Oz worked his way over his answers again. They were as good as he could make them. He swallowed down the pain in his side and stepped up to the front of the class to set his papers down. The instructor nodded to him, and Oz headed out into the hall.
The others were still working at it. He was the first of his group to finish. It was the last of their exams for the day, and his was the last group to take it. He pulled two capsules from his pocket -painkillers for his broken rib. He swallowed them dry and then went to find his instructor, hobbling when there was no one left around to see it.
The bruises had finally turned yellow and green. They were healing. His rib stubbornly refused to stop digging into his insides, though. He had made it four days with the Last Judgement. And then all his hard work had been stomped out. Every day since had been ash in his mouth.
Once he finally did heal all the way back up, he'd be starting all over again from scratch.
Greaves hadn't sparred with him once since the attack. He said the boy was still too injured. Oz had been half-mad with need from it. He knew he was in no state to take his tests like that.
Out of desperation, he had walked up to another cadet in the shower that morning. Oz had recognized the boy. He was a lost cause He was always being dragged to the center of the flight room to be spanked and chastised for his poor performance. He wasn't long for this world.
Wordlessly, Oz pulled on the small boy's cock. After a moment, the boy grabbed Oz's, too. They tugged silently, feeling the stares from everyone in the room. They heard the laughter. Oz knew he would have laughed to see it, too: Two failures deemed unworthy to spar with, resorting to each other for comfort in desperation. That was peak entertainment.
Oz turned and pressed his back against the boy's chest. He shut his eyes as the boy gripped his cock again. He felt the steady beat of the hand against the hairs of his bush.
In ten strokes, it was done. Oz collapsed backward into the boy as thick, white streams sprayed across the wall. The fist between his legs pumped at him harder until it slowed to a dribble.
The guilt and shame of it hit him in the face like a cold bucket of war. He pushed the boy away the moment the hand unclenched. Oz ran from the bathroom, not bothering to cloth himself or dry off.
His mind was clear again and getting clearer as the cold air of the base blew across his wet skin. He knew he needed a plan. He had to do something quickly to impress Greaves again. Then he could regain his standing.
The corporal wasn't in his room when Oz returned. The boy changed quickly, then went to search through the common areas. Few of the trainers were around today. The halls had seemed emptier, too.
Without someone to give him orders, Oz went back to the bedroom to wait. He would have liked to use the flight simulator, but he needed to stay where Greaves could find him. Instead, he read through his service manuals again and tried to stave off boredom.
An hour later, the door finally opened, and Greaves stepped inside. He looked grim. He hardly even seemed to see the boy. Oz saw the fingers of the man's hands jittering wildly.
"You're being reassigned," he croaked, still not looking at the boy.
Oz sat up straighter. "Sir?"
"Tomorrow. Or, no," he said, shaking his head clear. "Tonight. Report to Corporal Anders. 2C dormitory. I don't remember the room."
"I don't understand, sir. Was it my exam scores?"
Greaves laughed hollowly, finally looking toward him. "No. Lot of you are doubling up now." He was hardly talking above a whisper.
"Is it you?" Oz asked. "Are you being sent away?"
The Corporal nodded, and swallowed hard, but he didn't say anything more. Oz tried to think through it. If the cadets were doubling up as their trainers left for war... Then it sounded like the end.
The boy packed up his things, then folded the blanket he'd be given and set it on top of the dresser. With a final salute, he pressed the button to open the door, and then he left, all without Greaves ever looking up.
