Safe Havens and Goodbyes

As someone with prior experience, no one knew the dangers of gaslighting better than I did.

'Grueling training makes the instructors and assistants look cool, and since you're stuck in the army for the same period anyway, why not make it meaningful?' That garbage ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thinking.

That's what leads people who joined the air force for an easy ride straight into the wrong paths: assistant roles, honor guards, or SDT.

'Ion, I can't let you go down that road.'

I tried to set him straight before he veered off course, but his situation was worlds apart from mine.

"The Aditz Empire started this war demanding the mines our family manages. In a situation like this, you think anyone would look kindly on me hanging back in the rear?"

His face was complex, lost in thought.

This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment worry from just today.

"Think it over carefully and decide. The most important thing is you yourself."

"Yeah. Unit assignments are at 10, right?"

"Probably."

"I need to mull it over. I'll head out first."

Ion left with a heavier step than usual.

'Living as a duke's son isn't easy either.'

He must be under pressure I couldn't even compare to.

"Whatever it is, pick a decent spot."

I headed back to the dorm to rest, then made my way to the auditorium on time.

"Attention."

With graduation tomorrow, the auditorium buzzed a bit as the instructor took the stage.

"We're about to announce the T/O chart you've all been dying to see for your unit assignments. But first."

True to form for a monster of buildup and voice control, he didn't cut straight to it today either.

'This guy's sick.'

It was frustrating as hell, but what could I do at this point?

"Wherever you end up, what's important is your mindset and passion as trainees. Don't forget the moments you overcame your limits here at the training camp. I, your instructor, expect great things from you in the field."

Great things? Like dying heroically?

Minimal action, minimal activity. That's the play until the war ends.

Lay low like a dead rat.

"Now, let's reveal it."

Clap!

At the instructor's signal, the assistant yanked off the cloth covering the massive board, unveiling the T/O chart that would decide my fate.

The vast empire offered endless choices filling the board.

Naturally, the war-torn Western Front took the lion's share—90% of slots. Hell on earth, no question.

"Choosing navy here means four weeks of additional training at the camp."

More of this joyless hell? No thanks. Solidified my no-go.

"Special Forces are the empire's elite guardians, offering honors beyond ordinary imagination."

'These trash bastards again. Sending others to ruin because it's not their life.'

Memories of falling for that crap made my skin crawl.

'If it's so great, go yourself.'

Going there? Yeah!

It's a disease.

Needs treatment.

"That means intense training and constant danger, so choose wisely."

In a class forcibly drafted by imperial decree, who'd pick Special Forces?

Unless they're insane…

"Instructor, may I ask a question?"

Derek shot his hand up from beside me.

"Speak."

"What does the qualification note mean?"

"Ah, nearly forgot the key part. Simple: top 300 in training scores."

"Thank you, sir."

Derek nodded and sat.

'No way he's thinking Special Forces…?'

I knew he dreamed of being a soldier, but Special Forces? Different beast.

'Human weapons incarnate.'

Exaggerated maybe, but they solo-devastate enemy lines. You don't forge that overnight.

The camp's training was child's play by comparison—pure madness.

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Thinking of my bro heading there hurt my fingers just imagining.

"Derek, you don't need Special Forces to shine in the army."

His eyes sparkled.

Gaslit in this closed bubble, just like old me.

"True, but the empire's Special Forces… they're just too cool. It's my dream."

What kind of life makes a soldier—Special Forces, no less—your dream?

"Even if it's your dream, think twice—no, three times. No rash choices."

Ultimately his call. Nothing more to say.

He wouldn't change for me anyway.

'East for me, right?'

Three choices, and East had exactly three slots.

Support Regiment, Coastal Guard Battalion, Logistics Command.

Names scream peace.

Plus, no borders touching anywhere—zero war risk.

'Coastal Guard? Ocean views, fish for sashimi at lunch. Done.'

Vacation life already in sight.

'One slot, so if Ion skips it, I'm golden.'

That's why rank matters.

'If not, Logistics Command? Nah, Support Regiment.'

Command spots risk frontlines, slim as it is.

Especially Logistics—war zone West needs it most.

"Fill the blanks on these sheets in 30 minutes. No changes after submission. Think hard."

Short or long? Everyone racked brains desperately, top or bottom ranks.

'Most'll chase empty slots.'

Dozens of options—empties abound.

First choice: gamble. Second: safe match. Third: safety net. Classic strat.

'Some crazies gamble all three.'

Crazy ain't bad if it works.

"My rank—Western Border Guard Command as second choice?"

Pluto (207th) asked me dead serious.

"Solid for second. First?"

"Northern Mountain Guard."

"North? Only two slots—slim odds?"

"Tops avoid North? Tough rep, freezing weather."

News to me.

"Reverse psych? Worth a shot. Third?"

"5th Division?"

"Fifteen slots—safety net for you."

"Right? This works. You and Ion saved me."

"Luck too. Ion saved me."

My ray of light, Ion Belburn.

No summary notes from him? No passing eval.

"Come to my territory post-grad. Rare seafood feast."

"Haha, sounds good. Looking forward."

Grinning, we wrapped up. I filled mine.