Chapter Eight #2
His arms uncross as he shifts to grip the armrests on either side of my chair, inclining his body until we’re a mere inch from each other.
This close, I catch his scent—clean sweat and something sharper, like pine and metal melded together.
Little obsidian flecks near his pupils catch my attention before he speaks again.
“Let your thoughts stray again and you’re out,” he mumbles just barely above a whisper.
I manage a single nod, holding my breath to steady it.
Kellen straightens, addressing me at normal volume. “Ashford, what do you know about today’s topics?”
I scramble through the library of my mind, searching for something—anything—suitable to say.
My thoughts are still scattered, thrown into disarray by the proximity of his body to mine and the lingering embarrassment of before.
The recruits behind me keep muttering, their commentary a distracting buzz that makes focus impossible.
I’m furious with myself. This is the kind of training I should excel at—mental exercises, strategic thinking, the application of knowledge.
Instead, I’m sitting here like an idiot, speechless, because I can’t control my physical responses to a man I barely know and who cannot ever know me in return.
Then it dawns on me—this is part of his lesson. Focus under pressure. The ability to think clearly while distracted or intimidated. Perhaps my incapability to answer is exactly what Kellen wants to demonstrate.
I speak before my head flusters more. “I cannot think of any relevant information at this time, sir.” Though not confident, my voice is steady and unwavering.
Kellen goes still, as if my response surprised him. After a moment, he hums and steps back to his podium.
The men behind me erupt in fresh laughter, and a metallic taste stains my tongue from where I’m biting it hard enough to pierce through. “Do you know fucking anything?” one of them shouts. “Why are you even here?”
I remain silent, my cheeks burning so bad I’m worried the skin there will have scorch marks later. This is worse than I’d anticipated. Not only am I failing to blend in, I’m actively making myself a target for ridicule.
Our leader mercifully shifts his attention, addressing the group at large. “Who else can offer some insight into mission planning basics?”
The others volunteer answers I should have identified immediately. From simple security protocols, information verification methods, and risk mitigation strategies; I berate myself for each one I missed.
As Kellen launches into his lecture, I force myself to focus, mentally recording every word. He covers useful topics, and his teaching style is direct but thorough, building complex concepts from simple foundations.
Despite my earlier humiliation, I’m drawn to the material. There’s a certain elegance to the way Kellen deconstructs strategic thinking into its component parts, demonstrating how seemingly disparate pieces of information can be assembled into a cohesive approach.
I’m particularly fascinated by his explanation of intelligence analysis—how to distinguish reliable information from misinformation and identify patterns across multiple reports.
Basically, how to recognize what isn’t being said as much as what is.
These are skills I’ll need if I’m to gather useful information during my time here.
The stress that had been building in my chest gradually eases as I sink into the familiar comfort of learning. Absorbing knowledge and processing information is something I know how to do. Something I’m good at.
After an hour of lecture, Kellen shifts the class structure. “Now for some practical application,” he announces. “I’m going to divide you into pairs and present a scenario. Your task is to develop a mission plan based on what you know while accounting for what you don’t.”
He assigns our pairs, poor Darius drawing the short stick to be stuck with me. I glance at my new partner, trying to read his reaction behind the mask. His shoulders tighten, but he doesn’t openly protest.
Kellen distributes tablets containing the scenario details, and we split off to work. Darius reluctantly sits beside me, maintaining as much distance as the seats allow.
“Let’s just get this over with,” he mutters, leaning away from me as if proximity might be contagious of something deadly.
I scan our tablet, noting our case: a suspected rebel hideout in an abandoned mining facility near the border between Pyrem and Ailridge.
The objective is to confirm the presence of rebels, assess their numbers and resources, and if possible, capture their leader for interrogation.
The complication is the facility has only been partially mapped, with unknown numbers of access points and escape routes.
“We should start by—”
“I know how to plan a mission,” Darius cuts me off.
