The sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks of the Tanabas, casting long, bruised shadows across the asphalt of the parade ground. Each company now stood in its own tight formation, the silence broken only by the whistling mountain wind. In front of the Easy Company recruits, three officers stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, silhouetted against the raw, unpainted timber of the command buildings.
A human in his late twenties stepped forward first. He had hair so short it was almost invisible and a jawline that looked like it had been squared off with a carpenter's level. His uniform was immaculate, every crease a sharp edge.
"I am Lieutenant Joseph Chase," he began, his voice carrying a calm, practiced authority that seemed to settle over the recruits like a heavy weight. "I am the leader of 1st Platoon. My standards are high, and my patience for excuses is non-existent."
Next to him, a woman with a tight blonde ponytail and shoulders that tested the seams of her tunic offered a sharp, predatory smile. "Lieutenant Mary Hoppings. I'm responsible for 2nd Platoon. My job is to ensure you don't break on the first day, and to pick up the pieces if you do. You will learn to move faster than you thought possible."
Finally, a tall elf with eyes like blue ice and a face that seemed carved from frozen marble spoke, his voice cool and melodic. "Lieutenant Stharal Murenn. 3rd Platoon. Precision is the only currency I accept. Remember that."
Mary Hoppings scanned the group of fourteen, her gaze lingering on their civilian posture. "As of now, you're a skeleton crew. We'll finalize your Platoon and Squad assignments at 1900 hours tonight, after you've had your fill at the mess and with the arrival of others. For now, follow us. We have a few mandatory stops to make before you're allowed the luxury of sleep."
"Easy Company," Chase barked, the command echoing off the nearby barracks. "Fall in!"
Jack snapped his heels together. There was a strange electricity in hearing the name Easy Company. It wasn't just a label anymore; it was an identity they had to grow into. They followed the officers toward a long, low-slung wooden building that hummed with the sound of machinery.
"Every four months," Chase said, walking backwards with effortless balance as he led the way, "you will receive a regulation, standard-issue haircut. In this regiment, we don't have time for the vanity of the world you left behind. Long hair is a handle for an enemy to grab and a breeding ground for lice in the trenches. Failure to follow this regulation will result in 'corrective' exercises that will make your bones ache. Men and women, report to the chairs. Beastfolk, report to the groomers for a trim. If your fur impedes your equipment or hides your rank, it goes. Understood?"
"YES, LIEUTENANT!" the group roared, their voices beginning to find a collective strength.
Chase handed each of them a Gear Issue permit, the paper crisp in Jack's hand. "After your cut, report to the Quartermaster—the large supply depot behind you. From there, First Sergeant Lewis Thompson will take over. He's the one who'll show you where you sleep, where you learn, and eventually, where you bleed. He is the heartbeat of this company."
A massive tiger-beastfolk, his orange and black fur groomed to a military sheen, stepped into the light. He wore the three chevrons and three rockers of a First Sergeant on his sleeve, and his arms were thicker than Jack's thighs.
"They're yours for now, Lewis," Chase said with a curt nod. The officers turned and marched away in perfect synchronization, leaving the recruits in the shadow of the mountain of a man.
The tension broke for a second as the recruits looked at one another, but Thompson didn't let them breathe. "Follow me. Inside. Now. I want to see scalps, not style."
The interior of the barber shop smelled of talcum powder, cheap metallic oil, and the copper scent of shorn hair. Five barbers stood behind high-backed chairs, their clippers already humming with a low, menacing buzz that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Next!" a barber shouted, smirking at Kenlil.
Kenlil sat in the chair, looking at his reflection in a small, cracked mirror. His elven hair was his pride—shining, golden, and always perfectly kept. It was one of the few things he had brought with him from the Alpine Lake. He looked up at Sergeant Thompson, hope warring with dread. "Uhh... Sarge? Is there any choice in the style? Maybe a little off the top but keep the length?"
Thompson snickered, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "You have two choices, Private. Bald, or Army. Which one makes you feel less like a civilian and more like a soldier?"
