by Jesse Jordan
“Chris,” she says, “I've seen you draw two types of pictures. When you're happy, you draw people, and a lot of comic booky like shit. It's good too, like if you hadn't decided to come here you'd be making it doing Wonder Woman or some shit. But when things get fucked up, especially when you have a run-in with a fucktard, that's when you start doing idealistic puppies and birdies and landscapes. It's like the more people shit on you, the more idealistic you've gotta be. And that bird looks like a fucking phoenix rising from the ashes.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez, I'm the psych major, but you read me like a book,” I grumble, then laugh. Karli's just too straightforward for her own good. “Yeah, I got my assignment for the semester, I'm the APFT Sergeant. My Firstie came by, she's... she's a real True Believer.”
“Ah hell, you're working for a chick Firstie?” Karli asks, shaking her head. “I mean, they do know that most of the girls around here treat this place like some sort of goddamn sorority where they can just stab you in the back any chance they get, right? Women should not be in each other’s chain of commands!”
“It's not that bad,” I protest. “I mean, in the Army we're going to have to work with female soldiers and superior officers.”
Karli shakes her head, clucking her tongue melodramatically. “Still an idealist. You know Chris, that's your biggest weakness, light years more than your inability to really curse. The reality of what the fucking Corps does to both of us stares you in the face on a daily basis. You should be screaming angry half the time. But then you go for a walk mentally or some shit, and you come back with rainbows in your eyes. You have convinced yourself that everything around here has a good purpose, that the dream that is the Academy is real.”
“Isn't it, though?” I ask. “Aren't we supposed to be making that dream into a reality? Even if there are mean people, even if the Corps isn't always fun, there has to be a reason for all of this. I mean, sure Jordan was bitchy, but...”
“Jordan?” Karli asks. “As in Jordan Quackenbush?”
“Yeah, you know her?” I ask, and Karli nods, groaning. “How?”
“We were both first detail Buckner cadre, we were in the same company. Sadly, guess who I got to bunk with? Major, major bitch. Let me guess, she gave you the APFT speech. She gave the same one to all the Yuks that were in her platoon that struggled too. Never mind Cadet Lieutenant Perky Tits basically won the genetic lottery for this place,” Karli says with a sneer. “Oh, by the way, if you want to get her to shut up, just find a guy to drop his pants. I think she sucked her way through half the male cadre in the four weeks we were out there.”
“Good to know,” I tell Karli, blushing. “Uh, Kar...?”
“I know, I know. You're far too innocent for my pessimistic sarcasm. Still, you let me vent and rant. Hey, who's your roomie this semester?”
I shake my head, shrugging. “I honestly don't know, I didn't check. Figure it won't really matter, I'll get through it.”
Karli hums, then leans back. “Well, in the mean time, lets chill and watch something on your laptop. Did you know I'm living next door this year? Grant, second floor.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “Guess the scramble wasn't that bad then.”
Karli leans back and folds her hands over her stomach. “Nope, not too fucking bad at all. So, what are we watching tonight, anyway?”
“Something alternatively optimistic and pessimistic. Like us.”
Chapter 2
Ivan
In some ways, I am glad that the Commandant of Cadets decided to change the run back from Camp Buckner. Instead of company formation, this year the so-called 'Tour de Buckner' is much easier.
Then again, much of my year and two months at the United States Military Academy has been easy. How these soft Americans have been able to maintain such strong military power is something I am still not quite understanding. But whatever the reason, this year's run is done with a competitive spirit, a race against the clock.
This type of run is much better for me. At a hundred and ninety one centimeters (Ivan, stop! You are in America now, use American terms. Six foot three inches!), and weighing two hundred and thirty pounds, my long legs are able to stretch out, something that is rarely possible. And with staggered company starts, I have plenty of room.
I can see the fastest person in my company ahead of me, a boy on the cross country team named Englebrecht. We are about halfway back to the main post at West Point, and both of us have started to pass some of Delta company, girls and some of the slower boys. So far Englebrecht and I are running just over six minute mile splits.
