Counters-in-Training

The Counter Headquarters wasn't exactly welcoming. The receptionist at the front desk gave me a once-over, her expression somewhere between disdain and mild disgust. I couldn't blame her. Even though I'd showered recently, there was still an air of "homeless drifter" about me that was hard to shake. My clothes, cleaned but secondhand didn't help my case.

"You can't just walk in here," she snapped. "If you're here to beg for food or charity, this isn't the place."

"I'm not begging," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "I was told to report here."

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Report here? For Counter training?" Her tone made it clear she thought the idea was laughable. "Wait here while I check."

I stood awkwardly by the desk as she made the call, shooting occasional side-eyes at me like I might try to make a run for it. When the confirmation came through, her face twisted into something close to confusion. "Well, I'll be damned," she muttered. Then, louder: "Someone will escort you."

A broad, muscular man in a Counter uniform appeared a moment later, looking me up and down with the same skepticism. He didn't say anything until we reached a small outdoor area where a group of trainees had gathered. Then he turned to me and crossed his arms.

"How the hell are you eligible for Counter training?" he asked, his tone blunt.

I didn't know how to answer that, so I went with the first thing that came to mind. Instead of speaking, I knelt down and punched the concrete near me. My fist didn't just crack the surface, it smashed through the slab entirely, bending the rebar underneath as if it were made of cheap wire.

The man took a step back, his mouth falling open slightly. 

"What the hell?" he muttered, staring at the broken concrete. "How can you do that and still look like... well, like you?"

I shrugged awkwardly, brushing the dust off my knuckles. 

"I mean, doesn't this prove I'm Counter-eligible?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my logic. 

"Yeah, but why do you people always go straight for breaking stuff? Couldn't you just… I don't know… show me a document or something?"

I winced. "I, uh, don't really have those. And I'm not a psychopath or anything, I swear. I just figured it'd be easier to... demonstrate."

The man let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Fair enough," he muttered. Without another word, he waved me toward the building. "Come on. You're not the weirdest case I've seen."

I followed him into the main facility, a cavernous space filled with the low hum of activity. Trainees and seasoned Counters alike moved through the halls with purpose, some carrying equipment, others engaged in quiet conversation. I was handed off to another officer, who led me to a supply room.

"You're lucky you're strong," the officer said, tossing a training uniform and some basic gear at me. "Otherwise, we wouldn't bother. Go clean yourself up some more."

The shower was heaven. I scrubbed off days' worth of grime and exhaustion, the hot water doing wonders for my sore muscles. By the time I stepped out, dressed in the crisp training uniform, I almost felt like a new person. Almost.

The gear they gave us was... interesting. A baton with a button that released a jolt of electricity, a deployable shield, and a belt to carry it all. It felt strange wearing weapons at my hip, but I figured I'd better get used to it.

Once we'd all been geared up, we were marched out to a massive training field that stretched along the coastline. The sea roared against the seawall, sending sprays of foam into the air. The sun hung on the horizon, casting long shadows across the field. Rows of folding chairs had been set up, and we were herded into them like cattle.

The instructor arrived shortly after, cutting an imposing figure as he strode into view. He wore a trench coat over his uniform, which he shrugged off and tossed aside with a practiced motion. Grabbing his baton, he raised it high for everyone to see.

"All right, listen up!" he barked, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the waves. "You're here to be useful. Some of you are here because you want to serve the city. Some of you want citizenship. Most of you are desperate. I can tell by looking at you."

He wasn't wrong. A lot of us looked like we'd just crawled out of some gutter and in my case, that wasn't far from the truth.

The instructor's sharp eyes scanned the group, lingering on each of us just long enough to make us squirm. "Your job," he continued, pacing back and forth, "is to maintain public order when threats arise. That means handling risk-assessed sources, supporting police forces, and if necessary eliminating those who pose a danger to the city."

He pointed the baton toward the horizon, where the sea met the sky. "In times of widespread emergency, you'll act as a mobile force. You'll protect civilians, secure government officials, and enforce the city's laws no matter the cost."

The baton came down sharply, striking the ground with a loud crack. "You will also suppress criminal activities, break up demonstrations when necessary, and act as backup for police forces. Make no mistake - this is not an easy job. If you thought this was a way to coast into citizenship, you're dead wrong."

My stomach tightened for some reason.

"We'll give you ten weeks," the instructor said, his voice hard and unrelenting. "Ten weeks to get the basics right. After that, you'll function as a unit. Live as a unit. And if it comes to it then die as a unit."

