It's Day One and John's Nervous As Fuck. He's not really sure how the fuck he got picked out of the marines to join the RRTS. He barely survived boot camp without Jumper holding his hand. He was the kid quietly crying in the bathroom because he wanted to go home, and now he's in this elite squad of mercenaries... and he's not sure how that happened.
Now he's heading down the steps to find his squad and his NCO, orders clutched in his hand and bag over his shoulder. He comes down just as the group is dispersing and he already knows there was a fight. Either playful or instructional or genuine. Doesn't much matter. Not much of a difference. He's not sure who's who, most people go back to their business without noticing him. He looks around for the mess of ginger hair that belongs to Jumper; something familiar to cling to, but instead his eyes fall on this fucking mountain of a man that makes John feel exactly three inches tall.
"You've got red on you," he blurts out and nods to the guy's shirt.
Sarge runs a tight ship. It's the RRTS; you expect any less, people die. There's already a pretty high mortality rate in the division, considering all the places they get sent, all the shitholes they end up deployed to. Tensions get high, boil over. Fights are pretty much guaranteed, no matter how close-knit the group gets, but it's one of the few forms of outburst he doesn't go out of his way to prevent, so long as it doesn't get out of hand. 'Unscheduled Training Exercises,' they're called.
Usually, they're nothing major. A scuffle here or there, a punch thrown, returned, some grappling and kicking and then one or the other decides they've said their piece and consider it resolved. But the latest game was bad. The kind that sticks with you, that chases even the most hardened marine home, and lock a bunch of testosterone-filled humans with years of training focused on the fine art of killing people in a room and even after the debrief something's bound to snap eventually. So he lets it happen, even after he starts seeing the signs that it's coming. Lets the two try to beat the shit out of each other, but then there's first blood. Second blood. They don't stop, pushed too far and too hopped up on battle instinct and fights won by the skin of the teeth, so he steps in to keep the casualties from climbing any higher, lays out with swift, efficient movements to shut it down then sends the bigger mess to medical and the aggressor upstairs to cool off.
And then he turns around and there's one of the new recruits standing there, staring up at him like he just walked into the wrong building and hasn't figured out how to say something about it yet.
He glances down when it's pointed out, although he's not particularly surprised by the development; the way they were both bleeding he'd be more surprised if he didn't, and a streak across the front where the guy who got sent to medical leaned before he caught him and steered him off after steadying him, really, in the grand scheme of things, isn't so bad comparatively. So he looks back up at the guy and breaks into a companionable smile.
"Training exercise," he explains without missing a beat, then holds out his hand. "You must be Grimm, one of the new recruits. Welcome to RRTS."
He misreads the gesture and hands him his orders instead of his hand. There's a nervous glance around the hallway before he reels it in and stares up at Sarge. He's trying his best not to have the fresh meat for the grinder look about him, just everyone else that comes in fresh and green.
There's part of him that just wants to laugh at the kid. Clap him on the back, tell him to relax. They've got some downtime, there's no need to go shouting and snapping to attention like they're getting ready for parade. But there's a distance to maintain, professional, and while yeah, there's no need to get too crazy about it in an outfit like this, he's not their buddy either.
He settles for halfway. Takes the orders then grasps his hand without looking at them, shakes it a couple times before letting him go.
"At ease, marine," comes the reassurance. "We're not going anywhere just yet."
His handshake is like the rest of him. Nervous, and kinda limp until he understands what's going on and tries for something a little more substantial.
"No missions, then?"
Of course he's eager. Even if he's standing here with his bag over his shoulder, no bunk, no clue where or what, but he's still dying to drop everything and run out there. Because it's how he's supposed to be, right? That's what they expect?
"Oh, sure. Operation like this we get one every couple weeks, and that's a conservative estimate. Once you step through those doors the only way you pass back through is with orders or in a bag. We don't stop except for training or mandatory leave. We are the last defense, and we are ready to roll at any time.
Just don't have anything today, that's all. Consider it an orientation day, who knows how many you'll get."
There's a beat, a glance over the rest of the group, and then he returns his attention to Grimm. The kid looks like he's still trying to decide if he should rabbit or buckle down, if this kind of thing is really his gig. So he claps a hand on his shoulder, nudges him towards the stairs.
