SG Vol. 1 pt. 10

Maybe that was my teacher’s secret. I was thinking I’d have to get myself pissed off and worked up if I wanted to copy her, but maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe I’ve got to have fun torturing these brats to really copy her.

Either way, I’m looking forward to seeing how many of these brats last a week.

The class is full now. Twenty kids ranging from sixteen to twenty are spread out and looking at me, waiting for me to begin.

The redheaded brat from before is still trying to catch his breath at his desk.

Of these twenty kids, I can only imagine… maybe three of them at most lasting the week.

Ginger, the redhead, is definitely not going to make it. He was barely able to make it through the push-ups.

The blonde girl – I think she’ll make it. She looks physically fit and the way she carries herself makes me think that she’s mentally strong as well. She’s also the only one sitting at her desk with a subtle smile. The rest either look scared, bored, or confused depending on whether or not they arrived while Ginger was still out doing push-ups.

There’s one other kid sitting at the back. Looks maybe eighteen or nineteen. Taller than me, a draftee, and the most muscular one in this room. He doesn’t look happy about being here. I’m sure he’ll be fit enough to make it through whatever I put him through, but we’ll have to wait and see whether or not he has the mental fortitude to survive. I think there’s a good chance he’ll make it.

Between Ginger and Muscles there, the three of us are the only men in this room.

It’s even worse than when I went through training. It was about sixty percent girls back then, but from what I’m seeing in here and have been seeing around base the past couple of years, that number has to be at least eighty percent now.

One girl raises her hand but lowers it as soon as I look at her.

Short, thin frame, black hair, maybe a bit of Asian in her – I want to say that she’s going to fail this week, but closer inspection shows that she’s fit. Her forearms are lean but muscular. Not a single part of her looks soft. While she might be struggling to make eye contact now that I’m glaring at her, she’s at least trying to look me in the eyes.

Muscles and Samurai are the only ones I have even the slightest bit of faith in other than the blonde. I’m still not sure what to call her. Calling her “Cow” would probably get sexual harassment complaints filed against me, and I’d rather not give the demon back home any ammo to use against me.

Intelligent, confident, fit, huge chest… Valkyrie.

I crack my neck and knuckles before letting out an annoyed groan. “I don’t know how I should greet you all. I’m tempted to say something stupid like, ‘Welcome to Hell,’ but I’d rather you face Hell than hear it about it,” I tell them. “I’ll just say this instead: ‘good luck.’ Whoever’s sitting next to you won’t be here next week. That includes you. I don’t have the slightest bit of confidence in a single one of you to make it through this first week. Prove me wrong and I’ll guarantee you that you become one of the best pilots the United States Air Force has ever seen. Prove me right and you’ll be stuck behind some desk or transferred. Maybe you’ll get transported to ground logistics, and trust me, you don’t want to be outside of a VSU against the demons.”

Calling our enemy “demons” gets the reaction out of them that I figured it would.

Amusement, confusion, doubt – it might not be their technical name and only religious circles really use it, but they’ll understand why they deserve to be called that if and when they ever see them in person.

“Now, looks like they sent me a mixed group. How many of you brats have even been in simulations?” I ask them.

They each raise a hand.

Huh. Even the brats who look barely sixteen have their hands up. Even Ginger has his hand up.

I must be teaching an advanced class in that case. Half of these brats still look two years away from entering sims. “Ginger,” I say, looking at the redhead so he knows exactly who is named that now, “what’s the last thing your previous teacher taught you?”

“Sir! Uh… he was teaching us about advanced aerial maneuvers to use in evasion of Cutter and Flak-class,” Ginger explains.

Well shit. Subjects like that are usually the last things taught before tossing cadets into actual VSUs for the first time.

“Has anybody in here been in a unit before?” I ask.

Not a single hand is raised.

I’m guessing I’ve got a mix of advanced brats and cadets that’ve already been here for a few years. The only one I’m not sure about is Valkyrie. As a third-year wolf, she should be in a unit already. Yeah, that’s right. Maybe she won’t make it through this first week if she even still needs a teacher at this point. Wolves should be getting assigned their second year.

And she hasn’t even been in a VSU yet.

Muscles and Samurai are the only ones I have hope for left.

“When's the last time any of you had to run a lap?” I ask.

I get varied answers ranging from a few weeks ago to over a year ago.

Exactly what I fucking feared. Brass has been putting more of an emphasis on pilot training and combat tactics than physical fitness. There are two more things they fail to teach that my teacher excelled in: killer and survival instincts.

“We’re going for a run,” I tell them.

