To Die For

Chapter 1 - Wyle Dolon

"You're the 725th," the overworked and undoubtedly underpaid sergeant drops the paperwork onto the cracking plastic table.
"I just returned from combat I'm due two weeks leave," I say, shouldering my bag. The bandages across my forehead are slipping, again, and I can feel blood dripping down my face. Two days in the back of an army jeep did nothing for my injuries. I'm sore and more than ready to go home.
"And we're short on men, Dolon, Wyle, your new unit's the 725th," he says, "They need a new data. And you need a new unit."
"Yes, sir," I say, my old until is dead. Hence me being due two weeks leave to go home. I hate this army.
"Get going," he says, jerking his head, "Next."
The ragged line of returning soldiers shifts forward, most in worse shape than me. I pick up the papers reassigning me to the 725th, and a clean pen while he's looking up at the next solider.
I know my way around the barracks well enough and head for my new assignment. Everything I own is already on my back, we packed out to the front with no expectation of coming back. Well, everyone thought we'd not be coming back. I knew come hell or high water I was going home. And I am. My parents won't have been told I'm back yet.
I shoulder my backpack painfully, maneuvering the now crowded halls. Units come back from the front everyday. My last one was battle tested and ready to fight and they still didn't survive. But we took the depot. Mission accomplished but I don't see them giving me a medal.
Everyone coming back is in poor shape this time. The fighting was heavy up by the border. But this time mildly successful, not that the average grunt cares about that. I'm a grunt but I'm not average. Hence the honor of not getting to go home. I'm due my two weeks leave I'm getting my two weeks leave. One way or another. I sort through the papers I took from the sergeant's desk, tucking the pen into my pocket. Standard issue blue ink, impossible to forge makes day passes so much more official looking when I write them myself.
I know the 725th is a newer unit, by the number. We started at one. That's about how successful our beautiful nation of Nexos has been at defending our borders. But that's the point. The point is it's going to be mostly amateurs I don't see why I should have to suffer them. I'm not an amateur, and I'm not letting them get me killed. I'll protest the position later. Right now I could use a shower, change of clothes, and some peace and quiet to write myself a pass home. With everyone taking leaving they don't look too closely and I'd rather write my own pass, than crawl under a fence. But I'll do the latter.
I check the room number on the papers, dodging a set of new recruits who are clearly lost. Second floor, that's not ideal, likely no windows. The barracks building is a bunker, built into what was once old shop space, at least that's what my father said it was. It's been hundreds of years since it was used for that purpose, but the cement has mostly held up, with a few more modern improvements of broke brick cemented in to form walls, and lights strung on the ceiling from our precious generator. Budget cuts mean the electric only runs for lights, no other amenities like hot water or lights after seven or cooking equipment or hot water. I would commit a violent crime for a hot shower.
The barracks aren't being watched this time of day, it's mid afternoon which means, two to four, no quiet hours, free movement. Visiting friends, changing rooms doing laundry, all the boring necessities of the average soldier's day.
I find the room with little trouble, no one's properly in uniform this time of day either, thin under shirts, or no shirts are the uniform of the day, UOD, at least till dinner hour. For now our stiff grey uniforms are being washed, and dried, and recruits are doing their best to have fun during their few hours free even if that's just to do chores. To that end, I can't actually spot my new platoon members, nobody's wearing anything with numbers on it.  I'm still wearing my old platoon's numbers, it'll be up to me to stencil on the new one.
It's clear the newer recruits are being housed here, most of the barracks have a little common area for each platoon to store personal items like weapons, and to have whatever necessary meetings, the 725th is no different, with a few beat couches and chairs currently being occupied by boys in various states of undress. They're trying to air dry their clothes and a few are fiddling with weapons. It's not up to me to introduce myself nor do I even know if they all belong here. So I ignore them, in favor of going to the appropriate room. Room is a strong word for poorly set up closet, with two uncomfortable hammocks and one light that'll go off at dusk. All barracks are the same though, it's not as though I'm not used to it.
A tall boy leans in the doorway, clearly trying to fix the hinge on the door. He's swarthy, with surprisingly light eyes, and thick biceps. A head taller than me and by his smooth chin old enough to shave.
"Excuse me, this is my room," I say, gesturing that I need to move past him.
"It is—you're our new Data?" He asks.
"Looks like,  Wyle Dolon," I say, coolly.