It's a true observation. He really does want to drop his bag and run away. Run back to Sam, get back to college, get some nice little degree, spend his life studying rocks out in the middle of nowhere. Away from people and civilization, and everything that makes existence complicated. Except he doesn't want to do that. There's something to prove here, even if he's not really sure what that is.
He follows Sarge down the hallway, making sure to get a good look at everything they pass. He doesn't wanna be the new guy that gets lost in the compound again, and he's also still looking around for his friend.
There's really not much in the way of following; the hand doesn't leave the shoulder, just kind of steers him around until he's sure Grimm gets the idea and only then drops. They pass doors and doors, some of them courteously labeled, others less so; mess, weight room, records room, armory. Commissary. Library. Range. Hallways leading to bunking for other squads. The more secure areas have readers affixed to the wall next to the doors, blinking lights inexorably awaiting use.
He glances down at the orders then, scans through them. Tries to get a reading, although they're just words on a page in the end. They don't really tell you much without the rest. Suggestions, past behavior, service record, sure, and it's all good enough to tell him why he's here as far as his superiors are concerned. But it's not the whole picture.
"I asked to be here. Heard the Hellfighters were the best, sir."
Yeah, he knows that the question might run deeper than that, but it's become habit to pretend he's dumber than he is. Here, he doesn't want to be the kid that graduated high school at fifteen and had colleges throw scholarships at him. He just wants to be one of them.
"That we are. Most successful missions, roughest games. You stick around long enough, you might even get a medal. You want action, you want to work with the roughest, toughest sons-of-bitches the Corps has to offer, this is the squad you go to."
A beat, and he stops to look the kid over, the intent, probing gaze that tends to unsettle most of his men. The one that says he can see inside you, see what you are. That he's measuring you, and might not like what he finds there.
"We're also the one with the highest turnaround and the highest casualties. Most guys show up here, all spit and polish and ready to jump in with both feet, but the minute they see the kind of action we pull they can't transfer fast enough. You may want to be here, your orders may say somebody else thinks you're good enough for it. But I gotta know you can handle it.
So I'll ask again, and I don't want the answer everybody gives. I see enough about you here that says you got a better one. Why are you here."
He can't hold that gaze. Can't even look into those eyes because it does feel like his new CO is peeling away very single layer and peering into his very core. Just slightly more than he can handle.
"I'm here because I want to be here. I'm not scared of dying."
That, at least, is as earnest as it can be. To an extent. Total honesty would be to say that he fully expects to die here.
It's not a statement most can say with any conviction. It's one thing to say you're that committed, another to practically exude it; Grimm? Is the latter. There's something resigned in his look, something that fills in the rest without him having to say it. Most know it, objectively; the numbers don't lie, chances are you join Six and you don't get out until you're dead. Usually way sooner than you were expecting. But Grimm? He knows it, he can see that. There's a story there. A reason; most don't have that kind of certainty, that lack of regard, without a damn good reason, but Sarge doesn't push it. Only files it away. Something to keep in mind.
Regardless, the statement gains the new recruit an upward twist of lips, something almost approving, or at least as close to it as he usually allows. The probing look relaxes, drops down into something more casual, almost friendly.
"We'll see, but that's half the battle. You keep that attitude, you give me everything you got, you'll do just fine.
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Now he's heading down the steps to find his squad and his NCO, orders clutched in his hand and bag over his shoulder. He comes down just as the group is dispersing and he already knows there was a fight. Either playful or instructional or genuine. Doesn't much matter. Not much of a difference.
He's not sure who's who, most people go back to their business without noticing him. He looks around for the mess of ginger hair that belongs to Jumper; something familiar to cling to, but instead his eyes fall on this fucking mountain of a man that makes John feel exactly three inches tall.
