuckled Bran to himself.
“Did you...?...That...was supposed to be classified...” muttered Kendall.
They arrived at an office, marked on its door with a shining glassware plate bearing the Lieutenant’s name. For all the times they’d seen the Lieutenant heading speeches over the Ortmeyer grounds, his office was cozy, unassuming and tidy. Kendall swiftly unlocked it and motioned the two of them inside. Bran stood forward of Garrot, who looked on in admiration.
“Now, before we get to rank adjustments...” lamented Kendall, sitting down. “I suppose this is something we need to clear up. This business that that woman from Breaker was talking about.”
Bran swallowed. Apparently, he wasn’t totally out of the woods from upper command just yet. Kendall let out a sigh as he collapsed into his chair.
“Your Sergeant reported to me that both of you...decided to abandon your post to pursue your own investigation at the Foundry. He believes this act was what allowed the attacker to exit the grounds.”
“Not...quite, sir,” announced Garrot, stepping forward. “Bra-...Private Sternen was worried that the Inquisitor had missed the bomber inside the grounds, when he went to investigate elsewhere. He left me to cover his post. I...I’m the one that failed to secure that exit.”
Kendall raised his eyebrow, as though first noticing Garrot’s presence in the room.
“...Your Imperial is...quite good, klyskin. What was your name?”
“Hathorne. Private Garrot Hathorne.”
Kendall leaned back, contemplating with a smile on his face.
“Garrot Hathorne. Hm...always good to see your blood on our side.”
Kendall clucked his tongue, returning to the topic at hand.
“Well...The paperwork for your promotion had already gone through. In the end...I respect that earlier today there was a leap in initiative, and a lapse in judgment. While I might respond to such petitions from your Sergeant most days, in this case there’s no risk of professional confrontation; as Mr. Williams is transferring out of the company shortly. And so...I’d just ask that you be wary of how you show initiative in the future.”
“Yes, sir...” agreed Bran. “So...I suppose this means-”
“Ah-! I wasn’t finished,” continued Kendall. “That in mind...the Steel Legion is pleased to present to you a promotion to Sergeant, effective immediately.”
Bran sprang up on his heels in surprise, aware of Garrot’s beaming, congratulatory smile behind him.
“I-...Thank you, Lieutenant!! Thank you!”
“You’ve shown dedication to the Emperor, Sternen. We’re currently a bit too pressed for clever officers with the reorganization to pass you up over one lapse—especially one willing to go out on a limb rather than slack on the job.”
Kendall took an envelope from a small pile at his side, and slid it to Bran.
“Take these reassignment orders to Quartermaster Molsey for a new uniform and sidearm. You report to Barracks L4 for a new bunk. Find First Lieutenant Grazey for your first session of officers’ training.”
“Understood!” said Bran, with a sharp salute.
“There. Kept it nice and fast,” celebrated the Lieutenant. “Did you have any other questions for me before you go?”
Bran glanced back to Garrot—who immediately shook his head.
Now’s not the time. Just take the promotion, thought Garrot.
“...I...don’t suppose the Legion is considering klyskins for promotion?” said Bran.
Both Lieutenant Kendall and Garrot winced marginally at the question.
“Well...skin color should have little to do with it,” answered Kendall. “The main question is whether he appears fit for the task.”
“I don’t think I’m ready, sir,” interjected Garrot. “My...failure to stop a dangerous criminal today is proof of that. I...need to be better.”
And it was true. Garrot still wasn’t close to imagining himself in such a role. He wasn’t sure he’d ever put himself into the Legion with any hope of advancement—just a regimen, a duty, and a place to belong; a place that would make the people of the Halen Empire feel safe. The Halehearth would be ill-served by an ill-prepared Sergeant.
Kendall flapped his arms over the heavy sound of Bran’s sigh.
“I...don’t think we’d be considering him for Sergeant until he considers it himself. But...could we say that merely being in the Steel Legion could be called a celebratory accomplishment for his kind? I think it’s a wonderful mark of accomplishment that klyskins are even considered in the Steel Legion these days! It’s a tremendous improvement from the days they’d hardly be respected as imperial citizens.”
Bran shrugged in Garrot’s direction, unsure if he should be feeling so despondent so soon after a promotion.
Garrot could sense his heart racing. He couldn’t bring himself to agree with the Lieutenant.
“Sometimes it feels like we haven’t come that far...” mumbled Bran.
“No. He’s right,” said Garrot resolutely. “Anyway, sir…I have a training course to clean.”
“Hey, can you pass me that brush...? And a shot of rum?”
