'Depressurization'

17-Nov-2030, 1800U

Probatio Stuart "Joker" Jones II, Descendant of Pietas

Legio XII Fulminata

Berkeley Hills, California, USA

When the fuck is this old retard going to quit? We've been at this for nearly four hours!

After I lost the match, Evocatus Jackson made me gear up in "full battle rattle," as he put it, and do all sorts of shit: dug holes, filled them back up again, did squats, did burpees, did sit-ups, did push-ups, and performed combat drills against the air—gladius, pugio, pilum, and even with the sling. And every time we switched positions, we ran. And now? We were hiking through Berkeley Hills in the dark, lit up only by moonlight and headlamps: I with my gladius, scutum, pilum, pugio, full armor and helmet, entrenching tools, and furca (marching pole) with full sarcina (bag; the bag was attached to the pole); and the evocatus with his weapons, body armor, and a light backpack filled with shit.

The old bastard was still up. He was sweating, but he didn't seem ready to drop yet. He was still carrying those stupid guns of his, looking like one of those guys that killed those terrorists overseas—what the fuck were they called, 24th Delta SEAL Activity or some shit? And instead of shooting people overseas, he was hired by the fucks in the top of the chain to "educate" us. Like hell.

What does this old psycho know? Put him in a SWAT team, fine... but he doesn't belong here. "The Legend," my ass.

It was just the two of us as I underwent my punishment for "insubordination." I didn't say a word unless spoken to—I wasn't giving this fuck the satisfaction of seeing me lose it. Fuck him. Fuck him, his military service, and the morons who decided on letting him take over the legion. Fuck the whole fucking world.

"Alright, princess. Go ahead and rest your sore little feet," Jackson said once we arrived at an oddly placed wooden shack: square footage-wise, it was the size of a king bed. And I was a solid 5' 10", so I'd call it six feet tall. There was no door, with only hinges left in its place.

The fuck is this?

"Drop your gear," Jackson ordered, so I did, trying not to show just how tired I was. The evocatus knelt, taking off his backpack and putting what looked like a fucked-up sledgehammer out of it... only for him to reveal that it was a sledgehammer with an extendable handle. "What's your swinging hang?"

"What?" I asked, only for him to toss the fucking thing at me. I caught it with my right, but the 8-pound head damn near hit me in the balls. "What the fuck?!"

"What the fuck, sir," Jackson corrected. "So you're a righty. Good enough. Now... demolish this shack."

" ... what?"

"Demolish this shack. Use your dolabra (pickaxe) and ligo (mattock) if you want. Once you're done, pile up the wreckage and dig a trench around it. Any questions?"

"Why the fuck am I doing this, sir?"

"What do you think, Probatio Joker?"

"What do I think? I think this is bullshit. You're doing some metaphorical bullshit here: there's some sort of stupid significance to me knocking this shit down," I scoffed.

"Really?" Jackson replied, sitting down and giving me a grin. "I think you think too much."

"Really?"

"Well, it was nice of you to volunteer, Miss Joker. Now if you don't mind getting your pretty little hands dirty and missing teatime... knock that shack down."

I wanted to swing that hammer at him so badly, but that would only give him satisfaction, so I obeyed. I took the hammer and started swinging at the shack, imagining that I was breaking every last one of Jackson's bones. I swung and I swung, and over time, boards started breaking and pieces started flying. After around an hour of hammering—after which there were so many holes in the shack, it looked like Swiss cheese—the shack was getting less and less stable. And after two hours, one of the walls was completely gone, and the roof was shaky.

I switched between tools occasionally, and I was ordered to drink water at certain times. But my arms were feeling like noodles. My heart felt like it was about to explode, and my lungs felt like they were failing. I felt like I had been working without a break for weeks... even though I'd only been under Jackson's yoke for no more than 4-5 hours.

Plus, I was practically inhaling sawdust and splinters. Breaking in that fucking shack built up a nice cloud, and it was getting worse with every swing. And then finally, one swing happened at the right angle, and the shit went directly into my eyes.

"FUCK!"

"Problem?" Jackson asked nonchalantly, evidently not breathing in the sawdust/splinter cloud.

