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‘07 stared straight ahead, face set, feet firmly planted a shoulder width apart, arms clasped tightly behind his back.
He managed to keep his face set - Sergeant Vau didn’t like it if they didn’t, cringing away from superior officers showed they weren’t being proper soldiers - and he only trembled slightly. Hopefully, that could be put down to the exertion.
"'38, '40, '62, dismissed,” Vau ordered. ‘07 kept looking forwards even as he swallowed, not stupid enough to try and meet the eyes of any of the others in search of reassurance, thankfully they also weren’t stupid enough to offer him anything, merely letting off a sharp “sir”, snapping to attention, and then filing out the room.
‘07 heard the door close behind them, and tried to remember to keep his breaths even, in the way that their sergeant had taught them. His performance today had been shit, there was no point pretending otherwise. Whatever Vau was about to do, he would deserve, and he’d be thankful for it. It would teach him to be better, to focus harder.
He just had to keep reminding himself of that.
“Do you think your scores were acceptable today, ‘07?”
“No, sir.”
Straight ahead, just stare straight ahead. Don’t make eye contact, don’t flinch. Your whole body is durasteel, it can’t move.
“Then explain them to me.”
‘07 couldn’t.
“I tried my best, sir,” he managed to get out, his voice barely shaking, but he knew it was the wrong response even before Vau surged forwards.
He grit his teeth together as Vau twisted hard on his hair, trying desperately not to let out a sound. Good soldiers didn’t cry out, good soldiers didn’t sob, if they couldn’t handle a little pain they’d never make it in war. His sergeant had made this very clear, explained that he was doing them a kindness, and Sev knew from experience that if he let any tears fall then Vau would give him something to really cry about.
“Your best?” he sneered, pulling harder as ‘07 had to stretch onto his toes, doing his best not to overbalance. “You're the squad’s sniper and your best is only 95 targets out of a hundred? Tell me, what will happen if you only hit most of your marks in the real world.”
‘07’s breath caught in his throat. “The others could still fire at us.”
“How do you think it would feel, ‘07, to watch ‘62 bleed out beside you? Do you think he’d die happy knowing his squadmate had tried his best, had hit most of the targets?”
This time, ‘07 couldn’t stop the sob that escaped his lips. As expected, the grip on his hair was released and he found himself crumpled on the floor by the power of Vau’s backhand. He lay there for several seconds, ears ringing, as he waited for the beating to continue. To his surprise, nothing happened, and he looked up to see his sergeant’s disapproving glare. He scrambled to his feet and back into parade rest, grateful that for some reason it didn’t seem as if there would be any more bruises added to those he’d already earnt in training today.
“No more excuses, ‘07. You can be the best, or you can watch your squad die and know it’s your fault.”
The silence that followed this pronouncement seemed to stretch, and he realised that he was meant to say something. “Yes sir, I’ll try harder, do better, I promise. They won’t die because of me, sir.”
“You’ll stay behind and practice tonight. And you’ll do so every night, until you can hit all the targets, every time.”
“Yes, sir.” ‘07 didn’t add something stupid, like point out that he’d miss latemeal. Latemeal was a privilege, a privilege he knew he didn’t deserve.
“Good, get started.”
After Sergeant Vau had left, ‘07 keyed in the codes to restart the exercise, and began it by himself this time. The sniper rifle dug hard into his shoulder, deepening and irritating the bruise every time he fired, but he soon tuned that out. It was only pain after all.
What he couldn’t stop was how his hands shook, and what use was that? What use was it when a snipers hands had to be steady. Precise.
The exercise ended and he’d only shot 84 of the targets. He bit back tears and stormed over to restart it. He was five years old, he was five-kriffing-years old and he should be able to hit a target by now. The Republic could call on them at any time and he had to be good enough.
As the exercise restarted he blinked away images of his brothers corpses, each more graphic than the last due to their latest flash training on battlefield injury, and forced himself to focus.
He would to this. He had to.
Late that night, he crawled into his sleep pod, trigger finger blistered and bleeding, aching all over from keeping his body tense in the position he needed to hold the rifle while still maintaining cover.
The others had called to him, asked if he was okay, but ‘07 hadn’t answered, hadn’t deserved their comfort, not when he hadn’t passed the exercise yet. Instead, he’d fallen into bed, still in his sweaty uniform, drifting off into dreams of his brothers' lifeless bodies.
The next morning he awoke, but didn’t join the others for breakfast, despite the gnawing hunger that had set into his stomach. He wouldn’t be allowed to be late for flash training, and he needed to do his laundry, use the sonic, and dress his wounds.
When he joined the others later, in the line for flash training, '38 slipped him a ration bar, and the others crowded round him so the cameras wouldn’t see him stuffing it down his throat.
The images of his brothers wouldn’t leave him, and, secondary to that point, Vau’s orders had been clear, and so ‘07 continued his training each night, only arriving back in the bunkroom in the early hours, sometimes even waking to find himself still in the training salle.
The others never bothered to wait up for him anymore.
He felt exhausted, and his body shook, telling him he needed rest, telling him he needed food, but he ignored the feelings. Tried to, anyway. They didn’t matter, it didn’t matter that he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on the flash training, that he was making sloppy mistakes in his hand-to-hand that Sergeant Vau made sure he was corrected for. What mattered was that he become the best, what mattered was that wouldn’t let his squad down.
-
Several weeks later, Walon Vau watched Delta Squad carry out their latest training exercise. They performed admirably, far better than the other squads, especially ‘07, who was managing to hit every single target with a steely determination.
He succeeded in hiding his smile until after he’d dismissed them.
This squad was something special, and he was glad he’d given ‘07 the extra motivation. He had to admit he’d been a bit concerned when it had seemed that his scores had started to slip in other areas, but clearly it had paid off. ‘07 was gifted, more talented that any of the other snipers he trained, maybe better than any other commando - he’d have to look at other training units' scores to check.
As he walked out of the training salle he allowed himself to relax a little.
Maybe, just maybe, Delta Squad might survive out there.