Marcus Tolar - Sniper

Recognized Military Experience: United States Navy
Rating and Rank: E-6, Petty Officer First Class
SKUL Serial Number: MT-81826-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Toad

"I'll take her," the little snot, Will Perkins, said as he leered past the little, scrawny black boy and chose the girl standing behind him.  Perkins hated Marcus, for whatever reason, and Marcus knew it.  But, Will was big for his age, and Marcus, well Marcus wasn't.

"Teams are locked," he sneered, then started back-peddling onto the court.  "Hey, can't play with more than five on a team."

"I'll si..si...sit ooooover there," Marcus stuttered.  He always stuttered when he was nervous or embarrassed.  "I'll su, su, suuuub in."  A tear rolled down his cheek as the others laughed in his face and began playing.

Marcus Tolar, born to Martha Tolar of Meridian, Mississippi, was the youngest of nine brothers and sisters.  Martha worked hard to keep her children in clothes and give them what they needed to succeed in an unfair world.  So hard, in fact, that at any given time the woman held three jobs and rarely got more than a couple of paltry hours of sleep a night.  Her primary day job was as a cashier at one of the local pharmacies in Meridian.  Mr. Plymoth, the owner of the pharmacy, was a nice man who allowed her children to come in and get a snack - On the house, he'd say fondly - before heading off to their chores, ball practice or after school activities.  The first of every month, when the new comics were delivered, Mr. Plymoth would walk the isle of his book shelf with Marcus while keeping a stern eye on the child.  Marcus might reach for a new Avengers comic and make Mr. Plymoth's eyes turn to slits.

He'd withdraw his hand as if he were stung, bringing a smile and a nod to Mr. Plymoth's face.  The druggist would then bring out the newest X-men comic, or whatever the hot comic of the time might be, instead.

It was their thing, and Marcus loved the man for it.

But, Marcus wasn't just the youngest of Mrs. Tolar's children, he was also what one might call the runt of the litter.  To say he was a small child was an injustice to small children everywhere.  Marcus was SMALL - all caps for emphasis.  Every day after school, Marcus subjected himself to the torment of his classmates with the hope that they would give him a chance...just once.  And, like every other day after school, Marcus would be left out, made to sit on a bench, and forced to wait for that chance...a chance that never came.

Obviously not a big talker, Marcus never was too far from something to read, the comics from Mr. Plymoth's store, specifically.  While snobbish Will Perkins and the others were playing, Marcus read about his favorite superheroes.  He loved reading - was voracious about it, actually - because it took him away from the reality of being locked in a small body with speech issues.  In his world of superheroes, he began to gain perspective, even at a young age.

They've got weaknesses, every one of them, he would say to himself at night, and they rise above them.

Anti-bullying campaigns were nonexistent at the time.  So, Marcus dealt with constant harassment.  But, strangely enough, he never stooped to their level and never let them know they were getting to him, because Marcus knew what they didn't.

He knew he was going to do great things.

Teachers, coaches, and classmates overlooked him because of his size and underestimated him because of his speech impediment.  In the eyes of the world, Marcus had nothing to offer them and certainly no future.

The world was wrong.

***

"Tolar!"

"Hooya, Instructor Timberton!"

"Were you not told the evolution was a timed four mile run?"

"Hooya, Instructor Timberton!"

"Hooya, what, you pissant!" Fixated on the class' performance Timberton had worked himself into a lather. For whatever reason, Marcus Tolar had become the only gleaming object in his dark room of pain.  He dealt pain to the entire BUD/S class, but directed much of it in Marcus' direction.  Timberton didn't stand more than five-eight himself, and it was rumored that Marcus was receiving the same torment that Timberton - a first time BUD/S instructor - endured.

In spades.

"Hooya, Instructor Timberton.  I was told this was a time evolution.  Four miles, to be completed in thirty-two minutes, Instructor Timberton!"

"Where did you finish, you toad?" growled Timberton.  While you couldn't physically abuse the students - or, you couldn't get caught abusing the students - Tolar could see Timberton would have enjoyed choking him out right about then.

"Twenty-nine, thirty two."

Mrs. Rogers, his old high school's speech pathologist had helped with his stuttering, and all the weights and running had helped with his confidence.  Though he was still small at five foot five inches tall and weighing about a buck fifty, he was all muscle.  

"Twenty-nine, fuckin' thirty-two...well, kiss my ass, ain't that special?"  Timberton looked over to his fellow instructor who everyone call Bane.  Bane shrugged but remained quiet.  "Twenty-nine, fuckin' thirty-two...middle of the road, right?"

