Drinking away the memories must have been what he had done, as John's head throbs the morning after. Luckily the room is cool, and the water hot for his shower to help ease him back into the realm of the living.

  New clothes are provided to him—already folded in his closet—which is more than welcome on account of him needing to requalify in damn near everything. In essence, he has to prove to Blackwood, the desk jockeys, and whoever he was going to be operating with, that he was still fit to fight.

  After washing and dressing and scarfing down some damn good food in the mess a little past 5am, John steels himself to power through the next several hours despite the lingering hangover.

  While he might not have been in the special forces any more, he sure as shit kept up on his physical fitness, save for his bad eating habits. John breezes through the tests, watching as the administrators write down his marks on the fitness portion.

  200 pushups, 200 sit ups, 50 pull ups, 25 minutes on a 5 mile run, and a 1 hour 59 minute, 12 mile run finished by 8am. He kicks himself for that one. He wanted to show off a bit more, and if he wasn’t hung over he could have gotten that time down by a little more. Still, it’s more than enough to pass with flying colors. John just wants those colors as bright as possible. Gotta show who ever his team would be that he isn’t the kind of man to be fucked with. Not easily at least.

  The sun cooks him alive by 10am, especially under the weight of all the gear they have him using in the next segments. It is pretty close to his familiar special forces loadout with a few more bells and whistles, which unfortunately add a few more pounds that he was used to.

  The new rifles are the biggest difference however. Of course it is all Williams tech—reliability and all that—but dammit if it did tack on the poundage, even just two pounds more than his old service weapon feels like an extra twenty by noon.

  Credit where it was due, the William’s rifle, much like everything they designed, was a damn fine piece of machinery. He scores perfect marksmanship without a single round out of place despite his body struggling to steady under the excess stress and adrenaline from running himself into the ground in the hours before range time.

  The driving tests are the most fun personally. John enjoys trying to make the admin’s piss themselves as he drives the pickup truck like a race car around the dirt track. And nearly makes one admin bail early with his combat driving, which are all fine tuned to a razor sharp edge especially after all the shit he had to deal with weekly in Oasis.

  The Halo jumps come at 1300 hours, high yield explosives tests at 1400 and piloting at 1530, each fun in their own right, but he had a special love of driving, so he makes sure to run back to the course for the duration of his thirty minute rest at 1630

  1700 rolls around, and with it comes the hand to hand tests, which is looking like it’s going to be the least enjoyable so far.

  “You serious?” John asks, rolling out his shoulders as he looks across the mat to his opponent for this portion of the test.

  “Very,” the French woman across from him smiles. It was a gentle, predatory smile, the one a cat might give to a mouse if cats could do that sort of thing.

  “Just know I don’t feel good about this.”

  “Really? I thought a man like you would enjoy this sort of thing.” She winks. Her eyes had that same kind of glint to them, feline, dangerous. Her body moves with such a casual grace and power it is nearly mesmerizing.

  “Put a few drinks in me and you might be right.” John caught her name as she entered the ring, Bella. Ex French GIGN. She is his age, nearly his height, with the build of a panther hidden from view as she stalks around the ring.

  “After this then, hm?” she winks, cocks her head and brings her arms up in a long stretch, not at all helping remove the cat imagery he has of her already.

  John lets out a sigh, and brings his fists up in front of him, wielding the plastic knife out to meet the space between them.

  “Don’t expect me to hold back then.” John tests, directed more to the administrator than to the woman before him. Last thing he wants to do is put someone in the ER on his first day.

  “Don’t expect me to hold back either American.” She winks again, and enters her fighting stance.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins.

  He doesn’t take any pleasure in this, fighting a woman isn’t his forte but shit, he figures she got here on her own merit regardless of his personal feelings. The worst thing to do now is to underestimate her. She is one of Blackwood’s, which means she is the best of the best, just like him.

  Her eyes meet his as the bell rings, and she seems to understand and read the conclusion he comes to in his expression. Her lips curl up at the ends, satisfied in seeing she’s an equal, and hungry to put him in the ground for having doubted her at all to begin with.

  John is the first to take a swipe, striking out at empty air to gauge distance and apply early pressure. Bella shifts her weight just enough to move out of range each time, her movements precise and controlled.

