(Matteo's PoV)

I rocked back and forth in the plane chair as I anxiously awaited departure. Right now, another group of boys were being let on. The group I came on with was the late people. These were the really late people. A lot of them looked around for a place to sit. It was hard to find a familiar face. You'd be lucky to find someone you vaguely recognized.

"Um...can I sit there?" a boy asked. He was about my height with longish blond hair and silver braces across his teeth.

"Oh yeah, sure." I shrugged and took my hand off the armrest of the seat next to mine.

"Thanks," he told me. "I don't know anybody here."

"Neither do I," I admitted.

We didn't say anything after that. The quiet was slowly starting to get to me. Not even the plane's loud engine as it took off could make up for the absence of noise between the blond boy and me. Desperate to talk about something, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.

"Have you ever been on a plane before?"

I must've broke him from a deep thought, cuz he looked up a little startled. "Oh...uh...no. You?"

"Once," I replied. "When I was eight. My family and I moved here from Spain."

"You moved from Spain to Nebraska?" he questioned.

"Yeah," I answered. "I'm not really sure why. Something about finding a better life."

"In Nebraska?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. That's just something my parents were always saying."

The boy seemed to grow stiff for a moment. I thought about asking if anything was wrong, but I remembered something Emmy had told me about getting too involved in other people's lives.

I switched my mind back to our original conversation. "Although my girlfriend does make my life a lot better here. Do you have one?"

"I wish," he responded.

My mouth seemed to work a lot faster than my mind because it had just occurred to me that I really had no idea who I was talking to. "By the way, what's your name?" I asked.

The same thought must have occurred to him too. "Will Atteleigh. What's yours?"

"Matteo Rosalez," I replied. "And I'm in the 63rd platoon."

He sighed of relief. "Me too."

"We should bunk together," I decided.

He didn't hesitate to answer. "Yeah, good idea."

I smiled in satisfaction. "Now we know we won't be one of the last ones left who gets paired with the person nobody likes."

Will smiled back. He seemed pretty cool. I enjoyed the fact that the rest of our conversation all the way to Brooklyn, New York, wasn't awkward at all.

(Aaron's PoV)

I kind of felt bad for the people who struggled to find seats before take off. Not bad enough to let them sit by me of course. I already had my travel partner.

Connor Notham had been my best friend since birth. While it sucked for us both to be drafted, if we were being forced into the army, at least we were in the same platoon.

But friendship aside, Connor and I were in a bad mood. Not so much about the draft itself, but more so it's timing.

"I can't believe this," Connor said, slamming his fist against the arm rest."

"Yeah, it sucks," I agreed. "I mean they seriously couldn't have started Basic Training one day later."

"I know!" he exclaimed. "We're missing the Super Bowl."

It wasn't fair. We had watched the Super Bowl together every year as far back as I can remember.

"Yeah, and we're gonna miss the SeaHawks winning," I rubbed in.

Connor scoffed. "You wish, ginge. The Broncos are gonna kick their ass and you know it."

An unchanged voice piped up from behind us. "Actually the SeaHawks stand a way better chance because they have Russell Wilson and he's scored 26 touchdowns and has caught 9 interceptions."

The two of us turned around in curiosity and confusion. At first I didn't see anything, but then I realized I had to look down.

In the chair behind me, there was a small boy with bleachy hair and bright blue eyes. He looked so young--part of me wondered if he was even on the right flight.

"Did I allow you to be part of this argument?" Connor questioned.

The little boy quieted down and looked at the ground.

"Shut up Connor," I retorted. "You only don't want him in cuz he's agreeing with me." I turned to the boy. "What's your name, kid?"

He perked right back up. "I'm Sean Hanks. I love football. I play it too."

Connor laughed a little. "You play football. But you're so tiny."

I nudged him, but he just kept going.

"Come on, look at him," he said, gesturing to the kid. "He's like 4 '2"."

"I'm five feet tall," Sean corrected. "And three quarters." He didn't sound defensive at all. No matter what he said he managed to keep his same eager tone.

Connor still found his height funny though.

"I don't really tackle people all that much," Sean went on. "I'm a running back, cuz I'm fast. One time I scored a 70 yard touchdown."

Connor stopped laughing abruptly and gave the kid an impressed glance. I did too. I'd kill to be able to make a 70 yard touchdown.

"My favorite player is Tim Tebow," Sean told us.

"You like Tebow?" I asked.

"Well yeah," Sean replied, his eyes glowing brighter. "He's only like God and Jesus all wrapped up in one man who plays the greatest sport of all time."

And that was probably the most accurate description of Tim Tebow that I'd ever heard.

The three of us talked about football the whole plane ride (which was okay, because football is awesome). Connor didn't even object to the little kid clinging to us like a magnet.

I didn't mind either. I'd only just met him, but I suspected this was what having a little brother must feel like.

