'Depressurization'
17-Nov-2030, 1800U
Probatio Stuart "Joker" Jones II, Descendant of Pietas
Legio XII Fulminata
Berkeley Hills, California, USA
When the fuck is this old retard going to quit? We've been at this for nearly four hours!
After I lost the match, Evocatus Jackson made me gear up in "full battle rattle," as he put it, and do all sorts of shit: dug holes, filled them back up again, did squats, did burpees, did sit-ups, did push-ups, and performed combat drills against the air—gladius, pugio, pilum, and even with the sling. And every time we switched positions, we ran. And now? We were hiking through Berkeley Hills in the dark, lit up only by moonlight and headlamps: I with my gladius, scutum, pilum, pugio, full armor and helmet, entrenching tools, and furca (marching pole) with full sarcina (bag; the bag was attached to the pole); and the evocatus with his weapons, body armor, and a light backpack filled with shit.
The old bastard was still up. He was sweating, but he didn't seem ready to drop yet. He was still carrying those stupid guns of his, looking like one of those guys that killed those terrorists overseas—what the fuck were they called, 24th Delta SEAL Activity or some shit? And instead of shooting people overseas, he was hired by the fucks in the top of the chain to "educate" us. Like hell.
What does this old psycho know? Put him in a SWAT team, fine... but he doesn't belong here. "The Legend," my ass.
It was just the two of us as I underwent my punishment for "insubordination." I didn't say a word unless spoken to—I wasn't giving this fuck the satisfaction of seeing me lose it. Fuck him. Fuck him, his military service, and the morons who decided on letting him take over the legion. Fuck the whole fucking world.
"Alright, princess. Go ahead and rest your sore little feet," Jackson said once we arrived at an oddly placed wooden shack: square footage-wise, it was the size of a king bed. And I was a solid 5' 10", so I'd call it six feet tall. There was no door, with only hinges left in its place.
The fuck is this?
"Drop your gear," Jackson ordered, so I did, trying not to show just how tired I was. The evocatus knelt, taking off his backpack and putting what looked like a fucked-up sledgehammer out of it... only for him to reveal that it was a sledgehammer with an extendable handle. "What's your swinging hang?"
"What?" I asked, only for him to toss the fucking thing at me. I caught it with my right, but the 8-pound head damn near hit me in the balls. "What the fuck?!"
"What the fuck, sir," Jackson corrected. "So you're a righty. Good enough. Now... demolish this shack."
" ... what?"
"Demolish this shack. Use your dolabra (pickaxe) and ligo (mattock) if you want. Once you're done, pile up the wreckage and dig a trench around it. Any questions?"
"Why the fuck am I doing this, sir?"
"What do you think, Probatio Joker?"
"What do I think? I think this is bullshit. You're doing some metaphorical bullshit here: there's some sort of stupid significance to me knocking this shit down," I scoffed.
"Really?" Jackson replied, sitting down and giving me a grin. "I think you think too much."
"Really?"
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