Striker

6. Chapter 1

My first memory is of darkness.

Then the darkness bled away, and bright lights illuminated faces I didn’t recognize and places I didn’t understand. After that, he came, and I was thrust into a bone chilling cold and a different kind of darkness. A darkness where light couldn’t bleed in through cracks under the door. A dark so black, so cold, I knew that I’d go to sleep again if I allowed it.

Despite the biting cold that surrounded me, I held onto reality, feeling its icy fingers dig into my skin, creeping beneath my ribcage and robbing me of my breath.

I stayed in that darkness for so long, I feared I’d never come out.

But then I did.

The only memories of who I was before here are shadowy, blank spaces. Just a hollow emptiness and angry pain in my throat and belly. Flickering memories of falling asleep and waking up surrounded by people I’d never seen before. Of fear. Terror.

I don’t have any memories of a mother before the darkness other than flashes of a gold bracelet tinkling like little bells around a thin wrist. I know it’s her. My mother. How, I’m not sure. Some deep rooted feeling that lives in my gut, I suppose.

Sometimes, I’ll flash on a pretty bracelet and a wave of fear and sadness envelopes me. But then I remember the delicate gold chains wrapped around the gypsy’s waists at the market. I always enjoyed going to town, watching the gold bells and charms clang together as they walked by. Back when he allowed us to leave the school when we were boys. But we don’t go to the market anymore.

Not since we turned of age.

I was five years old when Fallon brought me here, which seems odd that I don’t remember my birth mother’s face or have memories that aren’t black waves of nightmarish terror. Five is old enough to remember your mother. But I was told my mother was a whore and didn’t have time to raise a boy, so maybe that’s why. She was too busy spreading her legs to earn money so she could shoot poison into her veins.

I remember Fallon telling me this when he sat me down on the icy floor in the cold room. I also remember thinking it was odd anyone wanted to put poison in their veins. When I said that, he told me it was because she was a stupid whore.

“Do you want to be like your mother?”

I didn’t like the look in his eyes, so I said, “No.”

“I’m your father now,” he said, standing over me so that I had to look way, way up to see his face. The way he said each word was strange, like he had sand in his mouth, and couldn’t pronounce the words right. “Do you understand?”

I nodded. But he didn’t seem to like I only nodded, so I told him, “Si.”

“Do you want to be strong like your otets?”

I wasn’t sure what an otets was, but I figured it was something he called himself. I looked at his long legs, his broad shoulders, his short black hair and eyes the color of water. He looked big and mean. The way I thought fathers should look according to what little I knew about them. I’d never had one before. But I liked the idea of him being mine, even if his face was stern and I had yet to be rewarded with a smile.

“Si, otets.”

Then he shut the door, and I was alone.

And cold. For a long, long time.

When the coldness or blackness tries to creep back into my mind, I remind myself I am no longer that boy sitting in that room desperate for a stranger to be my father, since my mother didn’t want me. I’m a soldier.

At least I will be when I complete this part of my training.

“Striker!”

My name whips across the rooftop as harsh as the wind over the platform where we stand in formation, snapping me back to the present.

I straighten my spine, tightening my fists, blinking to focus my mind. I was floating again. My eyes find my otets. My father—Commander Fallon—he insists we call him when we are in training. His brow quirks, but he says nothing.

The biting chill in the air reminds me of that first day here, and maybe that’s why I’m flooded with memories. It’s also probably because we are here so he can teach us a lesson. Much like that first cold day when he left me in the empty room with nothing but a thin sweater to keep me warm.

“Your enemies will use your weakness as a weapon,” Fallon says, his voice barely audible over the roar of wind as he paces back and forth, back and forth, in front of us. “Weakness is a betrayal to your brothers. Do you understand, my sons?”

“Sir, yes sir!” we shout in unison like we are one voice. One person. One unit. That’s what he’s teaching us. To be a deadly force capable of moving as one. A collection of perfect soldiers.

“Viper!” he shouts, turning on his heel to face us. His voice doesn’t have that guttural, gravelly accent like Commander Maxim, but it’s just as deadly. His usually stoic face flashes with something we all recognize as Fallon scans the line, looking for any flaw in our formation. Father keeps it shielded, but sometimes it slips out from under the mask he wears and cruelty shows its ugly face.

His cold, steely gaze lands on Viper to my right, and my jaw tenses. I think we all stop breathing as Fallon steps forward.

We all know what’s coming. We’ve been here before.

“Step forward, soldat,” Fallon says, raising a black leather gloved hand to beckon my brother forward.

My insides twist uncomfortably, but it’s not like when we don’t get food as punishment. It’s that sensation in the pit of my stomach, a gnawing that reminds me of fear.

But I can’t let the fear touch me. Fallon will try to beat it from me again if I so much as flinch. Not wanting to rile him, I push all my emotions down. Down further until I feel nothing but the coldness inside and out. Coldness like in that room, but I know now I can handle it.

I’m going to be a soldier.

