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'Jake!'

I look up to see Danny stomping towards me, his tan and white fatigues dusty from his time out in the machine pen. He looks pissed. Pissed enough that he probably hasn't learned his lesson about fucking with the other 67th Armoured Cavalry NCOs and boasting about how great he is at everything. I briefly wonder how well he slept, tied securely to the back of one of our tanks, left out in the open beneath the stars. Then I remember that I really don't care.

'You fuck!' He shouted. His hand slid to his sidearm, but stopped short when he remembered that Staff Sergeant Mickles 'the pickle' had stripped him of any weapons he had before lashing him up. No dagger, no short sword, no sidearm, just piss and vinegar and his fists and hooves.

Considering he stood a good foot taller than me and was heavier built than I was - a testament to his Draft lineage - I should be afraid of getting the kicking of the century. But I ain't bitch bred. Farstone breeds tough bastards; the weather is harsh, the environment unforgiving and the gravity a full point heavier than Danny's home of Lestervon.

'Good morning Staff Sergeant Mollens. Enjoy your night?' I ask casually. The twinkle of anger sparks in his eyes and I suppress a smile. He'd turn me into a stripey fur rug if he could. He still hasn't forgiven me for beating him to the rank of Lieutenant.

Petty, I know, but for some obscure reason, he decided to go into some kind of competition with me the moment we rolled off the shuttle at Renhi boot camp. He's been adamant about beating me to all sorts of things, proving that he's better than me and generally making an ass of himself.

I don't know. Maybe he has a grudge against all zebras. Or maybe he really is just the typical school bully sort and figured that I'd be the perfect recipient of his attentions. He stomps up to me and swings a fist the size of my head. He wants to break my jaw but the dismembered stock of a rifle in my right hand swings up to deflect his intentions, my hoof hooks him behind the ankle and topples him backwards into the dirt. By this point everyone else on the firing range has taken notice. A dozen Lance - Corporals, Corporals and Privates look up from what they're doing and their own Sergeant ambles across to break up the fight before it can escalate.

Sergeant Anton's ambling gait brings him to us too late. My nose is bleeding and Danny's probing at a loose tooth with his tongue, his left eye already swelling to a bruised squint.

'Now then, lads, let's not be drawing the attention of the Major, eh?' Anton's a sixty year old Sergeant and has been with the 67th for far too long. He's a good man and should be living in the luxuries of a Field Marshal by now, but his mind is too sharp for such a role. The rest of us figure that he's made one too many enemies by being more intelligent than them and decided that sticking with what he's got and teaching the kids what he knows is better for his health in the long run. Or maybe someone's spiting him and keeps passing him over. I don't know.

'Sorry Sarge.' I say, nodding to him. I know I outrank him now, but it doesn't feel like that. I turn to go back to my work; stripping the new gauss rifles, cleaning them, learning about them and making sure they work and putting them back together again in time for the afternoon's exercises.

I'm on one of 200 and my Corporal has scurried off to the latrine block to deal with last night's meal; slimey grey nutrient paste posing as a full traditional roast dinner and more of the stuff posing as apple turnover but in a sickly green shade.

Grey and green, the 67th's favourite colour.

My stomach churns irritably at the thought.

'Now, what's the problem this time?' Anton directs his question to Danny not me.

Danny bristles and jabs an accusing finger at me, 'This little fucker spiked my drink and lashed me to a tank last night. Woke up this morning with a nest of micro-scorps in my hair!'

'Lieutenant?' Anton asks, his tone clearly conveying the message that he doesn't quite believe Danny's succinct tale but is willing take it with a pinch of salt if need be.

'To my knowledge, Sarge, Danny challenged some NCOs to a drinking contest. Loser spends the night under the stars.' I wrack my brain. I wasn't there, my information is just second-hand scuttlebutt regailed to me by an over-excited Private who was still too young to suffer the full force of a Tenglaari Gin-induced hangover. 'I think you'll find a copious amount of alcohol is missing from the pantry, though.'

'So you had nothing to do with it?' Anton presses. Danny's still fuming, but biting his tongue. I bet he's silently hoping my past so-called 'legendary' shenanigans come back to bite me in the ass and net him a scapegoat for his impotent anger.