  Their feet shuffle, repositioning, keeping balance, bouncing back and forth from the balls of his feet to keep agile as they circle one another.

  After a few more test swings, it’s Bella's turn. She’s fast, incredibly fast, fast enough to put john on the back foot even as she idly flicks the blade around in front of him.

  Tracking the tip of that blade is going to be hard, so instead he watches her hips and shoulders, feeling out the weight of her stride.

  John tucks in tight and presses in on the attack, extending a little further than he normally would.

  Her eyes flicker with delight, in one quick movement she shifts her weight and drives the knife towards John down his center line.

  John brings his forearm up, catching her thrust halfway as their arms collide in the middle of the air with a meaty slap of muscle and bone.

  John tries to grab at her wrist, pushing the blade further away from him, but she twists her wrists and frees it just as John manages to reach out and grab at her free hand instead.

  With a grunt John rips her arm towards him, throwing her body off center as he drives forward with his left leg.

  She slips him, her body tenses and shifts, using John's forward momentum against him as she brings her knife arm up and over the back of John's head, cranking down hard on his neck until he is tucked over on himself.

  A knee drives the wind from John's lungs, her blade hand tightening to position the tip towards his throat, but John doesn’t let up.

  He grabs at her leg, cranking it upwards and throws her off balance with so much speed it shocks even him.

  “Shouldn’t have given me your leg!” John grunts, a smile working its way across his face.

  “Shouldn’t have taken my arm!” in the same movement that has Belle up into the air as John attempts to throw her backwards, her arm cinches tight around his neck, taking him with her.

  They thud against the ground, its echo bouncing out all around them. John shifts his weight to recover but Bella is already on him, her legs wrapped tight around him to throw him into an arm bar.

  John rolls with it at first, just enough to bunch in tight and grab hold of the wrist that holds the knife movement before it makes contact with his own wrist.

  In the same move, John grunts and pulls himself upright with Bella still attached to his arm. He brings her up off the floor, ready to slam her back down onto the mat.

  Her right leg loosens off the armbar and instead kicks him square in the jaw, sending blood and spit splattering to the floor. He staggers back, head ringing, and she is on him again, her body dropping off his arm but refusing to let go as she twists it up, around, and under him.

  John knew this move back when he had a friendly little bar fight with another Frenchie and it did a number on him back then. Now he is ready for it.

  Bella's leg cracks against his own as he steps backward and pivots his shin outward. Their two bones collided with almost enough force to break it. Belle teeters, her foot too firmly planted as her momentum carries her, nearly bending her knee back. John twists his arm, catches her around her throat in the pocket of his elbow and throws her with his shoulder over his extended leg.

  Bella’s grunt gets caught in her throat as he flexes his arm around it, cutting off the flow of oxygen just long enough to make her eyes go wide.

  John follows through until she is on the ground, his other arm bent to send an elbow to the woman's temple.

  She moves almost impossibly, her leg coming up into a full split to catch the elbow before it reaches her head.

  Confused at meeting muscled thigh instead of skull, John is too late to defend as she catches his arm, twists, and sends him to his back instead.

  Her body rolls with his, mounting him on the ground with her knife to his throat, leaving a little red mark from where the lipstick was applied.

  Belle pants, looking down at the knife to her own throat as well, John's arm extended up having been ready for the finishing blow.

  If he was going to “die” then he might as well take her with him.

  Their breathing comes in heavy waves. Her sweat drips from her short cut black hair. His own sweat and a little blood trickling down her foot from where she kicked him.

  “You’re good.” John grunts as she brings herself up off of his chest.

  “I am just glad the rumors about you are true.” Bella brushes her hair straight back with her fingers, extending a hand to John who takes it.

  She pulls him up off the ground, but not before bringing the blade to bear against his throat again.

  “I know you’re type Frenchie.” John winks, tapping her ribs with his own knife.

  She clicks her tongue in disappointment, but smiles and pushes him away as she stalks away from the mat.

  “You should go see Kane, you know, he misses you dearly.” she waves to him with the white towel she uses to clean the blood from her foot.

  “A white flag huh? Fitting.” John calls out, laughing at the middle finger she gives before the door closes.