"You've got red on you," he blurts out and nods to the guy's shirt.
no subject
Usually, they're nothing major. A scuffle here or there, a punch thrown, returned, some grappling and kicking and then one or the other decides they've said their piece and consider it resolved. But the latest game was bad. The kind that sticks with you, that chases even the most hardened marine home, and lock a bunch of testosterone-filled humans with years of training focused on the fine art of killing people in a room and even after the debrief something's bound to snap eventually. So he lets it happen, even after he starts seeing the signs that it's coming. Lets the two try to beat the shit out of each other, but then there's first blood. Second blood. They don't stop, pushed too far and too hopped up on battle instinct and fights won by the skin of the teeth, so he steps in to keep the casualties from climbing any higher, lays out with swift, efficient movements to shut it down then sends the bigger mess to medical and the aggressor upstairs to cool off.
And then he turns around and there's one of the new recruits standing there, staring up at him like he just walked into the wrong building and hasn't figured out how to say something about it yet.
He glances down when it's pointed out, although he's not particularly surprised by the development; the way they were both bleeding he'd be more surprised if he didn't, and a streak across the front where the guy who got sent to medical leaned before he caught him and steered him off after steadying him, really, in the grand scheme of things, isn't so bad comparatively. So he looks back up at the guy and breaks into a companionable smile.
"Training exercise," he explains without missing a beat, then holds out his hand. "You must be Grimm, one of the new recruits. Welcome to RRTS."
no subject
He misreads the gesture and hands him his orders instead of his hand. There's a nervous glance around the hallway before he reels it in and stares up at Sarge. He's trying his best not to have the fresh meat for the grinder look about him, just everyone else that comes in fresh and green.
no subject
He settles for halfway. Takes the orders then grasps his hand without looking at them, shakes it a couple times before letting him go.
"At ease, marine," comes the reassurance. "We're not going anywhere just yet."
no subject
"No missions, then?"
Of course he's eager. Even if he's standing here with his bag over his shoulder, no bunk, no clue where or what, but he's still dying to drop everything and run out there. Because it's how he's supposed to be, right? That's what they expect?
no subject
Just don't have anything today, that's all. Consider it an orientation day, who knows how many you'll get."
There's a beat, a glance over the rest of the group, and then he returns his attention to Grimm. The kid looks like he's still trying to decide if he should rabbit or buckle down, if this kind of thing is really his gig. So he claps a hand on his shoulder, nudges him towards the stairs.
"Walk with me."
no subject
It's a true observation. He really does want to drop his bag and run away. Run back to Sam, get back to college, get some nice little degree, spend his life studying rocks out in the middle of nowhere. Away from people and civilization, and everything that makes existence complicated. Except he doesn't want to do that. There's something to prove here, even if he's not really sure what that is.
He follows Sarge down the hallway, making sure to get a good look at everything they pass. He doesn't wanna be the new guy that gets lost in the compound
again, and he's also still looking around for his friend."So what's the plan for the new guy?"
no subject
He glances down at the orders then, scans through them. Tries to get a reading, although they're just words on a page in the end. They don't really tell you much without the rest. Suggestions, past behavior, service record, sure, and it's all good enough to tell him why he's here as far as his superiors are concerned. But it's not the whole picture.
"That depends. Why are you here, John?"
no subject
Yeah, he knows that the question might run deeper than that, but it's become habit to pretend he's dumber than he is. Here, he doesn't want to be the kid that graduated high school at fifteen and had colleges throw scholarships at him. He just wants to be one of them.
no subject
A beat, and he stops to look the kid over, the intent, probing gaze that tends to unsettle most of his men. The one that says he can see inside you, see what you are. That he's measuring you, and might not like what he finds there.
"We're also the one with the highest turnaround and the highest casualties. Most guys show up here, all spit and polish and ready to jump in with both feet, but the minute they see the kind of action we pull they can't transfer fast enough. You may want to be here, your orders may say somebody else thinks you're good enough for it. But I gotta know you can handle it.
So I'll ask again, and I don't want the answer everybody gives. I see enough about you here that says you got a better one. Why are you here."
no subject
"I'm here because I want to be here. I'm not scared of dying."
That, at least, is as earnest as it can be. To an extent. Total honesty would be to say that he fully expects to die here.
no subject
Regardless, the statement gains the new recruit an upward twist of lips, something almost approving, or at least as close to it as he usually allows. The probing look relaxes, drops down into something more casual, almost friendly.
"We'll see, but that's half the battle. You keep that attitude, you give me everything you got, you'll do just fine.
Any questions so far?"