Capt. Brian W. Manchester, No. 002

14 August 2030

21:09, QCT

For the first time in two weeks, I was supposed to leave here at a normal time. The developments have been slow, so we've been ordered to do our own research in the comfort of our homes. Frankly, I have enjoyed the idea of working by ourselves because it means I'm not collaborating with these people all day. I've actually been able to discover some new leads, all of which have been disproved. It's a start.

I was supposed to go home. I packed my notes away for the night and was moments from locking my office when I received word from someone in the hallway that something had occurred between two recruits in the ranking wing. A nasty fight broke out in one of the shower-rooms, and the kids were being escorted to Ken Petry. I only asked who the kids were out of curiosity.

"Some blonde kid," the Corporal outside of Levi's room answered. Then, sheepishly, "and Slater Tross."

So, now, I'm still here, forty-five minutes later.

I peer at the silver downward slope of the door handle upon hearing a click straight ahead of my desk. The invasion of the silence is lead by Brayden Lee, poised and collected. I haven't seen the Sergeant since the ceremony last year, but those many months have done a toll on the kid. Seeing him out of the Imperial Guard uniform is rare, as he is now clad like the rest of us. Funeral attire, as Gill likes to say.

James likes to brag that his kids always rank the highest, and he retains every right to. His past three recruits have been named Sergeant of their class; Brayden last year, Parker Frost in 28, and Talia Rory in 27. All of which have proven to be impressive in their leadership, which does wonders to reflect James' impact on them.

This year, though, he might have his work cut out for him. Levi and his recruit, Craig Larsson, challenged him and his recruit, Hal van Lester, to see who could rank higher. According to Celeste, because they both go to Stanville, the boys have a vast disparity in their mindsets. Larsson is smart and he knows it, while van Lester knows he can overachieve but opts not to. van Lester can come across as overconfident. Larsson is just an asshole.

Her words, not mine.

Slater follows into the office behind Brayden with a tug. The Sergeant applies a rough shove to his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. With a weak, pink arm, he catches himself from plunging into the weathered cushion chair. He grimaces, pulling his body upright.

"Easy," I urge both him and Brayden. The damage has been done already, there's no need to add to it.

Slater circles around to the front of the chair, with his one hand remaining on the top surface until he faces me. As he settles down, I glance up at the Sergeant, who stands guard by the door. I can hardly look at the kid as he sits there in his misery.

"Thank you, Brayden." I nod toward the door. I wonder when the last time someone called him that. "If you wouldn't mind, I would like to speak to Slater alone."

The Sergeant obeys and shuts the door behind him. Silence once again.

I force myself to observe Calvin's son ahead, who leans the side of his head against the curved edge of the chair like a child. I'm going to allow him to reassess what the situation is for a few moments before asking him what happened. If I have learned anything about this kid, it's that his cool-down period is more extensive than most. He's, unfortunately, like his father in that way.

Whoever this "blonde kid" was really did a number on him. His cheek, below his left eye, is battered to all hell. Some blood mats down his hair near his temples, and it must have trickled down his jaw, as there is a fresh trail tracing to his chin. One of his dark eyes is shadowed by a reddened circle. I wonder what he did to deserve this, or what he dealt to the blonde kid.

This is the end of the line for him. I watch him, attempting to fall asleep in the chair in front of me until I can't anymore. If you are involved in an altercation like that, your name on the ranking board is crossed out. Thrown away. I hope whoever he fought with gets the same fate, but we all know Slater's life is skewed against him. That kid is going to get off scot-free, and Slater will have to think about it every day while he's in a prison cell. The thought wrings out my insides.

He shuffles in his seat, angled against the curve. I know he doesn't want to talk. I don't either, but I'm only here because of him.

"How are you feeling?" I fold my right arm over my left on the desk and pull myself in closer. That's a stupid question. Of course, he feels like shit.

He blinks slowly. "I want to die."

"Brian, you don't get it. I just don't know if I could live with myself anymore."