"My eyes are fucked!"

"Then unfuck them."

Fat lot of help you are.

But I remembered the training that I'd learned during the old bastard's regime, from one of his fucking Minions: flush with clean water. So I grabbed my water bottle from my sarcina and did just that, flushing out my eyes. And after a few minutes, it was all good.

"Don't fuck your eyes up again. Back to work," the evocatus ordered.

"FUCK YOU!!" I shouted at him, frustrated, tired, hungry, and utterly pissed off. "This is fucking stupid!"

"You got yourself into this, Joker."

"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!!"

"You're pissed."

"YOU'RE GODS-DAMN RIGHT!!"

"Then do something about it," Jackson shot back, raising his voice as he rose to his feet, unslinging his assault rifle and taking off his gun belt and body armor. "I am sick and tired of hearing the bullshit coming out of your mouth: all talk, no action. You little fucking pussy, you did something once! Do something again! You're pissed off? Then hit me."

"Maybe I should," I shot back, trying to figure out what the old bastard was up to.

"Then grow a pair and hit me, you little shit. Do it. You little motherfucker, you think you're hot shit 'cause you're finally old enough to move out of your mama's basement and smoke cigarettes... you're probably one of those degenerates that gets high on weed and Adderall every chance he can. Probably have your own fake ID to get booze. You're a pathetic little weasel that's nothing more than a waste of space, flesh, and blood. You're just a shitstain that doesn't know his place as a worthless piece of scum!"

"Fuck you, Evocatus!"

"Hit me, you fucking son of a bitch! Too scared to fight me like a man? Hit me. Hit me! HIT ME!!" he yelled. "Look at little Stuart Jones Junior here... gonna cry?"

"FUCK YOU!!" I screamed at him, shooting forward and punching him in his stupid face. His nose was leaking blood pretty fast and he was stumbling, but the fucker was laughing.

"Weak."

I punched him in the face again, this time leaving a bruise on his cheek. He was still laughing.

"Weak."

I charged him head on while screaming bloody murder, but he instead tripped me and—as all those martial arts flicks say—used my own momentum against me to kick me into the dirt. And to add insult to injury, he was still laughing as he walked around to stare down at me directly.

"My little sister could fight better than you... and she's no fighter."

My entire body was killing me, but I was too focused on my desire to kill him to care. In one adrenaline-fueled motion, I pushed up and charged him shoulder-first, tackling him and knocking him down to the ground. He sounded a little off-guard, but seemed overall at ease as he started fighting back. And like me, it seemed he knew a few things about Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

"C'mon, pussy," he hissed as he put me in guard, not apparently putting in much effort—he was fucking with me. "I'd say you punch like a little girl, but that'd be an insult to little girls. You shitbird. You don't have the balls. Fucking hit me like a man. Hit me!"

I tried, but he blocked my punch before reaching around and punching me in my side—not quite a kidney punch, but definitely enough to knock me off-balance. He then used a sweep to put me on my back, only for him to shoot one arm underneath my neck and another underneath my armpit. Tightening his hold, he put as much of his weight on my as possible while moving his knee atop my belly.

Fucker's gonna triangle me.

I swung my fists and kicked my legs, trying to escape. But it was ineffective. He then flipped us so that I was on my knees and bent over while he was on his back, his legs locking around my shoulder and neck. He was, in essence, using his legs and my own arm to constrict my neck and HOLY FUCK was it tight. And that triangle choke was going to knock me out if I didn't act fast.

I took several swings as I felt my vision slowly constricting along with my neck, darkness surrounding my vision. Until finally, I punched Jackson just hard enough in the kidney to make him lighten up on the pressure. It was just enough for me to pull my leg and head out of his grip, gasping for breath all the while. But I was too woozy to go on the offensive, and Jackson looked both pissed and pleased at the same time.

"You shitfaced little fuck," he sneered before he surged forward, punching me in the throat and knocking the wind out of me. He then proceeded to ground and pound me like I did to him during the match. But unlike him, I couldn't defend my face against his punches. I was too fucking tired and too fucking exhausted, and I felt like my body was shutting down. And maybe it was: maybe I was about to get beaten to death.

