The Former Marine

After the SERE graduation ceremony, Derek Rogan felt he needed something more. The badge he now wore was a powerful symbol, but he wanted something more personal, something that would mark this new phase of his life in a permanent way. After years of sacrifice and grueling training, he had proven himself, not only to his instructors, but to himself. It was time to immortalize that commitment on his skin.

That night, as the new operators celebrated at a local bar, Derek stood to the side, watching the group with a beer in his hand. The camaraderie between the men was clear, and although he felt the bond with his fellow soldiers, one idea kept nagging at him: getting a tattoo. Something that would symbolize his journey so far, and what it meant to be a Marine and a MARSOC operator.

As he stared at the label on his beer, Sergeant Locke, his mentor throughout training, walked over and sat down next to him. "Thoughtful, Rogan?"

Derek looked at Locke and shrugged. "Just reflecting on everything that's happened so far."

Locke smiled, taking a sip of his drink. "It's normal. Everyone deals with success differently. I drank until I couldn't remember my own name. Others do something more... permanent."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Something more permanent?"

"A tattoo. Many of us get something like that to mark our passing. A symbol of our commitment to the Corps. After all, being a Marine is more than a career—it's an identity." Locke pulled up his sleeve, revealing a tattoo on his bicep. It was the Marine Corps emblem: a globe, an eagle, and a dock. The symbol of the Marines.

Derek looked at the tattoo with interest. The idea had been in his mind, but now it seemed more concrete. "Where did you get it?"

Locke smirked. "There's a place nearby. If you're thinking about getting one, I recommend the same artist. He understands what it means to us."

Derek nodded, taking a final sip of his beer.

"I think I'll take that advice, Sergeant."

The next morning, Derek went to the tattoo parlor Locke had recommended. The place was on a nondescript street in an area that seemed to be a stronghold for military personnel passing through Camp Lejeune. The shop was small, but the walls were covered in military designs and symbols—eagles, skulls, crossed rifles. It was like a shrine to those who had served.

The artist, a middle-aged man with arms covered in art, glanced at Derek as he walked in.

"Can I help you?"

Derek nodded, feeling the rush of a new mission.

"I want two tattoos. The Marine Corps symbol and the MARSOC symbol."

The man smiled.

"You know what you want, huh? A lot of people come here and spend hours deciding. But you're ready. I like that."

He walked over to a catalog of designs and flipped through them quickly.

"Here's the Corps symbol." He showed the iconic eagle holding a globe and an anchor. "Now, as for MARSOC, I have a few custom designs for the operators."

Derek looked through the options, and one in particular caught his eye: a dagger crossed with a battle axe, both framed by a ribbon that read "Spiritus Invictus"—the motto that meant "Unconquered Spirit." It perfectly represented his journey.

"That one. I want that one with the Corps symbol."

The tattoo artist nodded and prepared the material. "Where do you want it?"

Derek pointed to his right arm, where the globe and anchor would go, and his left arm, where the MARSOC symbol would go. "One on each arm."

The tattoo artist marked the spots and went to work. As the needle pierced his skin, Derek pondered the meaning of each mark. Each line the artist drew represented more than just ink—it was a testament to sacrifices, challenges, and accomplishments. The pain was a reminder of how much he had endured to get there. After a few hours, the artist was finally finished. He bandaged the new tattoos and smiled.

"There you go. Now you will carry these symbols with you forever."

Derek looked down at his arms. The Marine Corps emblem on his right arm gleamed with precision. And on his left, the MARSOC symbol reminded him of the indomitable spirit that had carried him through the darkest moments of training.

"Thank you," Derek said, shaking the artist's hand. "That means a lot."

"You're welcome, brother," the man replied. "You're part of something big. Wear it with pride."

In the days that followed, Derek began to get used to the idea of ​​wearing these symbols on his skin. Every time he looked at his arms, he was reminded of his journey. And while he still felt the absence of a family, the tattoos served as an anchor—something that connected him directly to his brothers in arms.

One of the following nights, Derek met with his fellow officers in the barracks. Ferraz, the same soldier he had encouraged in SERE, noticed the tattoos while they were playing cards. "Nice work, Rogan. Finally decided to mark yourself, huh?"

Derek shrugged with a smile. "It seemed like the right thing to do. A reminder of what we've accomplished."

"You're going to need these reminders," Locke, who was sitting in the back of the room, said. "The path we choose is never easy. There will be times when you wonder why you keep going. These marks will remind you why."

Derek nodded, absorbing the sergeant's words. He knew that the journey as a MARSOC operator would not be easy. New missions, new challenges, and probably new scars awaited him. But now he was more prepared than ever. Every step he took brought him closer to the warrior he knew he could be.

As he looked at the tattoos again that night, Derek knew that even in his darkest hours, he would always have these symbols to remind him of his oath. No matter how lonely he might feel at times, he had a mission. He had a family in the Corps.

And now, with these marks on his skin, he would carry that commitment with him for the rest of his life.