"Yes, sir!" the group shouted in unison.

I stayed quiet. The whole "dying" part didn't sit well with me, but what choice did I have? Four years. That's what it would take to earn my citizenship. Four years of this. I wasn't sure if I'd survive, but I knew one thing for sure. I wasn't going back to the streets.

The instructor dismissed us with a sharp wave of his baton, and we filed out of the field. The sea seemed calmer than before, the waves lapping gently against the seawall.

* * *

By the end of the training, my limbs felt like they were on fire. Every muscle in my body screamed, a dull, throbbing ache settling into my bones. I wasn't alone. Everywhere I heard, my fellow trainees were groaning, stretching, massaging sore arms and legs as we dragged ourselves back to our barracks after another brutal day of training.

Some of them had been recruited because they were strong. Others because they were fast, resilient, or just plain stubborn. But not all of us were built for this. Some had been dock workers, factory hands, or petty criminals forced into service as an alternative to rotting in a cell. And then there was me an illegal immigrant with no past, no records, and no choice but to endure.

Between starvation and training, the choice was easy. Training at least came with meals.

We were assigned partners, each of us given a small room barely big enough to fit two people. Two narrow beds pressed against opposite walls, a sink wedged in between, and a pair of simple desks on either side. Functional. Impersonal. A place to sleep, nothing more.

They handed us a PDA and a thick manual, telling us to study the information inside. Laws. Rules of engagement. Procedures that justified when and how we could beat the hell out of someone. When to apply force, when to hold back. It wasn't difficult to memorize, mostly because we weren't really expected to think, just obey.

I sat on my bed, flipping through the PDA, skimming over paragraphs of legal jargon. The more I read, the more I realized that everything boiled down to one simple principle. 

Do what you're told, when you're told, and don't ask questions.

Dan, my roommate, didn't even pretend to study. He sat on his bed, groaning as he kneaded his sore biceps. He was broad-shouldered, built like a freight hauler, with the calloused hands of a man who'd spent years doing hard labor.

I glanced at him. "You're not even gonna read it?"

Dan snorted. "Why bother? It's all bullshit."

I raised an eyebrow. "Not wrong, but still. Might be useful."

"All we need to do is say 'yes, sir' and do what they tell us," he said flatly, tossing the PDA onto his bed.

"True."

He stretched out with a groan, shaking his head. "They didn't even say anything about a written exam. We can cram if we have to."

I let out a short laugh. He had a point. I wasn't exactly worried about passing some bureaucratic checklist of rules. If they wanted us here, we'd stay. If they didn't, we'd be gone. Simple as that.

Outside, the roar of the sea echoed against the barracks. The weather had been strange all day. A mix of bright sunshine and rolling fog, making it hard to tell what time it was.

Dan rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. "So, you're an illegal?"

I glanced at him. "You're not?"

"Nope. I got picked 'cause I mutated. Was a dock worker before this." He stretched one massive arm, flexing his fingers experimentally. "You're lucky."

"Are we lucky?" I asked, looking at him seriously.

Dan smirked. "Being under the government? Yeah. But it also gives a lot of folks the right to kill us."

I didn't disagree. My short time in this city had already shown me how dangerous the streets were. Police weren't exactly well-loved. Every now and then, clashes broke out with protests, riots, shootouts. The law only had control when it could enforce it, and even then, barely.

"So, you're desperate too?" I asked.

Dan shrugged. "Who isn't? You think I wanna keep eating slop for the rest of my life? At least as a Counter, I get a real meal. That's more than most people can say."

"But the danger?"

He let out a low chuckle. "Same as before. Look at you. You're here, aren't you?"

I was. I had chosen this. Chosen to be here rather than live in the streets, begging for scraps, waiting for someone to either take pity on me or put a bullet in my head.

I sat up and looked at Dan properly. He met my gaze, waiting for whatever dumb thing I was about to say.

"Guess we're buddies now?" I asked.

He snorted. "As long as you don't snore, man."

"Never snored in my life."

"Good." He pointed at my bed. "That one's yours, this one's mine. Are we clear?"

"We are."

And that was it.

Men are simple creatures. Don't be an asshole, and we don't have problems. Dan wasn't an asshole. He was smart enough not to act like one, either. Neither of us were kids — we weren't here to play games. We'd just gone through hellish, back-breaking superhuman training. No one in their right mind would waste energy picking fights after that.

Not us. Not anyone who understood that this wasn't the place for arrogance.

Not yet, at least.