"Hooyah, Instructor Timberton!" genuinely pleased with his performance on the run.  This was the second night of BUD/S infamous Hell Week, and the class was frayed.  The line of helmets belonging to those who have DOR'd - dropped on request - and rung that damnable brass bell had doubled in the last twelve hours.  With less than fifty students left, the class was well on its way to unraveling.

"Judas-tits-up-Priest!"  He yelled at the top of his lungs, "We're in the business of raising frogs here, Tolar, not toads!"  His eyes turned to accusatory slits, "You don't like pushing yourself, do you, toad?"  The comment shook Marcus because he knew that comments like that typically led to sessions of physical motivation dealt out by the instructors.  "The rest of you illegitimate fuckstains hit the surf," Timberton growled.

Yep, Marcus thought, here comes the pain.

Timberton added maliciously, "Tolar, you're with me."

There was no denying it.  Hearing Timberton growl his name across a wad of tobacco caused his butthole to tighten just a little.  There was a good reason for the fear he was feeling.  He knew Timberton was going to lay down an inordinate amount of pain on him, and for the next twenty minutes, he did just that.  When it was finally over, Marcus - soon to be Toad it seemed - was covered from head to toe in a gritty layer of sand, his lungs felt as though they had melted inside his chest, and his legs were wobbly.  Timberton stalked around Marcus like a lion over a freshly killed gazelle.  Like the lion, Timberton was sizing up where he'd rip into Tolar next.

"Just fuckin' quit, Toad!  Save yourself the pain, and save me the agony of watching your sorry ass continue through the course."  Timberton spit a brown wad on the sand in disgust, "Why don't you walk your ass up there and ring out, Toad?  JUST. FUCKIN'. QUIT!"

Marcus, now called Toad - apparently - had been looking unblinkingly forward during Instructor Timberton's belligerent beratement.  Now, and completely unconscionably, he mumbled something under his breath that caused Timberton's wrath to boil over.  Timberton was in his face, nose to nose, before he could blink, "What was that?!  What did you say you breathing vagina rash?  Ain't got the sack to say it to my face?"

Toad's eyes burned white-hot as he turned his eyes to Instructor Timberton's.  His voice was sure, long since defeating his childhood stuttering problem, and it was his turn to growl, "I said, Instructor Timberton, you're going to have to kill me to get me out of here."

Timberton stepped back, unsure of how to handle the comment, and took a second look at Toad.  It was as if he was seeing the trainee for the first time.  A broad smile broke across his face.  Not evil or malevolent, the smile was almost - almost - friendly, and his eyes no longer held contempt for Marcus, but rather, respect.  "Well, we'll just see about that, Toad, now want we?"

***

SEAL Tactical Training

Camp Billy Machen

Grenade range
Combat Conditioning Course, final leg

Toad shoulders and fires three high explosive rounds, in rapid succession, at a tank one hundred yards downrange.  Along with the rest of his class, he has to score hits on two of three rounds.  

Despite his exhaustion, the crust of dried sweat covering his body, and severely cracked lips, Toad scores hits on all three.

Shakily, he pulls his ruck and gear back on, nearly tipping over under the weight.  He was smoked.  He knew it, and panic began to set in.  They had been instructed to start the course with a minimum of four quarts of water but were urged to carry more.  Most had, but Marcus, now weighing under one hundred and fifty pounds, thought the added weight would be unnecessary.  His ruck and gear already equated to roughly eighty pounds, or over fifty percent of his body weight, and he was about to run what amounted to a half marathon over uneven, rocky, and unforgiving terrain carrying it on his back.  On the move since 0300, Toad had taken the last sip of water hours ago, and now his body was shutting down due to dehydration.     

Instructor Thompkins, a medic with SEAL Team Five, steadied him by the shoulders, "Toad, you okay?" 

Unable to gather enough saliva to speak, Toad nodded slowly.

Thompkins made a show of checking over his ruck and gear, and even in his heat exhausted stupor, Marcus could tell he was stuffing something into his ruck.

Thompkins whispered into his ear, "Water's in your right pocket, grab it when you hit the tree line.  You better damned well make sure no one ever finds out about this, or we're both screwed, understand?"

Again, Toad could only nod, but that didn't stop him from feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward the veteran SEAL.  Thompkins was violating several protocols concerning the course, but he had seen something in Toad that told him his actions were just.

