Chapter Text
Nikolai trailed slowly behind the rest of his platoon with his shoulders slumped, the weight of defeat sinking him further into the ground with every step he took. He kept his gaze low, his boots scuffing the ground. He could feel his anger clawing its way up. Hot, sharp. It burned in his chest, in the back of his throat, acid rising, biting.
God.
He felt sick.
In his two months at the Vanguard School, he had never lost a single war game. Not one. Not even close.
But today?
His fist clenched at the thought.
As Nikolai approached the exit of the war room into the corridor, his heart sank.
They were already there. The victorious platoon from Hermes Army, lined up, standing at attention, every posture perfect, every smug expression in place. And there, at the forefront, was Florence. Captain of the third platoon. Smirking. That cocky, lopsided grin plastered across his face like he owned the world. He hated that prick. Nikolai wished he could punch it right off his face.
Instead, Nikolai gritted his teeth and forced himself to fall in line beside his platoon mates. With a sharp exhale, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention as Captain Gunther approached. At twenty-three, Gunther was the youngest in Vanguard’s history to earn the rank of captain—and two years in, he remained undefeated in scrimmages.
Until now.
Nikolai swallowed nervously.
Captain Gunther strode toward the opposing platoon, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the corridor. Even Florence's cocky smirk subsided when Captain Gunther's cold gaze swept over the assembled soldiers of Hermes and his own, while lingering on Nikolai for a tad longer than necessary. Nikolai didn't like that one bit.
Without a word, the captain stopped in front of Florence. He extended his hand, a silent acknowledgment of the victor’s achievement, as tradition demanded. Florence hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering with a mixture of pride and apprehension before reaching out to grasp Captain Gunther's hand in a firm shake. The exchange was brief, but to Nikolai, it felt like an eternity.
Once the handshake concluded, Florence and his platoon filed out of the corridor of the war room. Gunther turned back to his own soldier, his gaze sweeping over them again before landing on Nikolai, but this time, it stayed.
Nikolai shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tense, his eyes dropping to the floor as that cold stare bore into him. Gunther didn’t say a word. He let that silence dragged out until Nikolai's felt like his heart was running right out his ribcage. Then, finally, the captain moved. He paced back and forth, his footsteps steady like the ticking of a clock. Each step wound the tension tighter, pressing against Nikolai's chest until finally—
Captain Gunther stopped.
Right in front of him.
"Nikolai, what went wrong out there?" he asked, his tone clipped.
Nikolai clenched his jaw, desperately searching for the right words. His mind raced through every single possible explanation, but before he could speak, Captain Gunther shifted his attention to Dax.
"Dax," Captain Gunther said, his tone sharp. "Tell me, what went wrong out there?"
"Disobeying orders, sir," Dax replied without missing a beat.
Realization dawned on Nikolai, and he quietly groaned in frustration. This wasn't about losing, Nikolai realized. This was about what he didn't do during the war game.
"Correct," Gunther affirmed, resuming his pacing. "What were my commands, Nikolai?"
This time, Nikolai didn't hesitate to answer.
"Your commands were to stand down while the enemy was approaching the east side of the map, sir."
"Hm," Gunther responded, now fully standing in front of Nikolai, his eyes cutting right through him. "And did you?"
"No, I didn't—," Nikolai stuttered, "—because I thought that your command to stand down was uncalled for considering the situation we were in, and so I thought that—"
Before he could finish, the captain’s hand shot out and struck him across the face with a resounding crack that echoed off the walls of the corridor. The rest of the platoon flinched but kept their gazes fixed ahead.
The blow snapped his head to the side, his body stumbling a step back. His cheek burned hot, and for a split second, a stupid, dangerous thought swept right through him—and just as quickly, he shut it down, locked his jaw, hands clasped behind him, and stepped back into formation as the heat settled behind his eyes.
"You do not think. You obey," Captain Gunther said pointedly.
Nikolai didn't react. Honestly, he didn't even hear anything Gunther said after because all he could focus on was the humiliation burning across his cheek. His fists tightened, and the thought of taking a swing at his captain crossed his mind monetarily. But just as his eyes met the fury lurking in Captain Gunther’s cold, dark stare, Nikolai’s resolve crumbled.
He’d never seen Gunther like this.
If whatever this was could even be called anger. Because anger, at least from far crueler captains and commanders Nikolai had seen, came with clenched fists and boots slammed into ribs. Punishments meant to break them down and mold them into fearless soldiers for the Republic. It wasn’t personal. Or so he’d been told. It was just how the Republic made soldiers.
But this time, it felt personal.
