The chill at Fort Redstone wasn’t just in the air; it was in the stares. It was a 0500-hours kind of cold that dug into your bones, but I was used to it. What I wasn’t used to was the silence.
Not the respectful silence of a disciplined unit, but the heavy, judgmental silence of exclusion. I was Sergeant Sarah Whitaker, a fresh transfer from the medic corps, and in the eyes of the command school cadets, I was a joke. I stood at the edge of the yard, hands locked behind my back, my boots polished to a mirror finish.
It didn’t matter. The polish couldn’t hide the whispers. “Why is she even here?” “Medic corps.
Probably begged her way in.” “She doesn’t belong in command.”
I kept my eyes forward. I held my stance. But I heard every word.
Then came Lieutenant Blake Morgan. He was twenty-six, walked like he owned the ground the base was built on, and carried the kind of arrogance that only comes from a life without failure. He stopped just short of me, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Transfer, huh,” he muttered, just loud enough for the cadets behind him to hear. “Sergeant Whitaker,” I corrected him, my voice flat, my gaze fixed on the horizon. “Not here,” Morgan shot back, his smirk widening.
“Here, you’re just another cadet, trying to keep pace.”
The group behind him snickered. “Medics playing soldier,” one of them scoffed. Another added that I “probably earned my spot with pity points.”
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I learned a long time ago that the loudest man in the room is usually the weakest.
My job wasn’t to win their approval. My job was to observe. By nightfall, the whispers had turned to open mockery.
In the locker room, Morgan was holding court, retelling the morning’s exchange. “She actually corrected me,” he said, pitching his voice high to mimic mine. “‘Sergeant Whitaker.’” He barked a laugh, and his pack of followers joined in.
“Bet she can’t even strip a rifle without Googling it,” one said. “She’ll wash out in a week,” another piled on. I was at the far end, unlacing my boots.
Calm. Deliberate. Silent.
But someone else was watching. Corporal Nina Torres. She was sharp, quiet, and missed nothing.
As I folded my uniform into my locker, a small, worn patch slipped from my pocket and hit the concrete floor with a soft thwack. Before anyone else even noticed, Nina had snatched it up. I saw her eyes lock on the stitching.
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