Another gust whips across the rooftop, slashing us to the bone. My fingers ache from the cold, frozen in my leather gloves. I want to unclench my fists and stretch my fingers, but Commander Maxim will disapprove if I make the slightest movement.

Gritting my teeth, I keep my hands fisted at my sides, my arms rigid both from the freezing winter wind and from standing in formation for so long as I watch Viper step forward. His black boots scrape over the concrete, but then he stills, straightening his spine, keeping his chin level and eyes straight ahead, focusing on the open stretch of barren landscape around the school. Just as we’ve been taught. He’s a good soldat.

To my left, Breaker shifts. My instincts scream to tell him to stop moving. If Fallon sees any hint of unease, it won’t just be Viper up on the platform, it will be all of us taking turns.

Though we probably deserve it.

“Viper,” Fallon says, stepping up close to the broad chested boy I’ve called my brother for the last nine years. Fallon’s at least a head taller than my brother, but nowhere near as large. At sixteen, only two years older than me, Viper is bulky. Built like a tank, Fallon often says, as a good soldier should be. “Remind your brothers what makes a good soldier.”

“Loyalty,” Viper barks out. “Courage. Duty. Honor. Discipline. Respect.”

Fallon steps back, clasping his hands behind his back as his icy eyes move over Viper. My stomach does that gross flip thing again. “And tell me, my syn, is there honor in theft?”

Viper squares his shoulders against a blast of cold air. “Sir, no sir!”

“Is here honor in telling lies?”

“Sir, no sir!”

“Tell me, Viper.” Fallon’s stony gaze hones in on Viper’s face. “Are these considered weaknesses?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Those clear eyes land on me, making my gut twist, but he continues to speak to Viper. “As a soldier, we must protect our brothers at all costs, correct?”

It’s barely noticeable, and I hope I’m the only one to hear it when Viper stutters, “S-Sir, yes, sir.”

His pale eyes keep me pinned in place, memories of another day on this rooftop making my heart pick up pace as he says, “We do not say or do anything that may threaten our brothers, correct?”

Viper gives the correct response, keeping his chin high, but we all see the tension in the set of his jaw.

Breaking me free of his penetrating gaze, Fallon takes a large step back and Commander Maxim steps forward, an evil smirk shining on his pale, wide face. The sunlight catches on the smooth white scar that runs from his forehead, under the eyepatch and travels down his cheek to his chin. He told us once that a giant crocodile tried to cut off the left side of his face, but he gutted him before he could. The way his remaining right eye gleams darkly as he motions to the platform behind him reminds me he’s vicious enough to take down a crocodile.

There’s only a slight hesitation as Viper steps forward. My stomach cramps, the bread I shoved down last night threatening to come up. Viper steps up on the platform, turning to face Commander, his back to the thick wooden pole at the center of the raised concrete circle.

“Remove your clothes,” Fallon commands.

A ripple of unease moves through our line. It’s deep winter and bitter cold with the wind ripping across the top of the school. He’ll fucking freeze to death up here, so exposed.

With his mouth set into a thin line Viper strips his clothes, folding his black peacoat, sweater, and fatigues neatly at the edge of the platform, then placing his black beanie and gloves on top, before resuming position.

“Face the pillar,” Fallon says.

We all watch in complete silence as Viper presents his bare back to the Commander who wraps the thick leather straps around Viper’s wrists, then cranks the chain fed through the loop at the top of the pole until Viper’s arms are above his head. Viper widens his stance, but then goes still. Another gust of bitter wind sweeps over the platform, and a shiver moves through his shoulders, his breath puffing out, wrapping around the pole in a fine mist.

Turning back to us, Fallon walks our line, stopping in front of each one of my brothers, inspecting our uniforms. There aren’t many of us left. Twelve in total now. We lost a brother this past spring. Us newer students, like Breaker and I, only joined in with the other soldats this past year. Viper the year before. Reaper and my other brothers have been in combat training for several years since they’re older, and have moved up in ranks. Reaper, Hunter, and Seeker are the oldest of our regime, and have their first mission next year.

When Fallon reaches the end of the line, he motions for Reaper to step out of formation. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Reaper’s sleek back hair, so similar to Fallon’s, as he steps up to our otets.

“Soldat,” Fallon says, eyes still scanning over our line. “Can you tell your brothers why we are out in this cold, freezing our asses off?”

Reaper spins tightly, facing us, fists at his sides. I marvel at his grace. But then everything Reaper does is smooth, graceful like the ballerina’s Father talks about sometimes.

“We have a thief in this school,” Reaper shouts, his voice rough from cold and trying to be heard over the roar of wind. He’s usually quiet. Reserved. It always shocks me when he takes command of our training.

“Is thievery in our motto?” Fallon asks.

“Sir, no sir!” we all shout.

“Reaper, tell your brothers what we do to thieves.”

“We cut off their hands.”

Fallon watches our line, waiting for a reaction. When he gets none, he says, “But a good soldier needs both his hands, does he not?”

We don’t hesitate. “Sir, yes sir!”

