#pushing limits

Half-hopping, half-stumbling, I managed to stay upright, but barely. "I ca- I-" My knee was desperate to buckle. "My foot-"

"Yeah, keep up, and maybe they won't break it tonight!" she yelled into the wind.

Her fingers were digging little divots into my arm that would probably-definitely bruise. Something snapped on impact, and a new sharp pain seared through my ankle. The next time that foot hit the tarmac, my leg gave out, and I crashed to the ground despite myself.

I held my crappy cold-hot-aching foot, pulse throbbing in the swelling and in my ears. The sting of road rash pricked distantly at my other knee. I was done. I'd limp the rest of the way if I had to, but I wasn't gonna ruin my ankle for God knows how long for one exercise. Why would they even want a recruit who couldn't run?

My ever-gracious comrade still hadn't left me alone. Her shadow was falling over me now, cool and dark. She nudged my good leg with one smudged white sneaker. "Up."

"Who died and made you a drill sergeant?" I snarled. "Piss off!"

Instead of pissing off, she grabbed me by the shoulders and started to haul me upright. "I said, up."

"Hey, hey, I can't! I can't!" I stayed limp, leg tucked in close, not even trying to support my weight. "I can't - my ankle, it's just getting worse. Go, run yours. Piss off. If they ask about me, tell them they can shove their orders up their arse."

She winced at that - the least drill-sergeant-y emotion I'd seen her show all day - and let me slowly crumple back to the ground. Then, she dropped to her knees, eye to eye with me. "Look. Fresh meat. I'm only saying this once. You get to learn it the easy way, so listen up." She gripped my shoulder. "Failure. Is always. Worse." Suddenly, she was in my face, and her voice was a razor edge - "Do you hear me?"

I gave a jerky, stuttering nod, heart in my throat. She held my gaze with something wild and almost pleading. Her lips twitched, baring teeth.

"Failure is always worse. Disobeying is always worse. It can always be worse." For a second or two, her eyes lost their sharp, desperate focus. Then she sucked in a breath, shook me, and released my shoulder with one last confusing pat. "So you get up, and you get out there, and run til your foot falls off if you have to."

"'S not gonna fall off," I mutter, and then, for no sensible reason, "You told me three times." That was definitely more than once. I fought back the hysterical laughter bubbling up, and pushed myself to my feet. "This is so stupid. It doesn't make sense. They're just gonna fuck us up."

She walked alongside me. "In the real world, you sprain your ankle, you think the bullets stop flying?"

God, I wish. I could vividly picture the whole mess two days ago that had finally landed me here. "The tranq darts sure fuckin' didn't."

Another arm pat. Maybe she thought that was supportive.