  After hand to hand combat is done, John is brushed up on the new lingo used in the PMC, it's a hybridization of typical American special forces jargon mixed with a few select phrases from the variety of represented countries. After confirming he hadn’t lost his edge in Urban warfare, Escape and Evasion tactics, land nav, recon, or any of the other mission critical skill sets, his paperwork is given the stamp of approval just a few minutes past 2100 hours.

  John lifts the night vision goggles from his head and rubs at his eyes in the blinding light of the locker room. His body is aching after hours of proving to the 5th batch of suits he knew what the fuck he was doing. Blackwood wasn’t playing around it seemed. Full kit exfil through a simulation pool under watch of current merc sentries doesn’t just have him cold and chaffed, it has him decidedly irritable.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He needs a hot shower and a stiff drink. Unfortunately that doesn’t look like it will be coming his way just yet. After his paperwork clears, Blackwood orders him to the T1 wing of the compound.

  Pulling on a set of clean clothes from the locker and securing his training gear, John works the muscles in his jaw until the pressure releases with a pop.

  He knew Blackwood held his people to a high standard, but damn near double the current operational special forces requirements was a tall fucking order. He had served with some incredible people in his time and he knew off hand half of them wouldn’t make it through Blackwood's qualifications.

  By now the compound is lively. John guesses it doesn’t matter where the operators were stationed, special forces liked to party hard and party late, even if they were all still early to rise.

  The T1 wing is separated from the normal mercs and suits, situated past one secure door into an entire wing, with the T1 bar being the first door on the right. Despite the number of T1 mercs and admins being significantly fewer than the standard soldiers, the T1 wing itself is a hell of a lot quieter than he would have expected.

  John pauses outside the doorway to the T1 bar, listening to the party happening almost exclusively outside this section of the compound. It’s quiet here, too quiet maybe.

  Bringing his key card up to the black screen lock of the door, he pauses slightly.

  “Sneaky little fuck.” John smirks, noticing the faint shifting of light from inside. Pressing his ear to the door he can hear people inside, quiet, shifting, breathing. It’s an ambush. Looks like Blackwood isn’t done with him yet.

  He is going to make Blackwood regret trying to pull something like this on him.

  He has a little time to spare, so instead of entering, John rushes back to the locker room to grab a few things. Pulling two smokes from the armory, John throws on a gas mask, and one of the training knives, stashing it into his waistband.

  John stalks back through the compound. There were no other entrances to the T1 wing or its bar, which means no back door entry. Instead, John grabs a pen from a desk, a piece of fruit from the mess and sticks his keycard into the cap of the pen, so that the side clip secures it in place.

  Crouching down a few feet away, John sticks the pen into the orange, so that the keycard fully covers one face of it and adds some much needed heft.

  John tosses the orange up into the air a few times, testing its weight, and once he is satisfied he gives it an underhand toss at the black panel on the wall.

  The keycard just barely grazes the panel, and with a green light it clicks open.

  The moment the light goes green the door swings open from the force of someone inside, and with his other hand, John throws in a smoke.

  “Shit!” is all John can hear as the smoke pops with a hiss, filling the room entirely within a matter of seconds.

  John dashes in low, tackling the first person he sees to the ground, pulling the plastic knife out of his waistband and dragging it across the unsuspecting person's chest, leaving behind a red lipstick mark, “killing” him as per the rules of training.

  The smoke above him moves in time with some other shape, and in a flash John is gone, rolling off his first victim and pulling the second smoke, tossing it deeper into the room with another pop and a hiss.

  Movement left, John rounds, jumps, and lands on a table, sliding across it he watches someone leap for him.

  John pivots and grabs one of the outstretched hands, marking it moments before someone grabs him from behind.

  John kicks off the table, sending it hard into another person's chest as he goes backwards, spinning over the back of his grabber, tracing a long line up their stomach as he completes his arc, and rolls away.

  The hair on the back of John's neck stands up, the air moves around him., he laughs like a lunatic as he spins, and throws the knife.

  “Ow fuck!” someone shouts as the knife bounces off their face and back into the air for John to catch seconds after its rebound.

  He slides across the ground, springs up, spins, and catches someone by the throat as they stumble backwards into him.

