“Everyone, get on your fucking fours! Push-up position in FBO! Fucking hurry up!”

  Lieutenant Reynold’s scream reverberated throughout Pelican Reservoir, causing soldiers and commanders from afar to turn their heads in her direction. Murmurs from the observing batches started as they watched Batch 123 get pulverised. Many, with their water canteens held in half-musk, stopped and stared.

  “Looks like all of you are idiots! Not just idiots but fucking idiots!”

  “Quick, quick, come on, guys!” Bray stood up quickly to assist Dom in putting on his field pack and guarding his rifle. “Come, come, let’s hurry up.”

  “Damn right, Bray.” Dom adjusted the rifle forward, swapping positions with Bray and assisting him in putting on his field pack while holding onto his rifle.

  “What about you, Bray?”

  “Cover for me–”

  “Fucking hurry up. You bunch of fucking idiots! Hurry the fuck up!” Lieutenant Reynolds screamed again, and Bray began piling on everything he removed from the field pack back into it.

  “Ma’am, I need more time–”

  “Fucking hell, Recruit Rotunda! Are you telling me or asking me?! Fucking recruit!”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Why the fuck did you take out everything?! Are you trying to be smart, Recruit Rotunda?!”

  “No, ma’am–”

  A twisted, sadistic smile found its way onto Lieutenant Reynold’s lips. “Recruit Rotunda. Everything. Out.”

  Bray looked at his commander with a ghastly expression.

  “I said. Everything. Out.”

  Bray swallowed hard and hesitantly forced out a response. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Everything in his field pack was emptied and on full display for inspection within seconds. The combat rations. Towels. Extra sets of uniforms. Toothbrush. And more. Based on the force prep’s requirements, the items were neatly aligned next to each other without gaps.

  “Good, now put everything back in. You have,” Lieutenant Reynolds took out a stopwatch, “Sixty seconds.”

  “Sixty?!”

  “Oh, you seem rather confident! Let’s make that forty seconds instead.”

  Bray instantly wisened up. “Yes, ma’am! Permission to carry on!”

  “Carry on!”

  Bray had never completed a force-prep this quickly and almost puked from the stress he endured. Placing the items back into his field pack in the order he had taken them out, he completed the task easily with two seconds left to spare.

  “Ma’am, I’m done.”

  Without acknowledging him, Lieutenant Reynolds stood with her arms crossed as Bray immediately got into position. Even with his face almost turning blue, he did not want to burden his batchmates.

  “I’m ready, boys.”

  “Are you sure–”

  “We don’t have time, let’s do it. Go, go…”

  “Quick, come, hurry up.”

  “Alright…”

  In less than a minute, everyone had gotten ready. The only thing left was judgment day.

  Neptune looked around, his mind finally at ease after seeing his fellow batchmates helping one another by taking turns to get into their FBO. He charged to the front, giving a thumbs up to show an example.

  “All good, guys? Give me a thumbs-up.”

  His batchmates returned the thumbs-up, with Bray leading the charge. Neptune acknowledged it with a nod.

  “Alright, Batch 123, get on all fours!”

  Batch 123 dropped to the floor, entering the push-up position. They ignored the weight on their lower backs, wishing punishment came swiftly. Bray looked around to check if everyone was doing the same when he noticed Bronston disregarding the orders. Bray cursed under his breath, signalling Finn to force Bronston down to the ground.

  “Tell Bron!”

  “Bron, get on all fours, you idiot!”

  Finn tried forcing Bronston onto the ground. Instead, the angry musclehead snapped.

  “What the fuck! Fuck this woman! This bitch can’t punish me! She isn’t going to do a goddamn thing to me!”

  Bronston refused to budge, grabbing Finn by the collar.

  “Put your hands off me, Finn! Else, I’ll drop you where you fucking stand!”

  “Bron, wake the fuck up!” Finn screamed desperately into Bronston’s ear, sensing their commander’s patience about to reach their limits as she started walking towards them.

  “Dammit, Bron! Just drop to the damn floor, you dumbass!” Dom pleaded.

  “I’m not going to! Fucking make me!”

  “Recruit, are you deaf?! On your fucking fours!” Lieutenant Reynolds glared at Bronston. She then turned her attention towards her recruits. “Oh, you motherfuckers are in for a fucking treat.”

  That menacing hiss at the end of Lieutenant Reynold’s words made Neptune’s toes curl.

  Neptune stared at the grassy patch beneath him, his face almost touching the wondrous creation of nature. His lips were close to the grass as if about to share his first kiss with it. The infighting had gotten from bad to worse with the vulgarity screaming contest.

