The new raft of privates needs a strong hand. Not unusual, of course, but the cohort coming out of Columbus has a few particularly cantankerous additions that are carrying over baggage from boot camp. Smith and Jarvis land themselves in disciplinary action in record time--Jarvis for being a classic piece of shit bully, and Smith for trying to solve it by being slick (pranks, wiseassery, and ultimately picking a vicious fight) instead of running it up the chain of command.
A month of scrubbing toilets for an hour first thing in the morning and the blessed rigor of training seems to break them easy enough. Even if tempers didn't cool, they would at least be too exhausted to let them flare up. Mischief temporarily managed, the next month gives Smith a chance to prove himself to be something more than just a sneak--which he is. He's also a loudmouth, especially with leadership. Especially for people that won't open their mouths themselves. He's reckless, which drives him to dumb choices and to try things that others are afraid to try. He's critical and stubborn, which puts him at odds with his peers and betters on more than one occasion--but if we can beat the stubbornness out of him, he's got the eye for spotting and the nerve for making decisive moves.
He could be a leader in the field. He could be a candidate for Force Recon, if he can tighten up quick and come to heel. Why don't you an eye on him, Frank? Mentor him a little, it'll be good for you. Like having a dog. Just have a couple lunches together, encourage him to start developing this skill or that--keep him out of trouble.
The kind of trouble Frank might want to look out for is the kind of trouble Smith came in with. The heat with Jarvis never extinguished, just went to the backburner and simmered. Still simmers, as Smith starts to learn and distinguish himself and Jarvis struggles to find even a sliver of promotion material in his fabric. In the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal; every branch needs grunts. But watching Smith find his coltish footing is a splinter in his heel. Every approving look, hit target, executed exercise, or intercepted basketball in a pick-up game drives it deeper and sets it festering.
Big pain from a little wound, and after butting heads furiously ruins that day's field exercise, Jarvis makes a big move to get relief. Most of the platoon is blowing off steam--hitting the gym, studying harder, heading off base for rest and recreation after a devastating debrief. Quentin goes to the pool to do laps till he has his mistakes straight in his head. In the showers after, he feels better, has some idea of what he'll do to correct himself. On his walk down to the barracks, he's even feeling good before he rounds the corner and catches a punch that drives the air out of his core.
Things have changed since the last time they tussled, and if it was just Jarvis, he might be able to hold his own. But when he tries to tackle Jarvis to the ground, the two backups that came along catch Quentin mid-dive, wrenching him back by the arms and hanging him for another blow. Grips rattling his shoulder sockets, knuckles battering his soft sides, boots crunching against ribs and hips and knees as they toss him to the ground, but nothing to his face--not till Jarvis' weight drops on his stomach and his sweat-sticky palm fastens around Quentin's jaw.
"All that cocksucking don't mean much if you still shit the bed on the field." Jarvis hisses. When Quentin bucks and jostles him, one of the other men sits on his legs, the other pinning his wrists to the concrete floor. "Sarge really let you have it. Didn't you swallow for him last night?"
His fingertips grind into Quentin's cheeks, pressing his teeth open for a schoolyard slight that looks strange against the rest of the violence--a wad of spit dripping long from Jarvis' pursed lips, aimed for Quentin's wedged-open mouth.
That injustice, that splinter, they don't pry it out. Shit, that infection? It roots out the weak. They burn up don't they? Can't shake it, that itch, that fever, that need. Marines don't need. So those who know, who have shaken the fever, they come up good. The ones who never get sick and tend to themselves, they come up good. But those who look the fever in the eyes and walk away? Well, those are the ones who come up the best.
Seems like Smith isn't walking away. Ah, sure, the guy tried. Sorta. The brass, they tell Frank there's something about this kid but him? Frank just sees a skinny shitheel with a tongue too big for his mouth. He can set to, he can hup, but he can't keep his dick in his pants. Still, bottom line is Marines don't need.