Not in the way others had sought to hurt him when they learned of his past, not with the sneers or the cheap shots meant to humiliate. No. This was different. Like the captain wasn't trying to punish him for who he was, but because he was genuinely pissed at what Nikolai had done—like he’d crossed a line he hadn’t even realized was there until the second he said the captain was wrong in front of everyone. Undeservingly, maybe. Because as much as he’d hate to admit it, the captain was right. Nikolai knew better than to question a direct order—especially not in the middle of a scrimmage, and especially not in front of the entire platoon.
"You think, Nikolai, that your reckless disregard for orders will go unnoticed?" Captain Gunther continued. "You think that what you decide matters in the chain of command? Well, let me tell you what you should know, that such actions will not be tolerated, under any circumstances. If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to roll over, you do what?"
"Roll over, sir!" the platoon shouted in unison.
Except for Nikolai.
His mouth had gone dry, his voice caught somewhere between pride and shame. A beat passed. And then another.
Gunther turned his head slightly, gaze narrowing.
“I said,” he repeated, slower this time, “if I tell you to roll over, you do what?”
Nikolai knew this was a battle he'd never win, and yet, something in him still resisted. Some stubborn shard of pride lodged deep in his chest that refused to break clean.
He gritted his teeth.
“Roll over, sir,” he muttered, barely audible.
Too quiet.
Gunther took a single step closer. “Louder.”
Nikolai lifted his chin, forcing the words out.
“Roll over, sir!”
The reply came too late.
The damage was done.
Another long pause.
Then Gunther looked away, the tension stretching thin as he resumed pacing. “There is no room for ego in the field. When you disobeyed a direct command in front of your unit and risked the operation by undermining the directives—and the moment that happens, we lose. Me, you…” his eyes found Nikolai’s again before sweeping through the others. “... everyone.”
Gunther took a deep breath. And Nikolai could tell that he wasn’t talking about him anymore because the captain’s voice shifted to something more somber, broad, like he was no longer speaking to just Nikolai, but to the entire unit.
“You all know that there’s no team without trust. And war has always been built on trust. We all know that—that faith in the person next to you determines whether or not you’d make it through the next day, that your trust in their judgment, in their ability to make the right call, is the difference between coming home and being carried home.”
Nikolai winced. He didn’t think what he did was such a big deal. After all, that’s what scrimmages were for, right? To experiment and try out unique tactics under pressure that they couldn’t otherwise do without risking actual lives. Nikolai did that, experimented. Perhaps he should’ve spent more time thinking about other potential scenarios, but could anyone really blame him for going out the way to try something in hopes it’d secure them a faster victory?
Gunther continued, his brown eyes darkening under the hood of his eyes. “And so when you act alone without letting your unit know what you’re doing—you’re not just risking the mission and their life and yours, but you’re telling them their judgment doesn’t matter. You’re telling them that their planning, their training, their faith in you was misplaced. And here, in our platoon, trust goes both ways.”
Gunther’s gaze swept the group one last time. “We work together. Or we don’t work at all.”
Then, quieter, “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Every voice answered and, somewhere in the middle of it all, Nikolai found his own rising with the others. He wasn’t even sure if Gunther heard his voice in particular and felt stupid stealing a glance at the man to see if he did.
But the captain didn’t look his way and Nikolai would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed.
The moment passed and finally, the captain turned on his heel and signaled for the platoon to follow him back to the barracks. As they walked, Nikolai fell into step behind his comrades, the sting on his cheek already subsiding, but the shame of it all still burned in his chest.
He wasn’t sure why.
Maybe it was something Gunther had said that was able to reach past his pride and stirred that small, bitter seed of disappointment he didn’t realize he had until it took root right beneath shame and resentment.
He knew what was expected of him. That obedience was everything here and always had been. And that, yes, he shouldn't have disrespected the captain in front of everyone. But still, a part of him still believed he’d made the right call.
Well, not entirely.
During the war game, Captain Gunther commanded them to wait for Hermes to ambush them. A sound strategy—if Captain Gunther had known for certain that Hermes would execute such a tactic. But they didn’t. They never had. The entire war game, Hermes hadn’t shown any inclination to ambush. Why would they start now? The command was ridiculous, Nikolai told himself. So he’d taken the liberty to break formation, and tried to outflank Hermes on his own. A bold move. A mistake. Because, of course, Hermes had someone posted to guard their flank.
It was definitely a rookie oversight on Nikolai’s part—that, he would admit to because he should have accounted for the possibility. Instead, his plan had backfired spectacularly, costing them the game.
