Dust, smoke, the acrid smell of propellant. All of that is forced up my nose, all at once, as we keep clearing the compound. Door after door, round after round, just hugging the walls and trying to not get shot.
Surprisingly, not very difficult so far. Half the soldiers werent ready, and the other half are suddenly non-combatant.
Understandable, simunition rounds hurt, more so in close quarters.
“Raven-22, this is Raven-25. East side cleared. Out.”
“Raven-22, this is Echo-2. North and West side cleared. Out.”
Everyones done but us? Typical.
There’s only a single building left, anyways.
“Stack up.” I whisper to Robin, pointing at what’s probably the door. Can’t see shit in this dark.
Tap on my shoulder. Tap Robin’s shoulder.
Door kick.
More hugging walls, finding points of domination and angling sectors of fire.
This is so tedious.
After 3 rooms with no one in them, I’m just about ready to call it off until Hiroshi decides to speak up.
“Staircase.” He whispers, pointing at a makeshift staircase, hidden behind a shelf.
Fuck.
“Robin, flash.” I command Robin. There’s the deafening bang of a stun grenade, and then we move up.
This is getting so boring.
“Good.” A voice calls out from the centre of the room. The room itself seems to be a control area, with computers, phones and maps covering every inch of each table. And for some reason unbeknownst to me, it’s fucking Lieutenant Hood, sitting at a computer with what seems to be CCTV footage of the FOB.
“Don’t move.” I shout, pointing my rifle at him. He’s not holding anything, but he has a pistol holstered. “Robin, ziptie him.”
It feels a bit odd detaining our own superior, but he hasn’t said ‘END-EX’ yet. “All stations, this is Raven-22. South clear. Out.”
Are we done?
“Alright, now untie me, you cunts. End of exercise.” Hood finally decides to spit out.
“Thank fucking GOD.” Robin exclaims, removing his helmet before cutting off the ziptie. What a waste.
“All stations, this is Raven-22. End exercise. No duff. Fuck you all, out.” I say into the radio. It’s about time, god. “1 section, regroup southside. Out.”
“So, what now?” Hiroshi asks, his eyes half closed.
“Probably driving back to barracks, right?” I reply. I’d hope so, I really can’t be asked to clean up the training area.
“The other squaddies are cleaning up. You’ll take the minibus outside.” Hood says. “Shit, shower, sleep. After handing everything in.”
How does this guy always know what I’m thinking? Fine by me, though.
I practically run outside, and shove my things (apart from my beloved rifle <3) into the trailer attached to the minibus. Everyone else is approaching, too.
“Fuck you all, I’m driving.” I shout at them, before invading the driver's seat. Can never stop me from going on joyrides.
“If we die in a car crash after all that, I’ll kill you.” Isabella tells me, before taking up the front seat. Joker. “You think I’m joking? Watch in the afterlife…”
The roads are, very obviously, empty this late at night. Or early in the morning, if you’re weird. It’s something around 0430h, and I’m suddenly regretting choosing to drive. Everyone else is already knocked out, using their rifles as pillows (how???).
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Still, driving is kinda fun. Surprised they already gave us our full drivers licenses, after shoving all the traffic laws down our throats in a single day, and then testing us the next day with actual driving. Motorbikes are fun…
There’s a guy in hi-vis blocking the road. Military police?
“ID.” He says, after knocking on the window. How do I explain my MOD90 to him?
Obliging, I still give it to him. Our MOD90s are a bit different, since they have a black stripe in the top right corner. Our date of births are also, clearly, under 18, so it’ll take some explaining.
“Call your officer if you have questions.”I tell him. He clearly looks very confused. This is exactly why it’s usually Lieutenant Hood doing the talking.
After a few seconds of staring at my ID card, all our camouflage cream (camcream, my enemy) covered faces and our rifles, I think he gives us the benefit of the doubt, and opens up the gate for us.
It’s a damn good feeling pulling up to the barracks after so long in the field. What’s not a good feeling is the fact that I’ll have to clean up, return everything to the armoury and say that declaration before I sleep. And we have to start police training tomorrow.
