A Petra drabble...it's not what I usually read, this Ender's Game stuff, but...Battle of the Books will make us read what they will. And I so want to beat my record before leaving this school of mine...(which is me and my team winning sixth at state, if you care :D) But...I'm not minding it as much as I usually would. Oddity, indeed.

Deviant

by green see-through ghosts

AN: I've only gotten to just past where Ender and Petra train for the first time...and I could resist rambling about her character. She is most likely OOC... so be warned...


Locked Up, Grown Up, Knocked Up...what's the difference?

There were some things the girls never brought up. No-one ever said it, no-one offered the information, and no-one ever asked. That wasn't how it was in Battle School; you didn't coddle, didn't get coddled, and you sure as hell didn't cry about it. There were no training of the psych, because by four or five, these kids had already killed their emotions. In fact, they weren't even kids anymore. Minnie adults, really, just facing off against the teachers and commanders.

At least, the good ones were. And Petra swore from the beginning that she was going to be a good one. Damn the fact that she was female in a world where her kind was doomed; she wouldn't let it beat her. She never let it beat her; not in the dorms, where she tossed off her clothes casually and refused to make a fuss of it. Not in the battle-rooms, where she worked harder than anyone, and never let anyone acknowledge it. No-one in the whole damn battle-school would ever say she was a lucky fluke, that she only got through because of nonexistent connections.

They were young -- sure, young, whatever -- but they were vicious, like rabid dogs amongst each other. And Petra was there, and would be there, and would stand, fight, learn, excel, stay, because she was not a fluke. No-one was a damn fluke; nothing was freak; everything was for a reason.

So when Bonzo came around, all the time, that cold beauty rubbing against her sanity like a cheese-grater on bread, she played it up instead of down. Sir? and pull her shirt over her head, tossing it to the bunk as she waited for him to say whatever shit-heads like him had to say. You want what? Stretch back, arms behind the head, and force herself not to wince at the exposure as his eyes grew angry.

No-one said it was easy. But damnit, it wasn't like she expected it to be. For all her nine years, Petra knew what was hard, and what was impossible. And this wasn't impossible; wasn't even close. Bonzo was making her stronger; he was making her acknowledge her weakness, and move past it. They all were. Maybe not intentionally, but if you waited for that stuff to happen on purpose, you'd be iced before you knew it.

It was like that drop of blood the day Ender showed up. It was there, with its friends, and it was pissing her off so bad that she wanted to wipe her whole face against a pillow.

But it wasn't there; it didn't get past the gates into the strict world Petra ran. Blood didn't get by; neither did nakedness; neither did longing. None of that shit would get to her head; she wouldn't let it.

Because, goddammit, Petra was not a fluke. Not now, not a few days from now, not when taken by surprise, not when beaten to a bloody pulp for existing. Because no-one was a fluke; nothing was freak. Everything...

...everything was for a reason.