Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I saw two guys wrestling and grappling in the martial arts studio, so I walked closer and peered through the glass walls.
Said walls were filled with quotes printed in a typewriter font.
“Violence is the absolute last resort.”
“Self-defense begins with de-escalation.”
“End it swiftly.”
“What we have started, we shall finish.”
The last one was the Hillcroft motto. I remembered that.
I needed my new life here to give me meaning.
I watched those two guys sweat and growl and curse and come at each other with such force that I envied them. Because they had to feel so many emotions. They were so expressive. One of the guys landed with a thump on the mat, only to immediately jump up and attack with a roar.
“Are you finally cranking it up?”
“Fuck you, Slater.”
They crashed together in a heap of punches and kicks, and I drew a steady breath.
The guy called Slater was overpowered and went down with a groan of pain.
“Jesus titty-fucking Christ! It’s a workout, not a fucking assassination attempt. You’re too goddamn bored.”
“Yeah. I fucking am,” the other one panted. “I swear it’s the most boring job I’ve ever had.”
Slater cursed and sat up on the mat. “Because of one stakeout detail? Take advantage instead. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“All I hear is, you love being stuck in that fuckin’ apartment with me.”
“That’s your dream, Nolan. Not mine.”
I cracked a quick grin to myself and walked away.
Maybe. Just maybe.
Six years ago, watching that transpire would’ve set off my anxiety. Now, I was just itching to begin. Whatever they threw at me. Knock me down, scare the shit out of me, make me come unglued.
Unmade.
I was fairly sure I needed it in order to stitch myself back together as an upgraded version who actually enjoyed life. Because I must’ve gone wrong somewhere. Something had broken, and the bones had healed wrong. Fuck if I knew what it was. It couldn’t be Mom’s death. I knew with every fiber of my being that basic training had forced me through my worst mourning period, at least physically. I’d gotten to cry it out properly. I’d even followed Beckett’s advice, and I’d spoken to my chaplain a lot. I’d sort of come to terms with her priorities and my anger—why she’d never told me about my dad, the few clues she’d had. I’d attended church services too, if only to close my eyes and revel in a moment’s peace.
I’d dealt with all that. So, what the fuck was it that had killed me?
As I returned to the gym area, I saw Operator Rose keeping an eye on me, and I was guessing I had to get used to it. I was here to be evaluated for everything I did.
Farther down the hall, some of the other recruits hollered about what snacks they preferred in the vending machines.
“How are you doing, soldier?” Operator Rose asked.
Was that a dig? I couldn’t be sure.
“Am I in desperate need of military deprogramming?” I joked.
He chuckled and leaned casually against the doorway, and he folded his arms over his chest. “To be fair, you all are.”
Huh. Was it really that obvious? In my out-of-body experiences, I’d often seen other soldiers be super obvious to the point where I got irritated. But considering I’d caught myself acting the same way more than once, it was highly possible I was no different.
I shrugged. “I guess I’ll work on slouching more.”
“Hm. That covers one out of two hundred things.”
Oof, I was glad he wasn’t one of those people who exaggerated.
It made me curious, though. And I wasn’t the arrogant type. He looked to be around forty years old, so he’d been around for a very long time. He probably knew what he was doing.
“Can you guess just by looking at me what branch I was in?” I wondered.
The corners of his mouth twisted into a smirk. “I already called you soldier, son.”
Hmpf.
“It’s never just one thing,” he went on. “Adjusting your posture is probably the easiest. It’s the little things you don’t even notice that need work.” He nodded at my stomach. “You maintain a nice gig line with your belt there. I bet the pen you’re carrying has black ink. Your brain gets lulled into a nice, satisfied state when I say left-right-left. You’d never walk across grass. You probably only carry things in your left hand, and you stand still when you talk on the phone. You get pissed off when people arrive five minutes early, because you know anything later than fifteen minutes early is late. You have more practice mopping the floors than using a sidearm, but you’re likely very good with an M4. You always assess your surroundings, and you automatically walk in step with the person next to you. Of course, you always eat fast, and despite your tender age of twelve, you already have stomach issues from time to time. Not that it stops you from putting hot sauce on everything to make it taste like something. Shall I go on?”