I feel my heart tank as he closes his eyes again. He meant that. When I was training him, he would sometimes claim that he would have rather been killed than be given the OLC. Then, I dismissed it as nothing more than an excuse to be angry at me. Monitoring him now, in his seemingly dim existence, hurts. It's not an excuse now.

It pains me more, knowing what he doesn't know.

"What did Petry say when you talked to him?"

"He's moving me out of my group and into another one."

I pick my head up. "That's it?"

"Yeah."

I tilt my head back and inhale gradually. Thank God. I can't believe it. He got away with a slap on the wrist. Again. Slater lives to fight on another day, by some miracle. I breathe out all at once, and I can't help but grin. He's saved.

"I'm glad to hear it," I augment, returning to my former position. He doesn't continue on, resting his head once more. The raccoon circle is starting to appear darker than before.

"I really want to-"

His nostrils flare without him revealing his eyes. "Just stop. I'm done talking about it."

"-know who did this."

"I said stop. I just want to go back." I can see the void in his eyes now. His breathing intensifies past its normal rate. Oh, how I missed his innate adamancy.

"I'll leave you alone if you tell me what's wrong."

He straightens out. This means trouble. "What's wrong? Are you fucking serious? I just got beat up, and you're asking me what's wrong? You know damn well what's wrong." He's on his feet now, but he doesn't look like he's going for me.

"Luke Bradley is the biggest fucking cunt on the face of the earth. He is going out of his way to make me fuck up, and this time, I fell for it. He knows I'm not going to make it, and he wants me to make sure it burns in my head. Well, you know what, asshole?" Slater stomps over to my decorated table, assorted with all my accolades. If he dares touch any one of those, I'll throw him in jail myself. "I'm not going to fucking take it anymore. If he wants to pull some shit, I'll slit his fucking throat. I'll go to prison for the rest of my life, at this point."

He sticks his thumbs up to his larger fingers to imitate two speakers. "Don't ever fuck with me again," the one on the left threatens with a mocking voice, to which the other replies, in a casual tone, "Please, Luke, I don't want to fight you."

"Do it, pussy." The left one leans in to the right.

"Ow, you just punched me," The right hand replies, followed by a lean of its own. The two then tangle themselves in some sort of brawl.

The left speaker, who I'm now assuming is Luke, the blonde kid, cowers back from the right one, Slater. "Boohoo, I'm a victim. It was all Slater's fault!" In an instant, the hand puppets are gone, and it's just Slater. "Fuck him!"

What the fuck did I just witness? The kid has lost his mind.

I ascend from my frayed chair, inclining over the desk. "That's enough. Sit down before you knock something over." I won't return to my seat until he does the same. Now, he's milling around the bookshelf next to the medal case, disregarding my order entirely. This kid is hopeless. Once he falls off the deep end like this, it takes some marvel to draw him back to reality.

I'll give him time to peruse my office before throwing him to the wolves. He'll want to rip Luke's head off when he sees him again, if he sees him. I don't want to be liable for him murdering another recruit. He just needs to catch his breath, slow his blood down. This is his final warning from the Imperial Guard, and the last thing I want is for him to be expelled because he couldn't calm himself.

"Corporal, please sit down, and stop touching everything. You're in some trouble."

No. Slater and I are nothing alike.

"Due to your," the Master Sergeant clears his throat, "recent incidents in the first-year seminars, I have been authorized to administer consequences. However, I have a fair alternative, if you're interested."

Outwardly, I shudder. God, I hope Slater and I are nothing alike, for his sake.

I survey him as he peers at the photographs on the shelves near the door. He reels a frame near his face from the middle platform, and I know exactly which one he's looking at.

"Class 0," I hear him under his breath. He traces his finger along the glass before nearly jumping. "Is that my dad?" He turns the picture my way, but the glare from the light above masks it from being recognizable. Even then, I can tell where he's pointing, and it is Calvin. Second from the left in the back row. I am seated directly in front of him.