I bite back a sharp retort. This isn’t about my pride; it’s about surviving to accomplish what I came here for. My reply is even. “Fine. What’s your approach?”
To my surprise, Darius’ plan is logical and thorough. He suggests a nighttime operation to maximize the element of surprise, with scouts positioned at known exits while a small team infiltrates through the main entrance. It’s solid, conventional thinking.
But something about the scenario nags at me. “Why would rebels hide in a location that’s already on Enforcer maps? Even partially mapped seems too risky.”
My partner pauses. “Good point.”
We spend the next twenty minutes developing our plan, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find we agree on most aspects.
Darius isn’t the mindless brute I initially took him for.
His approach is methodical, with a clear preference for logic over emotional reactions.
He considers my suggestions with genuine attention, nodding when I make an argument he hadn’t considered.
By the time Kellen calls for us to present our plans, we’ve developed an approach that differs significantly from conventional tactics.
When the other two groups share their strategies—both involving direct assaults through the main entrance—I mark the flaws immediately.
They’ve taken the scenario at face value, missing the subtle cues embedded within.
When it’s our turn, Darius nudges me. “You explain it. It was mostly your idea anyway,” he says in a neutral tone.
I clear my throat, uncertain how to pitch my voice low while remaining loud enough for the room to hear.
“We determined the scenario itself contains a misdirection,” I begin, proud that my tone holds without cracking.
“The mapped portion of the facility is likely a trap—the fact that Enforcers know about the location at all suggests the rebels want us to invade that spot.”
I explain our theory, how the real rebel base is elsewhere, with the mining facility serving as either a decoy or an ambush site.
Our plan focuses on extensive reconnaissance before any infiltration, followed by a minimal-presence operation designed to gather information rather than engage directly.
“The objective isn’t to capture the threat, it’s to find where they’re actually hiding by tracking their movements to and from this decoy location.”
When I finish, Kellen sits for a long moment. “Why did your team take this approach?”
I explain, “The scenario had inconsistencies. This sentence mentions recent activity but doesn’t specify what kind.
This paragraph discusses the mining facility’s history but omits when it was abandoned.
And this map shows six known exits, but the text only references four.
These discrepancies suggest deliberate misinformation—either from rebel sources or within the intelligence chain itself. ”
The leader nods slowly. “Good,” he states before discussing the scenario in more depth.
That single word of approval sends an unexpected thrill through me. It’s ridiculous how much I suddenly crave his recognition, but I can’t deny the warm satisfaction settling in my bones. Even if it’s just one word, it’s more approval than I’ve received from anyone since arriving here.
My satisfaction lasts precisely until the end of our session, when knowledge of what comes next reappears: four hours of physical training with the Commander.
The afternoon sun lashes down mercilessly as I stand at the edge of the outdoor yard, staring at the course laid before me. Yesterday’s was difficult; this one is impossible. The walls are higher, the beams narrower, and the pits beneath them are bottomless in the harsh shadows cast by midday sun.
Between obstacles, large open spaces are marked for running, and stacks of weights sit ominously at either end of a central balance beam that spans a pit of mud. My stomach lurches at the sight, regretting the lunch it consumed.
A grim thought occurs—what happens if I vomit? We’re not permitted to remove our masks here, and I doubt I could make it to a bathroom in time. The mental image of being sick inside my mask makes me gag, which only strengthens the fear of vomiting. Disgusting.
Arayik strides into the yard, every line of his large body radiating the fury I keep my power from exploring. I shouldn’t be shocked at this point…rage seems his natural state of being.
The three other recruits assigned to his afternoon group—Finnick, Calder, and Brenner—arrive shortly after me, standing with the wary alertness of prey animals in predator territory.
“Today we’re doing high-intensity interval training,” the Commander announces.
The three men groan in unison while I stand silent, having not one idea what this kind of training entails.
If these hardened recruits are griping, it must be brutal—though I’ve noticed these men complain about everything from lukewarm food to slightly damp towels, so perhaps their discomfort isn’t the most reliable gauge.