| 02) Kurt - Training The Infiltrator; Nightcrawler Months had passed since Kurt had come to the Heli-Carrier. Months in which his groin stopped hurting and his scars healed. He sat on his bunk waiting for lights out in the Hounds Dorm, his chin on his knees and his arms and tail wrapped tightly around him. He'd suffered another session with the tattooed man. Some of his scars didn't ridge up high enough the first time, so they were recut. But even that was healed now. His tail tip twitched at the memory, and he grabbed it tightly to keep it still. As soon as he could safely exert himself, they'd set him to strength training and acrobatic practice. It was nothing he hadn't done before, but the fierce intensity of the work was new to him. He was taught what was expected of him as a Hound: to obey on pain of death. The litany was a perversion and purest blasphemy. They sought to make Shield his God, his religion, and his very world. If he were a stronger man, he would have refused and joined the martyrs of the faith with the blessed Name on his lips. Instead he mouthed the words they wanted and repented in the night. To live was a strong urge in him, and he felt... he felt that God still had a purpose for him, in this life. The foul oath wasn't the only cross he had to bear in this horrible place. His fellow Hounds didn't seem to like him. Even now, hunched tight on his bunk, he turned his head away in distaste from their ribald stories and jokes. His neighbor on the next bunk laughed at him, "Aw, the altar boy's gettin' all offended again." The jokes only got more filthy in response. The guard ordered them to bed, and turned off the lights. Kurt lay down under his covers, still curled protectively around himself. A Hound's life wasn't as aesthetic as he thought. The others talked about a mixed genders party that Hounds on good report could attend. After giving the clinic a negative sperm sample, he'd been eligible. He didn't go the first time he could. The jests indicated an abandonment of morals and a wholehearted embrace of casual sex. Last month he'd gone, for the hope of some companionship. Kurt stifled a sigh. When he arrived, at first the partiers had ignored him. Equal parts relieved and disappointed, he turned to leave. A mannish looking woman stopped him. "Wait, we gotta rule here. No one who comes is turned away." The Hound tattoo made her strong features even less feminine than her face structure deserved. Her name was Karla, and she took him to one of the curtained alcoves. Many of them were in use, and some of the couples weren't bothering with the curtains. He closed theirs, and found her immediately reaching for the zipper of his jumpsuit. He gently captured her hands. "Nein, please, I..." "Don't you want to fuck?" she said frowning. "No... I just wanted some company." "Are you gay?" she hissed, "Because you shoulda said..." "I just wanted to talk with someone," he said. "I want to hear a voice that isn't full of hate and anger. I want to talk about the weather, or... anything, that's not about... killing." She looked away. "We don't usually do that here. You're cutting into my chance for sex tonight." "I'm sorry," he said sadly. "I release your from the rule. You can go." He sat down slumped on the bed, ignoring the multitude of suspicious stains on the covers. She stood at the curtain for a moment, ready to leave, then turned back around. "I'll give you an hour, that way I can still try for some. An hour's all we have to give, anyway." She sat down next to him, and looked at his tail. "Actually it's kinda nice to have a guy look my face for once." She smiled. He smiled back at her. Her eyes were a soft blue. "So," she said. "What do you want to talk about?" It had lasted all too short a time, that awkward conversation. But the memory of a rare act of kindness relaxed him finally, and he fell asleep... ...Until blankets were thrown over him, and fists began slamming into him. Kurt was their favorite nighttime target, ever since they'd noticed how little bruises showed through his indigo fur. He defended himself as best he could, and hoped they would tire of it soon... He entered the training room, and bowed low to his trainers, and the major he'd met that first day. Turning, he kneeled fluidly before the eagle bedecked Shield on the wall. They listened to the words he spoke aloud, and he was only glad they couldn't hear the words that he spoke in his heart. "Vater unser im Himmel, geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme. Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel so auf Erden..." It was a dangerous game he played. If they had made him speak the oath in German, it probably wouldn't have worked. They seemed happy with his reverent expression and his flawless English recitation, while he silently fed his heart with prayers in his mother tongue. It bothered him to appear to bow to their false religion, but he knew that his true worship was to God alone. He remembered that eagles were in the scriptures, and that Paul had told bondservants to obey their masters as if obeying God. The Lord had put him into these hands, and there must be some purpose to it that Kurt didn't yet understand. He rose and bowed to them again. He no longer wore the collar, for where would he go? They had taken him to the top deck and let him look down at the ground, spread below like a distant patchwork quilt. To take his own life was a sin, and he was certain he would die if he ported off the Carrier. They told him to warm up, and he began. A few winces and a hiss or two later, and one of them stopped him. "What's the matter with you?" "My uniform is tight, and... my muscles hurt." Trainer Birne pulled him to their table and turned a bright light on him. He squinted his sensitive eyes from the glare, and stood as they inspected the fighting togs he wore and the puffy bruises on his dark face. Birne took a blade and loosened some seams across his shoulders and along his thighs. "New ones are being made, but you've grown faster than we've anticipated, and growing good muscle." Kurt tried not to flinch as he probed his swollen cheekbone. "This come from a guard?" "No, mein Herr." Birne looked at the cold-faced officer. "This has gone on long enough. The Hounds are beating him up at night, and it's hindering his training. As if we wouldn't notice unauthorized marks on him." The officer looked at him appraisingly. "Strip to the waist." Kurt undid the top of his cat suit, and pushed it down to his hips. More swollen patches were visible on his body, purple even under the fine, dark fur. "Is what he said true?" "Jawohl, major," he said to his feet. "Very well, you've made your point. He'll be given separate quarters, and you will be reassigned immediately. Report to Hound command for a new subject. You've become too close to this one." "Yes, sir," Birne answered, and left the room. A new trainer came in as the major left. The man stared at him, then studied his files for a long time. "Alright, Sunshine," the new man growled. "Gear up and show us what you can do." He finished his warm-up, and more adjustments were made to his suit. It was especially flexible at his joints, but was now far too confining in spots for his growing frame. His senior trainer put him on 'rescue' work today. An ungainly bundle equal to his own weight was strapped to his back. He had to negotiate his obstacle course with it, while automatic weapons and the trainers fired at him with paint balls. Kurt ran the course so burdened, twice. The first time he received a solid mark, and ten pushups, but the second time he only bore the splatters of near misses. He was glad to get the bundle off his back. He was given a chance to rest, and then he was set to a strenuous acrobatics sequence, the moves called out at random from a list of moves he'd been trained in. He was still panting from that when he was called to the trainer's table. The new trainer launched into an attack, snapping punches and kicks at him at full speed and power. Kurt defended himself, blocking most of the blows. Trainer Combs said offhandedly, "He won't stop until you get a sold hit back on him. Get him before he gets you." Kurt narrowed his eyes and took the initiative in the fight, returning the attacks to the best of his ability. They traded several strikes, then Kurt ported behind him and knocked him flat with a round house kick to the side of the head. "Very good," Combs said, while the new man gave a little groan and sat up. "And since you've broached the use of your power, we're doing weight training today." Kurt fought off a sigh. He hated this part. The trainer threw him a heavy sack. "You know the drill, port with that across the room and back." Porting with weights was hard, and they kept increasing them. Bamf. He appeared on the big room's far side, then he bamfed back. "Drop it," the trainer said, and he did in time to catch the next, even heavier bag. He ported across with it, and stopped, his sides heaving, until he scraped up the focus to return. "That's just pathetic you know," said Combs. "That's only a hundred pounds, and you're sucking wind to get it back. The major wants you up to 150 pounds as soon as possible. You need to be able to port another person with you on a mission, or what the hell are we wasting our time with you for?" Kurt stood very