The Shell of Casper

- 15 - Hysteria & Fruitcake

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"Again."

Casper panted as he slumped over, his arms braced on his throbbing knees. He wasn't sure if he could manage another round.

"67-J," Casper growled under his breath. "She" had reduced down from calling him by the slightly rude nickname to three digits. Maybe he needed a new name for her. Something less humanizing than "She", since she seemed to be the equivalent to the devil incarnate.

"I said, again."

Casper squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He was certain that his legs were shaking. Frustration built up in his chest, making him want to scream.

Maybe he'd call her Lunatic. Accurate, yes. Clever, no. The Bane of My Existence... too long. Queen of Hell. No, no, no. That sounded too badass.

An idea surfaced in his mind. Fruitcake. Yes, that was what he would call her, in his head at least. It was fitting in many ways:

It clarified that she was an insane psychopath: Check.

It was something that everyone hated: Check.

It was particularly demeaning: Check.

It was a name that was insulting but still not intimidating: Check and check.

Casper smiled. He was far more creative than the fools that called him Flinch. At least his idea required more brain power than one based off of his reaction when he was spooked (while forcefully and professionally blindfolded).

"Why are you smiling?" Fruitcake yelled into the speaker. "Get going before I have to come in  there and make you."

Casper began jogging forward, his palms outstretched. This was his ninth time running blindly through the agility course. His calves burned and his lungs felt like bursting, but at least he could estimate where the obstructions were before they whacked him in the head or socked him in the gut.

He counted his steps as he neared a type of hurdle. Six, seven, eight, nine. Casper's hands sought purchase, locking around the top bar of the obstacle. With a well-practiced grace, Casper swung over the side. It was getting easier in some ways, and catastrophically worse in others.

Casper slowed down, anticipating the rock wall he knew was ahead. Sweat poured down his face and dampened the too-insulated uniform they'd tossed him in. A jutted foothold rapped into his forehead.

Seeing fireworks, Casper collapsed to the ground and clutched his face. He didn't move. Maybe he could fool them into thinking he went unconscious.

"Get up." Fruitcake's voice came through the speaker. He imagined that she was watching him through a glass window, or maybe even just by a camera. Coward."67-J, get up."

Casper went limp. Heat rushed to his head like a crumbling dam holding back a river of liquid fire. Perhaps the fainting wasn't entirely fake. One thing he couldn't piece together was that if they wanted to make him into a soldier, why were they beating him up— or rather, forcing him to beat himself up— all the time? Well, it was expected that he'd get roughed up a little bit, but how was he to aim a gun if he was permanently concussed after one training session?

"I know you're not passed out, so pick yourself up right now." Fruitcake ordered from the speaker, the volume so loud that it made his skull want to crack further than it felt like it had already. "Just finish this last one."

He didn't budge. It turned out that he wasn't exactly acting this all out. Stars still danced before his eyes and the room rocked like a boat.

"Please, don't make me do this." Fruitcake's tone went softer than usual, but not with sympathy. With dread. Casper felt his stomach clench. "I'm serious."