Frank has heavy boots, but he is a quiet motherfucker. The third of this little gangbang sits down without a sound. Shit, he'll wake up fine. Maybe a headache. Certainly not worse then the extra duty they'll assign him. Digging latrines is archaic shit - no pun intended. It's the needless duties that hurt the most. Maybe they'll straight BCD him, then he'll have to go back to whatever slum he crawled out of just to break his back making less than minimum wage. Frank turns from the shadow of the barracks to watch.
Jarvis grabs Smith's jaw as the other sits on his legs. Christ, this shit. Some of these assholes don't realize they're not in high school anymore. This is the fester. Jarvis. He's just burning up. And the fever has reach, even Frank can see that. One rabid dog with fangs. Frank breathes in, and out.
Brass says get a pet so Frank, Frank grabs a leash.
He lets the spit fall though.
Bingo, fuckwad. Nice shot.
And Frank is quiet, for a hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. Jarvis is still looking at Smith's mouth when his second is lifted off the ground and smashed into the wall behind them. No more schoolyard shit, that's not how it's done around here. Truth is that violence against corps is general anathema; but there are appropriate allowance made. They've all got leashes; Frank's is long. The recruit in his hands drops like a ragdoll, body against the ground making a sound that even a shithead like Jarvis can't ignore - so as the impact of unconscious weight is still thumping against the walls between barracks, Frank's boot is against Jarvis's ass with more than enough force to send him sprawling.
By the time Quentin registers either his freed limbs or the cigarette-sour drool hitting his tongue, Jarvis is already lurching forward. He'd spit it back, but Lt. Castle scares the shit out of him, and it might land on the inside of his leg, so Quentin swallows. Ducks and covers to keep Jarvis from stumbling up his sinus cavity. The second fluorescent light reaches him again, he scrambles back from the sounds of scuffle. He doesn't look until he's pulled himself up to attention against the wall, aching from his ribs to his knees, taking the second that attention isn't on him to scrape spit and angry tears off his face.
Looking down, he spots one of Jarvis' bunkmates in dazed consciousness and winds his jaw tighter against gasping. Shit. Shit, they're all gonna get in trouble. His mouth opens to--what, tell Castle to stop? Tell Jarvis to stop? His jaw snaps shut again just as quick as he watches Jarvis visibly, obviously make the probably-wise decision not to book it down the open hall. There aren't any good decisions for him at this point, but coming to red-faced attention is the least bad choice he could make. Probably. But then he has to open his damn mouth.
He stacks loose hands one over the other on top of his stomach, as if he should be holding a gun made safe. There's never any real stillness with Frank; his tongue is wetting lips, his fingers move, his weight shifts. As a cadet it earned him barks by his COs, sharp shoulders from his cohorts, earned him enough pushups that lifting his arms the next day made him cry.
As a CO himself? It just makes him scary.
Frank sighs at Jarvis. It's a big sigh. "Is that so." It's not a question - he's already cutting dark eyes back over his shoulder at Smith. Guy looks like he's about the piss himself... or already has. "Private Smith it seems there are some very serious accusations being leveled against you. You got anything to say for yourself?"
Jarvis' fate (little does he know) has already been determined but Frank wants to know what kind of man he's being asked to collar in Smith. He holds the younger man's eyes. It's intimidating. Everything about the Marines is intimidating.
Quentin's chin tucks as if he's dodging a blow, but his response comes out unflinching: "He's wrong, sir.
"But we're all tired. It's been a long day, I'm sure Private Jarvis just--" There's no checking in with Jarvis, whose insult-and-fear cocktail is turning his face nearly purple. Sweaty and shaky and rattled though he may be, at least Quentin's eyes are sure on Castle's as he huffs once. "--lost his mind. Happens to the best of us."
"Nah." Franks snorts. "It doesn't. How's that spit, taste, Smith? You still sucking it down?"
He looks at Jenkins and his smile, it's nothing but the devil in human skin. There's no forgiving, no remorse. Jarvis knows the rules. Rules are to be tested and bent and that's fine but what he's done here has broken them. So Frank smiles, and it's not comforting. Not that it looks like Jarvis would be comforted. "I think that one of you is bullshit. I think the other's a pussy." He's not going to let them guess who's who. Frank takes a step back. "Smith."