Once they reached the noisy barracks, Captain Gunther dismissed them before disappearing down the hallway towards Commander Dallas's quarter.
As everyone began to disperse, each of his teammates headed to their respective bunks. The familiar routine of their daily activities was already in motion as Nikolai stood there watching them grab their evening uniforms and personal belongings before heading to the communal showers.
Except for Nikolai, who walked back to his own bunk and instantly collapsed onto his bed, with his face buried in his pillow. The top bunk above him creaked loudly until Afton, a curly-haired brunette swung down with his annoying exuberance. Nikolai let out a groan, already bracing himself for whatever relentless commentary was about to come.
"Hey there, sunshine," Afton chirped. "What's got you all down and under? Get it—all down and under, since you're—" He waved at his top bunk, then at Nikolai’s bottom bunk, grinning at his own joke.
Nikolai didn’t laugh. Just turned his head around to looked at him and grunted.
Afton’s smile faded when he caught sight of the dried blood on Nikolai’s lip. “Hey, what happened to your lip? You alright?”
Nikolai blinked, then raised his fingers to his mouth. His fingertips brushed the split at the corner of his lip—he hadn’t even realized it was there. A smear of red came away on his hand.
He stared at it for a second before wiping it off with the back of his palm.
“Fuck, Afton,” he muttered, turning his head toward the wall. “Mind your goddamn business.”
"Alright, alright, no need to bite my head off," Afton said with a huff. "You’re in a mood, huh? I take it that the scrimmage didn’t go too hot?"
Nikolai didn’t answer.
So Afton kept talking anyway.
"I suppose not, since it doesn’t take a genius to see that everyone in your platoon looked like crap when they walked in. Hey, it’s okay to lose once in a while, like the rest of us peasants. Sometimes you just have to take it on the chin and keep going, you know?"
Nikolai didn’t dignify that with a response. He didn’t need pep talks.
He has never found comfort in losing, no matter how well it was rationalized. Only in winning did it feel right—that his life meant something. And when he didn’t? He'd curled inward and stewed in it. Afton had learned that by now. He knew how Nikolai got—all quiet and mean until he decided to climb out of it on his own. It always passed eventually. Usually in a day. Sometimes two. But this? Nikolai wasn't quite sure.
But before Afton could bestow more unsolicited, age-old wisdom upon Nikolai, he heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind.
"Oh—hey, Captain Gunther," Afton called out.
At the sound of his name, Nikolai stiffened, his breath hitched. He didn’t move. Instead, he kept his back turned, face still buried in the pillow, pretending not to notice anything at all.
"Nikolai, with me," Captain Gunther ordered.
Nikolai didn't move at first. The defiance rising in his chest for just a moment before he stood, slowly. Annoyed. He glanced at Afton, who shrugged in response, his expression somewhere between amused and confused. Then Nikolai looked back at Gunther, who had already turned and was walking toward the barracks door without waiting for him. Finally, Nikolai forced himself to move, his boots hitting the floor harder than he meant as he trailed after Gunther.
Once he caught up to the captain, they walked in silence until they reached his room.
Once they entered the room, Gunther turned and locked the door behind him. The click of the lock made Nikolai feel uneasy, but he quickly shook off the feeling as his anger from earlier began to resurface. Standing at attention, he looked around the room and noticed how sparse it was. Bare walls. A bed, a closet, a wooden desk, and a single chair. Nothing else. Minimal. Functional. Sterile. Yet, compared to the barracks, it might as well have been luxury. Their "tables" were flimsy trays bolted to the wall, barely enough space for their assignments. And Gunther? He had this.
"Sir, may I ask why we're here?" Nikolai asked impatiently, already over this charade.
He met Gunther's gaze head-on, jaw tight, eyes still burning from the humiliation he hadn’t quite managed to swallow. He wasn’t thinking about consequences, not really, if at all. Just that fire in his chest that hadn’t gone out. The way his fists twitched at his sides. The way silence stretched too long. He didn’t mean to bait the captain—but if Gunther saw defiance in his posture, heard it in his tone, saw it in his eyes, Nikolai wasn’t about to correct him.
"Nikolai," Gunther said, his tone measured, "I spoke with Commander Dallas earlier and gave him an update on your progress since you arrived. He mentioned your time at the academy." He paused, watching Nikolai carefully. “I get that this place isn’t like what you’re used to. Orders here are strict. They’re absolute. Structure is non-negotiable. I don’t expect perfection—I’m not unreasonable, but I do expect effort and obedience. And right now, I need to know if you’re capable of adjusting to that.”
Nikolai rolled his eyes.
Gunther went still.