still. He knew what the fate was for Hounds who didn't live up to expectations: Their suspended death sentence was summarily carried out. "I will do better, mein Herr," he said. He hefted the bag again, and took across once more. Despite the throbbing pain, he brought it back as soon as his eyes marked out a location. He appeared with it, and it dropped from his hands. He crumpled in on himself, slumping into his characteristic crouch as his nose dripped blood on the front of his suit. "Alright," Combs said, handing him some gauze. "I can see you're making an effort here. When you get the bleeding under control, go with your new trainer to the weight room. I want you to do twenty reps on each machine, then you can shower. After dinner, I'll have your kit, and I'll take you to your new quarters." "Thank you, mein Herr," Kurt said. He dabbed at his nose and caught his breath. The weight room wasn't a bad way to end the session. Twenty reps was a lot of work, as tired as he was, but it was mindless effort. He didn't think he?d be able to handle anything else that required concentration or thought. When he finished eating, Combs arrived, with Kurt's locker and several boxes on a hand truck that he passed to Kurt. They negotiated several halls, and took a freight elevator to what had to be near the bottom of the Carrier. The hall they arrived in was dusty and little used. The door they stopped at looked like it had been installed as an afterthought. "These were built as quarantine quarters for the staff. They're full facilities for two. You're still required to have dinner in the dining hall, but you are allowed to have your other meals here. Don't skip any, or all your meals will be in the dinning hall." He looked at Kurt to make sure he understood. "Most of it was fully finished, but I'm told some of it is still a little rough. Just be sure you take extra time to get to and from anywhere, because you're way down here now." Kurt nodded, and Combs left. He opened the door into a neatly appointed kitchenette, complete with refrigerator and stove. To the left a narrow hall eventually opened to a larger room. In the middle of the hall, a door revealed a surprising large bathroom that he wouldn't have to share with anyone. Past the bath was a bedroom with two separate full mattresses. Returning though the kitchen, he went past the separating bar, and entered the main room. Here the plastering had stopped, and the far end of the room, where the ceiling dropped abruptly from eight feet to a little over six, was paneled in bare sheetrock. From the dusty hallway outside, to the far wall, no room was wider than 15 foot. They had an air of being fit into a narrow available space. Kurt carried his trunk to the nearest bed, and looked through the boxes on the cart. One held bedding, and another contained towels and washing gear. He took them both, dropping the bathing box off in the open bathroom, and piled the bedding on his trunk. The rest of the boxes held some kitchen utensils and a respectable amount of foodstuffs. It seemed he really would be permitted to have some independence down here. All it cost him was the dubious company of his fellow Hounds. He took his time, and began to put things away. It wasn't home, but it was better than the dorm. It was noisy down here. Engineering was just on the far side of the outside hall, and most of the Carrier's power was generated 'down below'. The second time he woke up from some odd clanging noise he got up in his boxers and started to pace the bare main room. After a while, from sheer boredom, he jumped up and started to wall walk. He clung to the vertical surfaces with ease, scuttling on all fours around the room's walls as easily as he'd paced the floor. At the back wall, a slab of sheetrock shifted under his weight, and he lightly jumped back from it to the floor. He came up to the slab, examining its edges and trying to make it rattle. He struck it with his fist, and cocked his head at the hollow thump it made, and the whispering echoes that followed. He hit it again, and listened to the echoes more closely. What kind of space was behind the wall? Kurt went to the kitchen and picked up the hand truck, and brought it to the slab. He crouched beside it and ran his hands over it, considering. Picking it up by the sides he turned it upside down, and slammed into the sheetrock with the bottom edge, like an awkward dull axe. It made a satisfactorily deep cut in the slab, and he brought it down again and again. Soon he'd chopped a dark hole in the wall the size of his fist. He reversed the cart again, and rammed at the crumbling edges of the hole with the hard steel handle. The half-inch