Fallon eyes us. “Someone crept into the kitchen last night and stole a loaf of bread.” He scans all of us, looking for signs of guilt. Of course we give none. “When we steal from our school, we’re taking from our own pockets.” He’s silent for a heartbeat. “Did I teach mysoldiers to steal?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“Didn’t we learn that stealing is a sin? That it is a dishonor to ourselves? To our brothers? To our school and all I have taught you?”

We all shout our response, even as my stomach roils. Next to me, Breaker shifts and I resist the urge to stomp on his foot. He’ll give himself away. He’ll give us all away.

In front of us, another violent tremor racks Viper’s body as the wind gusts over the platform, his knees buckling slightly.

“Have we not learned that our actions have consequences? That if something happens to one of us, it happens to all of us? You, my sons, are a unit. Of one mind. One body. When one of you steals…” his voice trails off, but he doesn’t have to say it.

We all pay the price.

His gaze lands on Breaker, and my chest tightens.

I think we all knew, even last night as we shoved buttered bits of bread into our mouths, we were going to suffer our otets’s wrath, but I guess we’re not cruel enough to have thought this up.

Yet.

Not cruel enough yet, but Fallon is trying to cure us of that.

“Breaker,” Fallon says. “Step forward, syn.”

My jaw tightens. The urge to grip Breaker’s thin shoulder and pull him behind me is so strong, I nearly do it, but Reaper catches my eye and gives me a slight shake of his head. He doesn’t have to say the words for them to ring in my head.

No. Do not stop our otets. It’ll be worse than this if you do.

I swallow the bile in my throat and watch as the reedy boy next to me steps from formation.

As much as I want to blame Breaker for his inability to follow orders, we’re here because we all ate that fucking bread. But if he hadn’t of been so…. so himself, Father wouldn’t have put him in solitary with only a metal bucket of water. Then Breaker wouldn’t have starved for two days as punishment. And Viper never would have snuck into the kitchen last night and stole that loaf of bread when he found Breaker clutching his stomach and crying about being hungry after Fallon released him.

Stupid kid. Both of them. Viper has a soft spot for Breaker. He always has. But Viper is reckless, and we are all hungry, all the time, so when he brought the loaf back along with a plate of fresh butter, of course we all ate it. Even Reaper. Even Hunter. Our other brothers too.

But now, it’s Viper who’s going to pay for all our sins.

When he’s directly in front of Fallon, Breaker squares his shoulders and looks up at our otets. That urge returns. He’s only two years younger than me, but he’s shorter. Skinnier. Breaker is just a kid, barely any muscle, whose voice cracks whenever he gets excited.

Fallon crosses his hands behind his back, looking down at Breaker. “Remove your belt.”

We all watch his hands tremble as Breaker unbuttons his peacoat and removes the belt, fumbling at first because of his thick gloves. The wind carries away the slip of leather sliding out of the loops, but we all know exactly what it sounds like. We’ve all gotten the belt before.

Just not quite like this.

“You are good at breaking rules. Breaking formation. Breaking things,” Fallon says. “Let’s see how good you are at breaking a thief’s skin.”

Goose bumps raise on my arms. The back of my neck. Reaper makes a sound in his throat, but doesn’t move otherwise.

“Seven lashes,” Fallon says, adjusting the black beanie on Breaker’s shaved head. His clear eyes scan our line. “From all of you.”

I bite my lip, trying to stop my body from trembling but I don’t think it’s from the cold. My gaze slides to Viper, who’s full out shaking now and I’m scared he may go into hypothermia before he can receive our punishment.

Clenching his jaw, Breaker walks up to stand next to Commander. My brother’s profile is almost jarring against the unforgiving winter landscape, his deep skin a contrast to the pale blue sky and glittering snow.

With black brows knitted tightly, he draws the belt back, and it lands with a sickening thwack across pale skin. Viper’s spine straightness, then goes slack, but he doesn’t make a sound. Not even after Breaker does it again and a bright red welt forms.

“Harder,” Fallon orders.

Breaker lands another strike across Viper’s fair skin and his knees buckle as a clean, thin line of red forms, then slowly slips down his back.

“Good boy,” Fallon says. “Only three strikes and his skin is already broken.” Father turns, his ice eyes landing on us one at a time, when he instructs, “Harder.”

By the time the fifth hit has landed, my eyes blur, so I focus on the white line of the horizon, my gut twisting. I know I’m going to have to remove my belt too when Breaker is done. The last thing I want is to take the belt to my brother.

I grit my teeth at the thought, letting my gaze drift.

A bird calls from overhead, its shadow passing over the platform. What I wouldn’t give to leap from this rooftop and fly. Escape. Go anywhere other than here. Float away like the fluffy white seeds of the dandelions that bloom in the spring when the snow melts and we can go outside the school and feel the warm sun on our skin.

A hand lands on my shoulder. I jerk back to the present and find his black eyes.

“Stay here, brother,” Reaper says quietly. “What will happen to the rest of us if you float away?”