His jaw tightened, a flicker of something Nikolai couldn't quite pinpoint flashed in his eyes.
Suddenly, the air grew colder.
"Hmm," the captain said, rising from his chair. His expression hardened. Decided. "I suppose that's enough talking."
He gave nothing away as he walked toward Nikolai, his frame towering a full foot over him. Nikolai didn’t flinch, holding his ground, even as his legs tensed. The captain returned the chair to its place beneath the desk, the scrape of wood loud against floorboards.
Nikolai eyed him warily.
"Go to the desk and bend over," Gunther said flatly, giving Nikolai a firm nudge as he turned toward the closet.
Nikolai unconsciously took a step back, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see the captain pull open the door and retrieve a thick, worn leather belt. The buckle clinked as Gunther folded it in half, then turned back around. The situation quickly dawned on Nikolai as he took another step back, hitting the edge of the desk with a jolt. His breath caught. His fingers curled instinctively against the wood behind him. Whatever heat that had fueled his defiance earlier was gone—completely drained out and replaced by cold dread slithering down his spine.
"Did you not hear me? I said to bend over the desk," Captain Gunther said. "Now, Nikolai."
Nikolai didn’t move.
For a second, he just stared at the captain—at the belt looped in his hand, the calm certainty in his voice.
“Sir—” he started, voice thinner than he meant.
Gunther raised an eyebrow. Just one. “You heard me.”
Nikolai stiffened. “Sir, wait—this isn’t—” He tried to force out the words, tried to stand tall, but his voice cracked halfway through despite it all. “I get it, alright? I messed up, but this? Isn’t this a bit much?”
Gunther levelled him with a cold stare. “You disobeyed a direct order. You questioned your commanding officer in front of your entire platoon. Even now, as I am trying to speak to you, you blatantly disrespected me by rolling your eyes. Tell me—how would you handle that if the roles were reversed?”
Nikolai opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had taken a belt to him. Not by a long shot. Back at the academy, discipline came in many shapes and sizes but most of the time, it was doled out in the shape of a long, thin rod that whistled when swung across palms, thighs, backside, or lower back, depending on the offense and the mood of the wielder. Punishments then were handed out like rations—erratic, frequent, and always public. He’d been punished for worse. He’d been punished for far less.
He just didn’t expect it from Captain Gunther.
Even after all the grief he’d given the man over the past few weeks—smart remarks that bordered on insubordination—Gunther hadn’t once laid a hand on him. No. He preferred his punishments methodical: laps until his legs gave out, cleaning everyone’s locker with a toothbrush until every single bone in his body ached, latrine duty. They were tedious, but never physical.
And maybe Nikolai shouldn’t have been surprised. Afterall, he’d heard the rumors. Dax once mentioned Gunther dragging a cadet into his quarters after they’d shown up late to a scrimmage. The guy couldn’t sit right for days. Still, Nikolai didn’t think much of it. But now, staring down at the belt in Gunther’s hand, he just never thought he’d be at the receiving end of it.
“I didn’t mean to disobey your order, sir—I just thought that…” Nikolai’s voice trailed off, the end catching dead in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he should keep going. If there was one thing he learned from the slap earlier, it was this—when Captain Gunther didn’t ask for your opinion, he sure as hell didn’t want to hear it.
So he shut his mouth and instead said, carefully, “If I were the commanding officer, I’d make sure to remind the soldier of the chain of command.”
Gunther nodded. “And what does that chain of command entail?”
Nikolai clenched his teeth. He knew where this was heading. He knew what the captain wanted to spell out for him. But it didn’t matter—reason had all but left the room the second Gunther reached for the belt. And now? He obviously just wanted to hear Nikolai say it. And Nikolai wasn’t sure if he could trust himself to say it—what Gunther wanted to hear. Because sure, he could say it. That soldier's main priority has always and will be to follow orders at all time. But he didn't want to give Gunther the satisfaction of seeing him fall in line that easily.
He hated that part the most.
And yet, self-preservation came at the worst time and Nikolai forced the words out anyway, “It entails being respectful and following orders at all times, sir.”
“Correct. What about eyerolls?” Gunther said as he crossed his arms. “Are they respectful?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you certain?”
Nikolai’s throat tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“And what about following orders, does the chain of command require following orders the second time?”
Nikolai's jaw twitched. “No, sir.”
“The first time?”
Nikolai hesitated. A bitter swallow. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then maybe it’ll stick better this time,” Gunther took a step back and gestured to the desk. “Over. Now.”
Nikolai stared at the captain, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Then, with a deep breath, he turned toward the desk and bent forward.