Chapter Thirteen #2
Gage provides cover while Thane circles behind the Enforcers, managing to flank one and rip the orange flag from his back. The ‘killed’ Enforcer raises his hands in surrender and moves off-camera, out of the simulation.
Over the next forty minutes, we watch as Thane’s team advances methodically through the city.
They work well together, communicating with hand signals and maintaining discipline even when separated.
They eliminate twelve of the fifteen Enforcers, losing Gage in the process when he’s ambushed by three opponents.
Finally, they locate what must be the objective—a small metal container hidden in the basement of a building near the center of the city.
Calder provides cover while Thane secures the object, and they fight their way back to the entrance, eliminating the final three Enforcers along the way.
When they emerge from the city, soaked and mud-splattered but triumphant, Thane raises the container.
It’s a plain metal box about the size of two fists, with no obvious opening mechanism.
The Syndicate insignia is stamped on its surface—three interlocking hexagons representing the three founding families.
Kellen congratulates them before the eliminated Enforcers return, collecting discarded flags and repositioning them on their uniforms. They disappear back into the city to reset for the next team.
“Why did you kill them all before exiting the training?”
“Leaving enemies behind is lazy,” Thane replies to Kellen without hesitation. “They could regroup and counter-attack. Complete elimination ensures mission success.”
He receives a nod in response, the leader apparently satisfied with this answer before dismissing them to join the observers.
Two more teams cycle through the simulation with similar results. Both employ the same strategy: eliminating all Enforcers before extracting the objective. Both teams insist that total elimination is the only viable strategy.
My eyes remain on the screen, but I listen to the other recruits whisper among themselves, pride evident in their voices. They speak of kill counts and tactics as if discussing a game. As if the people they killed weren’t real, even in simulation. The casual conversation churns my stomach.
“Ashford, Flor, Eston,” Kellen calls out to me, Killian, and Pax. “You’re up.”
My heart sinks. This is the worst day—my bladder is nearly bursting, and I’m paired with two recruits I’ve barely spoken to. Killian is a Remnant who can sense impressions of past events through touch while Pax is a Telepath. Both useful powers, but we have no established teamwork or trust.
As we move toward the start point, I survey my temporary teammates.
Killian stands a head taller than me, with a lean build and rigid posture that suggests much training before joining our group.
I can just make out piercing blue eyes through his mask’s slit when he assesses me.
Pax is shorter, more compact, with a restless energy that manifests in constant small movements—fingers tapping against his thigh, weight shifting from one foot to the other.
The three of us step into the mock city, rain intensifying as I fight the urge to cross my legs against the pressure in my bladder. It’s taunting me.
And there’s absolutely no way for me to relieve myself here—not with cameras everywhere and teammates watching. I’ll just have to endure it.
Before we can advance more than a few meters, I grab Killian’s arm, bringing our small group to a halt in the shadow of the first building.
“Wait,” I hiss, my voice barely audible. “We need a plan.”
Blue eyes narrow. “What do you mean? We do what the others did—find the Enforcers, eliminate them, get the object.”
I shake my head. “Did you watch the previous teams? They all charged in without planning and got their asses kicked before eventually winning through brute force and losses. We can be smarter.”
Pax shifts, glancing around. His discomfort is palpable—whether from the rain, the delay, or something else, I can’t tell. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.
I consider our strengths and limitations. None of us are powerhouses like Gage or precision fighters like Thane. We need strategy over strength.
“We split up,” I suggest. “Cover more ground, find the objective faster. I’ll take north, Pax west, Killian east. Use the upper levels where possible to avoid street level ambushes.”
Killian seems skeptical, but our teammate nods. “Makes sense. What if one of us finds the objective?”
“Secure it if possible, but don’t risk extraction alone. If you’re cornered, defend your position and one of us will come when we can.” I hesitate, cursing a flaw in the plan. “How do we communicate if we’re separated?”
Pax taps his temple. “I can reach about fifty meters. If we stay within range of each other, I can relay messages.”