'Nope. I was in town at the Bucket trying to get hammered on cheap booze. The owner and Lieutenant Hobbs can vouch for me.' I reply, sparing Anton a glance as I fiddle with the charging pin. 'You might want to have a word with The Pickle, though.' I add. I knew full well he was in on it. I had seen him enter Anton's platoon tent and had heard the pair of them crowing about how much booze they could handle, which undoubtedly led to this whole fiasco in the first place. Plus, it matched up with the Private's ramblings pretty well.

Anton nods as if he's satisfied that what I've just said is the truth. Which it is. I've never had any reason to lie to him and I'm not going to start now. I know I shouldn't have been in town and nor should have Hobbs, but we were bored shitless and the racket Danny and his mates were making was doing my head in, so I bailed with Hobbs in tow. Anton looks back to Danny, his expression as firm as the ceramic composite armour of the dropship that ditched us all here.

'Sounds like you only have yourself to blame,' He's saying, 'so I recommend you go shower, work off your hangover and forget you ever accused Lieutenant Paulson before he decides to enact whatever punishment he sees fit for falsely accusing a superior officer of attempted assault or some shit.'

Danny looks borderline irate. He's really not the kind of headcase you want running around a killing field with any sort of weapon. I can see the calculating look in his eyes. He's working something out. I think I know what it is. A challenge of some sort. He can't apologise for anything, can't let anything drop and that usually results in him issuing some kind of challenge. I don't know why and I've given up trying to figure out the way he thinks. It just makes my head hurt. I wait patiently for him to speak as I polish the long, finned barrel of the gauss rifle.

'I don't believe him.' Danny growls, narrowing his eyes, 'A challenge-'

Ah. There it is.

'Another one?' Anton sighs. He's as sick of Danny's shit little challenges as I am, but our collection of Privates and Lance-Corporals aren't. Yet.

I give them another month before they realise that Danny's largely full of shit and hot air about his little challenges. He relies on his hapless opponent to back down, rather than face the potential humiliation of failing a simple task and losing to a giant dickhead with a psychotic streak a mile wide. I sigh, more in annoyance than anything. He's only issued five of his precious little challenges to me in the past year since we arrived at Fort Morden. The other thousand have been directed mostly at those he's confident he can beat. I scratch my head, trying to figure out, not for the first time, why he's taken issue with me.

'Alright. What is it you want to do this time?' The last five I've beaten him three times and no matter if he wins or loses, he's an insufferable cunt about it. Might as well get it over with.

He jabs a sturdy finger at the firing range. The target frames are empty, staggered between 20 yards, 45 yards, 80 yards, 100 through to a defiant 1,500 yards. Anyone who managed to nail those targets are generally allowed the temporary status of Legend. I am one such person. But I was high as a fucking observation satallite and had the benefit of an excellent sniper rifle. I don't remember much, but I still have the little tin target, framed and sitting on my desk, a hole neatly piercing its heart. 10 by 10 centimeters and I had nailed it at 2,500 yards whilst off my tits on Black Powder.

I guess it helps that my marksmanship score puts me in the top 5 in the entire army. I'm not even a sniper. I'm common cannon fodder, nothing more, which has, in the past, upset an awful lot of Navy boys and girls and some of the more self-entitled stains in the special forces. And I pray I can keep my score up to continue irritating them: it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, a valuable feeling in the ass-end of the desert when darkness settles in and things cool down.

'What's the challenge this time?' Anton asks. He sounds resigned. I don't blame him. I'm bored with Danny, too.

'Marksmanship. Whoever hits all the targets wins.' He says. He looks a little smug. I know he's been spending a lot of time lately on the firing range. Every spare second he's got, actually. I guess he ran out of nasty things to eat for his little challenges. I know Lieutenant Hobbs told him to fuck off and that he'd shoot Danny if he found the prick using his tank bays like a gym again, so 'How Much Can You Lift, Bitch?' is off the challenge roster for now.

'Eat a dick.' I snort. 'I got guns to prep before sundown and Truant's gone AWOL again thanks to yesterday's fine cuisine.' I really don't have time for something as time consuming as marksmanship. I'd settle for an arm wrestle, best two out of three.

