Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

The group stood at attention for the last time, the scorching midday heat putting the “sun” in Sunday.  Sergeant Miller took his time, making slow and deliberate steps in front of the line of weary workers, crunching his boots on the dry dirt.

“In a few moments, you all will step back on the bus in which you came, and leave.  You will go back to whatever circle of hell you came from and never, ever step foot on my base ever again.  The only way any of you should ever serve this country is if there is a draft and you are forced against your will to join, and even then, I hope within each of you lies a heart murmur, or asthma, or the sense to jump off the top of your roof and obtain flat feet.  This has been, by far, the worst weekend of my life and not a second after you are gone, I’m taking my much-deserved leave, going back to New Jersey and gorging myself on Chef Dave’s Grilled Strawberry and Goat Cheese Dessert Pizza.  May our paths never cross and may each of you never move above your safe and secure place in the land of mediocrity.”

He scanned the bewildered faces in front of him with a sneer, his gaze finally resting on Michael.  Nervous and unsure of the appropriate protocol, Michael began a slow clap.

“Wooo…alright, good pep talk!  Yeah!  Let’s hear it for the Sarge!  Woo—hey!”  Michael rubbed the spot on his calf that had been kicked by a stoic Jim standing next to him.

Sergeant Miller rolled his eyes.  “Dismissed,” he muttered and with a final blow of his whistle, the group scrambled to the charter bus waiting behind them.  All except Dwight and Michael, who lingered behind to bestow final farewells upon the exasperated sergeant.

“Sir, question, sir:  is there a gift shop?  I have a collection of commemorative spoons from every historical fort that I visit and I need—“

“What you need, son, is to leave.  Now,”  Sergeant Miller said pinching the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to look at the now sullen Dwight.  He gave one last salute before marching back to the bus.

I would think that a man with respect for good cuisine would appreciate the need for appropriate flatware.  Not that I would ever eat off of the spoons as they are collector’s items.  Though they do fit quite well in the ear canal. My ears do not clean themselves therefore I must do it myself.  Dwight beamed at the camera, proud of his unique solution.  Saves me a fortune on ear syringes.

“Well, sir, it looks like this is where our journey ends,” Michael extended a hand and the sergeant grudgingly shook it.  “We kindly thank you for your southern hospitality—“

“My what?”

“—and hey, if you ever want to bring your troops around to Dunder Mifflin, we’d be glad to show you a thing or two about the paper marketplace.  It is a jun-gle, let me tell you.  Oh and by the way,” Michael gently pushed his finger against the lapel of the sergeant’s uniform.  “What’s your favorite kind of food?”

Sergeant Miller eyed him with caution.  “Italian. Why?”

Michael shrugged.  “No reason.  Anyway, thanks again, and hooah!”  He pumped his fist in the air and jogged over to the bus. 

The sergeant let out a sigh of relief, giving one last look at the bus before retreating back into his office to begin the large amount of paperwork he would need to fill out in order to take leave.  It was tedious, but would be well worth it.

Jim loaded his duffel bag in the storage area below the bus and felt a tap on his shoulder.  He turned to find Karen, looking much softer than the last time he had seen her.

“Hey,” she said with a conciliatory smile.  “Listen, I just thought you should know…I’m going to go for that job in New York.”

Jim raised his eyebrows in surprise.  He had imagined what his next conversation with Karen would be, and none of those situations involved this news.

“Oh.  Well, that’s—“

“You can come with me,” Karen interjected, her eyes quietly pleading.  Jim cocked his head to the side, his mouth knit tightly in a sideways frown.

“I can’t,” he said softly, taken aback with the memories and emotional weight his words carried; it was just as hard to say as it was to hear.

Karen nodded.  “I had a feeling you’d say that.  Well, if you are going to stay here, would you do me and the rest of the world a favor?”

Jim furrowed his eyebrows.

“Go after her.  Please.  It’s tiring just watching you two.”

Once again, Jim was internally knocked over in surprise, even more so at the small smile that accompanied her words.

“Umm…okay,” he laughed.  “Will do.”

Karen gave him a light kiss on the cheek, throwing in her suitcase along with the others and climbing onto the bus.  Jim followed shortly after her, watching her take a seat next to Angela.  He spotted Pam in the back, sitting alone and scrolling through her mp3 player.  He made his way toward her, smirking to himself as he heard Karen explain her seating choice to Angela as he passed by: “You know, I’m thinking of getting a cat.  What brand do you recommend?”

Jim plopped down in the seat next to Pam, catching her off-guard.

“Hi,” she said with confusion.  “Why aren’t you—“

“It’s a long story, we’ve got a long bus ride…is that okay?”

She nodded with excitement.  “Absolutely.”

“I thought so.  Now, question,” he began.

Pam giggled. “Yes, Dwight?”

“We’ll table that comment for the time being.  Now, what are you doing when we get back to Scranton?”

“Let’s see:  go home, burn this uniform, open a bottle of wine and forget this weekend ever happened.”

Jim smirked.  “Well, as nice as that sounds, I thought maybe we could do something.”

Her jaw dropped a little, and though she tried to remain cool, Pam couldn’t help the grin that quickly spread to her face.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” Jim shrugged.  “Maybe something to take our mind off of the heat…like popsicles?” 

Pam held his gaze. 

“Raspberry?”

“Of course.”

“Can I get two?”

“Now you’re just being greedy.”

“Please?”

“Anything you want.”

The drive home suddenly didn’t seem quite so long.

xxx

A week later, Sergeant Miller received a package, addressed from Scranton, PA.  He curiously tore open the plain brown box to reveal Mario Batali’s “Molto Italiano: 327 Simple Italian Recipes to Cook at Home.”  He turned it over in delight, and noticed a card tucked within the front flap.  It was a picture of the entire Dunder Mifflin team, gathered in the office and looking utterly miserable except for Michael, grinning with a  silver whistle in between his teeth.  The card contained a simple message:

“We are not retreating, we are advancing in another direction.”
   
Love, Cordially, Hooah! Sincerely,
        General Scott and the 1st Dunder Mifflin Army Regiment.