"Joss Lenon, good to meet you," he says, looking me up and down.
I know how I look. I've always been small, and slim, lithe is the word I prefer. I'm strong but I don't honestly look it. And being a Data means I need to be protected. Hence Joss I'd suspect. My official unofficial body guard. Have to keep the brains of the operation alive.
"If you don't mind," I walk past him into the room. He's clearly set up in the upper bunk. Fine. There's a trunk at the end of the room, that'll be our locker. His bag is hung on the wall by his bed.
"Come from the front?" He asks.
"Yes," I say, setting down my bag and tucking the orders in the top carefully.
"We've ah, been needing a new Data," he says.
"You're not battle tested, and I'm above grade for this group of actual children, so I'm not staying. This is a mix up. I'm above babysitting," I say, straightening up.
"I was working towards that yeah—you're staying," he winces.
"Why in hell would I be assigned to an untested batch of new recruits? Do you have any idea what I'm worth?" I ask.
"Hey we got our new data," another boy ducks in, red hair, freckles. Neat shirt that doesn't have holes in it, boots with rubber heels, no callouses on his fingers and if I'm not mistaken gold chain around his neck, 24k at least. Mystery solved why I'm here. Baby-heir-to-something was drafted but he's expensive. So they sent me.
I grimace in obvious annoyance and Joss nods a bit understandingly. Oh so he knew. Let me guess, trust-fund-bitch is in charge.
"I'm the 725th's commander, Cecil Strong, good to meet you," he says, holding out a hand. That would do it. Strong family is old money. Older than my family even, the sort that came out on top last time the world ended, unlike my family which just lasts through it all.
"Blood," I hold up my hand which is filthy.
"Ah—," Strong winces a bit, "I'll let you get settled."
"I have leave coming up, since I'm from the front," I say, icily. I do not want to be in this situation. This is the sort of idiot who gets his whole platoon killed by walking into a field of mines their Data told them was there.
"Yeah, of course," he nods, sizing me up, "How old are you?"
"How old are you?" I ask.
"I'm your commanding officer," Strong says.
"And I'm the only reason you, or any of your men, will last a day out there, I'm not here because I'm easy to work with. I'm here because I'm good at what I do. And if you want to live then you'll learn to respect me," I say.
"Is that how your last platoon died? Because you're so good?" Strong scoffs. Oh he didn't ask for me. Mommy or daddy asked for the best. He doesn't know who I am even yet.
"My last platoon blew up because their commander decided he wanted to charge out of a trench rather than do what I told him, and he liked 68% odds of a minefield. For some reason," I say, completely calmly. Damn idiot. That's what happens to people who don't listen to me.
"Dolon—," Joss raises a hand to stop me from going on which is truly, a great gut reaction I was absolutely going to keep talking.
"You're the Dolon kid?" Strong asks, frowning.
"However did you figure that out?" I ask, very understandingly.
"All right we're done here—I'll talk to him, I'll talk to him," Joss shoves Strong out of the room before he can reply.
I smile.
"Do you have any chill?" Joss asks.
"No, I get worse," I say, starting to unpack my bag, "We don't know each other, by the way."
"Then what was that about?" He asks.
"Strongs are old guard, old money. They run half the generators in Naxos," I say, "I'm shocked they let him get drafted but then they did make it worse a few years back. My family's also old money my grandfather was a merchant, but after the last bombings when my mother was born, took most of that out. We get by. But his mother likely knows mine, that sort of thing. We hold some generators and some land, that they'd really like to put more wind veins on, we hold out."
"Ah," Joss shrugs a general recognition of the feuding rich folk can aspire to. He's got holes in his shirt and his boots have been to war more than he has. Not money. "He requested the best. I take it that's you?"
"I think it's interesting he bothered when he likes being the smartest person in the room," I say.
"He's not—that bad, give him some time. He's nervous, first command all that," he says.
"What's your position? Other than Data-minder?" I ask. Every unit has a series of poisitions, official and unofficial. Unofficially the men arm themselves with different weapons, close range, far range, munitions. Official is commander, followed closely by Data. The commander calls the shots. The data makes sure the shots are going to work. In a world where computers are stuff of legends the best calculator and map is the inside of a man's head. That's me. That said the Data, isn't usually all that ahem, athletic, or likely to survive in extreme conditions. I'm a piece of equipment at best a liability at worst.
