Duran Dos: Boot Camp Hell

My dizzy vision finally cleared. What spread out before my eyes was a sand-covered drill field, a bit larger than a school playground.

Did I just jump to another worldline? First things first—where the hell am I?

Since it was a random transfer, I had zero info on this place. That made figuring out my location my top priority right now.

Whenever I had downtime on the Unix, I'd check out the other worldlines stored there. But there were countless ones, and I hadn't even scratched one percent. Odds were high this new world was something I'd never heard of.

First order of business: use my title's effect to check the checkpoint setup conditions.

Unrefined Biche, huh. First time hearing that term. Probably some special material unique to this world.

I scanned my surroundings. Skinny white guys were staring at me. They were all decked out in ragged navy-blue uniforms.

Their gazes were a messy cocktail—annoyance, mockery, contempt, the works. All negative as fuck. Staring like that, it made me wanna smash a fist into every one of their faces.

Familiar vibe. Back when I first dropped into Solari World, the other slaves in the cart with me had that exact look. Makes me wanna rip 'em apart.

"Dos! How long you gonna keep pulling this dogshit? Grab that rifle right now, or I'll put a bullet in your skull myself!"

A massive bellow exploded behind me. Voice like he'd swallowed a goddamn train whistle.

I whipped around to find the source. A red-faced uncle type glaring at me, huffing like steam was about to burst from his head. Fucking epic mustache twitching with every snort.

"What!?"

No clue what was going on. So I just spat that out.

"You braindead fuck! What week of basic are you on, and that's all you got? Conscientious objector bullshit—did your pussy-ass beliefs eat your tongue? Remember this: When you talk to me, always add 'sir'!"

I racked my brain quick to piece it together. One thing was crystal: I was in the army.

Fuck. I picked this vacation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spot to dodge real-life conscription, and it dumps me in another army? This shithole military reeks of absurdity compared to back home.

Especially this badass-mustache sergeant eyeing me like he wants to devour me whole. Face so close I swear I could see his tonsils. Guess there's no paradise in the places you run to?

"That empty skull of yours can't grasp shit, huh? Fine! Listen up, maggots! Until our star recruit Duran Dos grabs his rifle, you all do push-ups! Slack off, and you're straight to Shimura Island! Go!"

"Argh! That fucker's making us suffer again?"

"Bounty on that retard's head. Whoever cuts it off tonight gets a smoke, no questions."

"Didn't you shove that up your ass to smuggle it? Who'd smoke that!?"

"Shut your traps and prep push-ups! Chant while you do: We! Are! One!"

Suddenly, all the assholes who'd been glaring daggers at me dropped for push-ups. The sergeant crossed his arms, staring me down.

"Yeah, yeah! Let's see how long your limp-dick convictions last! Burn it into your brain: Until you grab that rifle, your buddies don't rest! No water, no chow, no sleep!"

The sergeant shoved his face in mine—breath reeking—and roared.

"Grab that shitty N1 Glyco rifle, and everyone's happy! Dos! Any halfwit knows what to pick!"

He nudged something at my feet with his boot. Up close, it was a chunky rifle. Primitive as hell.

""We!""

""Are one!""

I eyed the push-up crew, piecing it together. My name seemed to be Duran Dos.

And right now, this mustache fucker was ordering me to pick up the rifle. From what he said, this was a basic training camp.

That prick mentioned conscientious objection. So this Duran Dos guy refuses to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠touch guns? That's why the sergeant's forcing me.

Yeah, that tracked.

"Dos! You fuck! I'm gonna kill you!"

Curses flew from the push-upping mob. Can't blame 'em.

Blazing sun, no shade—this endless push-up hell on a perfect day? You'd have to be a living Buddha not to rage.

"Hey! Did I say chant some weird-ass slogan? Listen up, idiots! Etch this in your ears: On the battlefield, you're one! Duran Dos's fuckup is everyone's! Got it!?"

""Yes, sir!""

The response boomed. Sergeant shot me a hatchet glare.

"Look at your brothers-in-arms. One punk like you, and they're in hell. Think your precious Lord saves 'em!? Tell that bullshit to fuck off! On the field, this rifle saves you! Won't pick it up? You save jack shit!"

Sergeant's words were off. I didn't see these losers as brothers. Dropped into some random worldline clueless, sure—but I was a lone wolf.

"That guy's slacking."

"What!?"

"He's slacking off, sir."

I pointed at a corner pusher.

"On his knees, sir."

Sergeant roared at me, eyes bloodshot.

"Fuck! You're a first, you little shit! Playing hardball, eh!? All ears: No dinner tonight! Gift from your fine comrade Duran Dos! Stop! Stand and clap!"

"Uwaaaah! What the fuck did that asshole do!?"

"Fuck! Same class as that torturer? Worst luck ever!"

"Tell me it's a lie…."

Mustache spat phlegm on the ground, snatched the crappy rifle, and glared poison at me.

"Remember: My goal's turning trash like you into soldiers! I'll shove that N1 Glyco in your hands if it kills me."

He barked at the rest:

"Dismissed! Clean up and rack out! No dinner, as said!"

Sergeant strutted off to distant barracks. The suffering mob closed in.

"Hey, you fuck! What bullshit did you spew to that bulldog? No dinner!? Wanna die?"

"Yo, tonight's Duran Dos barbecue."

"Fuck. What's so hard about grabbing a gun? Asshole! You're gonna get wrecked!"

Mooks weaker than game fodder surrounded me. No real threat. As I pondered lightsaber lesson, an alert popped up.

Oho. Feels like a game.

I eyed the quest window with interest. Tough quests always paid big. High rank might net S-grade or better items.

One mook lunged a fist at my jaw. No skills needed for weaklings. I grabbed his arm, hoisted him up.

"Wha—!?"

Thud!

He flipped over. I stomped his face. He coughed dirt, groaning.

"Gah! *Cough*! *Cough*!"

Nose exploded in blood. Tempted to crush his skull, but nah—quest rank would tank.

"Wh-what!? Dos did that?"

"Guy can't kill an ant, and…."

Mob panicked, backing off.

Too lenient. Probably same-class recruits. Time to break 'em.

Grabbed two front-runners by collars, slammed 'em down. Resistance? Child's play.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

I beat the shit outta them gleefully.

"Th-that psycho!"

A big lug charged. Punched his gut, turned him into another sandbag. Squishy—fun to pound.

"Gaaaaah! St-stop!"

"Crazy! Fuck! Get the bulldog!"

Chased the runners. Their pathetic stamina? No escape.

Basic human strength, agility. One jaw-crack each, all down.

"Listen up, cocky fucks. The ones who mouthed off earlier—confess now, nicely."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

They glanced around. In this spot? Still green.

"Not coming forward? Hell-push-ups it is. Sergeant went too easy—felt short, right?"

"Wh-what?"

Kicked the questioner's head.

"From now on, call me 'sir, recruit.' Got it, assholes?"

""Yes, sir, recruit!""

Beating's the best medicine. Hard to top for taming. Hell-push-ups ended after 30 minutes. All passed out.

"Buncha weaklings. Tsk."