The late afternoon sky over Hell’s Gate Camp was a foreboding expanse of black clouds, thick and oppressive, casting an eerie dim glow over the jagged mountains and barren fields encircling the remote facility. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain, mixing metallic tang with mud and sweat scents, heightening the recruits’ anxiety. The new privates of the 1st Platoon had endured five grueling days here, their enthusiasm crushed by relentless physical workouts—brutal dawn runs, sprints, hill climbs, weight drills, push-ups, and obstacle courses leaving bruises—and mental torments like interrogations, sleep deprivation, and psychological taunts eroding their wills. Bound by law to two years of service with no escape, deserters or defiers faced on-site execution or military court with prison and extended terms. Enlisted to serve their country, they now only served Master Sergeant Kratos, Lieutenant Chaz, and Lieutenant Stryker as groveling slaves in a cycle of humiliation disguised as war preparation.
This afternoon, the fifty privates stood in rigid lines on the muddy field, hearts pounding with exhaustion and dread, in green plain T-shirts clinging to sweat-soaked torsos, black shorts smeared with dirt, and worn black sneakers. Behind the officers stretched a 300-meter mud canal of viscous brown slurry connecting to a 300-meter, 1-meter-deep mud trench, forcing total prostration.
Kratos dominated center stage, shirtless and showcasing his 6-foot, 200-pound muscled frame—broad chest, veined biceps, forearms, shoulders, and eight-pack abs—with a black Fox Racing MX helmet shadowing his bearded face, black MX pants taut on powerful legs, and black Fox Instinct 2.0 MX boots: premium microfiber leather uppers with TPU armor plates, hinge lockout, four-buckle vise grip, slim medial design, and Ultratac™ outsole with aggressive lug treads for merciless traction—a sadistic, black emblem of domination grinding resistance.
Beside him idled a black KTM EXC 300: matte black steel frame, aluminum engine case, two-stroke torque engine, WP suspension, NEKEN handlebars, self-cleaning footpegs, CNC hubs, grippy vinyl seat, and Maxxis MaxxEnduro tires (front 90/90-21, rear 140/80-18) with knobby lugs for savage grip—a fetishized machine of cruel conquest.
Flanking Kratos were Chaz and Stryker, 5’10” at 185/180 pounds, with black beards, New Era caps, sunglasses, long-sleeve Jordan T-shirts on sculpted torsos, green camo pants on thick legs, and triple black Nike Air Force 1 high-tops (8 inches): full-grain leather uppers, perforated toes, Velcro straps, Air-cushioned cupsoles, and black gum outsoles with circular pivot treads for crushing grip—a brutal void branding despair.
In their hands, Kratos, Chaz, and Stryker gripped M4 rifles, the sleek black barrels loaded with live ammunition, safeties disengaged, fingers resting lightly on triggers, the cold, matte metal a tangible threat of instant death, their muzzles pointed skyward but ready to swing down at the slightest provocation, enforcing obedience with the promise of lethal finality.
Chaz stepped forward, his voice a sharp, commanding shout that cut through the wind like a whip. “Listen up, you worthless fag-ass dirtbags! Today’s training is simple: you crawl very low through that muddy canal and the muddy trench—faces buried in the mud, asses down, no higher than a worm. The trench is only 1 meter deep, so there’s no hiding, no standing. If any of you get up, even an inch, that one gets shot dead. The rule is that fucking simple. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the platoon shouted in unison, their voices a chorus of forced compliance laced with underlying terror, throats dry from fear, bodies tensing as the gravity of the threat sank in.
Stryker’s face twisted into a sadistic grin, his sunglasses glinting under the cloudy sky. “Get down!” he roared, firing his M4 into the air, the deafening crack echoing across the camp like thunder, sending birds scattering from distant trees.
The privates dropped instantly to the ground, faces slamming into the dirt, hearts hammering in their chests like war drums, a collective gasp of panic rippling through the lines as the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, their bodies trembling with the instinctual fear of being next.
Kratos’s voice boomed like a god’s decree, his MX helmet amplifying the growl. “Renn, you golden-boy fuck-face platoon leader—start crawling! Line by line, move your pathetic asses, or we’ll make examples out of you!”