  “Hello again.” a familiar French accent fills his ears as she tries to drive and take control of John's arms, but he doesn't let her. John strips the mask from his face, and pulls it around hers in one quick motion before snapping it against her face and sending her stumbling backwards.

  By now the smoke is beginning to clear, and John can see several people still stumbling about.

  “Alright, alright.” Blackwood's voice sounds, clapping a few times to get everyone to calm down.

  “You sneaky little fucker!” a friendly Australian accent calls from behind him.

  “Good to see you too.” John cracks a smile and turns around, pulling Kane in for a hug, patting the man on the back. “You grew a beard!”

  “Private sector now Johnny boy, one of the privileges. You should grow yours.” Kane lightly punches John in the chest as he pulls himself away. “I missed you, ya damn psycho. How the fuck did you know we were waiting for you?” Kane looks around to the laughing faces of the other people in the room all gathering around.

  “I know Blackwood.” John winks.

  “So the man is real. Here I was thinking he was a ghost story!” The biggest woman John has ever seen says. She is nearly twice his size, and has a thick southern accent with a face full of freckles. If someone were to tell him she was raised on corn and steak since birth he would believe it. If someone told him she was half bull he would probably believe that too.

  “Told you he was real.” Kane jostles John around as he guides him over to the T1 bar in the center of the room. Blackwood himself behind the counter, prepping glasses.

  “Johnny boy, that there is Beatrice, or Bronco.” He nods to the large woman. “Get it? Like the truck? It’s because she’s built like a truck.” Kane winks to Bronco who takes the comment in stride with a friendly wave. “You’ve met Bella I hear.” he points to the French woman who takes a seat two away from him and Kane.

  “We were acquainted, yes.” John confirms with a nod.

  “Good good. She goes by Cat in the field, I'm sure you can imagine why.” Kane purrs, and Bella rolls her eyes as she sips her drink.

  “Me? Oh glad you asked, Kane, pleasure to meet you, though the callsigns Shellshock.”

  “Because you freeze up like a bitch when the going gets tough?” John teases.

  “Oi, fuck off, you know damn well that ain’t true.”

  “How’d you get that then?”

  “I’ll show you, but later, later.” Kane extends a hand, and John shakes it with a halfcocked smile. “Nice to meet you Shellshock.”

  The bar fills up with a few other people as Blackwood starts handing out drinks from behind the counter.

  “And the others?”

  “Your new squad. Going around the circle...” Blackwood trails off, letting each person present introduce themselves.

  “I am Aleksandr, you may call me Black Beard.” A pirate of a man with a heavy Russian accent says from behind an appropriately full, black beard. That was the man who grabbed him from behind he figured, given the arms and size of him being nearly as tall as John was.

  “It is a pleasure to meet the living legend, I am Leland, and everyone calls me Kid.” A young voice for a young man. He has to be around 19 years old, with thick square glasses resting on an acne scarred face. Kid was likely the first to suffer John's wrathful counter attack then, given the red lipstick mark up his chest.

  “Casper.” A pale, uncanny looking man says. He has strong bones under taught pale skin. He looks almost like a skull, complete with dark, sunken, tired eyes.

  “The not so friendly ghost.” Kane tacks on, getting an equally uncanny smile from the man.

  “I'm Niran, or Spaz, whichever is easiest.” A faint Thai accent, from what John could tell. The tanned man is far too handsome to be a killer, John thinks. He would have had a better career as a model, but if he is here that means he's good—and as John still recalls from the pain in face where Bella's foot was hours ago, looks can be deceiving.

  “Name’s John, It's a pleasure to meet you all.” John raises his glass and downs the contents.

  “Quite the entrance.” Spaz chuckles. Getting a few nods.

  “Gotta make a good first impression. Can’t have you thinking I’m some pushover.”

  “Not at all! Kane’s told us all about you for the last year. Honestly I thought it was all lies, but... Well I see it first hand now.” Spaz confirms with an assessing raise of his glass and a downing of its contents.

  “Awe, singing my praises?” John claps Kane on the back.

  “How could I not?” Kane makes an outrageously dramatic expression of pain.

  “If you didn’t have a wife, I think Kane would have married you.” Bella teases, biting the tip of her tongue as she smiles.

