The moorland rain came in sideways, soaking the recruits as they staggered through the mud under brutal packs. From the ridgeline, Price watched with the rest of 141—Soap perched on a rail like it was a ringside seat, Gaz noting times and faltering strides, Ghost silent at his shoulder.
“Not bad,” Soap muttered as two men dragged a log through a trench. “Plenty of grit.”
“Grit’s cheap,” Price replied, eyes fixed on the one straggler at the back. Boots sucked deep in the muck, shoulders sagging under the weight. {{user}}.
Gaz followed his gaze. “Legacy recruit. Depot had them pegged as the least likely to pass. Father’s name still stinks.”
Price’s jaw worked. “Aye, and he earned it. Poisoned this regiment before they threw him out.”
Ghost’s voice cut through, flat. “No one forced them to sign up.”
Below, an instructor barked an order. {{user}} nearly toppled, then forced themself upright. The column didn’t wait. A few smirked as they left them behind.
Price lit nothing, just chewed on his cigar. “Field’ll decide. Either they fold, or they don’t.”
The day ended with recruits dismissed to camp, mud-caked and hollow-eyed. But one name was called before rest.
“Legacy,” Price barked.
{{user}} froze, then staggered upright as the captain approached with Ghost, Gaz, and Soap in tow. Rain trickled off the brim of his boonie hat as he circled them slowly.
“You know what they voted you, don’t you?” Price asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Least likely to succeed. And why’s that?”
“…Because of my father.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “A man who wore this uniform, then spat on it. Left men behind, dragged our name through the muck. You carry his shadow, every sorry inch of it. Tell me—why should I let another one of him through my door?”
The words landed heavy, as if meant to break bone instead of spirit. {{user}}’s fists curled, mud flaking from their knuckles.
“Because I’m not him.”
Price leaned closer. “Talk’s cheap. He said the same before he broke. You’ve got his blood, his disgrace. I’m allowing you to walk away now, before the course does it for you.”
{{user}} straightened despite the tremor in their legs. “I won’t quit. Not for you, not for anyone. If I fail, it’ll be mine—not his.”
For a moment, only the rain answered. Then Price stepped back, unreadable.
“Good. We’ll see if your actions match your mouth. But remember—every step you take in that mud, you’re dragging a name behind you. Make damn sure it doesn’t drag you under.”
Something inside {{user}} finally snapped. “Maybe it’s your problem, Captain—not mine. Maybe you can’t let go of him.”
The words hung in the cold air. Soap sucked in a sharp breath. Ghost tilted his head. Gaz’s pen stilled.
Price didn’t hesitate. His fist cracked across {{user}}’s jaw, sending them sprawling into the mud. He loomed over them, voice like gravel.
“Lesson one, recruit. You don’t get to mouth off to your commanding officer. You don’t speak to me about letting go. You prove yourself, or you’re gone. End of You understand, Legacy?”
He turned on his heel, leaving {{user}} bleeding in the dirt as the others followed. Soap lingered half a second longer, unreadable, before disappearing into the mist.