Tethers: Squad Leader

Tethers: Squad Leader

The lights went out at 2300 hours as they were programmed to do every night. A hazy, green light kept the room lightly illuminated as Puck typed quietly on his computer for another thirty minutes. Then, at length, Puck shut down the console and the light went away, and for the following ten seconds he was rustling around his bed until, finally, he settled in with a soft sigh. Flare turned over, his arm dangling unknowingly off of the side of the bunk, a disturbed snort escaping his sleepy throat. He made another noise, a sound that could have been a word, then he settled once more. Tide lied motionless on her own bunk, the back of her hand rested on her forehead, her other arm stretched across her stomach. She always slept through the night.

Storm listened for the calm, rhythmic breathing of Puck's sleep, and he knew he was alone in a room of four people. Storm quietly slipped his hands behind his head and stared at the bottom of Tide's bunked bed where there were pieces of paper taped so he could see them. Two were maps for their upcoming mission--their first mission; one was a picture of some blonde swimsuit model that Rooney found on the Net; and one was a piece of artwork on lined paper that read: "GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE!" It was written and decorated in various colors of highlighter marker, and in bottom corner, it was signed: "Love, Flare," in surprisingly elegant cursive. The latter two pictures were superfluous wastes of space that Storm meant to take down every time he got into bed, but somehow, every time he got up, the last moment his eyes looked at the bunk surface, the familiar pictures were just part of the scenery, the same as the fake wood-surface plastic stickers that covered much of the metal in the room.

The mind was a terrible thing to let get a hold of you. Storm spent many nights awake for hours after his exhausted squad mates went to sleep. Images played back through his head of the day's events like a holovid on repeat; he ran maneuvers over and over again, trying to remember where everyone was supposed to go, how fast they had to move, when to be silent, how to fight surreptitiously. Door breaching maneuvers, rapid entries, how to take a prisoner alive. Perfection could be obtained only through practice, Storm knew that much; but the squad would be so much more efficient if Storm could simply get everything right the first time.

It was easy for Storm to forget that Sarge was a kind man. The squads under his command loved him; the squad leaders did not. They respected Sergeant Elias Kadlec, and this respect was not earned from positive reinforcement in the form of candy rewards and pats on the head. The squad leaders respected Sarge because he demanded that they get the job done right. Nothing less than their best. And Storm wanted his best to be perfection.

That was what kept the squad alive. Perfection.

Storm squeezed his eyes shut, but only for a moment. He had a twisted feeling in his gut, the kind he felt nearly every night for the past several weeks that were leading up to Sigma Squad's first deployment. Tomorrow was another day of training. The pressure was mounting, collecting into a contorted heap in his gut. And Storm was no stranger to its presence. He was not in denial that such worrying was affecting him physically, either. Storm knew damn well that he could very easily literally worry himself sick. Many would see this as a glaring health problem--but Storm liked to think of it as a solution.

It was all part of the job description, after all.

The worry in his gut was his fuel for excellence. For perfection. It pained him, sometimes terribly, but to him it was a very small price to pay for perfection. For prowess and skill and progress and, above all, the lives of his squad. This pain was the siphoned danger from their mission, the invisible protector. Yes, it was a significantly small price.

Storm rose gingerly from the bed and ambled quietly to the lavatory, shutting the door and flicking on the light once it closed. He saw himself in the mirror, his sister's piercing blue eyes, his dark, buzzed hair, the stern brow, wide jaw, gaunt cheeks. His mouth was insidiously thin and unsmiling. The black sleeveless shirt that he slept in clung to the sculpted masses of muscle embedded in his torso. His face morphed into a scowl as one hand reached up and touched his cheek.

"I'm one ugly son of a bitch," he said almost inaudibly.

It was not that realization, however, that made Storm gag and lean over the toilet.

Sleep came easier afterward.

Morning arrived. Sigma Squad was already awake for it at 0600 hours sharp. They were in the Galley eating breakfast when Storm's comlink flashed red and beeped three times. Storm shut his eyes to mentally will the dread out of his stomach in lieu of the cup of coffee he was intent on finishing before he got up.