Ten seventeen-year-olds take their place in that faded photo. Five in the front, five in the back, organized by rank. The color and clarity have drained over the years, but I could tell you everything I have ever known about all ten of them.

In 2000, there were ten of us.

By 2006, there were three.

"Keep running!" I shout to Calvin, carrying a cardboard box of the Imperial Guard's records. Gunfire batters off the trees next to me.

Slater places the frame gently on the shelf. He approaches the medal case and scans at the silver and gold beneath the glass. If my mind once again deceived me, I could've sworn that I saw an apparition of an old friend just now. His mannerisms are nearly exactly like those of his father, and he hasn't even known him through his adolescence. It's fascinating, yet... heartbreaking.

Do I trust him enough to confide in him? I find it hard to explain the reasoning behind my slight neglect during the time he spent in my household. I can't see it now, with his left arm turned inward, but I know it's there. He knows, too. I wonder if anyone has mentioned it to him. It does no one any good to have it.

"Slater, come here a second," I order softly. He finishes inspecting the medals and turns to me. Scarred violet on his forearm is the M of the Medo. It's a strange manipulation of the skin, appearing to be almost a tattoo by the color but a healed wound by the look of it. Almost as odd as the group that gave it to him.

"Has anyone said anything to you about your mark?"

He collapses into the chair in front of me again. "Only Luke. But everyone knows I have it, which is probably why people avoid me at all costs."

I sit back down. He was alone? "You haven't made any friends?"

Slater's eyes meet mine for a moment, but he averts it down almost immediately. I saw a light in them. "I made one, but," he pauses. His chest heaves and he shakes his head. "I won't see him anymore. They're moving me to another training group."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure you'll meet someone else in this new group."

He fiddles with his thumbs. "No, I won't. He was the only one that would respect me or care for me. He didn't care about who I was before all this." He sighs, falling back into the chair. "Only I could screw up such a perfect situation."

"You didn't screw it up, Slater. You'll see him again."

The door swings open and Brayden disrupts the space. He marches to the chair Slater is seated in with clenched fists and tight arms. The kid has nerve.

"What is the matter, Sergeant?" I ask, rising to my feet. As a reflex, Slater springs up and faces Brayden. There's dried blood sprinkled in his dust-colored hair.

He grasps Slater's wrist and tugs him away from my desk. "I must bring Slater Tross to his newly assigned room immediately. Petry's orders, Captain."

Before he can be pulled toward the door, I grab Slater's other wrist and keep him stationary. "I forgot that Ken's word has precedence over mine." I snort, rolling my eyes. "This may come as a shock to you, Sergeant Lee, but it doesn't."

At that moment, I notice the proximity of my hand to the M. My air stays put in my lungs.

I release Slater from my clasp, and Brayden pulls him away from me. "Thank you, Captain. I'll take him back to the ranking wing immediately."

Slater resists the Sergeant's haul, though the power of the officer takes over entirely. Trying to escape only makes it worse for him and causes his handler to become rougher. There is nothing that I can do for him now. I had my chance.

What is weakness? A common belief suggests that weakness is marked by a lack of physical strength, or perhaps even emotional strength. Weakness is often defined as being afraid of the rest of the world and its ability to harm you and who you are. But true weakness is understanding yourself and not using your power to help those who cannot because you are afraid; afraid of what may happen to you if you step over that line for just one moment. That line is the boundary between impotence and fortitude.

Slater looks back at me and lowers his head as he is escorted into the hallway. Brayden slams my office door behind him.

I rummage through my pocket and remove a chain with two tags. Through the glare of the light overhead, I see Calvin Tross' name flare across the plate. My fingers dance over the eagle on the underside of the bottom tag. The same eagle that symbolizes nobility and power, two characteristics expected of every member of the Imperial Guard.

"I'm so sorry, Cal." I press both plates against my palm and shove them back into my pocket. Slater and Brayden's footsteps have dissipated into the sound of the ceiling fan. They're gone.

I am weak.