'Okay, then.' He says. Has the idiot really taken my retort literally? 'Winner gets their dick sucked by the loser.'

He sounds so fucking confident. I look at him, dumbfounded. Anton's deathly silent, staring at him, wondering if he's finally taken leave of his senses. Someone at the back of the group sniggers. Everyone knows that Danny takes his challenges seriously and he sounds very serious about what the loser is going to have to do.

'What?' I ask.

'You have to hit all the targets. The loser sucks the winner's dick.' He says matter-of-factly.

'You're not serious?' Anton says. He sounds appalled, but not completely. He's seen worse acts of sexual depravation from his soldiers. Like when Jewel got caught drunkenly fucking a yak last year.

'Have you seen my score? There's a high chance you won't beat me.' I then point out that his score is in the middle somewhere, nowhere near my own.

'Wanna bet?' He smiles.

I hate his tone. I hate his smug fucking expression. I hate everything about this giant prick. 'Challenge accepted.' I mutter through grit teeth. I'm not good at many things, but shooting and seeing through people's bullshit is a skill I developed when I was kid. Farstone doesn't let the naive and gullible live long.

I wonder if he remembers that I also have no shame...

His smile widens into a shrewd grin and then falters when Anton clears his throat and declares himself mediator and referee. Danny's eyes harden and realise that Anton's just screwed up whatever plan he had. His expression worsens when Anton has a pair of Privates hand us one of the new gauss rifles each.

'You'll be using these.' Anton announces, then casts Danny a dark look. I figure whatever gun Danny wanted to use for himself had been tampered with.

There was no way he was going to hit those last targets without some kind of smart-assist. Anton then told me I better run Danny through how to cycle the weapons, which I did. It merely served to increase the size of the gathering to an extra Staff Sergeant and dozen more of our underlings who were interested and eager to get to grips with the new toys. I made sure my voice could be heard by everyone as I explained how to cycle the battery and charge the coils; a simple slap n' click motion, really. No different from the railguns, just lighter because the magnet rods had been replaced with a lightweight, high-durability coil. When I was finished, Danny's expression was unreadable. We went over to the positions Anton had selected for us and set up.

Danny was the next position over from me and we each had 6 bullets. .50cal in size, if either of us managed to hit that tiny little 1,500 yard target, then there'd be nothing left of it. We watched in silence as someone set up the targets in their frames, navigating swiftly around the newly rearranged detritus to get to them.

'RANGE CLEAR!' Anton roared, startling everyone but myself and Danny. We merely glanced at each other, a silent exchange of hatred for one-another's existence. 'RIFLE'S READY!' We charged the coils and pressed the guns against our shoulders, unsure of how they would pull and recoil when fired. 'FIRE AT WILL!'

And so we did. Danny took out both his 20 and 45 yard targets in quick succession as did I. The 80 yard target, hidden between a pair of old oil drums went down after a split-second of concentration to make sure my aim was true enough. I hit it just fraction off center. My new rifle seemed to like pulling to the left a couple of degrees and as the range increased so did my adjustments. The 100 yard target went down and now I was sighting in on the 1,000 yard target, a foot in length along each side, but hidden in the twisted wreckage of an old land car. It was the same car I had watched Hobbs drive a tank over. Repeatedly. I don't know why, but thought of that struck me as amusing as the target fell backwards out of sight on its arm.

And now it was time for the infamous 1,500 yard target, the downfall of many an ego.

It was up high, obscured by a mass of cargo netting that was hanging from the rear retaining wall. The wall had been dressed up to look like the cargo hold of a delapidated freighter. Why, I had no idea. I guess the quarter master got bored or something. I'm vaguely aware of the hiss of tearing air as Danny fires his rifle. I briefly wonder how many targets he's felled and suddenly become acutely aware of dozens of eyes watching our every move.

I have one bullet left. One bullet away from winning or losing. One bullet away from being sucked off or sucking Danny off. I feel my jaw muscles work as my teeth clench together. That tiny target is just barely visible and I wonder if I can compensate for a gun that pulls increasingly to the left with increase in distance. I peer through the scope, the numbers in the digital rangefinder flashing up and irritating me for simply being there. A rangefinder has no place being attached to an assault rifle.