Puck, Tide, and Flare expectantly looked up from their toast and freeze-dried eggs to see their squad leader.

"I'll be back," Storm told them without actually looking at them. He turned to leave the Galley.

"Tell Sarge I say 'hey!'" Flare called facetiously after him.

Storm walked deliberately up the sleek hallway of the Crossex base, his eyes glued to the path and seeing no one else. New acquaintances sometimes made the mistake of greeting Storm in the halls before they learned after several attempts that Storm never responded. He was busy. No time for small talk, and when you greeted someone, such useless nuances were bound to happen.

Nobody said anything.

Storm squared himself in front of the door to Sarge's office. He simply hardened his gaze and stood with his arms behind his back, stiff at attention. Sarge would open the door when he was ready to yell himself hoarse.

There was a melodious ping which was a misleading prelude for the ensuing beating, then the door opened. Storm stepped into the office and snapped a rigid salute.

"Sigma-05 reporting, sir!"

"At ease," Sergeant Elias Kadlec said, motioning for Storm to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Storm sat, for the millionth time wishing that he could stand while being scolded; it made him feel less small. He placed his hands on his knees and looked stoically at Sergeant Kadlec. Storm's profile, CXS 1107-05, was open on the screen behind Sergeant Kadlec, his ugly mug staring at him from his ID picture.

Sarge looked down, drew a deep breath, and threaded his fingers on top of a folder laying on his desk. "Happy Birthday, Storm."

Storm's eyebrows lifted in bemusement. "Thank you, sir."

Sarge, smiling, leaned back in his chair and let it bounce with his weight. "You're eighteen today. Your squad is almost ready for its first real mission."

Storm simply waited for Sarge to go on.

"On everyone's eighteenth birthday, I ask them if they want to know anything about their families. Their real families. As an adult, it's time to let you know everything."

Storm considered this, but remained silent for several seconds.

"Well, Storm? What do you say?"

"I wouldn't know what to ask, sir."

Sarge did something peculiar: he chuckled. "You never were much for sentiments, Storm."

Sarge gave Storm an intense stare that made Storm squirm slightly in his seat, as it was a look that Storm had never seen on Sarge's face before. There was something almost soft about it, the way Sarge's green eyes were settled on him, not narrowed or angry, just... placid, slightly squinted as if there was a phantom smile on Sarge's face.

"I was actually rather disarmed by that quality of yours. You and your sister... you're both serious. You always have been, even when you were little." Sarge's eyes drifted to the ceiling and he seemed to have gone elsewhere for several seconds, or perhaps he wanted to pretend that Storm wasn't giving him a purposefully bored look. "I haven't been disappointed yet by my decision to make you squad leader. You've done an excellent job."

"Thank you, sir. But it's my birthday. Are you sure you're not just saying that?" Storm asked plainly.

Sarge chuckled again and leaned forward on the desk. "I'm sure." He looked down at the folder and opened it, flipping some papers. "Now, how about I just tell you everything that's in here?"

"Go right ahead, sir."

Sarge slipped on a pair of reading glasses, which under different circumstances would have made Storm mentally laugh, then began to read: "You were born Bruce Shepard just before your twin sister, Elisebeth Shepard. Your parents names are Craig and Wendy Shepard; you and your sister were their third and fourth child."

Sarge looked up at Storm, seeing that Storm had lowered his head and begun to stare at the floor between his feet. "Go on," Storm said after realizing Sarge had stopped because of him.

"You and your sister were conceived and bought by the military for this project," Sarge said carefully, now looking intently at Storm.

Storm raised his head and gave Sarge an incredulous look. "We were... bought?"

Sarge nodded grimly. "Bruce and Elisebeth Shepard were genetically enhanced to have traits favoring soldier-like qualities."

Storm could tell Sarge was reading straight from the file, now. "And that was legal?" Storm asked.