  What can I do?

  A hail-mary play, a scene from a movie he watched, if there ever was a time to embrace his inner acting skills–the time has finally presented itself.

  “...Ah!”

  Neptune dropped to the floor, bending his body to the limits like a professional contortionist. As though the field pack he carried had somehow broken his body in half, he writhed and squirmed in sadistic euphoric madness to the point he had believed it himself. Even if he knew it did not hurt physically, he still convinced himself that it did. Every minor detail–from screams to motions to facial expressions–had an execution pattern carried out with utmost surgical precision.

  That’s when he realised the power of emotions; the mastery of manipulating them could turn the tides of conflict overhead. Truth did not exist. Neither did lies. All that mattered was the desired outcome he wished upon. With most people’s emotions easily manipulable and malleable like water, he just needed to make a tiny adjustment to attain his desired results.

  “It hurts! Dammit! Someone…”

  The end.

  “...Help me! Help–”

  Right on cue, the facade dropped.

  “...Recruit Smith!!!”

  With nimble feet empowered by her athlete’s grace, Brenda turned around, her face stripped of its dazzling caramel tone, dashing toward her recruit.

  “S-someone, call the medic team! Now! I said now! Don’t just watch! Do something!”

  Brenda did not realise it, but her anxious tonality melted away her facade.

  “Ah-h-h, ah–”

  “A-are you ok, Recruit Smith?”

  Before Neptune could speak further, Brenda lifted her recruit from the ground, cradling him in her embrace as she looked deep into his eyes.

  “...I-I can’t feel my legs. Ma’am, I can’t feel them…”

  Neptune raised his forearms, covering his eyes in the process. He skillfully flashed his teeth, changing his facial expressions to match the imaginary pain simulated in his mind, masterfully reenacting the scene from a movie he binge-watched as a child. Thanks to his photographic memory, he could replicate the scene and possibly star in the role itself–if the producers decided to have a reboot.

  “It hurts. Ma’am, it hurts.”

  “You! Go get the medics!”

  Brenda turned around, barking orders to the nearest soldier, Damian, who stood there paralysed by what had transpired.

  “Yes, ma’am. But we are idiots.”

  “Now is not the time for this!” Brenda groaned desperately.

  “B-but…M-ma’am, what are we supposed to do?”

  “Recover? I said recover–”

  “Let me handle this! Ma’am, permission for Batch 123 to recover!”

  Bray cut in to replace the stunned Damian, noticing several of his fellow batchmates still in push-up positions, unsure whether to stand back up or remain in this position until their commander gave new orders.

  “Re-recover! Quickly, go, go! ” She then screamed while supporting her injured recruit to a vertical base. “Do you feel better?”

  “H-Ha, ha, ha-a-a. No, ma’am, I still can’t feel anything,” Tears started to stream down Neptune’s cheeks as he recalled a sad movie scene, causing him to choke on his words. “Ma’am, the Field Camp has just begun…I don’t want my brothers to go through this without me…”

  “I understand. Just hold on, ok?”

  “...Yes…Yes, ma’am. A-Are my brothers okay?”

  “Yes, yes, don’t move too much. The medics are on the way. Just hold on.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Brenda spotted the medics arriving with a stretcher, with her recruit running alongside them to guide them toward her under the shade.

  “Ma’am, the medics have arrived!”

  “Roger, bring them over here!”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Bray jogged briskly toward his commander, accompanied by the medics carrying the stretcher above their heads. A slow-walking soldier followed behind methodically, his attire significantly different from the combat medics with their stretcher. Neptune noticed something on the soldier’s arm: a medical armband and a commissioned officer’s rank. It seemed this soldier was uninterested, with bored eyes frozen in place.

  “Let me handle this, lowly infantry officer. Move aside for greatness.” The officer used his stethoscope to read the injured soldier’s vitals. “Hmm…”

  “Is he okay, Dr Pavlov?”

  “I didn’t permit you to speak. He can do better under my care than yours.”

  “I’ll leave him in your professional hands, then.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “...You can at least talk to me nicely, Dr Pavlov.”

  “Shoo, shoo. Get lost, you infantry officer.”

  “You don’t have to be this rude.”

  "Am I? Really? Don’t get too over yourself, Miss Infantry Officer. Let me, a certified professional, have him at the medical shed for a while. Amateurs like you just stand by and wait for the experts to handle the real stuff.”

  “If we weren’t in uniforms, I’d punch you in the balls. Whatever, that will be good. Thanks,” Brenda sighed softly. “Boris, you mind helping me lift my recruit?”

  Boris lowered his apparatus and eased his head slowly toward Brenda. It was as though his ears had picked up something akin to an insult (to him).

