On Her Majesty's Secret Service ~ H.S.

Chapter 6

"Styles! Frasier! Not so fast!" General Sanders calls. I cringe at his tone. Oh god. This is it. Am I going to be kicked out of training? I watch forlornly as the rest of the recruits head to the dorms. Isla and Sarah shoot me a sympathetic look, but carry on without protest.

I freeze and turn. So does Harry. We both come to stand in front of the General.

"Both of you were shot first. In the real world, you'd be dead, do you understand?" General Sanders questions. I nod furiously. Of course I understand. I wouldn't have been shot in the first place if Harry wasn't such a prick.

"As punishment, you have the rest of the night to clean the mess hall. I had the cleaning crew take the day off." Sanders tells us. I don't let my cries of protest slip and take the punishment silently. The General turns away without another word and stalks off. Harry and I are left alone.

Without sparing him a glance I proceed to the mess hall. I find that mops and buckets have been left for us, but unfortunately, so has everything else. This is going to be a long night.

I grab a mop and start on the floor. Harry and I work in absolute silence. He stays on one side of the mess hall and I stick to the other. I don't want to be any closer to him than necessary.

After a while, maybe an hour, beads of sweat start to break over my forehead. My fingers become shaky and it's hard to keep the mop in my grip. Although only half of Harry and I's job is done, I don't know how I'm going to continue. The pain emanating from my leg is getting far too much to bear. I'm scared to even check it, afraid of the bruise I know that's formed.

Another 15 minutes and I know I need to get my pants off and check. I look down to the area of floor I've just mopped and find little spots of blood that weren't there before. I glance down to my thigh and, even though my dark pants disguise it well, blood is clearly running down my leg.

Without a word, I leave the mess hall and limp to the washroom, trailing more blood.

Finally, I allow myself to sit. I perch upon a sink, thankful for the easy access to water. I'm terrified of taking my pants off. They're so tight that when I pull them down I know they'll squeeze my injury.

I look down and blood now seems to be rushing out of my wound faster. I can't believe a fucking paint ball pellet managed to rip through my pants and my leg. As I try to stand and unbuckle my belt, I let out a cry of pain.

I bite the edge of my hand, afraid to make anymore noise. Everyone in the dorm is surely asleep, and the washroom is far enough away anyway, but I still don't want to risk someone hearing me.

I realize quickly that my pants are not going to come off in a normal way. I sigh and retrieve the knife I keep in my sock.

Slowly and carefully I begin to dissect the fabric, cutting a slit all the way up from the bottom of my leg to the top. I proceed with the other leg and my pants fall to the floor. I'm left in my underwear, but luckily the rush of blood from my wound slows. Obviously my pants were applying a little too much pressure.

I glance down. On the side of my left thigh I see the puncture wound. A bruise bigger than my hand surrounds it, a mix of sickly yellow, brown, blue and green. The discolouration is mostly obscured, though, by the crimson blood which has stained most of my upper thigh. I know that if there's a hole, and since there's definitely no exit wound, there must be something inside me. I poke at the injury, whimpering as I do. The pellet is still lodged in my leg. I can just see the flimsy plastic poking out from under my skin.

My eyes begin to sting with tears. I've never dealt with this caliber of pain before. I know I can't use my fingers to dig the pellet out- I'll just rip the skin more. Even now as I inspect the wound every time I touch it more blood spurts out.