But it didn't happen. Right when he wore out the last of my resistance, he just flopped my body over, got his hooks in, and put me in a rear naked choke. And it didn't take too long for his blood choke to render me unconscious. The last thing I remember hearing was:

"God... fucking... dammit... Joker..."

And then I blacked out.

While I was knocked out, I dreamed: swords, shields, guns, spears. There was sand, grass, marble, concrete, canvas. I was freezing like I was butt-naked in Alaska, while simultaneously, hellfire hotter than Vulcan's forges rained down from the sky. I could hear radio static, an electric saw, men shouting, men screaming, men crying. There were tanks, trucks, planes.

Oddest of all, I saw a very familiar-looking decanus... looking right back at me. Almost as if he was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't tell what it was. He not only looked familiar, he felt familiar. So who was he?

But soon, my dreams came to an end as I finally woke up, my eyes greeted by the dark night sky and a bit of red light in my peripheral vision. I was flat on the grass, and I could feel some stuff on my face—bandages, I guessed—and a glance to my left revealed Jackson eating something while red light emitted from his headlamp. His face was severely bruised, with both of his eyes blackened, and he just generally looked like shit.

Strangely enough, seeing him beat up like that didn't provide the same satisfaction that beating him during the match did. The guy was definitely goading me, but I didn't know what to feel anymore.

"Well, well, well... he awakes," Jackson said as he looked up towards me, noticing that I was up. Standing up, he cracked his joints before walking over and sitting next to me. "It's twenty-one-fifteen. How you feeling?"

"... shitty," I groaned.

"Yeah, getting your face pounded in and getting choked out'll do that to you. Where does it hurt?"

"... just about everywhere."

"Hm. Get up."

"Huh?"

"You heard me."

Taking a deep breath, I slowly sat up, feeling my entire body snap, crackle, and pop as I slowly got to my feet, staring at the sitting evocatus. Jackson looked at me for a moment before motioning for me to sit down next to him. I stared at him for a moment, still somewhat delirious, before silently sitting next to him. He then handed me something small that was wrapped in foil, along with a canteen.

"Eat up, drink up," he ordered. "Slowly."

I unwrapped the thing, discovering it to be none other than ambrosia. And the canteen? Unicorn draught. A small bite of the ambrosia instantly brought a bit of relief to my entire body and bolstered my strength—even if it was by a miniscule amount. And the draught just added to it. The ambrosia was just like my mom's brownies: triple chocolate with nuts... something I hadn't eaten for a long, long time.

"Better?" he asked, with me nodding mutely in reply as soon as I downed both the ambrosia and draught. "Good. You like pastrami?"

"... huh?" I replied dumbly as Jackson began rummaging through his bag.

"Yeah, I've got two of these big ole pastrami sandwiches that I got from this sandwich shop in New Rome: pretty kickass. Y'know, I live down South now—that is, if Virginia is considered part of the South, and assuming Virginia Beach isn't considered non-Virginian the same way Austin is considered non-Texan—but God damn it, I've still got a lot of New Yorker in me. I frequented Katz's and Sarge's and ate at least my weight in their sandwiches every year, I swear. And then there's the pizza, holy fuck is it heaven on Earth. But here."

With that, he pulled out two big sub sandwiches, offering one to me. I was confused as hell, but hunger overtook my confusion, so I accepted it. I unwrapped the sandwich, not sure what to make of it, but I took a bite all the same.

"... thanks," I muttered through a mouthful of bread, meat, cheese, and veggies.

"You're welcome," Jackson replied as he also pulled out two big bottles of Gatorade. "Gatorade up. You're gonna need the electrolytes... tastes good too."

"Am I still wrecking the shack?"

"Yup."

"Is this supposed to be a metaphor?"

"It's whatever you make of it."

"Seriously, what's the point of all this? You're gonna make me see the light, turn my life around? Like I'm a fucking 'broken' misunderstood boy some dumb girl says she can 'fix' in a fucking YA novel? 'Cause I don't want your sympathy."

