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*** remembered the first time his dad had ever expressed his pride in him. It wasn't when he was 8 and had hit his first home run in little league. It wasn't when he was 10 and managed to catch his first fish all by himself. It wasn't at 13 when he started high school and immediately joined the JROTC, committing himself to four years of early mornings and added bullshit on top of the typical hell of high school.

It was on his 17th birthday, after cards and before cake and presents. His dad had told him to get in the car, but wouldn't say where they were going. *** waited anxiously as they drove exactly five miles an hour under the speed limit. He couldn't remember overhearing his parents discussing any kind of plans, and Laurie certainly would have let something slip.

***'s hope deflated as his dad parked the car in front of the run-down storefront in the middle of a dilapidated strip mall. He didn't say anything as he rolled the windows down and turned the car off. They sat in silence as *** considered the implications of being here, on this day. He knew what it meant, what was expected of him, and although he would have wound up right here someday anyway, he resented the fact that it was this day.

Why wasn't he allowed even the illusion of a choice? Wasn't he entitled to that much?

Ten, fifteen minutes passed as *** wavered between getting out of the car and going inside and getting out of the car and telling his father to ******** off.

Eventually, he got out of the car and went into the recruiting office. As he sat down and filled out endless sheets of paperwork, he felt his father squeeze his shoulder. "I'm proud of you, son."

*** was hot and sticky and he was pretty sure he was never going to get the pie stains out of his sheets. Or the carpet. The wall, maybe, but other peoples' doors were their own problem. He was never going to be able to so much as think about pie again without blushing. He'd never be able to look Tuck in the eye after this.

Totally worth it, *** thought to himself with a grin.

It slowly faded and died as the brief burst of happiness was countered by sudden and crushing guilt. They would never be able to eat pie again. They would never have embarrassing morning afters. They would never have to worry about something as trivial as stains, because they were dead and it was his fault.

/You're kinda stupid,/ Gir murmured sleepily, as if he'd been awoken from slumber by ***'s noisy thoughts.

Hey, thanks, buddy.

/If I eat a gumball and I choke on it a bunch and it gets stuck in my throat and I cough and I cough and I cough and then I die, is that your fault?/

Well, you can't eat gumballs, so--

/NOT THE POINT is it though?/

Yes. You're my responsibility.

/But no one made me eat the gumball!/ That was probably the first thing Gir had ever said that was even remotely close to making a sliver of sense. /I don't like gumballs anyway./

The first time *** had ever been in a combat situation was a little more than halfway through his first tour of duty. He didn't remember the specifics, but some combat instinct that had been pounded into him since his first day at boot camp kicked in, and before he could even consciously recognize that there was a threat, he and his team were working in perfect formation to neutralize it. It was like a switch had been flipped in him and he was aware of nothing from the time the first shot was fired until getting congratulated by his friends over dinner in the chow hall. Maybe it's something that he subconsciously blocked out, but he can't remember the details of what happened that day and he doesn't ever want to.

*** was pacing, inexplicably nervous and restless, on the front porch. His grandfather had sent him back to the house after his anxiety had transferred it into the horse he'd been riding, which had nearly thrown him off. He couldn't go inside, though, not yet. It was too confining in there, and he couldn't get enough air. He tried to remember the mental exercises the doctor had recommended for him to try at the onset of an "episode," but he just couldn't concentrate on anything except for the creak of the boards under his feet.

It didn't help. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating. His hands shook uncontrollably as he clenched them in and out of fists, and he was mad at himself and at his own damn racing thoughts.

The screen door of the porch squeaked open as his grandma walked through it, putting herself directly in ***'s path. He couldn't help but glare at her, and that was shameful too, but he just wanted her to go away, he wanted all of it to stop--

"Don't you look at me like that, young man," ***'s grandmother said, an eyebrow arched as she looked up at him, completely unimpressed. She softened only slightly as *** mumbled an apology. "If you're not going to be of any use to your grandfather, you can come help me in the kitchen. I've got potatoes that need peeling, and then you can help me fix dinner." With that, she turned and walked inside, expecting him to follow.

She wasn't disappointed, except for when his hands shook and he all but mangled the first few potatoes, taking off more flesh than skin. His frustration only grew, and he snarled as he threw the latest failure across the kitchen. His grandmother only handed him another one, and another one, until his hands finally stopped shaking enough for him to be able to peel it not with ease, but with a more conscious effort on the simple act. They had potatoes prepared three different ways with dinner that night.

"Don't forget the lipstick," *** reminded Runt as he clumsily applied an obscene amount of blush on the face of the man lying passed out on his couch.

"Weiss is gonna be so pissed when he wakes up," Runt said, barely stifling a laugh.

"Law of the land, man. You fall asleep first, you're fair game."

He wouldn't be able to attend any of the funerals. He wouldn't even be able to see the coffins off. The last memory he would ever have of them would be of their identical expressions of shock and fear and betrayal while they were eaten alive and he was unable to stop it. The last memories they would have would be of him screaming and firing around them, trying and failing to fight off an enemy only he could see.

As *** turned and walked away, he wondered if maybe he had gone a little too far. It was clear that Peyton recognized her mistake, and maybe she was even genuinely sorry about it. He probably didn't need to leave her hanging off the training dummy, even if that was the exclamation point on the statement he was trying to make to her. Maybe he should go back and at least let her down. She had been crying, for ******** sake.

Then he remembered being pushed under the water. He remembered choking as it filled his lungs and the brief moment of terror where he hadn't been sure if he was going to make it or not. What a pointless ******** death that would have been, drowning only a handful of strokes out from safety.

He thought of all of that and then wished he had found something higher to hang her off of. A flagpole, maybe.

A 17 year old *** stood in front of his father, shuffling nervously from foot to foot as he looked anywhere but straight ahead. "I don't think I need to tell you," his father said after a deliberately long, uncomfortably silent moment, "how stupid what you did tonight was."

"No, sir," *** replied.

"And I don't think I need to tell you," he continued, "that if you had gotten caught drunk behind the wheel of my car, your high school graduation and your start of service date would have been in some serious jeopardy."

"No, sir."

"I sure as hell hope not. Now, you're gonna go outside and you're gonna run it out 'til you're sober."

"Uh, b-but, sir," *** stuttered. "It's the middle of the night, I won't be able to see where I'm going."

"Then I suggest you take a flashlight."