"I'm just a grunt," Joss says, "And Data minder. Idea is you don't die out there, so you can get us home."
"What happened to your last one then?" I ask.
"Died—natural causes," he says, "He was sick for a while."
"Lovely," I say, checking my bow and setting it by the hammock.
"You know how to use that?" Joss grunts.
"A little."
"Last guy didn't carry a weapon."
"I'm not the last guy," I say, "I can take care of myself. What's your weapon of choice?"
"Blades," he picks up a slightly curved sword from his hammock.
"Close range, good, I'll take the ones not in stabbing distance," I say, checking my quiver of arrows, "never touch these. Or the bow."
"I won't," he holds up his hands. It's good form not to touch another man's weapon. That doesn't stop some people. 
"Seriously, don't touch," I say, putting the quiver safely by the hammock. then I start to strip off my filthy uniform.
"I'm twenty," he says.
"Seventeen," I say, quietly.
"You must've tested really high, on those aptitude things," he says, looking at the bow, "How'd you learn how to use that?"
"I hunt. My family has some land we hunt," I say, folding my dirty shirt and jumpsuit. Now only in boxers and a thin t-shirt which is soaked in blood. It's an honest question. Most of us are sent with weapons by our families, as what's provided by the army is usually fairly inadequate.
"I stole the swords, off a deadman," he says.
"Hm, perhaps we shall be friends," I say, finishing getting out my clean clothes and a bar of soap, "Shower?"
"Yeah, um, I'll just show you," he says. Violence is expected in showers.
"You are not coming in," I say, as he leads me through the common area back to the main hall. I feel Strong's eyes on me as I pass.
"I think I should—look you're new to this barrack and you're from the front," he says. Men who come back aren't looked well on, something about cowardice.
"I'll be fine," I say, tiredly.
He follows me in.
The showers are converted bathrooms, with sets of toilets on one side, and a pipe that leaks water, hanging from the ceiling. I drop my dirty clothes on a broken sink, and then  strip down completely. A couple of other boys are showering but they mostly are keeping to themselves and don't note us coming in.
I watch Joss watching me. He sees me avert my eyes from the others as they change and shifts a bit himself, looking away from my grimy, and blood covered body.
"You can wait outside," I say, coolly, rubbing the bar of soap on my bruised skin.
Joss ignores me, simply folding his arms. But he doesn't look, pointedly so, as I scrub down. The water runs black along the cracked floor tiles.
I toe back into my worn boots and rub my head with the towel, not fully bothering to cover myself. Joss still stand there, pointedly not watching me. I slowly put back on clean sweats and a shirt, slowly because I'm sore and because he can see my scars as much as he likes. It just shows how many times I've been put back together.
I want to go home. And pet my dog. And lie with my face in the pillow and my mother will come in when she thinks I'm asleep and pull the covers over my back. And when I wake I'll hear my father's voice in the next room, singing badly to the radio.
I take a slow breath, steady, breath in and out. Then I painfully tug back on a shirt.
"Mess hall requires UOD," Joss says, holding up a set of fatigues.
"I was thinking I'd go to sleep," I say, rubbing my face with the back of my hand.
"Eat first."
He throws the fatigues at me. I take them, glaring generally.
Mess hall will be on the first floor, we're to come as platoons and therefore it's not supposed to be too long a line. Historically it is. The hall is a make shift cafeteria that's been here for about fifty years. Cracking tile floors and rows of fluorescent rope lights strung to the ceiling over centuries old steel tables. The food smells bad and tastes worse, always rations the cooks don't know how to cook. We line up on one side of the hall. Historically it's supposed to be orderly and quiet. In practice, there aren't enough officers around to ensure that happens so it's left to the platoon leaders to keep us in line. They don't generally and the hall echoes with the overlapping conversations of nervous young soldiers.
The rest of the 725th appears to be actual children, fresh faced fourteen year olds who are more interested in arguing with each other and hanging on each other than lining up like they're supposed to. Strong isn't doing a hell of a lot to keep them in line either, taking his place at the front with a swift glare for all of us.
"This our new Data?" A burly boy who looks rather stupid asks, lining up in front of us and intentionally elbowing one of the younger ones in the face.
"Yeah, just got in this afternoon. He has an attitude problem," Joss explains. I glare at him. "What? Do you not have an attitude problem? Your face isn't naturally like that this is clearly a choice—?"
