Quiet Hate

Combat Ready

I finally make it to my car. I don't even plug in my phone for my music. I fly out of the parking lot, randomly sparing a glance at my rear-view mirror.

König stands there, watching me go.

I cry when I get back to my house. I cry, and I cry, and I cry. I cry on the floor of the shower, I cry in my kitchen while I make myself some soothing tea, and I cry once I've bundled myself up in bed.

I cry because I miss my old unit. I cry because I miss my family, all the way back home. I cry because I want to be anywhere but here. I cry because I'm embarrassed at myself. I cry because König's words hurt.

The crying lasts a few hours, and then I fall asleep.

I wake up at midnight, starving, swollen, and still tired. I trudge out of bed, wipe the tears off my face, and heat up some of Price's casserole. It's good, actually.

I realize, then, that I'm mad. I quickly change into workout clothes, and I head to the training center.

It's empty. Fortunately, I have a master key for on-base accesses, and I let myself into a side room. Similar to the one from the other day, it's padded, and most likely soundproof.

I drag a rubber mannequin from the closet and some gloves, and I manage to replicate a few of the moves that I saw Farah use. I get better, quicker, and more confident in my movements. I stay about an hour or so before the lack of good sleep and food starts to wear on me. I pack up for the night and head back.

For the following days, I sneak into the training center in the middle of the night. I manage to secure a copy of some special operations intro training, and I work on those moves. I get a bit better. Of course, Steve the mannequin isn't fighting back, but I've never done this before. I never had to. I stay only an hour, worried I'll run into someone if I stay longer, and I hurry back to shower and get into bed.

Interactions with König are nonexistent. Fortunately, it's getting easier to pretend he's not there, and luckily, he's not said anything to me. There's times where I swear I feel eyes burning into me when I'm at my desk, but I don't allow myself to turn my head.

Ghost tries to invite me out to hang out, but I politely decline. "Migraine," I keep saying. I've never had a migraine, and hopefully, karma doesn't get to me for lying.

Truthfully, I have to be free by midnight so I can head to the training center.

One week after König made that comment, I am a hell of a lot farther than I have been. Ghost asks if I've been at the track any this week, and I tell him I've been running elsewhere. He tried to ask where, but Price came up at that exact moment and spared me from the lie.

I've been running through a trail in the woods, which is scary as hell at night, but it's private, and I can hide my car. I go in the mornings, my regular time, and I find an extra challenge in the uncertain ground.

Saturday evening, the last before I promise myself a rest day, I hear sudden footsteps down the hallway.

Shit. I'm not doing anything wrong. I belong here. But nonetheless, I stop what I'm doing and turn off the lights.

A tall figure fills the doorway. The glow of the hallway illuminates his skull mask.

Ghost.

I know he knows I'm in here. I am hiding behind a piece of equipment, a stupid place, I know.

"Flora?" he calls.

I sigh.

"Flora," he says, and turns on the lights. "What are you doing in here?"

My face flushes red. "Um, working out?"

"With one of our practice mannequins? Is he better company than me?" Ghost's eyes crinkle in a smile.

"No, it's just that I like to work out by myself, like I said."

"In the middle of the night, in a closed training center?" He looks down. "With our introduction to combat book in front of you?"

"Yeah, I figured I should, you know, earn my spot with the team," I say, embarrassed to admit even a portion of the truth.

"Flora, you're a fast runner. I've heard things about your performance in the gym, and you're clearly in good shape. Who cares if the end of the run sucks - you're able to run, and that's what matters." Ghost crosses his arms.

"Yeah, well, you know," I say, trailing off.

"I know...?" he questions.

"Ghost," I say.

"Simon," he corrects. "We're friends, even if you've been lying about that migraine all week."

"I didn't finish my explanation," I said. "That migraine, was actually Steve's, here," I say, motioning to Steve. "Because I've missed a lot of neck shots that I've been practicing and have knocked him in the head a few times."

Ghost - Simon - rolls his eyes.

"The truth, Flora," he says.

"I just wanted to earn my place on the team," I say. "Even if it's not... my team."

Realization dawns upon his face, even if it's covered.

"Okay," he says. "I will see you later, then." He turns on his heel and leaves.

"Simon?" I call out, but he's gone.

I don't know where he's going, but I drag Steve back into the closet, and do a few sets of pyramid push-ups and some crunches before stretching. I tuck the book under Steve's arm, and I start tugging on my jacket.

I hear loud, thunderous stomps down the hallway.

Not one set, but two.

"Come on," Simon's voice rings out.

"What are you doing?" an Austrian accent replies.

No.

I grab my backpack and phone and try to hurry out the door to maybe run down another hallway, but they've rounded the corner.

König.