  “He isn’t my type.” John shrugs.

  “Stop, you’re killing him!” Kid cackles as Kane presses a hand to his heart, feigning having been shot.

  “I’m glad to have you with us.” Casper says casually, taking a drink and then standing up.

  “Leaving already? The party just started!” Bronco’s booming voice nearly sends the bottles shaking off the counter.

  “Yes. thank you Blackwood.” Casper nods, and nearly floats from the room on impossibly quiet footsteps.

  “What's his deal?” John asks, shooting a thumb back to the door as it closes.

  “Just not a very social guy. He’s a fucking monster on the field, always reliable, but he is an introvert at heart. I promise it isn’t you.” Spaz clicks his cheek and downs a drink, smiling wide as the next one is poured.

  “No worries, I know the type well,” John confirms with a drink of his own.

  Blackwood pours another round, and this time raises his own glass.

  “Congratulations John, and welcome to the team.”

  “Hear hear!”

  “Cheers!”

  “Santé”

  “Chok dee!”

  “Spasibo”

  The cheers go up, and the drinks go down.

  John smiles as it burns, relishes in the laughter, and downs another.

  And another

  Two more and John has his arms around Kane and Blackbeard both, singing a Russian song terribly off key, provoking several punches from Kane and a full belly laugh from the Pirate himself.

  Three more and John is arm wrestling Bronco, just as he thinks he is holding his own, she smiles wide, damn near picks him up off the chair and slams him into the table. He cackles, his body numb as Bronco’s face gets worried for only a moment, before picking up him and slamming another drink into his hand

  Four more drinks, and John is knocking foreheads with Spaz, whispering in conspiratorial voices about how to approach Bella.

  Ten drinks in, and John is delivering an unconscious spaz into Broncos arms, a welt the size of Bella’s foot sticking prominently from his forehead.

  Fifteen drinks later, and nearly everyone is gone, Blackbeard is stumbling piss drunk out of the T1 wing with Kid hot on his heels, making sure he doesn’t knock over too many things in his belligerent ramblings.

  Twenty drinks, and Kane is unconscious, an annoyed and very sober Bella hauling him over her shoulders and depositing him unceremoniously in the compound's pool to wake him up.

  John stops counting, but he knows it’s time to head to his room as well.

  “Need a hand?” Blackwood offers, though John dismisses it, standing up from the bar on his own, only to promptly fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

  “Ugghghhh…”

  He can’t feel anything other than the pressure of his own body weighing him down. Looking up, Blackwood stands above with another hand extended for him.

  John takes it with a grumble and allows himself to be assisted up, Blackwood taking him under the arm and helping him walk down the emptying halls.

  The sun is rising again, meaning they partied all the way through to the morning, given how few mercs are out.

  “Did you have a good time John?”

  “Eh, aside from running myself to the fucking ground? Sure. The others are solid... you picked well.”

  “I am glad you approve, and to see you all get along so well.”

  “I was damn surprised to see you serving drinks the whole night. Old man can still stay up late I guess.” John hiccups. One of the few things he was grateful for was his ability to keep his speech pretty regular despite being heavily intoxicated, though it’s still slowed.

  “Of course. It was the least I could do. It was difficult to show my appreciation for my men’s hard work when I was still a Colonel. Now that I am in the private sector, I can be more open.”

  John nods his head and slaps his hand around the button for the elevator before Blackwood eventually presses it for him

  “Blackwood.” John steadies himself against the wall, bringing himself upright a little more to put an arm on the man's shoulder.

  “Yes John?”

  “Don’t think any of this means I forgive you.” John's voice comes out lower than expected, his eyes hard as they stare into Blackwood's.

  “I am under no illusion that you and I are friends John. You are welcome to hate me all you like, so long as you perform well.” Blackwood smiles, brushing his suit off and straightening out the wrinkles.

  “So long as we are on the same page.”

  The elevator dings, and John gets on, watching Blackwood through the closing doors. He wants to punch that self satisfied smile off the bastard's face... but he knows he can't, nor should he.

  With a long exhale, John rests until the elevator reaches his floor.

  Stumbling down the hall, John reaches his door and pats around his pockets for his keycard.

  “Ah shit...”