  “Hold up, Miss Infantry Officer.”

  “Is there a problem…?”

  “Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?”

  Despite sharing the same rank (and seniority), Boris felt his Medical Officer title held a higher significance than “just another infantry stooge.”

  “You don’t have to play appointments here–”

  Boris raised his eyebrows, puffing his chest out. “I’m a Medical Officer, not some infantry loser like you, Brenda Reynolds! Know your role and shut your mouth!”

  “Come on, Boris.” Brenda facepalmed, groaning loudly. “You’ll never shut up about it.”

  Boris placed his hands on his waist and lifted his head to the skies, ready to educate the lowly combat officer on his scholarly achievements as she appeared to have forgotten about them.

  “Of course not! I’m the United Atlantea Federation’s scholar! The youngest! The greatest! The smartest! The genius who received his medical degree within a year! Yes, that’s me! Call me Meister Doctor, the legendary Dr Boris Pavlov!”

  Boris adjusted his spectacles to the tip of his nose, eyeing Brenda with scrutiny, awaiting a response from her.

  “Good for you, but can’t you tell we have an emergency on our hands?”

  Brenda started to get pissed but respected Boris’s authority and status, permitting him to finish his monologue.

  “It seems you are at a loss for words, mortal. The greatness of Dr Boris Pavlov knows no bounds!”

  “I know how great you are, but now’s not the time for this. My recruit is hurt. Can you at least use your giant brain to help him? I’m not asking you to write a freaking thesis!”

  “Oh.”

  Boris touched his forehead, realising his speech had gone too far, finally settling himself back on earth again.

  “No wonder they have summoned me!”

  “Why else would I have called for your help, Dr Pavlov…?”

  “Good question.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  Boris felt his massive ego getting poked as a vein popped up, prompting him to rise from his squatted position. “Don’t make me walk away, Brenda Reynolds!”

  ‘W-wait!”

  “Ask me nicely, then.”

  “My recruit is hurt and needs immediate attention. Can you and your Medical Corps attend to my recruit?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Pretty please, Dr Pavlov…?”

  Boris seemingly enjoyed getting a reaction out of Brenda. “Well, of course! That’s why I’m stationed here! Medics, come over here!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Come on, medics! Hurry up.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “They’re taking too goddamn long. Brenda, assist me with lifting your recruit. Let’s carry him on, three, two, and…one!”

  Boris and Brenda’s combined effort lifted Neptune to a standing position. Brenda then shouted at the combat medics, directing them to come over.

  “Medics, come here now!”

  The medics rushed quicker to Brenda’s aid over their MO.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “What the hell, you perverts only move quicker when a beautiful lady tells you to?!”

  “Sir…”

  “I’ll punish you horny bastards later.”

  “Please, sir–”

  “I was just joking. Whatever. Ok, medics, on my count, lay him down on the stretcher!” Boris instructed his team as he looked at Brenda to coordinate their movements.

  “Three! Two! One! Perfect!”

  The material wasn’t comfortable, but it beat having to sit with crossed legs for hours while always needing to stay on guard in case a commander swoops in to steal one of their combat equipment. As his mind wandered, he heard a feminine voice speak to him worriedly.

  “I-Is everything okay, Recruit Smith?”

  “...Y-Yes, ma’am. Take care of Batch 123. I’m sorry, but I’m going away for a while.”

  “It’s ok. Rest well,” Brenda patted her recruit on the shoulder as he lay on the stretcher before turning to Boris. “Dr Pavlov, kindly take care of my recruit. Can you report to me his status every hour?”

  “That’s a little excessive, Miss Infantry Officer.”

  “Pretty please?” Brenda effortlessly blinked her luscious eyes and pleaded. Her beautiful, plump lips also moved in a sensual rhythm.

  Boris rolled his eyes. “I give up. You’re lucky you’re hot. I’ll drop you a message on the comms every hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He then faced his Medical Corps, rubbing his hands together at the thought of finally getting utilised since getting his monthly fat paychecks.

  “Stand attention!”

  The sounds of the Medical Corps stopping their feet in unison, ready for their next orders.

  “Alright, my medics, are you ready to do some work?!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then, let’s proceed!”

  Boris stepped back to watch his combat medics spread out to the four corners of the stretcher.

  “On my mark, let’s head back to the medical shed! It’s time to work!”

  The medical shed was a far cry from the air-conditioned Medical Wing located in the administrative wards of Ravens Camp. The Logistics Officer had instructed his logistical support team to pitch a tent, invoking the memories of olden warfare scenarios. The equipment setup was primitive, a complete one-eighty from the state-of-the-art facilities in the Medical Wing. Then again, it had shelter compared to the recruits who had to endure the heat.