One of the bored looking girls at the back speaks up and asks, “Eh? Seriously? We’re supposed to be learning how to fly, what good is—”

“You just doubled laps for the entire class. Want to say something else, or are you going to shut up and get outside?”

She shuts up as soon as the rest of the class looks at her.

“Let’s go. We’ve got four laps around the airfield to run,” I tell them. “Come on, you should be smiling! Didn’t you brats see how nice it is outside? Hot, sunny, and not a single cloud in the sky. Kids should be out enjoying the sun on days like this.”

Only a handful of them dare to send dirty looks my way, and I reply to their looks with a look of my own: a smile.

“Brats who can’t run four laps don’t deserve to pilot units,” I say as they head for the door. “Stop,” I order.

They stop and look at me.

“Some of you have got canteens. Leave them here,” I explain. “You’re not going to have a canteen with you in the field if you ever have to abandon your unit. You’re going to be running for your expendable, trivial little lives. There won’t be any time to drink. If I see a single one of you take even the slightest sip from your canteens before dropping them, you’re out.”

“Fuck that!” the same girl from before shouts at me. “This isn’t right! Four laps around the airfield?” I let her continue her little temper tantrum. “Without water? In this heat? We’re going to puke and pass out!”

I stand directly in front of her and stare down at her. She still won’t look me in the eyes. “A useless, spoiled brat who can’t run some laps is going to get killed in their first battle. Pilots with ten times the talent as you are going to get killed their first battle. You think I care whether it’s hot outside or not? Do you really think I fucking care about your little fit? You have two – no, three choices. One, get the fuck out of my sight and cry to get transferred to logistics. Two, fall in line and run six laps. Three, make me submit to your will.”

“Wh-what?” she asks after hearing the third option.

“You heard me. The strong get to have more say than the weak. I’m the strong, you’re the weak. Defeat me right here, force me to submit to you, and the positions will be swapped. Beat me down until I can’t fight back anymore. If you, or any of you can do that, then you get to be in charge and I won’t tell you what to do.”

“You serious, sir?” Muscles asks me, stepping up from the side.

He’s got a few inches on me in height and a stupid amount of muscles that don’t match his babyface.

I answer, “I am. Try me, Muscles. Whenever you—”

He takes a swing at me.

A quick punch to his throat, holding back, drops him to his knees as he clutches at his throat and chest to gasp for air.

He was too slow and obvious even if he did try to surprise me.

I force him down onto his front, slamming his face against the floor, and position my hands on his head that would make it easy to snap his neck with no effort.

Another of the girls shouts, “Stop! He can’t—"

“You always confirm that your enemy is defeated. Always. It doesn’t matter whether you think you’ve won or not. You make sure that you’ve won. It doesn’t matter if you think they can’t fight back because, until they’re dead, you have no idea what they might do,” I explain. “You confirm every, single, kill. That is what it takes to survive.”

Muscles tries to grab onto my hands but stops as soon as I start to twist his head. “See? He still tried fighting back. Even when he can barely fucking breathe, he tried to fight back. Now he knows that his neck is going to break if I twist any farther,” I tell them.

I twist it just a tiny bit farther.

His hands shoot for my wrists again, but this time they don’t pull away. “And now this is his survival instinct. This is his brain screaming at his body that if he doesn’t do something, then he’s going to die. This is what I plan on bringing out of each and every one of you who makes it through this first week.”

I release his head and stand up. A couple of girls crouch down to check on him as I brush myself off.

“I am going to push all of you to your limits and then push you even fucking farther. You will fight dirty, you will hang on until you breathe your last breaths, and you are going to take down as much of the enemy as you can. And then, when you should be beaten and dead, when you have no chance of survival, when you’re written off as killed and your replacement is already on their way, you are going to survive anyways and kill every last fucking demon you can until your body refuses to. Only when your arms and legs are torn off of you – only when your neck is broken and your teeth have been ripped out of your mouth, may you consider taking an extended break. Do I make myself clear?”

Two girls left during my speech and Muscles is only just now standing back up.

To my surprise, that bratty girl who was bitching earlier is still here. She’s crying, but she’s here.

I look at Muscles and say, “If you think you get to have a break at the infirmary, you’re wrong, and you can thank this brat here for having to run six laps around the airfield. Now, any questions from the rest of you?”

“No, sir!” the remaining students shout loud and clear. Even Muscles and this crying brat force their voices out.

Zane is going to have to use a lot of his favors around the base to cover for me. Even if those fools in charge want me teaching these brats, I doubt they’re going to appreciate me almost sending them to the hospital on their first day.

And the day isn’t even close to being over.