I see a water station up ahead. It is a good idea, it is going to be a hot day. I'm sweating heavily, and I am in good shape. The heavy or slow runners in Hotel company are going to be in serious trouble.
I grab a cup of water, stopping to drink it and throw it in the trash before going on. It gives Englebrecht a chance to extend his lead on me, he is wearing a Camelbak, so he does not have to stop. I take off again, not too fast since this watering station is on an uphill. There is still a long way to go in this race.
I start picking up the pace as I crest the hill, driving myself. I can see the looks on some people's faces as I pass them, trying to catch up to Englebrecht. They wonder how I can do it. I am as large as some of the members of the American football team, an interesting sport that I have no desire to play. I have my own form of violence. They look at me and don't understand how the supposed Ukrainian exchange cadet can keep up over a long distance with a boy like Englebrecht, who is seventy pounds lighter even though he is only a few centimeters shorter. They don't understand what drives me, my background or why I do the things I do.
They do not understand, and it scares them, these soft Americans with their lives filled with constant cheerleading. From the moment they are born, they are told that they are the best, that their country is the world leader. It has made them soft, so when I, Ivan Vasushenko arrive, they do not know how to react. So they hate me. I have not tried to incur their hatred, but I will not bow down to it either. Let their boys want to be a man like me. Let their women want me. That is fine, it helps with my mission anyway.
My life has been different. My country has lifted itself from the shattered, tattered remnants of its communist past. We let the Americans tell us for over a decade how weak we were, how we needed their help and assistance. But no more.
So I run. I run hard, driven by the lashes of winter winds remembered from training along the Moskva River. I run, driven by the memories of having to literally fight to fuel my growing body. I run past the pain, using the jokes I heard last year as a Plebe as extra energy for my muscles. They thought they were breaking me down. Instead they were building me up. I do not hate them, and I do not hate Englebrecht. He is a good boy, and he earned my respect these past eight weeks. But I will chase him down.
I skip the next water station, there are only four miles left to go, and close the distance with Englebrecht. I must push him, he is the sort of runner who likes to lead from the front. He cracks under pressure however, and if I can just keep it up, I might be able to bring him down.
When we make the turn to go through the gates to main post however, I realize that I've made an error. While Englebrecht might crack if it were just a race between us, the crowd of people here to see the return of the new Yearling class is egging him on. With the slower runners from Alpha through Delta companies providing constant, ego boosting passes, Englebrecht is not feeling the pressure. I try to keep up, but after eight and a half miles, even my superior athletic ability must give way to the laws of physics. I kick into a sprint to catch up before we cross the finish line at the halfway point along Diagonal Walk, but it is just not enough. Englebrecht crosses the finish line ten meters in front of me, to the congratulations of the people there.
Still, there are those who are congratulating me too. One of them, Cavanaugh, a cadre who broke his ankle and cannot run, pats me on the arm appreciatively. “Nice job Ivan. Second i
n Echo Company, that's pretty awesome, right?”
“I could have been first. Englebrecht had more motivation. He was afraid Ivan the Terrible would catch him,” I joke. I really mean it as a joke. Still, I can see it in Cavanaugh’s eyes, he thinks I am bragging.
“Yeah well... anyway....” Cavanaugh says before leaving me. I sigh, and go to the water table, drinking my congratulatory cup of sports drink. It is too sweet, but after the run, it is cold at least.
I see Englebrecht, and I go over, offering a hand. He's normally in third regiment, I doubt I will see him during the academic year. “You ran very well. Good luck next semester.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Englebrecht replies, ignoring my hand and finishing his drink. He crumples up his cup and goes back towards the finish line to cheer on the rest of our classmates while I hang back.
After a final formation, Echo Company, Buckner Regiment is no more, and I'm once again dismissed to my academic year company, the I-1 Ironside. Walking across Central Area towards Pershing Barracks, I check in with the company desk quickly, finding my room, 338. Great, I am being roomed with Gene Brusche, the biggest fuckup in my year group. He is lazy, plain and simple, and is perhaps the one member of the Yearling class in I-1 that is less popular than I am. At least the girls want to fuck me, I doubt anyone wants to fuck Gene.