(Landon's PoV)

As soon as we got off the plane, we were led to the Basic Training Center, right in the heart of Brooklyn, New York. Many new training centers were built since the start of the war.

We were led into a plain room with 13 bunk beds. It was pretty awkward at first, but there was at least one conversation we could all agree on.

"Well the draft sucks," a tall, olive-skinned boy announced.

Several of us voiced our agreement.

"Who cares," a deadpan voice spoke. It came from a shorter boy with dirty-blond hair and dark eyes. "The world is an endless black-hole of nothingness anyway."

The olive-skinned boy shifted awkwardly. "Uh, okay then. Anyway, I'm Trevor Kopetski," he added, trying to be nice.

"Seth," the creepy kid replied, still maintaining his monotone voice. "My biggest wish is that the sun will burn out, so that the world can be covered with darkness."

And at that point, we all made mental notes to stay away from Seth.

As I looked around at the other boys, I noticed a Chinese-looking kid among the group. I couldn't understand why they would let a Chinese dude into a military training center when we were in a war with China.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"I got drafted," he said matter-of-factly.

I raised an eyebrow. "For the American army?"

"I was born here," he said defensively. "I'm American."

I rolled my eyes, unconvinced. "Sure. So anyway, what's your name, Wong-ti?" I guessed.

Two brunette boys behind me laughed.

He gritted his teeth. "My name is John."

"Whatever, Wong-ti."

He stormed away to another corner of the room.

"So who are you?" the lighter haired of the two asked me.

"Landon," I replied.

The one with darker hair was Gavin and the other one was Tristan.

Before I could find out anything else about them, we were interrupted by a loud voice. "Recruits!" The booming voice came from a muscular man, who towered over even the tallest members of our group.

"At attention," he demanded. A bunch of us exchanged confused glances.

One light-brown haired boy moved himself into a stiff salute. He seemed to know what he was doing so the rest of us followed suit--well not exactly. About half of us used the wrong hand, and a couple whacked themselves in the face.

"So much work to do," I could hear the guy mutter. Then he went back to his loud voice. "I am Sgt. Blake Stockhold. I am your Drill Sgt., meaning I am the boss of you. Fuck up, and you will regret it. Now, since Basic Training has been reduced from 9 weeks to 6, most of the easy stuff is gone like hair cutting and uniform fitting. And the standards have been lowered." He pressed his temples in frustration. "A lot." After a pause, he started yelling again. "Don't think you can fail to get out of fighting. You will go to war, so man up! First things first, you have 2 minutes to pick a bunkmate or I'll pick them for you. They'll also be your 'battle buddy', meaning you'll be responsible for them. If anything happens to them, it's your fault. When you wake up, be prepared for Hell-week. At ease."

In a scramble to find partners, I spotted a familiar face.

Rich Kid.

I felt the urge to confront him about yesterday, "Hey, rich kid,"

He turned to me with that same look of superiority.

"You can't just go around expecting money to solve all of your problems," I explained.

He squinted at me behind his glasses. "Who are you anyway?"

I folded my arms bitterly. "The guy who nearly got raped because of your 300 dollars."

He just laughed. "Oh, that was you."

"Yeah," I responded. "And it wasn't funny. You can't just bribe people to get what you want-"

"I'll give you 10 bucks to shut up," he offered.

"See that's what I'm talking about. You cannot--"

"Oh save it, bunkmate," he cut me off.

"What?" I turned around, alarmed. Everyone else had already partnered up.

(Aaron's PoV)

A noise interrupted my deep sleep. I stirred around hoping it would turn off, but as I slowly came back to my senses, it began to sound less like an alarm and more like whimpering.

I tilted my head up and opened my eyes. Colors were near impossible to see, but I had always been able to make out shapes at night. Connor says it's my "ginger senses".

Judging from the small stature and the fact that it was coming from the bottom bunk across from mine, I gathered that the whimpering was coming from Sean. He seemed huddled up against the front side of his bed frame.

"Sean, it's the middle of the night," I pointed out, my voice still groggy.

He mumbled something incomprehensive

"What?" I said, confused.

He looked around nervously. Through a shaking voice he said, "I'm afraid of the dark."

Afraid of the dark? What was he, a little kid? Then I realized, he was.

"Sean, how old are you?" I asked.

"Fourteen," his voice cracked a little. "I turned Fourteen three days before the draft took place."

He just barely fit the age standards. He must've been one of the youngest ones in any platoon.

"Don't tell the other guys," he pleaded. "They're gonna make fun of me."

He was right about that. We were teenage guys, we're mean.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," I assured him. "Just try to get some sleep. I'm right here. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

He looked up slightly. "Promise?"

"Yeah, sure, I promise," I told him.

I thought a lot about Sean's age. Fourteen was young, but he seemed even littler. Then I realized that sixteen was young too given our situation.

After only a few minutes, my brain got the best of me and pulled me into a deeper sleep.