That’s not far—especially in a city layout—but it’s better than nothing. “Good. Our primary goal is the objective, not eliminating every Enforcer. Let’s move.”
We separate at the first intersection, each aiming for a different direction.
As I head north, it dawns on me that this is the first decision I’ve made as a de facto leader since arriving at the training center.
It feels strange giving orders to men who would never take them from a woman.
But here, behind the mask, they don’t question my authority.
Another bitter reminder of the Syndicate’s absurd order.
The rain, oddly enough, works to my advantage, masking small sounds as I move and reducing visibility.
I hug the walls of buildings, checking each corner before proceeding.
The urban landscape is disorienting—streets bend at odd angles, debris blocks obvious paths, forcing detours through buildings or side alleys.
I chuckle; the irony isn’t lost on me.
The storm darkens our landscape further, making the environment even more challenging to navigate. I use this, sticking to the dimmest shadows, moving with deliberate slowness when crossing exposed areas. My years of practicing silent motion serve me well now.
A small square between buildings rises before me just as movement catches my eye—an Enforcer positioned behind a low wall, gun trained on the approach I’m taking. I duck back just as they fire, the shot impacting the stone where my head had been seconds before.
Stars, that would have hurt.
My heart spikes, adrenaline flooding my system despite knowing the weapons aren’t lethal. The danger feels real enough to trigger a fear response.
My back presses against a wall as I pant, begging my heart to slow so I can think.
Why does everyone in this damn place aim for my head?
Do they think I can’t die any other way?
I strain to detect footsteps over the rain, listening for signs the Enforcer is approaching, but the storm still drowns out most sounds.
My power indicates the enemy is close, determined to take me down, but it can’t pinpoint where.
Closing my eyes, I focus on my other senses. When visual information is limited, the body compensates. I’ve spent countless nights moving through pitch darkness, training my body to navigate without sight.
No movement. No change in the rhythm of the rain. The Enforcer must be holding position, waiting for me to make another attempt.
I hold my weapon with a tight grip, summoning courage. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I spin around the corner, gun raised, finger nestling the trigger—
But there’s no one there.
Confused, I step forward, scanning for movement. Nothing. Where did they—
Something slams into my back with crushing force, driving me face-first into the wet ground.
Pain explodes through my body as I impact the street, reigniting sore spots that my salve dulled, mud and grit grinding into my face where it meets the edge of my mask.
Fucking hell, can everyone stop doing this?
I taste blood—my teeth cut the inner ridge of my lip. The weight on my back is immense, pinning me successfully.
Rough hands grab the back of my mask, shoving my head harder into the ground. I can’t breathe, can’t move, panic rising as I struggle for oxygen.
With a desperate surge of strength born from the pure need to survive, I buck my hips and twist violently to the side, creating just enough space to roll.
The maneuver catches my attacker by surprise, and I manage to flip onto my back, immediately regretting it as his hips settle on my abdomen, pressing against my already full bladder.
It fucking hurts. And I swear a few drops escape before I stop them.
The Enforcer above me is massive—at least twice my size, with shoulders blocking what little light remains in the stormy sky. His body language radiates confidence. He knows he has me.
He reaches for his gun, which must have fallen during our struggle. I seize the moment, driving my knee upward with all the force I can muster. It catches him in the back, throwing him slightly off balance—not enough to dislodge him, but enough to buy me a second.
I grab for his uniform, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet fabric, trying to find the orange flag I know must be attached somewhere. He blocks my attempt with a heavy forearm across my chest, pressing until breathing becomes painful again.
My vision swims, lungs burning as dark spots encroach at the edges. I’ve never fought like this before—never been in a position where someone was actively trying to hurt me outside practice.
His weight shifts to grab the fallen weapon, and I exploit the momentary redistribution. Twisting my body with every ounce of strength I possess, I manage to get one arm free and reach around his torso, fingers closing on fabric that feels different from the uniform—
The flag.
I yank with everything I have, tearing it free just as he brings his weapon to bear on my head. He freezes, then curses loudly, the sound distorted by his mask and the pounding rain.