I can’t be asked.
###
“Aya...” I feel someone tug at my sleeve. It’s Hiroshi. Did I mention how short he is (acting like im not 5’2)? “Tell everyone else to come to the naafi, it’s getting boring.”
Ah yeah, NAAFI. Navy, army, air force institutes, if I remember correctly. Basically a cafe and shop combined into one.
“Hiroshi, it’s 6am. Everyone’s asleep after all that shit.” I reply. To be fair, I should be asleep, too. But doing all that admin and showering and all the other bullshit woke me up, so I decided to play guitar outside. Isabella would’ve shot me if I woke her up with my playing.
“You come with me then…” He looks at me, pleading. “All the other soldiers are there, and they’re scary. Please..?” I can’t believe this is the same guy who raided the FOB with us.
“Fine, but you’re buying me a drink.” I don’t even like alcohol, it just sounds right saying that.
The actual naafi building itself feels more like a bar than anything, with soft armchairs and tables dotted around, TVs playing the premier league, and a central counter with too many wares to list. There’s a couple squaddies, but not many. How was this guy scared?
“Get me a corona, or something.” I don’t really know the names of alcoholic drinks, and I only know corona from covid-19. And yeah, they do let us drink (albeit in moderation). If we’re old enough to fight, we’re old enough to drink, I guess.
“Drinking so early?” Shouts Vira, one of the ladies who serve stuff here. Vira isn’t her real name, but we’ve gotten too used to saying it.
“Blame the exercise,” I reply. “My shoulders still hurt from my bergan.”
“It’s how it goes,” she says while serving Hiroshi. Have I said how much we got paid being here? They set up bank accounts (with that natwest company i think), and gave us a grand for the two weeks of training. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but for a bunch of kids, it’s a lot. They’re paying us something like 50 grand a year after, which is an obscene amount. 50 bags? I don’t even know what I can do with that much money…
“Why did you bring your guitar here?” Hiroshi asks, taking a seat in front of me with a stupid amount of sweets. God, have some restraint.
“What, am I not allowed to play here?” I respond, loudly enough for Vira to hear.
“Just don’t be too loud.” she replies. I can’t even be that loud, it’s an electric guitar that's unplugged.
“I see.” Hiroshi says. “Why are we here?”
“What do you mean, ‘why are we here’?” I reply. What’s he on?
“You were thinking about it too. Why are 8 seemingly random kids chosen to do this?”
“That beats me.”
“Think.” He’s practically staring into my soul while eating a pack of peanut M&Ms.
“Well, how did they find you? Like, what happened before they got you?” This corona is bitter.
“I was in the hospital because my parents tried to kill me.” What can I even say to that? “I’m fine now. The injuries weren’t bad. You?”
“I was in the hospital because I fainted.” I suddenly sound insignificant compared to him. “Wait. Do you know CAMHs?” I can just barely remember the fact that they said something about CAMHs telling them something in the hospital. That feels like years ago, but it was just last week…
“Yeah, they were with me before that Campbell guy came to the hospital for me. Told me about the reserve centre event…”
“Are you diagnosed with anything?” It’s a long shot. I was diagnosed with some stuff ages ago, like 2021. Shitty time.
“Anxiety.” I should’ve noticed. I had it on my record, too.
“Same.” Something’s definitely with this REMSC organisation. Maybe something important. “What were your grades in school?” They’ve put a lot of learning in a short time, I doubt they’d choose people with low grades.
“8s and 9s in maths, science, and computer science.” Also same here. “5 in language, and a U in literature.”
“Our grades are basically the same.”
“But what does it mean?” He’s fiddling with another pack of peanut M&Ms.
What does it mean?
It has to mean something. No way there’s this many similarities between two seemingly different people.
It hurts to think. All I can do is idly strum on my guitar.
“What do you think it means?” I ask him.
“I don’t know.” He looks me in the eyes again. “Maybe they’re the ones who killed your parents.”