(Connor's PoV)

The morning alarm echoed throughout the entire building. For those people who think we wake up to a trumpet solo, they're wrong. It's this blaring buzzer that keeps repeating itself at five in the morning.

I forced myself to get up and climb down from the top bunk. I nudged Aaron's face with my foot on the way down. "Aaron it's morning."

He groaned and rolled over.

I shook his head. "Wake up, ginge."

"I hate mornings," he mumbled as he began to sit up.

"Cuz of the sunshine?" I joked.

He gave me a deadpan expression. "There's no sunshine at 5AM."

No one looked much happier than Aaron to be up this early. Well, no one except for Sean, that is. He appeared the same as he did on the plane ride here: Hyper, wide-eyed, and like he just drank four cans of Red Bull.

"Are we always gonna have to get up this early?" someone asked.

"Pretty much," the smart, light-brown haired kid, who I learned was named Justin, answered. "Our normal schedule will work us from 5AM to 10PM."

Several guys made their disapproval known.

I turned to Sean. "It looks like your bedtime has been extended."

"I know," he said in excitement. "I never thought I'd be allowed to stay up past 9:30 on a weeknight."

I didn't bother to tell him I was kidding since he obviously wasn't.

"Recruits!" We heard Sgt. Blake shout.

We scrambled to get in a straight line and stay as stiff as possible. We were all apprehensive about what to expect. Yesterday, he made it seem like these first few days would be torture.

"Today we are going to be starting with the basic foundation for everything in the military," he began. "Cleaning."

Cleaning. Cleaning? That was the start of "Hell week?" Either this was a joke, or Basic Training was going to be way easier than I expected . Of course, I wasn't complaining, but that didn't mean nobody was.

"That's stupid!" some kid exclaimed. He was brunette, tan, and had a slight accent. Spanish or something.

Sgt. Blake didn't say anything, instead simply eyeing him, challenging both this guy's guts and his stupidity.

"I mean if we have to take stuff out, it should be cleaning, It's not like it's important. It won't help us when we're fighting." The Spanish kid thought he sounded so intelligent.

"Well, to increase your appreciation for it, you'll be cleaning the bathroom tiles tonight," Sgt Blake remained calm and unmoved as he spoke.

Next to me, Aaron was trying to suppress his laughter. "What an idiot," he muttered.

I nodded, stifling my laughter as well.

The Spanish guy was blushing furiously. He appeared to be at a loss for words (which honestly was probably the best thing for him).

The blond boy next to him tried to speak up. "I think he was just trying to say-"

But Sgt. Blake didn't care what he had to say. All Sgt. Blake had to say was "and you can join him."

(Will's PoV)

"It's not fair!" Matteo exclaimed, slamming his toothbrush into the soap bucket. "All I did was make a point and now I have to clean the bathroom floors." He yanked the toothbrush out of the bucket. "And what is this? Why a toothbrush. Isn't the military supposed to be all about getting things done as fast and as well as possible? What about this is efficient? Wouldn't this work better with a mop, or a towel..."

"I think Sgt. Blake said something about creating discipline," I tried to explain.

"Well I don't need discipline!" Matteo's ranting and wild hand gestures caused him to knock over the bucket onto himself. The entire front of his T-shirt was now wet. "Meirda," he muttered, which I guessed was some sort of Spanish curse word.

He put his head in his hands, then winced due to the soap getting in his eyes. "This is gonna take forever," he sighed.

"It could be worse," I said, trying to lighten the mood. I wasn't quite sure how it could be worse, but I'm sure it could be.

He scrubbed away at the floor for a few seconds, then looked up. "I'm sorry I got you in trouble."

"Don't be," I responded. "It was my fault for opening my mouth too."

"Well then thanks for sticking up for me," he corrected.

I shrugged. "What are friends for?"

He ran his fingers through his hair before taking the toothbrush back to the tiles.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I'm just worried about my girlfriend is all." I thought he might've left it at that, but he kept going. "We think she's got schizophrenia. Me and her that is. We can't go get an actual diagnosis cuz her parents aren't supportive at all."

"I know that feeling," I murmured. I didn't think I had said it out loud until Matteo asked what I meant by that. "Oh it's nothing," I said quickly.

Matteo set down his toothbrush. "I don't think it is. What's wrong."

I took a deep breath. I shouldn't be saying this. Matteo was still a stranger somewhat, but then again, I had called us friends. "My parents are horrible people. They don't care about me or my sister at all. My dad never pays any attention or even gives a damn about anything. And my mom...that woman...always drinking or smoking or selling herself so she can buy more liquor--God damn it I hate alcohol."

I had never said these things before. What would he think of me? Children are supposed to love their parents. And yet I kept going." All they ever do is point out what's wrong with us and makes us feel like we're worthless. They say we're horrible children--how we're so ungrateful after they so graciously give us shelter. I hate them."

There it was. Fifteen years of bottled up rage, hatred, and emotion. Well not all of it.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Thanks for listening," I told him.

He smiled. "What are friends for?"