I am mostly unpacked when Gene arrives, his PT shirt still plastered to his chest and his face red with effort. “Hey,” he grunts before collapsing on my bed, sighing. “Oh thank God, my feet are killing me.”
“Wrong bed, dumb shit,” I hiss, trying to keep my temper. It is not all Gene's fault, I know that. But come on, did he not see my footlocker and things at the foot of that bed? Now his sweat is soaking into my mattress!
“Sorry,” Gene gasps, rolling off the bed and getting up. “You're closer to the door.”
“Yes, I know,” I reply. “I am going to get the rest of my things.”
“Be there in a minute,” Gene calls, and I ignore him as I head downstairs. I have too many other things to worry about, including the fact that my room is now certainly what some people call a 'heat magnet,' a room that will get lots of attention from the higher ups in I-1. Not what I wanted at all.
I near the stairs when I see a girl come out of her room, looking angry. I don't know her, she must be one of the new Cows. I can see why she is upset though, the other person in her room is a Yearling like me, Petrowski. That is a very blatant disrespectful act towards any upperclassman. You do not mix rooms between classes unless you have to, and you certainly do not mix a Cow with a Yearling. If you have to, you put a Cow with a Firstie.
I am too caught up in my own issues to worry about a disrespected Cow at this moment, although as she goes down the stairs in front of me, I do admire her figure. It is not the classical American definition of pretty, she's a little wide in the shoulders and hips for that, but it does speak to my blood. She would be a lot of fun in bed, I am quite sure.
Academics starts in two days, and I am already not enjoying this semester. Rooming with Gene is even worse than I imagined, as so far every day we have had Major Franklin or Sergeant First Class Hauser come through our room on a cleanliness inspection. Even the Plebes, they are actually Plebes now after this morning's parade, have not had this much focus.
“Spots on mirror... dust on window sill... shoes not aligned properly?” I mutter. “This is stupid. Today is Saturday, and there was no room inspection scheduled for today.”
“I wonder if someone else is going to get his attention before Franklin starts handing out hours,” Gene gripes as he changes his uniform top. “Whatever, I've done hours before.”
“What was your total last year?” I ask, pulling off my full dress top and hanging it on its wooden hangar. “I did fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Damn, people might not like you, but you don't get hours that often,” Gene says wonderingly. “I did thirty seven.”
I whistle, shaking my head. “You will make the Century Club before you are a Firstie.”
“Perhaps. If I stick around that long,” Gene says. “This shit keeps up, I might ride out the two free years Uncle Sam offers me and then transfer to a real school. Obviously me and the Army don't get along too well. Guess you don't have that option, do you?”
“No, no option,” I reply. I pull off my white pants and check them over, they're in good enough shape for another parade at least, so I hang them up under my full dress top and put the whole thing inside my wardrobe before pulling out my PT clothes. “If I quit, I go into the Ukrainian Army at a low rank. If I graduate, I go in at a high rank. Either way, I go in.”
“Sucks to be you, Ivan. Well, I've got a date with some MMORPG, so I'm good for a while,” Gene says as he finishes putting on his own PT gear. “What's your plan?”
I reach into my footlocker and pull out my bag gloves. “One of my stress reduction strategies.”
Gene laughs and shakes his head. “I'll take nubile, busty elf girls who want me to quest for them over sweaty funky ass leather any day. But hey, whatever floats your boat, dude.”
I leave the room and walk to Arvin Gym, where I find the boxing room. The different training bags are hanging, open to anyone who wants to enjoy them. I start with some light calisthenics, just loosening my lower back and shoulders before I take out one of the last two items in the bag, my set of gloves. Thin, they remind me that you cannot be a good fighter hiding behind fourteen ounce pillows like so many amateur boxers do. Not the way I was taught.