I get the target just left of the dot at the core of the reticle and gently press the trigger stud. The gauss rifle's lack of recoil is unnerving and annoying in equal measure and for the split-second the bullet's storming through the air, my chest tightens with anxiety.

What if I don't hit the target? I've only hit it once before and that was with my personal rifle, a specialized sniper rifle gifted to me after I beat Colonel Annen in a similiar, much more lighthearted challenge back when I was a snot-nosed Private. It had been his own sniper rifle, a one-and-a-half meter long Apex-33 Special, the king of sniper rifles. Annen was long dead and I still treasured that rifle. He had taught me an awful lot about being a soldier in the role of a sniper. A tonne of invaluable lessons taht had saved my life ten times over. He'd become one of those un-official uncles to me and his death had left a hollow pit in my soul. The rifle was currently sitting in my footlocker, in pieces, stowed snugly in its own custom made case. If I was using that gun, my anxiety wouldn't matter. The 10 by 10 target would would be pretty easy prey.

But Anton's making us snipe with an assault rifle that has only been out of its shipping crate for ten minutes.

There's a light ping of metal being struck in the distance and a curse off to one side of me.

The tense silence that surrounds us deepens. I look up, staring down the length of the firing range. And then let my breath out in a long, relieved sigh.

All targets were down and Danny had missed his 1,000 yard target. He was out of bullets and looked furious. He glared at the place where my targets had been standing and then glared at me. I could feel his bitterness from here. It felt kinda like my cock deep in his gullet. I smiled sweetly at him and he immediately started accusing me of cheating. I called a clear range and eventually Danny did too. Our targets were retrieved and laid out on the lid of a storage crate. All but one of mine were a little left of centre, save one, but I had hit them all as per Danny's deranged demands.

'Bad luck.' I said and handed my rifle off to a Corporal with an engineer's badge stitched to his shoulder. I tell him I think the barrel's bent and to have a look at it. No gun should be off target that much. He scurried away with it, pulling the battery pack as he moves towards the work sheds.

'You cheated.' Danny snarled. He passed his rifle off to Anton, thrusting it at the old horse's chest as he took a menacing step towards me. 'You cheated, you fuck!'

'I didn't. I just concentrated and relied on my experience of using bent guns.' I replied. Again, I wonder if he remembers my lack of shame. 'Now, I believe you owe me...?'

His nostrils flare and he looks at me in contempt. If he didn't want to end up on his knees, sucking horse cock, then he should've stowed the swagger. I tell him as such and I swear if the gun wasn't loaded, I'd be dead right now. Still, I can see he wants to snatch it back off Sergeant Anton and bludgeon me to death with it. I unbuckle my belt and pull my fly down. I reach into the folds of my military-issue trousers and underwear, and pull my cock free. I'm already thinking happy thoughts about that stacked mare up the road. I could happily suffocate in her cleavage and I know many others who would prefer the same demise, too.

Death by tits is much better than being blown up or getting shot to pieces, I reckon.

With Elsi's help, or rather a mental image of her voluptuous curves bouncing around my imagination, I'm already at half-mast. Danny looks horrified, but I know he's a man of his word and he knows I know. The look on his face is priceless. I want a picture of it on my desk, right next to my first ten-inch bulls-eye. Several people stray away from the group in silence, too embarrassed to continue watching. Everyone else stays, rooted in place through morbid curiosity and the desire to see things through to the end.

Whether Danny gets on his knees or not, this is gonna make for one Hell of a bar tale.

'Well, Staff Sergeant Mollens? Am I going to have to write you up for not obeying a superior officer's orders?' I ask. I know I hadn't issued an order of any sort, but Danny tended to treat the clauses in his challenges as such. I wonder if he's actually going to do it as he stands there, horrified, hesitating. This is probably more than his warped sense of masculinity can handle, but mine's solid enough that I can deal with getting sucked off infront of everyone and enjoy every second of it.

I can't help but smile as he grumbles and sinks to his knees at my feet. Anton sighs and rolls his eyes. The other Staff Sergeant tries shooing everyone away, but those that haven't already shied away are too invested in my inevitable blowjob from the Regiment's resident sack of shit. He swears and gives up, wandering away to carry on with whatever it was he was doing before we took to the firing range. I stifle a laugh as Danny glares down the length of my cock. He's almost cross-eyed. I give myself a gentle stroke, trying to persuade myself that he's Elsi.