"Okay, Toad, you're under time and almost home; so, boot the fuck up and get it done, bro."

Toad shot off the grenade range, bolstered by Thompkins simple act of kindness and the need to get the water in his system.  From the range, he had only three miles left until this sliver of misery would be over.  The water helped, but a mile into the run, his body began to flag yet again.  His steps slowed, and then he hit a loose piece of shale which caused him to tumble ass over tea kettle before he landed with a grunt on the desert hard-pan.  He laid there for several seconds, unsure if he could get back up, until voices caught his attention.  He rolled over and saw the most glorious sight his eyes had ever seen.  Dane Stackwell, his friend and STT class leader, along with his entire class, were a hundred yards in the distance screaming his name and various obscenities meant to piss him off enough to get up.

To persevere.

Shakily, he got back to his feet, and with shuffling steps that got quicker and more forceful with every breath, he ran to the finish line.

Knowing what Instructor Thompkins and his classmates were doing for him, he would have probably cried from joy.  Fortunately for his reputation during his time in the Teams, dehydration  had stripped him of the ability to form tears.

Navy SEAL Sniper Course

Toad, a veteran of multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, walked the field armed only with a radio.  His contract was up in a few months, and he was not sure he was going to re-up with the Navy.  For the better part of a decade, he had brutalized his body, asked more of it than he had any right to, and now, he felt old when he should have been in his prime.  

Really old.

The three puckered scars, bullet wounds from an operation gone wrong, stood as stark reminders that he was much older than his years implied.

Today, just as he had for the last month, he walked a field of tall grass, armed only with a radio, a couple of CLIFF bars, and a few water bottles.  Months prior, as he rotated off his last combat tour to Afghanistan, Marcus had been offered a cadre position at the famed and elite SEAL Sniper Course.  Seeing it as a way to give back to the community that had given him so much over the years, Toad readily accepted.

His radio squawked, "Toad, movement forty meters to your right."  Toad took off at a run to the approximate position.  "Stop," came the voice of a fellow instructor in the command tower, "four meters forward...stop.  Sniper off your left boot." 

Toad stomped around for a few seconds before reporting, "Negative."

"Roger that, carry on." 

Kid's good, Toad thought referring to the student sniper conducting a stalking exercise.

Less than five minutes later a shot rang out, a blank, meant to signal the sniper had reached his final firing position or FFP.  Toad collapsed on the position while the instructors up in the command tower combed the area.  After a few minutes Toad's radio squawked, "Okay, sniper is cleared hot."

Toad handed the hidden sniper a single bullet and cleared the area.

Another few minutes tick by until finally a second shot rang out, scoring a hit to the chest area of the target.

"Secure the sniper, Toad, and take five," said the voice over the radio.  "You've got a visitor, main classroom."

***

Curious who would be there for a visit, Toad beat feet to the classroom and skidded to a complete stop upon entering.

The man sitting at the desk was very familiar to him, and he was smiling.

Not necessarily a good thing.

"Damn, Toad, you need shower, man."

Toad walked across the room, shook the stranger's hand warmly, and took a seat, "You get dirty when you work."

The stranger slid a beer across the table.  It was ice cold.  Toad had no clue where the man could have found the beer, but he'd always had a way of getting what he wanted.  "I heard that,"  he looked over the small, black man briefly.  "All healed up from that Afghan bullshit?"

Unconsciously, Toad rubbed his hands over the bullet wounds in his side, "As healed as it gets.  Thought you packed it in, Boss."

Lieutenant Commander Dane Stackwell had separated from the Navy - and by definition, the Teams - a little over a year ago.  By all accounts, the former SEAL officer had then fallen off the face of the Earth.  Pensive, Dane was still for the slightest moment before smiling and, in a voice meant to sound ancient, said, "The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated."  

Toad leaned back in his chair, took a hearty gulp of the beer, and tipped the lip in the direction of his former boss.  He said nothing, content with letting his old friend and former boss do the talking.

"How much time you got left, Toad?"

"Few more months here, then I can walk.  Not sure if I'm ready, though.  Not sure I'm not ready either.  Just tired of playing the game, Boss, but don't want..."  Toad stopped, and seemed to chew on whatever it was he was about to say, before swallowing the words back down to the dark place in which they had been born.

Dane nodded.  