"No, this isn't some dumb effort to try and make you turn your life around. You're a pathetic loser and you're being dealt with as one," Jackson bluntly replied. "Whether you turn your life around or continue to be a fucking jackass is up to you. Not me, not the legate, not the camp prefect, not your mom, you."

"... then why am I here?"

"Well, for one: punishment for wasting my time. Two: this is my way of telling you that you, Probatio Joker, are an incredibly fucked up kid."

"Huh! I've heard all about you: 'The Legend,' the 'Battlefield Praetor,' son of Neptune, Mr. The-Praetorship-of-New-Rome-Is-No-Biggie," I sarcastically shot back. "You're not one to talk about being fucked up."

"You better believe it, kid. Because if what I've heard about you is true, you and I are not as dissimilar as you think."

"Give me one example."

"We've both gotten into a heap of trouble and have had lots of disciplinary problems."

"... give me two examples."

"Anger issues, lack of respect or gentlemanliness, general dumbassery."

"... okay, but that's pretty standard for demigods."

"Aren't you technically a legacy or descendant or some shit?"

"You know what I mean."

"Nonono, your problem is extremely similar to that of a lot of other people... especially young men and boys."

"Yeah, and what's that?"

"You lack direction, discipline, structure, faith, courage."

"Hey!" I exclaimed indignantly. "I fucking stood up to you when nobody else did! Do you know just how many people hate your ass?!"

"Good. Like I said: the more you hate me, the more you will learn. You don't need to like me, you just need to listen," he replied coolly. "But even if we disregard your half-assed bravery, you haven't denied the rest of what I've said. I'm not a fucking shrink, but I can say beyond a reasonable doubt that you've got issues."

I didn't have a retort for that. Because unfortunately, he had a point: all I ever seemed to do was to get into trouble: in school, in the neighborhood, and now in the legion.

"You said you were here for mandatory service the first time we met," Jackson recalled. "Right?"

"Yeah... this isn't my thing," I replied, making clear my disdain for the life of a legionary.

"I dunno... you're a helluva fighter, and you've got the spirit. But you've got the same problem a lot of fighting men have: you don't have a mission. Hell, I've seen it myself: there were some USASOC guys—Army spec ops—who got busted for child, sex, and drug trafficking. And one of the big things to come out of it was that the whole damned thing was driven by boredom."

"The fuck?"

"I know. Wasn't a good day for the US Army. And you haven't gotten that far, but you're stuck. You think you weren't meant to be here, isn't that right?"

"Fuck no."

"You sure? We all end up someplace for a reason."

"Waitwaitwait, aren't you the one who said it's up to me to unfuck myself? How do you know I'm not meant to be fucked up? Maybe the Fates have set it so that I'm destined to be forever stuck in the guardroom or getting decked by an old man."

"First of all, Probatio Joker, I'm not old," he replied, sounding mock-offended.

"You keep calling me 'kid,' so big whoop," I scoffed back.

"Second of all... you should know better. Those old hags do their thing, but they don't control everything. There is an external force—God, gods, Fates, what have you—but you still have free will. You can still make your own decisions. You have choices to make. Maybe you can't control the outcome, but you can damn well control the amount of effort you can put into it."

"Your pearl of wisdom aside, let me stop you right there: did you say the capital 'G' God? Like our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ God?"

"Technically, Christ is the son of God, but that's another matter."

"Are you seriously Christian?"

He pondered that one for a second, looking deep in thought. He looked down at his hands, fiddling with something on his ring finger—a ring, I guessed, though I didn't notice that before—before looking up at the sky.

"If I am, I'm not a very good one," he murmured.

"I... don't follow," I replied, confused.

"Well, I don't really go to church all that often, I don't pray all that often, I don't really live by all the core tenets of the Bible... hell, I don't even know if I'm a true believer. Dad's a true believer, Mom ended up converting, my little sis was raised as a God-fearing young woman—she doesn't know jack about the mythological world—but me? I dunno, I just don't have the same connection, I guess. But the more I think about it, the more I learn, the more I understand and the more similar it sounds to my own core beliefs."

"You really believe in that stuff," I replied, more of a statement than a question.