I can't. My imagination's not that strong. Danny's been made ugly by his shit personality and his swollen eye just adds to his ugliness.

'Well? The sooner you start, the sooner we can part ways and never make eye contact again.' I say.

I'm rock hard by this point, my stroking bringing me fully erect. I swear I can see some envious stares out of the corner of my eye. I can definitely see a couple of erections in the crowd. A Lance-Corporal is trying to shuffle casually behind his mate to hide the significant tent in his pants and a Private is trying to surreptitiously shield himself with his hands, the insides of his mule-like ears crimson. My attention is snapped back to Danny as he gets to work. His lips are surprisingly soft and his tongue is amazingly wet for someone who spent all of last night sleeping out in the open.

His mouth is as hot as the desert we stand in and I feel my cock twitch in his mouth as he explores with his tongue. I catch a glimpse of his crotch. One of the biggest bulges I've ever seen is forming there and I wonder if his anger is at himself, not me. Maybe some form of denial. I know Mule-Ears over there came out as gay the other month. The brave little bastard got beaten to a pulp once and has been left alone since he retaliated with a truck battery and a pair of jumper cables at midnight a few weeks later.

I look down at Danny and slowly realise that he's actually quite enjoying himself. His eyes are lidded and tongue's sliding up and down the underside of my shaft, and his lips have formed a tight seal. He's sucking gently, probably testing how far he can push me. Maybe he's afraid I'll punch him in the ears if he does something I don't like, I dunno. He slowly increases the pressure, his hands clamping firmly on my thighs and saliva trickles from the corners of his mouth. I try to control my breathing, but my chest starts heaving as a familiar, warm pressure starts building in my abdomen and thighs. I mutter a curse, semi-impressed and completely taken by surprise by his skill. A few more drift away from the crowd and Anton heaves another sigh. He walks over to the work bench at the far end of the range and I see him strip down the rifle Danny was using.

I zone out then. The world becomes hazy as I stare at nothing in particular, but I can feel my balls tightening. My cock's throbbing and I desperately want to let go of my inhibitions but I refuse out of stubborness. Danny's really getting into it, his head moving back-and-forth, his tongue sliding up and down my cock. I feel myself hit the back of his throat as he sucks me down deep and it appears he has no gag reflex. His nose is pressed against my stomach and he's sucking as hard as he can. My hand lands on the back of his head, pushing him hard against me and my hips thrust forwards. I let a small moan out as I cum in his mouth. His throat convulses as he quickly swallows and when he pulls away from me, his expression is a mixture of shame and hunger. He wipes the mess from his mouth with his shirt sleeve and looks away.

The remaining crowd start to cheer and whoop and clap, and I'm stood there in the midst of it all, cock going limp, the resident shitstain trying to wipe me from his mouth. I come back to my senses, fighting through my post-orgasm haze and tuck myself away.

'That's the best head I've had in a long while, Sergeant.' I say. I'm trying to keep the tremble out of my voice but it's still there. All I want to do is go sit down and have a smoke while I ruminate about life, the universe and all the fuckery that goes on in it.

Danny looks furious now. It's an expression I recognise well. One we all do. It's kinda comforting in a strange way, but the raging boner in his pants hasn't wavered and is ruining the moment for him. I tell him he can be on his way and that we'll speak no more of this. I also find myself trying to reassure his bruised ego that he's no less of a man for what happened.

A shithead for issuing the challenge unfounded, yes, but sucking someone's cock doesn't necessarily mean they're any less of a man.

He swears at me, threatens to kill me and I know it's a hollow threat. He's told me that many times and I'm still alive. I can continue to live in the knowledge that he fears a court marshal more than he does anything else, especially now I outrank him.

I watch him storm off, probably to go find somewhere to jerk off in peace and turn to what's left of our audience.

'Don't tell the Major. We'll all be written up for indecency.' I say sternly. Then I tell them to get back to work. I have three hours to go over the remaining gauss rifles before the nighttime exercises start