Kyle Garrick stood with his arms folded, absolutely pissed.
Someone had botched a movement drill earlier that day—
Left cover too soon, exposed their entire fire team. Could’ve gotten everyone killed in a live op.
A mistimed signal, an exposed flank, it didn’t matter who did it.
In the SAS, mistakes like that don’t happen.
Gaz didn’t raise his voice when it happened; he just made a note.
Now the whole platoon was paying for it.
“Right then,” Garrick said, voice carrying easily over the wind. “Since one of you decided to forget the difference between cover and bloody daylight, you all get to make it right. Fifty laps. Full kit. Move.”
The afternoon sky hung low and pale over the Hereford training grounds, the air heavy with that stillness that comes before the rain.
Boots pounded against the dirt, packs heavy, rifles bouncing against shoulders.
Dust rose behind the platoon, clinging to sweat-damp skin.
The first laps were bearable. Gaz jogged alongside, barking time and corrections.
The heat of effort built in everyone’s muscles. Sweat rolled down faces. Lungs ached.
By lap twenty, the burn had settled deep in legs and shoulders. Someone started to lag. A trooper stumbled, cursed under his breath.
The rhythm began to falter.
You didn’t.
By lap thirty, the first drops of rain started to fall.
A fine mist at first, the kind that tricked you into thinking it might pass.
But then the wind shifted, and the drizzle turned into a downpour, hammering against helmets, soaking through fatigues in seconds.
The dirt underfoot turned to slush, and soon the entire platoon was trudging through a sucking, brown mire.
Gaz didn’t stop them.
He didn’t even raise his voice. He just called out, steady as ever, the rain punctuating each order like the tick of a metronome.
Mud splashed up to their knees, slicking faces, soaking through uniforms. One by one, the platoon began to falter.
All except one.
You.
Even through the sheets of rain, Garrick noticed you, steady stride, back straight, water dripping from your chin as you powered on.
When he shouted commands, you answered simply, clear over the storm.
Always the same tone, always with the same smile.
You didn’t stumble. Didn’t complain. Just ran.
The rain came down harder, the ground turned to sludge, and more troopers faltered out of formation.
Garrick’s jaw tightened.
You wouldn’t break.
And it was infuriating.
Your movements remained constant, and your face stayed the same mud-smeared, calm, that faint grin never faltering as you called back to every command.
By now, muscles were past burning. The ache had turned dull, then distant,that strange edge of exhaustion where the body starts to move on instinct alone.
The world narrowed to rhythm: step, breathe, blink.
Pain faded into something else. Just sound, boots squelching, the patter of rain on gear—
Gaz’s commands in the storm.
And your replies came steady when called.
Across the field, under the awning of a hangar, Soap and Ghost watched in silence.
Soap leaned forward, squinting through the downpour. “Gaz is puttin’ ‘em through it.”
Ghost’s eyes tracked you, unblinking. “One’s not cracking.”
Soap shook his head. “No one lasts this long in Gaz’s drills. No one.”
After fifty laps, Gaz called a halt.
Everyone looked wrecked.
Everyone except you—
Mud-smeared, soaked to the bone, still standing at attention like it was inspection day.
It was only when the medic ran out again that Gaz looked away from you.
“It’s done, sergeant!” the medic shouted over the wind. “You lot will catch hypothermia if you stay out here any longer!”
Gaz turned, he had been too focused on you to notice the cold seeping in.
You were still in position, eyes fixed on him through the rain.
With a begrudging nod and a tight-lipped look, Gaz called dismissal.
———————————————————————————
He found one of the corporals in the mess. “That recruit,” he said. “From today. Any background?”
The corporal blinked, frowning. “Sir? Don’t really know, to be honest. Joined on transfer from… somewhere. Doesn’t talk much.”
Another trooper overheard and shrugged. “Loner type. Don’t drink, don’t gossip. Just trains.”
Garrick frowned. “No one’s held a conversation?”
“Not really, sergeant. Shows up. Works harder than anyone. Smiles a lot.”
That didn’t sit right with him. SAS units were small.
They didn’t get mystery soldiers, not here.
But that’s what you were.
He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—
Your endurance, or the fact that no one really knew who you were.
Another one, thank you.
Need more Gaz rep I love the lad he’s right deadly
Now I need ideas for the Scott