"Well... I think I do. One thing's for certain: I'll take Jesus over Jupiter any day," he replied firmly with a hint of humor. "But enough about me. Back to you. Tell me about your old man."

"Huh?"

"Your father."

In all honesty, just about everything I knew about my dad was stuff my mom or other people told me: Decanus Stuart Jones, a fantastic soldier, leader, husband, and father... a stand-up guy with no true enemies in the whole fucking valley. Hell, even his less friendly rivals and quasi-enemies respected him. It was especially evident at his funeral, when they showed up willingly rather than out of obligation. They gave their condolences to Mom and told me all about how my father was a great man. I don't even remember them saying that, considering I was four years old when Dad died from cancer.

"Great guy, according to everyone," I grumbled. "Decanus, kickass fighter, good husband and father, blah blah blah. Died from cancer when I was four."

"Cancer's a bitch."

"Ain't that the truth?"

"... I had a shitbag of a stepdad for a while. Then he was... removed from my life. Little while later, Mom met the man I call 'Dad,' who turns out to be this good ole boy from Georgia with a prosthetic leg, battle scars, and more warfighting experience than any other man I'd ever met. Farmboy, gunfighter, deepest Southern accent I've ever heard, God-fearing, all that... the class of a cowboy and the roughness of a redneck. 'Bout as stereotypically all-American as you can get."

"Lemme guess: this is the part where you tell me your second stepfather was that strong male figure you so needed? He made you disciplined, honorable, and helped you unfuck yourself?" I asked sarcastically.

"Well, yeah. He also helped a few kids escape a fucking gang," Jackson replied matter-of-factly.

"Elaborate."

"Well, he was a teacher at one point—mostly English, but also some history, civics, and economics—and discovered there was this one kid straight outta the ghetto whose life was all sorts of fucked up. He hadn't committed any crimes, but he was running with some bad people. Dad helped him out, along with some other boys who were trapped in that lifestyle... plus he called the NYPD and brought the big blue hammer down on the fuckers."

"The gangs got busted?"

"Yup. Dad's phone calls, tips, and testimonies have single handedly taken at least two dozen thugs off the street. But that ain't the point: those boys didn't have good fathers in their lives, if they even had one. Dad didn't fill that role, but he sure as hell scared 'em straight and put 'em on the right path. Tough love, I guess. He's one of those old-fashioned blue collar dads. He'll kick your ass onto the straight and narrow if necessary, then hug you and pray for you. Not super touchy-feely, but I'll be damned if that man doesn't care about Mom, lil' sis, me."

"And he did that for you too? Kick your ass onto the straight and narrow?"

"Oh yeah," Jackson chuckled. "Lemme put it this way: I have never committed a crime, but if I did, Dad would be the first one to call the cops and get my ass thrown in jail. He'd come get me out eventually, sure, but not without me takin' my lumps. And it it wasn't somethin' that required the justice system, he'd probably take off his leg and use it as a whippin' switch."

"That's... hardcore."

"Maybe... but he sure as hell kept me on the straight and narrow, even after I moved out. Taught me a lot... 'specially about being a man. I love my mom to death, and she did the best job ever, but... there are some things a mother just can't teach or provide, at least not in the same way a father can. He gave me a sort of structure and protection, I guess... something I needed even in my all-balls-no-brains teenage years. He didn't give me confidence or discipline, per se, but he sure as hell helped me find them in myself."

His story rendered me silent as I thought about my own upbringing: Mom had done her best... she always did. And I knew that she loved me with all her heart. But at the same time, there were plenty of times in which it felt like she didn't understand me. She couldn't calm me down or make me control my temper at times, and she sure as hell couldn't teach me how to be a man. And I didn't really have any grandfather or uncle to turn towards: they were all dead. My dad was around for the years I didn't remember.

But what if he wasn't? Would I still be the "shitbird" Jackson says I am?

"You finished?" he asked. "Sandwich and Gatorade, I mean."

"Uh... yeah, yeah," I replied, crumbling up the wrapping paper and putting it back in its plastic bag, along with the now-empty Gatorade bottle.

"Good. Now knock down that shack. Then pile up the wreckage and dig the trench around it. Am I clear?"