He knew right where Toad was coming from.  He'd been in that place just over a year ago.  It was the same place every man visits that has seen the nightmares of war and the horrors one human can inflict on another.  Most just wanted to find a nice, quiet spot to rest, but the thought of leaving their brothers-at-arms to finish the job nauseated them.  This, more than any other thought, drove them, kept them asking for seconds, thirds and fourths even though every bite made them sicker.

That's where Toad was, and Dane knew it.

"How 'bout a new game, Toad?"  Dane leaned over the desk and with a low voice said, "A game with rules that might allow us to win."

"I'm interested," Toad said with a mischievous grin and another slug of beer.

He was more than interested, in fact.  So much so that a little over three months later he was shaking hands with Dane and one of his old STT instructors, Ansil "Tweeker" Lattimore, on one of the most secure military installations on the planet - Area 51.  There they, along with a host of others, worked tirelessly to form and standup an ultra-secret military unit they called Section 8.

***

"And, you're standing by this statement?" scoffed the Army psychiatrist.  "Werewolves."  The psychiatrist - a female - made the word sound like an obscenity when she said it.  It hissed off her tongue like molten metal dropped in water.

"Yes, ma'am."  Toad said calmly, though in reality, he was panicking.  He knew that his career was on the line, and he knew that he was drawing the short straw.  But he would not - could not - lie.  Too many lives were at stake.  Too many of his brothers died on that operation down in Mexico to dishonor their memory by denying them of their death.  "It's the truth, every word."

The woman shook her head before pulling the papers that she laid in front of him.  Standing, she said, "I'm done here."  Her words weren't directed to Tolar, but to those listening beyond the one-way glass.  To the video cameras and microphones embedded within the walls of the facility.  With nothing further, she stalked from the room, leaving Marcus to his thoughts.

***

Several months of menial office tasks later, Marcus Tolar, one of the deadliest shooters in the military, processed out of Section 8.  His departure was unceremonious, and he was a victim of a preposterous medical discharge meant to allow him to assimilate back into the world but little else.  No medals of valor - they had been stripped.  No citations of honor - gone, every one of nearly a dozen.  Nothing - not even his purple hearts - was he allowed to keep to help grease his reintroduction back into the world.

It was a lie - complete and utter bullshit - and it sickened Marcus on a visceral level.  He'd done his job to the best of his ability and had the balls to stand behind it at the end.  

A half day later, a blanket of hot, humid air hit him in the face as he stepped off the plane in Jackson, Mississippi.  His mom and two of his sisters picked him up at the airport to take him home in one of the older sister's Escalades - she had married a physician.  Another of his sisters had gone to school at Ole Miss and received a law degree before becoming a successful lawyer up Tupelo.  One of his brothers - a much, much larger man than Marcus ever thought about being - had been a second team All-American defensive back at Ole Miss before his moderately successful eight year NFL career.  The rest of his brothers and sisters, driven by their mother's work ethic and determination, managed to scrape out a comfortable life as successful citizens.

Everyone except Marcus.  He wasn't a citizen; he was a soldier.

As the pine swept canvas of central Mississippi blew past the windows, Marcus' thoughts turned sour.  After a lifetime of operating on the razor's edge between superhero and monster, Toad realized he was the one thing he abhorred above all others...

The one thing he despised...

A failure.

Already quiet, he became all but silent as his mom and sisters chatted all the way home.  It was clear - even in his immaculately pissed off state -  that they were beyond happy he was home, safe, and sound.

Home.

There were hundreds of people waiting for him as they pulled into the driveway.  His mom, sisters, and even his brothers invited them all over to celebrate Marcus' home coming.

Home.

His mom spent the evening strutting around and telling everyone who would listen just how wonderful and patriotic her boy was.  Marcus smiled when he needed to smile and laughed when he needed to laugh.  It was an elementary exhibition of trade craft yet no one was aware of his charade, not even his mom.

Later that night, after everyone had gone home, Marcus and his mom, Martha, were washing dishes together.  After a while, Marcus could feel her watching him scrub a pan.

Sarcastically, and in an apparently self-loathing manner, Marcus snapped, "I don't need you watching me, momma.  Even I can wash a dish."

His mom diverted her eyes, stricken by his venom, and immediately Marcus felt awful.  "I'm sorry, momma.  It's just so weird being back.  It's going to take time."

Martha Tolar cupped her son's face in her rough hands and kissed his cheek.  "Time we have, Marcus."  Tears were now falling from her eyes and running down her cheeks, "I prayed every day that God would keep you safe and bring you home, and here you are."

She smiled like the beast was finally defeated.

Home.

He was there, but...not really.

He never left Mexico.