The last item in my bag for today is my audio player, powerful enough that I can hear the timer program I have on repeat over the sound of my workout. I decide to go with two and a half minutes on, thirty seconds off today, it is a good split to use.
My program is simple, yet effectively brutal. I am on round six of free sparring when I sense another person in the room, but I ignore them. It is a woman, I can tell that much by the glimpse of long hair that I get out of the corner of my eyes, but I am not focused on her. I am focused on the bag, on my enemy, which must not stand before my power. I am Ivan Vasushekno, and it will fall!
I connect with a final thunderous overhand right just as my timer goes off, and I turn, seeing who is watching me from the door. Sweat stings my eye, but when I blink the smile I put on is my most seductive. “Captain Hollister.”
“Ivan,” she says, coming in and closing the door to the boxing room behind her. It is breaking the rules, but then again, Vanessa Hollister and I have broken the rules before. “When you got back from Buckner and didn't call me, I was worried.”
Got her. It took a little bit of time, and a lot of instinct, but looking into her eyes, she is nearly ready to fuck me right now in the middle of the boxing ring. It is good, her reputation in the Army is ironclad, and she is going to be promoted very quickly. Exactly how my targets are supposed to be.
“I did not want to call and have your husband pick up,” I murmur, stepping closer. I don't touch her, but still she gives way until her firm, athletic ass is pressed against the gear locker, the two of us fully out of sight even if someone does open the door. “Even if you were my English instructor and tutor last year, what would he say if a cadet was calling his beautiful, sexy wife?”
“He ignores me most of the time,” Vanessa admits. “He's too focused on his damn cadets. Goddamned H-3.”
“No man should ignore a woman of your beauty,” I murmur again, lowering my lips. “Especially one who kisses like you do.”
She is actually a pretty lousy kisser, my instructors taught me much better ways to use your lips, but it does not matter. Last time, in her office, she resisted me. But after nearly three months of having me on her mind, she is putty in my hands. When our lips part, she is nearly mewling like a kitten, and I smile. “So... you seem to have made up your mind?”
“Yes,” Vanessa says, unable to keep her hands off my body. “God, I can't believe I'm going to do this. The camera, really?”
“I know this can only b
e a one time thing, maybe twice. I cannot forget such an experience in the cold winters back in the Ukraine,” I tell her, an easy lie. “So, when and where?”
“Tonight.... can you meet me in the steam tunnels?” she asks. Her hand cups my cock and she moans, she wants it so badly. “Please... anywhere....”
“The steam tunnels are fine,” I reply, kissing along her jawline. “Twenty hundred hours.”
I kiss Vanessa one more time, cupping her breast as I do. She is actually a pretty woman, fucking her will not be all that difficult. I do feel slightly bad about the pictures I am going to take, but hopefully, they will not see the light of day any time soon.
“For now though, I have a workout to finish. Use this time to prepare, lovely Vanessa,” I whisper, stepping back and making a scene of adjusting my cock in my shorts. She bites her lip, and makes her way to the door, pausing to look back as I go back to work, making up for the missed round with extra viscousness this round. Such is my life.
Chapter 3
Christina
“Really? Jesus Christina, no wonder Jordan hates you,” my roommate, Sandi Petrowski, says as she reads the room inspection report. I have no idea why Jordan even did an inspection of my room, she's not the platoon leader or platoon sergeant. She still felt the need to come by my room when I was out taking my Criminology class to do a 'room inspection' where she wrote A two oh seven is totally unacceptable. Be prepared for a D.
“I don't really need your comments right now, Sandi,” I grumble, trying to type. I've got a paper due for EN 301 sixth period, and I'm trying to use this gap after lunch to finish it. “Besides, I tripped and fell, it screwed my run time. I'm lucky I passed at all.”
“You keep having excuses, you know that?” Sandi replies with a sneer. “You tripped on the run, the DPE grader was an asshole, you didn't get a good night's sleep... nothing but excuses with you.”