  “Smith, that’s your name, right?”

  Boris tossed a book he was reading onto the nearby bench before walking beside the stretcher with the recruit his combat medics were carrying.

  “Yes, sir,” Neptune replied, clutching his heart to carry on the performance show he enacted.

  “You can drop that damn act, dammit.”

  “Sir, I’m hurt.”

  “You’re a good liar, you know that?”

  “What…?”

  “Forget about that. You’re smart, how about that? Also, what an interesting name you have there. Your parents must have named you after the god of the seas.”

  “That’s the second time–”

  “I’m not the first?! That’s unacceptable. You know what, recruit?”

  “What, sir?”

  “Nobody’s here to tell me to police me on how I choose to call you.”

  Neptune noticed the MO’s stack of books on his makeshift table. “You enjoy reading books, sir?”

  “Yes, but not so much as last time. Books are great, but you know what’s better?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Boris adjusted his spectacles, ready to deliver his Magnum opus–a mental script he had prepared for his valedictorian speech, which, due to time constraints during his graduation ceremony, he couldn’t present.

  “Books are a great source of inspiration, allowing the mind to visualise what the writer wrote about. However, it is limited to what the writer wants you to feel and think. You want to know why?”

  “Why, sir?”

  “The writer has an invisible boundary he cannot expand beyond. Think about the books you have read. What do they tell you about reality?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  Shaking his head, he pointed at his combat medics to leave the “injured” recruit on the stretcher after laying him down on the grass after they finally arrived at the medical shed.

  “...Hold on, Recruit Smith. Let me talk to my medics.”

  “Medical Corps!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “My medics, please go take a break. We’ll resume the checks on Recruit Smith in a few minutes. Go rest up!” Boris addressed his medics, permitting them to take a much-needed break after finally being put to work before he could direct all his attention to his patient.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Boris watched his combat medics scurrying off into the distance, possibly to hydrate themselves with a can of ice-cold isotonic beverage.

  “Before I forget, grab me a can or two, will you?”

  His medics did not respond, causing Boris to heave a giant sigh.

  “Looks like they can’t hear me, but whatever. I’ll grab some later. Where were we?”

  “Something about–”

  “It was a figure of speech. I have a good memory.” Boris grabbed a foldable camp chair, placing it firmly beside his patient’s motionless body on the stretcher. “Books are information sources based on what the people who publish them want you to know. Think about it…The author can write anything and everything! That begs the question, why can’t he sprout lies to paint them as truth!”

  “I…never thought about it this way.”

  “Heh, that is why…I said there’s something better.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Do you want to know what it is, Neptune?”

  “Sir, I don’t think I’m at your level yet.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’.”

  “Then what should I call you, sir?

  “I said don’t call me sir.”

  “Then what should I call you…?”

  “Good question.”

  “I thought you had an answer, sir.”

  “I said don’t call me sir.”

  “So what, then?”

  “Dr Pavlov.”

  “Roger that, Dr Pavlov.”

  “Don’t speak so seriously with me, young Smith.”

  “Then, how am I supposed to talk to you?!”

  Neptune’s exchange with the MO got him all confused. For a man touted to be the Federation’s only genius, Dr Boris Pavlov carried a uniquely odd figure of speech, making him impossible to understand–and at times, comprehend.

  “Don’t worry about that. Besides,” Boris whipped out a small piece of paper from the pocket of his uniform. From his pants pockets, he drew a pen to write on the paper in his hands. “Look here, I’m giving you a three-day medical certificate.”

  “What’s this, Dr Pavlov?”

  Boris gave out a loud chuckle at Neptune’s transparency.

  “I’m legitimately surprised.” Seemingly pleased with his patient, Boris paused before carrying on yapping. “This paper is every soldier’s favourite silver bullet, but you don’t seem like the type of soldier who would skirt responsibility. You know what? You don’t have to know what this certificate is. Here, just take it.”

  “As you wish, Dr Pavlov.”

  “I’ll let your commanders know about it. All you have to know is this! You can only perform light duties during the Field Camp. Most importantly, you must report to the medical shed for an examination at the end of every day!”

  “Roger that, Dr Pavlov.”

  “Alright, wait over here! I’m going to grab us some ice-cold drinks to rehydrate ourselves!” Boris danced away as he stood up, satisfied with his latest treasure haul.

  “At least get me out of the stretcher?!” Neptune lifted his head from his mummified position.

  “That can wait.”

  “...Yes, Dr Pavlov.”