The smile is all for Jarvis. "I get that you might have watched movies that told you tattling in the corp is bad. I'm here to tell you that protecting shit that disables the unit is worse. Stop making excuses." It's a nice way of saying that Frank's happy to toss the baby out with the bathwater. If there's a sin here here it's shoring up the weak link - which is what Smith is doing. He gets one more chance to state the facts. "What happened today on the field?" A direct question. A Marine doesn't need, he falls in line.
That smarts his pride, makes his gaze falter while he swallows. This is bullshit. This whole situation, both of these guys--bullshit. Quentin's jaw works, and he knocks his chin up straight again. Obeying, but not happy about it, and not trying to hide it in the fucking least:
"It's all in the file, Lt. Castle. I had a unit, I tried to lead them through a maneuver that I developed in my capacity as point, but Private Jarvis took umbrage with my orders. You saw how hard we got our asses kicked in the aftermath. I can't speak for the private, but my best guess is he's still sore about it, sir."
Jarvis' breath wheezes out of him like a slow leak, teeth pinched like he's about to form any number of nasty names.
Frank laughs. He caws. Because Jesus H. Christ. Smith is sticking his finger in a failing dam instead of clearing the area and Jarvis - well, Jarvis is the fuckin' leak. Standing here like a kettle on boil with the lid on.
He could say that at least Jarvis isn't spitting shit, maybe the file will reflect that later, but Frank doesn't think so. This is all down to how many privates wash out tonight.
Frank would say two. Brass has other ideas. He's here to prove them right, or wrong.
"Not your place to make guesses, Smith. I didn't fuckin' ask about Jarvis' feelings." Frank's eyes are still on the young man in question. Assessing how fast he'll break. And how much of that should be Smith's responsibility. "It was an exercise, private." To Jarivs, who's already damned - how much is the question. "This ain't some life or death shit, not yet. It's not about being king of the hill. You're here to listen to your leader."
Franks steps back now, clears the way. Looks at Smith. "You were in charge. Do what you shoulda done out there. Go on."
There's not a right answer, but Smith's actions will have repercussions. That's life.
Now Frank's attention is won. He smirks as he turns, his hands still at rest over his stomach. Smith, up there against the wall like a duck in line but again with that tongue in his mouth, gets a once-over. "Boy you are toeing a line you can't even see, but sure. I'll indulge you."
He doesn't step forward because he's aware of Jarvis, still in his periphery.
"Tell me why me asking you to follow an order, just like you asked Private Shitbag here, is bullshit." Frank actually stills as he waits for an answer.
"Because you're not making orders for the good of the platoon or for a life-and-death mission, Lt. Castle." His blood beats against his ears like it's going to break out. Lt. Castle scares the shit out of him. Christ, he's gonna get discharged. "You're just getting your rocks off the same way he does."
Smith should be scared; there's no humor in the way the smile Frank offers twists his mouth. He checks Jarvis, still standing and looking mutinous, before giving his attention back to Smith, taking a step closer.
"I am your platoon, Private. Jarvis here is your platoon. You would know if I was getting my rocks off because all four of you would be packing your bags. What I am doing is giving you a chance. The only order I am giving you is to deal with Jarvis the way you should have as his leader in the exercise. You think that's bullshit? You are free to go."
He's not asking him to punch Jarvis, to take him apart. Frank doesn't need to see blood; he spent a long time learning that blood isn't the only way to learn a lesson. Frank is asking for Smith for his own opinion.
20 days to decide if q stays or runs, then to write 25% of another book about it
In some ways--in a lot of ways, he wishes Castle had just agreed. Leaned into being the kind of junk-jerking, megalomaniacal sadist that half the middling leadership tends towards, because that would be easy. Quentin's good at taking a beating and feeling self-righteous about it. It's gotten him this far, though letting it get him here, to this moment specifically is admittedly less than ideal. This would be easier if he knew he was right. About Castle, about the operation, about how to handle a problem like Jarvis.
The problem is, he doesn't. He doesn't have a fucking clue, and he'd planned on just riding it out.
