Two
Not long after Steven turns Nine, there is an unexpected addition to Class F: A former Class C of all things, an old and feeble doctor. It is not often that one of the higher Classes is demoted all the way to Class F, so there is much interest aroused.
But it is nothing, just an old man that shakes when he talks and when he walks. He blends in with the other Class Fs easily, never saying much and always following orders. There is almost no trace of the intelligence that a Class C would require and eye contact is shielded by the reflection of spectacles.
Steven, for his part, avoids other people as much as he can, lest he be picked on any more than he already is.
But one night, in one of his worse bouts of unbreathiness, Steven has no other word for it, he lies on his side, shuddering breaths unable to supply enough air to his lungs. Counting is no help and he is frantically aware of his racing pulse, wondering if it is slowing by the minute.
Steven may be useless but he does not want to die.
"Here, boy," a gruff voice sounds by Steven's head but he is too light-headed to even jump. He just takes the clear plastic dangling in his vision, fumbling fingers turning it over in confusion. "Over your face-" Steven almost drops the mask before he presses it over his nose and mouth- "A deep breath, now-" A shuddering gasp- "-hold it."
Steven holds the bitter tasting air in his ribcage until he feels like bursting then allows it to whistle out.
"Better?"
Steven nods, amazed at the light breaths he is able to take- there is no wheezing and no struggling against unseen tension to inhale.
"Thank you, sir," he stammers, using the proper address for anyone higher than his station and hands the mask with tubes attached back to the doctor's figure in the dark.
"Keep it under your bed, Steven," the doctor says, "They will not confiscate the machine, it is mine." Steven is able to make out the small but dense box that the doctor has placed on his pillow, and the tubes connecting it to the clear mask. "It's specifically for asthma- though I believe your case is far more serious than my own."
Steven may hate accepting help, but he is no idiot. For the... asthma then. The word is foreign to Steven, but he finds it easy to attach the term to the feeling.
"I don't have anything- for you-" The Class Fs do not deal in exchanges often- none of them have much to their names, besides a change of clothes, perhaps a blanket.
"Help me with my errands then; I may no longer be Class C, but I am still a doctor. I always need an extra hand in spare time."
'Yes, sir." Steven cannot recall the last time he had a conversation with someone else that lasted this long.
"Dr. Erskine, Steven- just call me Doctor. I am not a sir, and nor do I own a surname any longer, not as a Class F I don't," there is a kindly chuckle before the doctor returns to his own squeaky cot. "We will start tomorrow. I'll be making my rounds with the Class Es."
"Yes, sir- Doctor." Steven relishes in the expanse of his breaths. It is strange, to address a man by a name not his own, in fact, Steven is fairly certain it's against some unspoken rule. Names are names, never to be taken lightly. It is one thing to call a man by his title, Dr. Erskine, and another entirely to refer to him just as Doctor.
But Steven can breathe. "Yes, Doctor."
---
Alexander Pierce is a top General of Class B, tall, imposing, charismatic. Not long after James turns Nine, he begins to see Pierce at his training sessions. In the mess hall during dinner. Standing at the back of the room during Strategy lessons.
James becomes accustomed to the weight of eyes at his back, but he does not know what Pierce is searching for. He trains well though, and is always quick at lessons, and all the other Class B boys are friendly with him though he knows they hold their own grudges amongst themselves.
But, it seems that Pierce finds what he is looking for.
One night, as the boys are filing out of the mess hall, Pierce is there to greet James at the door.
"Greetings, James. My name is Alexander Pierce, General of our Armed Forces."
"Greetings, sir," James knows his manners well, dips at the waist to his superior. "How may I assist you today?"
"I would like the honor of accepting you as my Private, James." Pierce is concise with his words and extends a large hand, like a question.
"A- Private, sir?" There is no visible disturbance in James' features, and that is good. But a Private? He knows what that means. He would train under Pierce's instruction, in Pierce's name, and rise through the ranks faster- It would be expected that he took Pierce's place eventually. Most Class B boys only dreamt of becoming a Private, let alone one to a General.
"Is my offer not satisfactory?" Pierce looks just a bit unsettled by James' hesitation, so James immediately grasps the nearly withdrawing hand.
"No, sir, I gladly accept, sir." James would be a fool to decline. He slides to his knees promptly, head hanging low, palms settling on the ground.
Pierce sounds pleased with the gesture. "Thank you, James." The tips of his fingers brush James' forehead, the signal to return to his feet. "You will surpass all other Privates."
"Thank you, General Pierce."
James does not feel a twinge of excitement, because he does not Care.