Some collars buck the system; they fight tooth and nail, they rebel, they get sent to reeducation over and over and over again — either the government-run classes or, for the wealthy, privately run classes with a more tailored approach. Most of these are the ones who got the collar as punishment. In a way, Frank did, too — but he took it voluntarily. It was a choice. Collar and career service, or a prison sentence for assault and battery. There's a good case to make that part of him was already like this before he ever did any government-sanctioned killing.
In any case, the education program for military collars is a little bit different than in the public sector. The focus is different, the training's more comprehensive, and budget is not an issue. They take as long as they take, they're regularly reinforced with or without an inciting infraction as a matter of routine. He'd been through mandatory re-education a half-dozen times despite having a spotless service record; he could practically recite the damn speeches by now.
So yeah, he takes it seriously. Takes those words to heart. They're not just words, they're something to live by. Something he signed up for. They're a choice he made, and if you can't commit to your decisions, what the hell can you commit to? Maybe that's partly why he respects her for this stubbornness, somewhere in the back of his mind. She might've made the choice to buy him by impulse alone, but she seems bound and damn determined to stand by it.
He takes the pamphlet. Turns it over in his hand, a subtle little knit of concentration in his brow as he reads over the words, the guidelines — similar but different than the ones he's used to. And yeah, he caught that word. Memorize, not obey. Noted.
"Well, then, you have every right to punish me as you see fit to," he drawls, eyes on the pamphlet, tone perfectly casual — and then he looks pointedly back up to her and says, "Afterward. Ma'am."
In other words, ordering him not to comply with that tenant is not on the table. He will ask for forgiveness, not permission.
no subject
In any case, the education program for military collars is a little bit different than in the public sector. The focus is different, the training's more comprehensive, and budget is not an issue. They take as long as they take, they're regularly reinforced with or without an inciting infraction as a matter of routine. He'd been through mandatory re-education a half-dozen times despite having a spotless service record; he could practically recite the damn speeches by now.
So yeah, he takes it seriously. Takes those words to heart. They're not just words, they're something to live by. Something he signed up for. They're a choice he made, and if you can't commit to your decisions, what the hell can you commit to? Maybe that's partly why he respects her for this stubbornness, somewhere in the back of his mind. She might've made the choice to buy him by impulse alone, but she seems bound and damn determined to stand by it.
He takes the pamphlet. Turns it over in his hand, a subtle little knit of concentration in his brow as he reads over the words, the guidelines — similar but different than the ones he's used to. And yeah, he caught that word. Memorize, not obey. Noted.
"Well, then, you have every right to punish me as you see fit to," he drawls, eyes on the pamphlet, tone perfectly casual — and then he looks pointedly back up to her and says, "Afterward. Ma'am."
In other words, ordering him not to comply with that tenant is not on the table. He will ask for forgiveness, not permission.