"No I have an attitude problem nobody's ever put it that bluntly before. But yes," I mutter.
"Alpha," the tall boy says, while Joss says, "Maybe don't talk to him."
"I look forward to attending your funeral," I say.
"See?" Joss says.
"Nobody start a fight in mess, I'm getting him replaced," Strong snarls.
"Please," I mutter.
"What you don't want to be here?" Joss asks, like he's hurt.
"I don't want to be in this army, or on this planet," I snarl.
"He's been to the front, ignore him," Joss says, trying to cover my mouth while I lean away.
"Why'd you come back if you're that mad?" Alpha asks.
"I'm always mad. And I didn't intend to," I say. I should start establishing now that I have a deathwish, it'll make attempting to fake my death when we deploy that much easier. It's not as though anyone will believe I'm doing that a third time.
"It's been like two hours yeah he's always this mad," Joss says, patting my head. I duck away, growling.
"I said I'm getting him replaced. Just stop engaging," Strong says, walking down the line. "All right? Got it? Nobody talk to Dolon."
"That's not very welcoming of you," I say, sliding a hand around Strong's neck to kiss his cheek. He's so surprised by the gesture he doesn't at all react as I carefully unclasp his necklace, twisting it into my fingers. It does feel like 24K nice. "I thought you'd be glad to have someone with experience." I say it too close to his ear. He pushes me off. I laugh, coiling the necklace into my pocket.
"Look he just got back from the front," Joss moves between us.
"I think he's always like this," Strong says.
At the exact same time I say, "I'm always like this."
"I need a team player," Strong says, hands in his pockets, cheeks still red.
"Good, tell them I'm unfit to be in the army," I say, snatching a few dinner rolls from the passing trays of distracted soldiers. I back out of line.
"We're all required to report for meals," Joss sighs.
"GOOD, tell them I'm unfit to be in the army," I call. I haven't slept since my last platoon blew up. I'm going to bed.
I go back up to my room, stuffing one of the rolls in my mouth. I'm more tired than I am hungry, but with the promise of home cooked food waiting for me I'm not about to stomach mess hall slop. I climb the stairs painfully, the lights flickering over head. It's cold in the barracks in the winter, hot in the summer. I hope they do get me thrown out. And I hope they all die.
With everyone at mess I take the time to go through my fellow 725th's belongings. Strong didn't have any other jewelry, but I find a few coins, and a couple of half-way valuable things like some decent knives, and a straight razor which I consider a lucky find. Even though I don't anticipate being here more than a night, I take the time to rig the door with bits of metal to make noise if anyone comes in, a shoe lace and a few bits of bent tin do the trick. I hide all of my new possessions inside pockets of my coat, and then curl up in the coat to go to sleep, using my backpack as a pillow.  I pass out almost immediately.
The door wakes me, and I roll over, knife in hand. Joss is coming in, he glances at the trap and shrugs.
"Paranoid?"
"Prepared," I roll back over.
"Strong went and told our section chief."
"Good for fucking Strong," I mumble, face in my bag.
"She said you stay, that you're the best there is. That you're excused from morning PT because when they found you, you were walking through a minefield digging up your dead platoon mates bodies."
"Huh," I acted incoherent when they found me. And they didn't even give me any food.
"I figure that sucks. But we're not the enemy all right? The enemy's out there," he sighs.
"Everyone is the enemy. It doesn't have to be you, but it can be. And I don't lose," I say, rolling back over, "Now let me go to sleep before I shoot you in the face and say it was an accident."
"Right," he sighs.
I fall back asleep almost immediately, waking a few hours before taps. I feel enormously better having rested. Joss is still asleep up above me, the room smells like teenage boys who don't know how to wash properly. Ugh.
I roll out of bed, putting on my boots, and sorting in my bag for my precious papers. I write myself a day pass, then shoulder my bag and my bow.
I disable my own trap at the door and leave before anyone else is up. It's quiet hours so only those on leave and officers can roam around. That makes it quicker for me to navigate the now eerily quiet halls.
The staff sergeant on duty at the front barely looks up from his coffee.
"Dolon, Wyle, 725th, I'm on day pass," I say, setting the forged pass down neatly on the stained table.
He glances at it, "Twenty four hours." He signs the time.
"Thank you," I smile, picking it up.
Time to go home.