pipe the truck was made of seemed up the task. He could see the two by four framing that the sheetrock was nailed to. Using the limited tools he had, he cleared the slab and cross-board from the wooden frame section, and looked out into the yawning dark beyond. He turned off all the lights, and allowed his golden eyes to adjust. It wasn't completely black, because he could see a dim light filtering through from far above him. He seemed to be between two hulls of the Carrier. The far hull was night-cold metal, but the inner wall was more room temperature. It was only a little wider between these walls than his rooms were wide. Here between the walls, bare iron girders, support cables, and air ducts loomed in the spaces above him, gradually blocking out the faint light. A smile curved his lips as he studied the nearby surfaces. He gripped the edge of a great I-beam, and started to climb. About forty feet up, the beam was crossed by another. He crawled out onto it and lay down on his belly. He let his arms dangle down on either side, but his toes were curled just over the ledges of the beam, and he wrapped his tail loosely around it. He closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure. It was far too long since he'd been able to climb for the pure enjoyment of it. That noise... was that a bird? Getting to his feet he sought a way higher up. A hundred feet above the deck below he was near the top of the space. Ten to fifteen feet above him was a steel riveted ceiling, but in the outer wall was a vent. Five yards long, and two yards tall, it was made of louvered vanes a mere four inches apart. Sitting on a beam level with the vent, he could see the moonlit clouds outside the carrier. They must not be at full cruising elevation, because he could hear more birdcalls, though none passed by where he could see them. The rich colors of twilight were fading from the sky, and tears wet his cheeks at the beauty of it. He sat and watched the sky until it was completely dark, sprinkled with glistening stars. He gave silent thanks for the gift he'd been given, then with a laugh he half-tumbled, half-flew down to the deck below. When he lay down in his bed again, his sleep was deep and his dreams were scarcely troubled. He woke up early, feeling refreshed, and made himself breakfast. He dressed to join his morning work detail up above. He stepped out of his room, and jumped at he sight of a workman standing near his door. "Fuck!" the man said as he jumped back as well. Kurt bowed to him, and headed for the freight elevator. "Wait... Hound! You're to come with us," the man said. "I'm with the fourth cleaning detail, mein Herr." "Not anymore. Aw fuck Joe, he's German... and he's blue!" "I don't care if he's the ruddy devil hisself..." Joe came into view, and goggled at Kurt, who stood respectfully still. Joe swallowed hard, and continued. "...he's a warm body, and we're always undermanned in the garbage room. C'mon, you." The other end of the hall opened up into a large bay filled with bins and plastic bags. The smell of rot was partly countered by the breeze coming in the wide-open bay doors where flying trawls hauled off the detritus of life aboard the carrier. Joe took Kurt to a large pile of loose garbage. "We recycle everything we can. Burnables go to the furnace room. Also sort out the glass, plastic, and metals, and do it by color of glass and type of metals. The bins are clearly labeled... you can read English can't you?" "Jawohl, sir." A careless wave dismissed the title. "Just Joe. Useless stuff and general garbage we have to pay to get taken away, so sort as good as you can, okay? You do that until 11:30, then you kick off until your training session at one o'clock. Got all that?" "Yes... ah, Joe." Hours later, his fur was matted with various unidentified sticky substances. He'd done his sorting to the best of his ability and reported to Joe for his work chip. Joe gave it to him cheerfully. "You did good work out there, Hound. I think this is going to work out." Kurt looked around at the not-quite-useless treasures scattered around the man's working space. "Ah, mein Herr?" he said softly. "What is it?" Joe frowned at him. "Does anyone want that?" He pointed at a box containing a turntable with a broken arm, and stack of old records. "Naw, help yourself, just some more poundage we don't have to pay to get rid of." Joe gave him the box, some more records, the armature off another record player, and a battered toolbox that didn't close properly. "Anything else you can use?" "Perhaps, some extra blankets?" "Sure, I got some over here..." Chapter Three Back to Fanfics Back to Series Index Back to Main Page |