If Castle hasn't already observed his absolute lack of poker face, Quentin gives him a robust show now. It's a herculean effort to keep his face from twisting up in frustration, and no amount of effort keeps color from flooding his cheeks and ears as he tries to run the numbers on this. He telegraphs his nerves with a deep breath in that he keeps in his lungs like an anchor as he turns his eyes on Jarvis. In a stage shout, closed off before it can tilt into actual yelling: "Private Jarvis, I need to ask you a question."
Private Jarvis straightens up with similar (if a bit disdainful) resolve. "Please do." "Did you purposefully disregard my orders in the field today?"
"I did, sir."
"Why?"
"Your orders were going to lead us to failure." That gets the kind of bark that echoes off the walls, boosted by spite.
Quentin bristles, shoulders pinning back farther. "And how much success did starting a pissing match in the middle of a firefight bring us?"
Jarvis' glare goes unfocused, jaw grinds tight as he stares about six feet to the left of Quentin's head. No response.
"Well, I know you're sure I'm a fucking idiot, but when I'm the idiot in charge--" If he'd said this in the field, or even as they trekked back in after their miserable defeat, would it have meant anything? Would it have caught him more heat, or might it have earned him respect? The only thing worth respecting here, Quentin knows, is Lt. Castle. Hiding behind him to say what he should have said out there is humiliating. Still, he got an order. He swallows hard. "--you need to step in line behind me. Is that clear?"
There's too long of a pause before Jarvis sucks his teeth and growls at the concrete floor: "Yes, sir."
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@kingandcastle . marines au : )
A month of scrubbing toilets for an hour first thing in the morning and the blessed rigor of training seems to break them easy enough. Even if tempers didn't cool, they would at least be too exhausted to let them flare up. Mischief temporarily managed, the next month gives Smith a chance to prove himself to be something more than just a sneak--which he is. He's also a loudmouth, especially with leadership. Especially for people that won't open their mouths themselves. He's reckless, which drives him to dumb choices and to try things that others are afraid to try. He's critical and stubborn, which puts him at odds with his peers and betters on more than one occasion--but if we can beat the stubbornness out of him, he's got the eye for spotting and the nerve for making decisive moves.
He could be a leader in the field. He could be a candidate for Force Recon, if he can tighten up quick and come to heel. Why don't you an eye on him, Frank? Mentor him a little, it'll be good for you. Like having a dog. Just have a couple lunches together, encourage him to start developing this skill or that--keep him out of trouble.
The kind of trouble Frank might want to look out for is the kind of trouble Smith came in with. The heat with Jarvis never extinguished, just went to the backburner and simmered. Still simmers, as Smith starts to learn and distinguish himself and Jarvis struggles to find even a sliver of promotion material in his fabric. In the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal; every branch needs grunts. But watching Smith find his coltish footing is a splinter in his heel. Every approving look, hit target, executed exercise, or intercepted basketball in a pick-up game drives it deeper and sets it festering.
Big pain from a little wound, and after butting heads furiously ruins that day's field exercise, Jarvis makes a big move to get relief. Most of the platoon is blowing off steam--hitting the gym, studying harder, heading off base for rest and recreation after a devastating debrief. Quentin goes to the pool to do laps till he has his mistakes straight in his head. In the showers after, he feels better, has some idea of what he'll do to correct himself. On his walk down to the barracks, he's even feeling good before he rounds the corner and catches a punch that drives the air out of his core.
Things have changed since the last time they tussled, and if it was just Jarvis, he might be able to hold his own. But when he tries to tackle Jarvis to the ground, the two backups that came along catch Quentin mid-dive, wrenching him back by the arms and hanging him for another blow. Grips rattling his shoulder sockets, knuckles battering his soft sides, boots crunching against ribs and hips and knees as they toss him to the ground, but nothing to his face--not till Jarvis' weight drops on his stomach and his sweat-sticky palm fastens around Quentin's jaw.
"All that cocksucking don't mean much if you still shit the bed on the field." Jarvis hisses. When Quentin bucks and jostles him, one of the other men sits on his legs, the other pinning his wrists to the concrete floor. "Sarge really let you have it. Didn't you swallow for him last night?"