" ... sir, yes sir."

And with that, I got back to my tiring task of destroying the stupid shack with all the tools I had—all without uttering a single word to the evocatus. I sweated at least a quart of sweat over the next few hours as I demolished the thing, piled it up somewhat neatly, and dug a six-inch trench around the pile of wreckage. And by the end of it, my entire body was screaming for collapse, I stunk like a skunk, and I was generally miserable from a physical standpoint.

Yet oddly, any animosity I felt towards Evocatus Jackson was gone. I mean, I was pissed he kept me up this late, knowing I'd be roused at reveille early next morning, for this stupid punishment of his, but the overall hate and disdain seemed to have vanished. I'd worked it out of me... that, or the guy had beaten it out of me.

Well, we both gave each other some nice bruises and black eyes.

"Alright, your punishment is complete. Gear up. Let's go home," Jackson ordered as he stood, grabbed his shit, and began walking back to camp. I nodded mutely, grabbing my equipment, throwing it over my shoulders, and limping after him. It was a slow, silent trek back from wherever the fuck in the Berkeley Hills we were back to the camp. After gods knows how long, we arrived at the northern gate. The sentries let us through and we returned to Cohort V's barracks. However, Jackson ordered me to drop my shit and grab everything necessary for a trip to the bathhouse. The actual baths were closed at this time of night, but there were showers—added sometime in the last twenty years—open 24/7. There was only one rule: if you leave a mess, clean it up or suffer the wrath of an angry mob.

Wait... so that's why Jankowitz got a bunch of rotten eggs and tomatoes thrown at him by the entire cohort a few months ago.

"Get your ass in the shower," Jackson ordered. "You look like hammered shit."

Without a word, I gladly obeyed, heading into the men's showers. I put on my shower shoes, stripped, and began washing all of the dirt, sweat, splinters, and other crap off of me. Remembering the hygiene and wellness checks we did, I also checked myself for any wounds, infections, and the like on my body, discovering a shitload of blisters on my feet... to be expected. But after what felt like a solid fifteen minutes of soaping, shampooing, conditionering (is that even a word?), rinsing, and health checking, my damp ass was out of the shower in clean clothes.

"Congratulations," the evocatus sarcastically said. "You don't smell anymore. You're ugly as fuck, but nothin' we can do about that."

"If it looks ugly but works, does it even matter, sir?" I asked, speaking for the first time since the end of our conversation hours ago, eliciting a grin from the older man.

"You fucked up the saying, but I like it. Your cohort's on guard duty for tonight. Tomorrow, make sure you see the medic for all those injuries of yours. Now get your ass outta my sight and into bed."

"Sir," I said before he could walk away. "Knocking down the shack... what was the metaphor?"

He turned back to look at me for a moment, a blank expression on his face, before he smiled and shook his head.

"Go the fuck to sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow, Probatio," he replied, patting me on the shoulder before walking past me. I stood there for a moment in the chilly November night, looking up at the starry sky, before finally chuckling to myself.

"Sir, yes sir."

Well, that was interesting to write. Character development, I guess, both for Joker and Percy. And of course, my continual harping on the fact that fathers are super freaking important.

I remember once hearing a man say that criminality and general bad behavior—particularly in young people—can be traced back to failures in four places: "Church, Governance, Education, and Parenting." Religious leaders fail to address the social ills from their perspective, government leaders subsidize this bad behavior by not punishing it or outright enabling it, educators fail to educate, and parents fail to steer their children in the moral and lawful direction. It by no means excuses criminals for their actions, but it certainly provides a decent explanation for a majority of cases.

But I digress. I'm here to tell a story, not to be yet another verbose know-it-all weirdo on the Internet—that's too far for me, even as a Tier Zero Armchair Commando. Let me know what you loved, what you liked, what you disliked, what you hated, or write a mini-story/meme in the comments.

And speaking of memes...

And let's finish it off with some low-hanging fruit:

Take care of yourselves, your families, and each other. May your New Year's celebrations be merry and bright. God bless you all, and I'll see you next year.

Until we meet again,

- ADF-2