The barber tapped Kenlil on the shoulder with a pair of cold steel clippers. "Want the chrome look, kid? I can make you shine like a new coin."
"I'll take the Army cut," Kenlil whispered, closing his eyes.
The clippers moved. Jack watched as tufts of blonde elven hair fell to the floor like autumn leaves, discarded and meaningless. When it was Jack's turn, he felt the cold, vibrating metal against his scalp. It was a jarring sensation—the mechanical rattle against his skull, the sudden, jarring lightness on his head, and the startling feeling of the mountain wind hitting the sensitive skin of his neck for the first time.
The women didn't escape the transition, either. Natalia sat silently, her expression unreadable, as the barber sheared her hair down to a sharp, practical line at her jaw. She didn't flinch or mourn the loss; she just watched the floor, her eyes fixed on the mounting pile of hair that represented their old lives.
By the time they stepped back outside, the group looked entirely different. The jagged, individual styles of Marmello—the braids, the curls, the grease—were gone. They all possessed the same high-and-tight silhouette, a uniform look that stripped away their pasts.
"I feel naked," Kenlil said, rubbing his shorn, sensitive scalp. "It's like they took a layer of my skin off. If I knew they were going to do this, I would've cut it myself back home. At least then it would've been my decision, not a command."
"Don't worry, Ken," Jack said, his own head feeling strangely chilled by the thinning air. "It'll grow back. By the time it does, you'll probably have forgotten why you cared so much."
"I didn't even complain when they trimmed my ruff," Tavros chuckled, though he looked largely the same, save for the neater, severe edges of his fur that made him look more like a weapon than a person.
"That's because yours isn't hair, Tav," Kenlil grumbled, though there was no real heat in it. "You're just a rug that learned how to talk."
Sergeant Thompson led them to the Quartermaster's depot. It was a massive, echoing operation filled with the heavy scent of canvas, gun oil, and vulcanized rubber. They moved through three lines with mechanical efficiency, overseen by bored-looking supply clerks. Jack's arms were soon piled high with the weight of his new life: two extra sets of stiff fatigues, three packs of Physical Training gear, athletic shorts that felt like paper, undershirts, a personal hygiene kit, a fresh pair of boots that smelled of heavy, unyielding leather, and a metal mess kit.
"Easy Zone is this way," Thompson announced, his voice booming as he led the small group toward a cluster of long, dark-stained barracks buildings.
The Easy Zone was a self-contained world designed for efficiency and discipline. It had an orderly house where Thompson and the clerks stayed, a lecture hall labeled 'Class 4-E' where they would be filled with theory, and the communal Latrine. The barracks were long, wooden halls built to withstand the mountain winters.
"Put your gear in E-1-1," Thompson pointed to the first building, its door hanging heavy on iron hinges.
Inside, the barracks were a masterpiece of military minimalism. Two long rows of iron bunk beds faced each other with mathematical precision, each with a small, dented metal locker at its foot. The floorboards were scrubbed so clean they shone in the twilight.
"Men on the left, women on the right," Thompson barked, his shadow stretching across the room. "This isn't a social club. Keep your lockers organized and your beds tight enough to bounce a silver coin off of. If I see a wrinkle, I see a failure. Your NCOs will be sleeping in the end rooms. They hear every whisper. They see every movement. Consider your privacy a thing of the past."
Jack found a bunk and dropped his heavy duffel, the sound echoing in the high ceiling. The room was quiet, the only other sounds being the metallic clatter of lockers and the distant, muffled shouting of other companies across the yard.
"Assignments and a word from the CO after dinner," Thompson said, standing framed in the doorway like a guardian. "Make yourselves presentable. Your lives depend on the man in charge of this company. Pray he likes what he sees, because his word is the only law that matters on this mountain."
He turned and left, his heavy footfalls fading into the distance. Jack sat on the edge of his new, stiff mattress, looking at his shorn friends. The boys from Marmello were gone, replaced by a handful of shadows in green fatigues, waiting in the gathering dark to meet the officer who would decide their fate.