His fingertips grind into Quentin's cheeks, pressing his teeth open for a schoolyard slight that looks strange against the rest of the violence--a wad of spit dripping long from Jarvis' pursed lips, aimed for Quentin's wedged-open mouth.
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The Marines, they let shit fester.
That injustice, that splinter, they don't pry it out. Shit, that infection? It roots out the weak. They burn up don't they? Can't shake it, that itch, that fever, that need. Marines don't need. So those who know, who have shaken the fever, they come up good. The ones who never get sick and tend to themselves, they come up good. But those who look the fever in the eyes and walk away? Well, those are the ones who come up the best.
Seems like Smith isn't walking away. Ah, sure, the guy tried. Sorta. The brass, they tell Frank there's something about this kid but him? Frank just sees a skinny shitheel with a tongue too big for his mouth. He can set to, he can hup, but he can't keep his dick in his pants. Still, bottom line is Marines don't need.
Frank has heavy boots, but he is a quiet motherfucker. The third of this little gangbang sits down without a sound. Shit, he'll wake up fine. Maybe a headache. Certainly not worse then the extra duty they'll assign him. Digging latrines is archaic shit - no pun intended. It's the needless duties that hurt the most. Maybe they'll straight BCD him, then he'll have to go back to whatever slum he crawled out of just to break his back making less than minimum wage. Frank turns from the shadow of the barracks to watch.
Jarvis grabs Smith's jaw as the other sits on his legs. Christ, this shit. Some of these assholes don't realize they're not in high school anymore. This is the fester. Jarvis. He's just burning up. And the fever has reach, even Frank can see that. One rabid dog with fangs. Frank breathes in, and out.
Brass says get a pet so Frank, Frank grabs a leash.
He lets the spit fall though.
Bingo, fuckwad. Nice shot.
And Frank is quiet, for a hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. Jarvis is still looking at Smith's mouth when his second is lifted off the ground and smashed into the wall behind them. No more schoolyard shit, that's not how it's done around here. Truth is that violence against corps is general anathema; but there are appropriate allowance made. They've all got leashes; Frank's is long. The recruit in his hands drops like a ragdoll, body against the ground making a sound that even a shithead like Jarvis can't ignore - so as the impact of unconscious weight is still thumping against the walls between barracks, Frank's boot is against Jarvis's ass with more than enough force to send him sprawling.
Truth is? He's gonna enjoy this.
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Looking down, he spots one of Jarvis' bunkmates in dazed consciousness and winds his jaw tighter against gasping. Shit. Shit, they're all gonna get in trouble.
His mouth opens to--what, tell Castle to stop? Tell Jarvis to stop? His jaw snaps shut again just as quick as he watches Jarvis visibly, obviously make the probably-wise decision not to book it down the open hall. There aren't any good decisions for him at this point, but coming to red-faced attention is the least bad choice he could make. Probably. But then he has to open his damn mouth.
Quentin fully flinches when Jarvis barks defensively, "He sabotaged today's operation, sir!"
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As a CO himself? It just makes him scary.
Frank sighs at Jarvis. It's a big sigh. "Is that so." It's not a question - he's already cutting dark eyes back over his shoulder at Smith. Guy looks like he's about the piss himself... or already has. "Private Smith it seems there are some very serious accusations being leveled against you. You got anything to say for yourself?"
Jarvis' fate (little does he know) has already been determined but Frank wants to know what kind of man he's being asked to collar in Smith. He holds the younger man's eyes. It's intimidating. Everything about the Marines is intimidating.
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"But we're all tired. It's been a long day, I'm sure Private Jarvis just--" There's no checking in with Jarvis, whose insult-and-fear cocktail is turning his face nearly purple. Sweaty and shaky and rattled though he may be, at least Quentin's eyes are sure on Castle's as he huffs once. "--lost his mind. Happens to the best of us."
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He looks at Jenkins and his smile, it's nothing but the devil in human skin. There's no forgiving, no remorse. Jarvis knows the rules. Rules are to be tested and bent and that's fine but what he's done here has broken them. So Frank smiles, and it's not comforting. Not that it looks like Jarvis would be comforted. "I think that one of you is bullshit. I think the other's a pussy." He's not going to let them guess who's who. Frank takes a step back. "Smith."
