SG Vol. 1 pt. 15 (Patreon)

Lunch is over and the nurse has gone back to the infirmary, leaving me alone and in peace to head back to the classroom.

All of my instructor’s books were still in there.

If I had to read, these brats have to read.

All but a couple of the brats are in the room by the time I get to it, and only one other makes it back before it’s time to resume.

We wait in the heated room for a few minutes before resuming. “That means we’re down to seventeen of you. If that girl in the infirmary doesn’t come back by the end of the day, sixteen,” I tell the cadets.

They’re already sweating from how hot I’ve got this room.

“If you can’t handle this heat, you won’t be able to handle the inside of a unit’s cockpit. They heat up real fast, and you’re going to be wearing a heavy flight suit in there. This is just a taste of what you’ll be dealing with. I advise you all get used to the stench of your body odor. Any longer than five minutes in a unit is going to result in you sitting in a puddle of your own sweat in your suits. I know all that bullshit you’ve probably seen on TV makes it sound like piloting a unit is some prestigious bullshit ‘above’ the ‘dirtier’ jobs, but the soldiers on the ground aren’t sitting in literal puddles of their own sweat. You can toss in your own shit and piss if you can’t hold it in or get scared, too. There’s a reason why they make those suits water resistant. They don’t want your waste getting out and staining the cockpit,” I explain to everybody.

Ginger, as stupid as he fucking is, apparently hasn’t learned his lesson because I see him smiling.

“Something funny, Ginger?” I ask.

“S-sir! No, sir. Nothing’s funny, sir,” Ginger stutters out in a hurried panic.

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Sir, I just… I just…”

“You just what, Ginger? If it’s not funny, are you smiling because the thought of sitting in your own sweat, piss, and shit is arousing to you? Is that it? You turned on, Ginger?”

The brat looks at me with wide eyes and obviously has no idea how to respond.

“If you’re that into it, why don’t you get up here and show everybody how it’s done? Come on, Ginger. Show everybody what it means to shit yourself out of fear. There’s no shame in that,” I order him.

“Are… a-are you serious, sir?” Ginger asks, looking like he’s actually debating whether he’s supposed to stand up or not.

“No fucking shit I’m not serious. Why the hell would I want to see you do that? Why would anybody want to see that? We’re not into literal shit like you are, Shitger.”

I see some more smiles cracking.

“The fuck are the rest of you smiling at now? You all into shit, too? You,” I say, glaring at one of the girls sitting closest to me trying not to smile. Her uniform tells me that she’s a Clarkson. “First name. Now.”

“Je-Jenna, sir!” the girl answers.

“Wrong. Your name is now Shithead. Now, tell me what your name is!”

“Sir! Shi…Shi-Shithead, sir!” Shithead shouts with red cheeks and looking like she’s about to cry.

“That’s a good Shithead. You were one of those girls walking with Shitger over there earlier, weren’t you? Seems like you two make a perfect match.”

Shitger rises out of his seat and shouts, “Sir! You can mock me all you want, but—”

“But what, Shitger?” I ask him. “Are you coming to play the role of the brown knight? You gonna save Shithead here from having her fetish called out in front of everybody?”

Shitger curls his hands into fists and glares at me. He’s got a surprisingly defiant spirit when it comes to girls, apparently.

“Sit your ass down before I make you sit, Shitger. I don’t know how soft your previous instructors were on you, but I’m sure they spoiled you like a bunch of brats who are going to die on their first missions. Samurai!” I shout, looking at Samurai now. “Tell me how long the average pilot lasts their first mission.”

“Sir, I don’t know, sir,” Samurai answers.

“Then you either weren’t paying attention or they don’t bother telling you the truth anymore. Does anybody in here know how long they last?” I ask, looking over the room.

Valkyrie is the only one to raise her hand.

“Well?” I ask her.

“Sir! The average time that pilots last on their first mission before being KIA or rendered incapable of continuing to fight is thirteen minutes and four seconds,” Valkyrie answers. “And, no, sir, they did not teach us this. I only know this because my older brother was a pilot and told me.”

Fuck, they don’t teach these brats what they need to know. “You’re mostly right, but you’re wrong about one thing: that time isn’t taking into consideration pilots who get shot down and have to pull back. You could probably shave another five minutes off of that time if we could accurately count that. Thirteen minutes and four seconds is only referring to how long after first contact a pilot lasts before their vitals monitor stops reading a heartbeat. That means most of you, if you ever make it into a unit, are going to die within thirteen minutes and four seconds of seeing the demons.”

I look back at Shitger now who’s still standing, but his fists have untensed and he looks more scared than pissed off if anything. “Now, Maggot Shitger, you can sit your ass down and let me tell you how to survive being killed off and forgotten seconds after your pathetic death, or you can get the fuck out of my sight and beg to get transferred to logistics so that you can sit around on base shitting your pants all day where you’ll be nice and safe. Your choice.”

Shitger sits down. Shithead, however, stands up and walks to the door.

“Make sure to shut the door behind you,” I tell her.

She walks out and shuts the door behind her without saying a single word.

“And then there were sixteen. Anybody else? Just keep in mind for every single one of you maggots who leaves, Shitger over there is going to be sad that the room won’t smell as bad,” I say.

Nobody else gets up, but only a handful of them can actually look in my direction.

“Good. Now, the rest of you get to do the ever-so-enjoyable task of reading. We all love reading here, right?” I say, getting up and walking over to the cabinet where my old instructor left all her books. “First, I’m going to start you maggots off with The Art of War. It didn’t help them the Chinese too much in the end, but you’re still going to read this book and memorize every word of it by the end of the week. You will likely need to read it five times over from front to back, never skipping a single word, to do that. And yes, I will be testing you to make sure that you know every, single, word of it,” I explain while placing a copy of the book in front of each of them.

I remember thinking how stupid reading was back when she first made us do it. I thought there was no way reading a bunch of books was going to make us better fighters. Looking back on it now, these books probably turned me into a better warrior than any other instructor did. Only that crazy woman could compete with these books.

The rest of the day is spent sitting and reading with the heat cranked up even higher than it was before. By the time it’s time to dismiss these brats, it’s basically a fucking sauna in the room. It reeks of body order, but at least Shitger kept all his shit in and didn’t make the smell even worse.

“You’re dismissed. Fuck off and go do whatever it is you’re all supposed to do now,” I order them. I can’t even remember what I used to do after the day’s instructing was over. Probably went to eat dinner, cry until that phase was over and start working out on my own instead, and then felt like I wasn’t going to wake up if I closed my eyes.

They get up and look hesitant to leave.

I remember that feeling.

“I’m serious. Fuck off,” I repeat.

None of us could tell if our instructor was serious or not back then. We all expected her to trick us and punish us if we actually tried leaving.

I’d consider doing that if Naomi wasn’t waiting for me back at home.

Finally, the brats leave which means I can leave. I’m not going to leave unless I’m the last one out.

Old habits, I guess.