Grinding

`This was exciting. A brand new adventure, new sights, new people; new targets. He was practically buzzing with excitement, not that one would be able to discern it from the hulking mass of a Marine. A week ago, he'd been knee deep in a foxhole, shirtless with sweat pouring down his muscled frame. Corporal Miles T. J. Kirk. Four names, the Drill Sergeant had loved that one. To his squad mates he was known as "TJ", the gung-ho, fearless crayon-eater. He'd done things very few could hope to achieve in their lifetime. He'd been in Force Recon, then made the jump to the Raider Regiment and for the past year or so he had been up in Jalalabad on a joint assignment with the CIA. But times were changing, and TJ's assignment with it. He'd been picked up by the people he referred to as the "bag men", taking him from his FOB, and driving him back. They'd spent a few hours in Bagram Airbase before he was eventually flown in. TJ slept for most of the time. He had picked up the glorious ability of being able to sleep anywhere, regardless of external situations. 4,000 feet in the air? Like a baby. It was a trait shared amongst most servicemen. TJ had very rarely ventured outside of the States, the most exotic destination he had ever been to was El Paso, and even then; it had been for Mexican food. Perhaps that was one of the reason he had enlisted, it was either that or prison. The Judge had been a former serviceman and known to be lenient with the youths brought before him. In many ways TJ had the man to thank for where he was now. He was a lot leaner and more muscled than he had been all those years ago. Standing at an even 6 foot 2 inches and weighing a sizeable 203 pounds he in the upper quartile of the tall people. The flight was just about 12 hours, with a stop over at Rammstein. Based on the suspicious amount of sleep he was getting TJ made the assumption he was somewhere in Europe.`

`He was dressed in his Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform, MCCUU. Given his deployment, it was in the MARPAT Desert camouflage, the pixelated wash of brown, beige and tan curling up and down his clothing. His 8-point cover was in his hands as he stepped out of the transport plane, and towards the waiting car. His escorts were quite the talkative bunch. As the chill of the English weather bit into him, the change of climate was extreme at first but his body began to adjust. He missed the States, and as odd as it was he missed 'Stan. It was a lot simpler over there. The car journey there was filled with silence, as it would eventually pull up to the dilapidated church. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the small green stress ball and giving it a gentle squeeze. Everyone felt nerves, but it was a little different with him. He despised the little pit forming in his stomach but simultaneously he loved the sensation. It felt like jumping out of a C-130, staring down into the white abyss below before taking that leap and feeling the air swallow you as you plummet down. Not to mention the rush of adrenaline; that was also fun. He stepped forward, green eyes darting around as he spotted the other recruits. In his mind, TJ was already making mental assessments, determining who would pose the biggest risk, who to steer clear of, and who he could use to better improve his position. They all looked a little... dull if he was frank. Except for the tall one, had to be 6'6 at the very least. He stepped in, taking a seat on third row of pews. He pulled his cover off, holding the hat in his hand. He sported a buzzcut, the sides cut shorter than the top. The Marine paid attention, simultaneously continuing through his mental checklist. He identified those who were military. The tall one, was German. Blonde hair and blue eyes, Hitler's perfect little nazi. He made a mental note to avoid the jokes.`

`There was the Russian decked out in a dark green Gorka battledress. He'd seen the uniform enough times on joint exercises to recognise it. There were others in more civilian clothing. He paused for a second, his mental thought train derailing as he heard the sound of items hitting plastic as the bucket for personal effects went around. TJ for the most part, was void of anything real that identified him with a specific unit. His dress uniform had been stripped pre-hand by his CIA handlers. All that he had was the stuff in his pockets. He pulled out his dog-tags and began emptying the contents of his pockets into the bucket. His tags, his phone, his Military I.D and passport, and a red crayon. He looked around somewhat sheepishly, dropping it into the bucket with a slight hurry. He waited as the two Agents, a petite french lady and the disinterested American continued. They offered a chance at leaving and TJ felt himself look around. Walk out? On something like this? You had to be stupid, or a pussy. As the thought entered his mind, he saw one of the recruits rise. An oriental looking man, walking back towards the entrance. TJ exhaled, a slight click of his tongue before rising as the Agent asked the recruits to follow. There were a considerable amount of them, from all kind of backgrounds. He felt somewhat at unease in the close confines of the elevator. He'd seen the Winter Soldier too many times to know that packed elevators were never fun. As the elevator descended, TJ looked around noticing the crumbling, cracked foundations of the church fade into smooth, pristine concrete. The doors opened to reveal the underground facility which looked all the more enticing. He followed the rest of the group towards the double doors that revealed an atrium of sorts. Inside it were two more Agents, TJ's eyes wandered over to the Irishman before settling on the lady. God. She was a big bitch. He assumed 6'0, but she could be taller. `

`His mind turned a little devilish. He liked his women tall. He seemed to zone out, mind wandering before being drawn to the present as he murmured a curse. Looks like fate wasn't with him this time, he was stuck with an Irishman. He cast a look at the man, before looking around at the others he was paired with. His eyes settled on the french Agent with a slight distaste. She looked like she took herself a little too seriously. What a rag-tag bunch of instructors. The American- Holder? TJ struggled to recall the name, he'd never been good with them to begin with. He sounded bored and disinterested, and TJ could've sworn he could smell alcohol off the Agent. The Marine rubbed his eyes before looking around, hearing the Russian speak. "Screwby, man. Notice the uh common theme here?" He questioned, looking around at the assorted military men. Except for Bar-cat? Baracus? TJ's mind scrambled trying to remember the shorter man. Barakat. He looked over to the significantly shorter Middle Eastern man. "You uh, you lost there, little buddy?" He questioned, a slight cruel glint in his eyes as he smiled.`