The smile is all for Jarvis. "I get that you might have watched movies that told you tattling in the corp is bad. I'm here to tell you that protecting shit that disables the unit is worse. Stop making excuses." It's a nice way of saying that Frank's happy to toss the baby out with the bathwater. If there's a sin here here it's shoring up the weak link - which is what Smith is doing. He gets one more chance to state the facts. "What happened today on the field?" A direct question. A Marine doesn't need, he falls in line.
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"It's all in the file, Lt. Castle. I had a unit, I tried to lead them through a maneuver that I developed in my capacity as point, but Private Jarvis took umbrage with my orders. You saw how hard we got our asses kicked in the aftermath. I can't speak for the private, but my best guess is he's still sore about it, sir."
Jarvis' breath wheezes out of him like a slow leak, teeth pinched like he's about to form any number of nasty names.
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He could say that at least Jarvis isn't spitting shit, maybe the file will reflect that later, but Frank doesn't think so. This is all down to how many privates wash out tonight.
Frank would say two. Brass has other ideas. He's here to prove them right, or wrong.
"Not your place to make guesses, Smith. I didn't fuckin' ask about Jarvis' feelings." Frank's eyes are still on the young man in question. Assessing how fast he'll break. And how much of that should be Smith's responsibility. "It was an exercise, private." To Jarivs, who's already damned - how much is the question. "This ain't some life or death shit, not yet. It's not about being king of the hill. You're here to listen to your leader."
Franks steps back now, clears the way. Looks at Smith. "You were in charge. Do what you shoulda done out there. Go on."
There's not a right answer, but Smith's actions will have repercussions. That's life.
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He doesn't step forward because he's aware of Jarvis, still in his periphery.
"Tell me why me asking you to follow an order, just like you asked Private Shitbag here, is bullshit." Frank actually stills as he waits for an answer.
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"I am your platoon, Private. Jarvis here is your platoon. You would know if I was getting my rocks off because all four of you would be packing your bags. What I am doing is giving you a chance. The only order I am giving you is to deal with Jarvis the way you should have as his leader in the exercise. You think that's bullshit? You are free to go."
He's not asking him to punch Jarvis, to take him apart. Frank doesn't need to see blood; he spent a long time learning that blood isn't the only way to learn a lesson. Frank is asking for Smith for his own opinion.
20 days to decide if q stays or runs, then to write 25% of another book about it
The problem is, he doesn't. He doesn't have a fucking clue, and he'd planned on just riding it out.
If Castle hasn't already observed his absolute lack of poker face, Quentin gives him a robust show now. It's a herculean effort to keep his face from twisting up in frustration, and no amount of effort keeps color from flooding his cheeks and ears as he tries to run the numbers on this. He telegraphs his nerves with a deep breath in that he keeps in his lungs like an anchor as he turns his eyes on Jarvis. In a stage shout, closed off before it can tilt into actual yelling: "Private Jarvis, I need to ask you a question."
Private Jarvis straightens up with similar (if a bit disdainful) resolve. "Please do."
"Did you purposefully disregard my orders in the field today?"
"I did, sir."
"Why?"
"Your orders were going to lead us to failure." That gets the kind of bark that echoes off the walls, boosted by spite.
Quentin bristles, shoulders pinning back farther. "And how much success did starting a pissing match in the middle of a firefight bring us?"
Jarvis' glare goes unfocused, jaw grinds tight as he stares about six feet to the left of Quentin's head. No response.
"Well, I know you're sure I'm a fucking idiot, but when I'm the idiot in charge--" If he'd said this in the field, or even as they trekked back in after their miserable defeat, would it have meant anything? Would it have caught him more heat, or might it have earned him respect? The only thing worth respecting here, Quentin knows, is Lt. Castle. Hiding behind him to say what he should have said out there is humiliating. Still, he got an order. He swallows hard. "--you need to step in line behind me. Is that clear?"
There's too long of a pause before Jarvis sucks his teeth and growls at the concrete floor: "Yes, sir."