The platoon proceeded line by line, each row plunging into the mud canal one after another, the cold, slimy filth enveloping them immediately. Renn, the strongest with his lean, muscled frame and nearly 8-inch endowment hidden under his shorts, led the way, army-crawling low into the mud river, his elbows digging into the viscous sludge, face inches from the surface as he forced himself forward, the muck already coating his dark hair and seeping into his mouth, tasting like bitter defeat.
Teddy, wiry and hunched, followed close behind Renn, his movements sluggish from exhaustion, grimacing as the mud splashed his face. Duke, stocky but soft-edged, crawled next, his average build struggling against the resistance, envy flickering in his eyes even amid the torment.
“Fuck, this is worse than yesterday’s stomps,” Renn muttered through gritted teeth, mud splattering his lips and stinging his eyes, his arms burning with effort, a deep ache settling in his shoulders as humiliation gnawed at him.
Teddy coughed out a mouthful of sludge, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, man, feels like we’re burying ourselves alive. Why the guns? Like we need more motivation to hate this shit.”
Duke wheezed, his face half-submerged, jealousy mixing with pain. “To serve the country? Ha. We’re just their bitches now. Keep low, or we’re target practice.”
Kratos, Chaz, and Stryker paced alongside the canal, shouting verbal abuse to heighten the intensity, their voices a barrage of degradation. “Faster, you stinky slave worms! Crawl like the dirtbag fags you are—this is war, and you’re the cannon fodder!” Gunshots cracked repeatedly, simulating battlefield chaos, bullets whipping into the mud near slower recruits, spraying filth and instilling raw terror, the echoes reverberating off the mountains.
In a moment of fatigue, Duke’s arms faltered; he lifted his head slightly for a desperate breath, his chest heaving. Chaz spotted it instantly, his eyes narrowing behind sunglasses, and fired a shot into the river inches from Duke’s face, the bullet splashing mud into his eyes and mouth like a vicious slap.
“Stay the fuck down, you idiot dirtbag!” Chaz roared, his voice dripping with contempt. “That’s your warning—if this was the battlefield, you’d be dead already, brains splattered in the mud like the worthless shit you are!”
Duke’s heart leaped into his throat, a choked scream escaping him—a sharp, panicked yelp—as he slammed his face back down, mud flooding his nostrils, feeling a wave of nausea and shame wash over him, his body shaking with the near-miss terror, pride crumbling further.
As they crawled onward, their hair became matted clumps of brown, faces caked in thick layers that obscured features, clothes sodden and heavy, clinging like second skins of filth, sneakers squelching with every pull, everything from head to toe covered in mud, the platoon a writhing mass of degradation. The gunshots continued unabated, sharp cracks punctuating the air, Chaz and Stryker relentlessly shooting at anyone who dared lift even slightly, bullets zipping close enough to graze hair, enforcing total submission with lethal precision.
Finally, they reached the trench, and heavy rain began to drop in sheets, turning the shallow ditch into a nightmarish quagmire of thickened mud that sucked at their limbs like quicksand. Teddy groaned, his body sinking deeper. “Now I get why they picked today—these bastards timed it for the rain, to make it hell on earth.”
Movement became torturously harder, each inch a battle against the viscous grip, muscles screaming in protest, breaths ragged and labored.
Then, a low roar pierced the downpour—the KTM EXC 300’s engine snarling to life, growing closer, vibrating the trench walls.
Renn paused briefly, mud in his mouth, spitting it out. “Why the fuck doesn’t Kratos just walk like the others? Prick probably thinks he’s too good, riding on the ground above us.”
But as the sound loudened to a deafening thunder, panic set in. Duke, at the rear of their trio, was hit first—Kratos plunged the dirt bike into the trench, revving from the last recruit forward, the front tire slamming onto Duke’s ass with crushing force, the knobby Maxxis treads biting deep.
“Argh! Fuck—get off!” Duke screamed, a guttural, agonized wail as pain exploded through his lower body, feeling like his hips might shatter, humiliation surging as he was pinned like roadkill.