"'Was' and still is," Sarge said. His brow had furrowed with consternation when he noticed Storm's troubled look. "I'm sorry, Storm."

"Sorry for what? That my parents brought life into the galaxy to sell it to die?" Storm questioned bitterly.

Sarge let the folder drop from his hands and he shook his head, looking even more agitated by the second. "Storm, they did it to better the human race. They did it to protect--"

"Protect what?" Storm cut in. "The kids they wanted to keep?"

"All of us, Storm," Sarge said in a low voice. "Even you. You'll benefit from what you're going to do for the galaxy."

"If I don't die first," Storm muttered, looking down again at the floor.

"Storm," Sarge said gently after several seconds, "I can understand if you don't want to lead your squad into battle right away."

Storm raised his eyes dangerously. "With all due respect, sir, there's no way in hell I'm going to abandon my squad because of a bruise to my pride," he said very slowly, carefully. "I have a job to do, even if I didn't ask for it. But I'll be damned if I don't get it done, and done right."

Nodding, Sarge's eyes closed for a moment. "Very well, Storm. Is there anything else you would want to hear about?"

"Absolutely not, sir."

"Then you're dismissed. Tell your sister it's her turn."

"Yes, sir."

Storm stood and snapped a quick salute to Sarge before leaving the office. The door slid closed behind him, and Storm simply stood there as if he had forgotten which way led back to the Galley. Everything looked different, somehow. Ari, a young nurse in training that seemed to take a liking to Puck, noticed him standing there as she walked by. "Hello!" she said brightly.

"Hello," Storm said in a dazed response.

Ari stopped and smiled at him, looking like she had the face of a perfectly sculptured doll, her features soft. "It's your birthday today, isn't it?"

Storm nodded numbly.

"Happy birthday!" Ari said brightly. She gave him a hug, which Storm returned with one hand patting her awkwardly on the back. He stared over her shoulder at the opposite wall.

"Thanks," he said.

"Well, tell Tide I say 'happy birthday' too."

"Will do," Storm replied.

Ari left and Storm walked in the opposite direction, taking the long way back to the Galley where his squad was still waiting for him. He stopped short when he encountered the scene at the table.

Tide was sitting with her arms folded between Puck and Flare, her head adorned with a crown that had been cut out of white paper and decorated with highlighter markers. It read: "Birthday Queen."

"Storm," Tide said levelly, "leave now while you still have your dignity."

Puck grinned and said: "Well, he did just come back from Sarge's office."

"Puck," Storm said, looking wounded. "I wouldn't expect that coming from you. And on my birthday."

Puck wilted in his chair and wouldn't look up from the table at him, and it suddenly occurred to Storm that Puck thought he was being serious.

"I'm kidding, Puck," Storm said, trying to smile.

Puck chuckled nervously, and his uneasiness made Storm suddenly feel very small in front of his squad. At was at that moment that Flare reached over the table and put another paper hat on his head that read: "Birthday Boy."

"Uhm," Storm said awkwardly, "Tide, Sarge also wants to see you."

Tide tore off the paper crown and set it on the table, Flare looking devastated as she did so. "Bye, boys," she said, then took her leave of the Galley.

"So," Flare started, watching Storm as he sat himself down at the table, "what enlightening lectures did Sarge have for you on your birthday, big guy?"

Storm shrugged impartially. "He told me my name is Bruce."

Flare snorted and covered his mouth. "Bruce," he repeated, sniggering.

"I like Bruce," Puck said, propping up his elbows on the table. "It's a good name. At least it's not... Augusten or something, right?"

Storm started laughing. He was laughing so hard that he didn't see the strange looks that Flare and Puck gave him before they joined in laughing, hesitantly at first. Storm hit his fist on the table, trying to stop, then he bit the top of his hand and finally managed to calm down.

"Thanks, guys. I won't kick your asses in training today. How's that sound?"

"Divine," Puck said with a sigh of relief.

Flare put his arms behind his head and tipped back in his chair comfortably. "You sure are mellowing out in your old age, Storm."

"I hope so," Storm agreed quietly.