jupiter. capitol. wip!

You develop a Two accent. A real one this time. Ten years later and there's only a subtle brush of the Capitol left in your vowels, peering out to say hello with the odd word here and there. You don't miss it, not for a second.

Two is your home now, cute little room in the upper barracks - no roommate, but a dog that visits every Friday while Commander runs drills with the cherries. Nobody asks where you're from anymore - if they do you say that you were born again in basic training and they nod, take a swig of their beer, agreeing. Too fuckin' right.

A decade in Two. Corporal Wells. The only prized possession are your dog tags and your medals, pinned on a jacket for special occasions. Each tells a story, bragging rights at first. But now they tell a lesson, what went right, what could have gone wrong. You lose comrades now and then, it's part of the job. Their deaths sear, then fizzle out -- at least it wasn't me this time. Last time. The time before that.

You taught the grunts straight outta basic and kicked them into line, into gear, into your Sergeant's office when you catch them clowning around playing catch with gas bombs. Slap them around the head each for good measure, you fuckin' idiots - one slip of the hand and the entire Delta building would have been gassed to death in their sleep. Half of these jokers deserve it but you're down numbers: basic ain't what it used to be no more. 

Sergeant First Class, you take a team of ten on a suicide mission in Nine. Ten come back and your chamber has one bullet left, three of them with bullet wounds and one that will lose their left hand but you came back, somehow, and that gets you noticed. 

They pull you aside for debrief. You shuffle in your seat, nervous. Stitched up and cornered with no-way out, two on the floor bleeding out, Major was in your ear screaming. You took the earpiece out and stomped on it, told those that could to do the same. 

Daggers for eyes. Do I have to ask twice? - those wide-eyed kids shook their heads, did as they were told. 

You came out with your arms up and those little grunts with pistols aimed at your head. You put your gun down, kicked it over to them, smiled. Arrogant little shit, unafraid of a fight. In this job some things stay with you, always. You're glad this has.

Now boys, Two on your tongue. Not a piece of white uniform in sight. Just another woman from the Districts trying to earn her way through this fucked up life. Surely we can come to an arrangement? 

In the end, you had lied. Kept talking long enough to distract them as the rest of your team dragged the wounded out of the warehouse and into a heli. Completely disregarded any orders from above to disengage, fall back, never speak to the enemy. Told the kids in front of you that you had people with knives to their sniper's throats on the roof - to prove it, a gun fired and one of their boys hit the concrete floor. 

They were spooked, scattering like rats. You walked over calmly, picked up your gun, and shot them both in the back. The dead guy on the floor stood up, shook himself off - you good, boss? 

Yeah. You were good. 

There were no kids with knives. First priority had been to take out those snipers hours ago, replace one of them with your second-best shot. Don't tell Major. Fire a shot in the opposite direction, your imposter goes down, easy. The back-up plan of the back-up plan that nobody knew until you were sat in that corner telling your cherries to destroy your earpieces.

As you recounted all of this to your superiors you thought for sure you'd be fired - or worse, deployed to Eleven for harvesting supervision. But they just stood there, not saying a word. After a while you all sat in silence, Major looking like he might kill you, until Command stood up and started clapping, hollering to himself like he'd never heard of anything funnier. 

You sneaky little shit Wells, he'd chortled. You genius little devil. Turns out they were after a special ops guy for years, one to out-think the thinkers. 

So no, you weren't off to Eleven. They did put you on a helipad the next day. Special Ops Wells reporting for duty, landing in the place you thought you'd never see again. 

Welcome home, Special Ops Wells.

Son of a bitch --

Midnight sky, the Capitol lights pull into view.

i got soul, but i'm not a soldier.