The front tire rolled up his back to his head, pushing his face deep into the mud, suffocating him in darkness and filth, lungs burning for air. The rear tire followed, spinning wildly, spraying mud into Duke’s face like a sadistic torrent, blinding him further.
Kratos laughed maniacally over the engine. “Take it all, you pathetic fag-ass dirtbag! Feel my treads grind your worthless ass—scream louder, slave, my bike owns your stinky head now!”
Teddy, crawling ahead, heard the chaos and tensed, but the front tire approached relentlessly, sinking his face into the mud as it rolled over, Kratos deliberately bouncing the wheel on the back of his head with extra force.
“No—ahh! Stop!” Teddy screamed, a high-pitched, desperate cry of torment as his skull throbbed with blinding pain, neck straining, feeling utterly violated and broken, panic clawing at him as mud filled his airways, shame amplifying the physical agony.
Kratos taunted, “Squirm more, you weak worm! My knobbies are burying you alive—grovel under my wheels like the loser you are!”
Then Kratos moved to Renn, who was aware of the approaching roar, bracing futilely. Kratos jumped the bike onto him hard, the front tire crashing onto his back, then to his head, sinking it deep like the others.
“Urgh—shit! Get the fuck off!” Renn bellowed, a raw, choked scream as pressure crushed his skull, vision blurring with stars, feeling powerless and emasculated under the machine’s weight, terror of suffocation gripping him.
Kratos held the front tire there for 15 seconds, Renn’s body convulsing, lungs screaming for air, mind reeling in panic and degradation. Released, Renn gasped desperately, a heaving, mud-choked inhale, only for the rear tire to spray more filth into his face, stinging his eyes and mouth.
As Kratos reached the top, he jumped the bike professionally in a spray of mud, turning around sharply, then revved back down—from top to last, over everyone again.
This time, as he approached Renn, Kratos extended his right muddy Fox Instinct 2.0 boot, stomping Renn’s head into the mud with brutal force, the Ultratac lugs grinding deep.
“Ahh—get off me, you bastard!” Renn screamed, a deep, resonant wail of agony and frustration as the boot’s weight compressed his face, mud invading every sense for 20 seconds, body trembling with suffocation fear, feeling utterly defeated and humiliated as his leadership role mocked him.
Kratos sneered, “Stay buried, platoon leader scum—my boot decides your breath, you fag-ass slave!” He released Renn, who gasped again in ragged desperation, then rode over Teddy and Duke, eliciting more screams—Teddy’s a piercing yelp of renewed torment, feeling his head pounded like a drum, Duke’s a defeated groan as treads ravaged him once more, both overwhelmed by pain and shame.
The bike’s roar faded into the distance. Renn finally clawed to the trench’s end, exhausted, trying to climb up, hands slipping on the slick walls. But Chaz’s triple black Air Force 1 boot waited, kicking his face hard—the circular tread slamming into his cheek with bone-jarring force.
Renn yelped in shock, a sharp cry as pain exploded across his jaw, tumbling back into the trench, tasting blood mixed with mud, feeling fresh humiliation surge.
“Back down, fuck-face!” Chaz roared. “Climb up again, dirtbag!”
Renn hauled himself up once more, muscles quivering. As he emerged, Stryker stomped his head with his AF1, the pivot-circle sole grinding down mercilessly.
“Keep crawling to the field next to the trench, you pathetic worm! Stay down and wait for the others!”
Chaz and Stryker continued the assault on every climbing private—kicks and stomps raining down without mercy, their triple black AF1s leaving tread imprints on faces, chests, and hands, the platoon filling the air with screams of agony and pleas, bodies battered as they were forced onward.
After everyone had emerged, the fifty privates lay exhausted in the field like deaths, sprawled in the mud like broken corpses, no one wanting to move anywhere, their bodies utterly spent, muscles twitching with residual pain, spirits shattered into fragments. They feebly tried to wash the mud from their faces with the heavy rain still pouring from the sky, hands scraping at caked filth, coughing up sludge, the downpour a cold, mocking cleanse that did little to erase the day’s deep-seated degradation.
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