Garrot dutifully passed over the smaller of their shared brushes. After Bran’s promotion, any celebration they’d like to conduct would have to be postponed until his colleague had administered the basic duties of the station. Meanwhile, Garrot’s assignment for the past hour, as amend for his late arrival, had been to cleaning the climbing rungs, crawl pits, and various hazards of the Ortmeyer training course. It had taken half that time before he’d finally caught on to the strange sense of humor of the energetic private doing the work with him.
With the both of them assigned to the janitorial job as punishment, the woman beside him had started with a whining demeanor, before finally relenting to the task after seeing her colleague proceed so dutifully.
“Auggh, it’s in my eyes...my hair...” she lamented. “What do you want to bet, next they’re going to have us clean our uniforms—and everyone else’s - next?”
“Well, that's not so bad, is it....? I mean, someone has to do it...!” said Garrot hopefully.
The private next to him, whose name he’d yet to learn, rolled her eyes.
“Maybe that duty should go to whoever peed their pants on the live-fire part of the course...”
“I remember being pretty scared the day we first ran that...” remarked Garrot.
“Scared, huh?” teased his colleague. “Guess we should be glad they don’t have us re-run it as punishment. Or worse, transfer to Breaker Company.”
Garrot paused midway through scrubbing down the monkey bars, and leaned out, looking in the direction of his cleaning partner.
“Worse...? Because they’re going to be the first fighters against the Dark Spawn?”
“I mean...yeah,” she insisted. “Maybe less to you; they might let you live cause you’re one of them. But you see those articles the Owls’ Eye puts out about what Breaker Company does to the ones they capture? Walk ‘em out into the frozen wastes, make them kneel in salt, carve out their eyes...!”
“Taking people ‘snowbound’...” remarked Garrot.
“...Yeah. That’s the phrase, I guess.”
The horrific practice of snowbinding people hadn’t started with Breaker company. Both the Ilma Delgado Unidedo and Unider J’halaga Perido, the two warring governments of his home country of J’halaga, had adopted the cruel practice to make examples of their political rivals—and their families. Such barbarism had prompted many to escape to the relative safety of the Halehearth. Yet, the practice had continued within the Empire by those who readily blamed their new neighbors for all of society’s ills. To them, they were a festering leech hanging on the great Empire’s safety.
Garrot deposited his cleaning rag, pondering to himself, recalling his friend’s words.
Make sure the day WE get called to fight the Dark Spawn...you can find reasons to pull the trigger.
It was his weak point, and he knew it; part of the reason he’d deflected Bran’s recommendation he apply for Sergeant. Each time he’d joined in the lineup drills, thrusting and pivoting his M2 musket’s bayonet, enduring the harsh, boisterous voice of the drill sergeant’s orders, the emotions flowing through him were more of a sense of cheerful camaraderie—a connection with his nearby colleagues—than the expected sense of brutality.
But he knew; this was his role. This was what little he could do for the Empire that had taken him in when he had nowhere to go. He was no icesmith, or steelsmith, or engineer. He’d been lucky enough to find someone willing to teach him the Imperial language after he’d immigrated. To continue having a home, and ample wage, was a blessing he couldn’t ignore. To know that his people’s plight, the asylum of klyskins like himself, had lead the Empire down its own path of misery and fear, was a debt that weighed heavily on him.
“Excuse me. Would you mind finishing up for me?” asked Garrot. “I think the training spears just need a polish, and then it’s all done.”
“Whaaaaat?” remarked his partner. “...Eh...fine. You started before me, I guess...”
“Thank you very much, miss!”
Garrot’s stomach rumbled from a missed lunch, but he'd decided he had another priority first.
After asking directions from an LP, he was pointed to one of the officers’ lounges. After rapping on the door, First Sergeant Grazey greeted him. In her hand was a mug of warm blackbark—a rich, dark, bitter concoction made from the boiled bark of the eponymous blackbark tree. Its earthy aroma called out to Garrot’s weakened senses after his grueling outdoor work.
“Hey. I’ll be back in a few rounds, fellas,” she called behind her. “Marksy, you’re watching my take from these vultures—I remember how many chips I had.”
She stepped out, shutting the door behind her.
“Finished with the course, Hathorne? I’ll be the judge of that,” she grunted.
“Yes, ma’am,” acknowledged Garrot with a salute. “The two of us were just applying what you’d call...finishing touches. But I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
Grazey was midway through stepping past him, when she sensed a gravity to his gaze. She squared herself to him, affixing her hand to her hip.
“Talk.”
“...First Sergeant...I want to officially request my transfer into Breaker Company.”
Grazey’s eyes flickered, as her elbows jostled in agitation. What most would interpret as anger, Garrot could read further—past her wrinkled, stony exterior, Garrot saw the unease in her eyes. The officer sipped at her mug to calm herself.
“...No, Private. No, you don’t.”