Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sulla
On day seventeen, Mac briefs us at dawn. Two-day navigation and survival challenge. Build shelter at the final waypoint, spend the night in the field, return by noon tomorrow. Simple parameters. Difficult execution.
Blake and Heather are assigned to the northern sector.
Mac gave Blake a warning, told him he could stay only as long as Heather agreed to have him as her partner.
She agreed, reluctantly, to give him another chance since she didn’t want to continue alone.
From what I can tell when they are on base, he basically doesn’t speak to her unless absolutely necessary, which appears fine with Heather.
He’s still loud and obnoxious and it hasn’t stopped him from constantly complaining to anyone and everyone.
Reid and I get eastern. Other teams spread across different areas—production wants us isolated from each other for maximum difficulty.
We set out at 0800. My feet are wrapped in Reid’s careful bandaging from last night. They ache with each step but the pain is manageable. I’m aware of her looking at me occasionally, checking my gait, making sure I’m not limping.
She doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do I. We’ve learned each other’s languages by now.
The terrain is brutal—rocky, uneven, constant elevation changes.
Around 1500 hours, we pass near Blake and Heather’s sector boundary. We hear them before we see them.
Blake’s voice carries through the trees. “For fuck’s sake, Heather, move faster! We’re falling behind because you can’t keep pace!”
I glance at Reid. She’s frowning, listening.
Heather’s voice, quieter but audible, “I’m moving as fast as I can. The terrain is—”
“The terrain is fine! You’re just slow!”
We keep moving. Not our sector. Not our business. But something in Blake’s tone sets my teeth on edge.
That evening, we build our shelter at the designated waypoint. Reid is competent with this, her military training showing through. We work together well. Branches, groundcover, the tarp they provided us as a windbreak. Functional if not comfortable.
Night falls. We eat rations. The temperature drops. We combine our sleeping bags and share body heat without discussing it. The routine is familiar now. So is the pretending.
I fall asleep thinking about Blake’s voice through the trees. The way he spoke to Heather. Like her struggle was weakness instead of reality. Like she was less than.
I know that voice.
I hate that I know it so well.
The next morning, we navigate back to base camp. Arrive around 1100 hours—good time, no issues.
Other teams filter in throughout the morning. Blake and Heather arrive last, around 1145. Heather is limping. Blake is twenty feet ahead of her, not waiting, not helping.
Mac checks them in. “Shelter adequate?”
“Fine,” Blake snaps. “Would have been better if my partner could actually carry her weight.”
Heather’s jaw tightens but she doesn’t respond.
Mac’s expression doesn’t change but I see the calculation in his eyes. He’s noticed. He’s tracking Blake’s behavior. But he hasn’t acted yet.
That evening, after debriefs and medical checks, I’m heading back to our tent when I hear voices near the supply tent. Raised voices. One angry, one trying to stay calm.
I change direction, moving quietly.
Blake has Heather backed against the supply tent wall. His hand is on her arm. He’s already crossed the line.
“Maybe if you were nicer to me,” Blake is saying, “I wouldn’t have to ride you so hard during challenges.”
Heather is completely still. Not cowering. Calculating. “Blake, let go of me and step back.”
“Why? You afraid of a little conversation?”
“This isn’t a conversation. This is intimidation.”
“You need to learn your place,” Blake says. His grip tightens.
I step around the corner of the tent. Don’t announce myself. Just appear. Stand there.
Blake sees me. His hand is still on Heather’s arm. He freezes.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stand there ten feet away, looking at him.
The silence stretches. Five seconds. Ten. I let it build. Let the weight of my presence do the work.
Last time, in the courtyard, words were enough. Blake backed down and I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
This time he’s touching her. This time she said ‘no’ and he didn’t listen. This time is different.
“Let go,” I say. Voice dead calm. Quiet. Certain.
Blake’s hand tightens on Heather’s arm reflexively. “This isn’t your business, Sulla.”
I don’t respond. Just look at him.
I’ve spent decades making men afraid. I know exactly how to use stillness. How to make threats implied without being stated. How to stand in a way that communicates violence without performing it.
Blake sees it. Sees whatever he sees in my face that makes his own expression flicker with uncertainty.
“Let. Go.” Each word separate. Deliberate. Not a request.
His hand releases Heather’s arm.
Heather steps away immediately. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t cower. Just puts distance between herself and Blake and stands there, watching. She’s furious. Good.
Blake opens his mouth. Closes it. He wants the last word and he knows he’s not getting it.
Mac’s voice comes from behind me. “Blake.”
I didn’t hear him approach. He moves quietly for a big man.
Blake goes pale. “Sir, I was just—”
“I saw what you were just.” Mac’s voice is flat. Final. “You were warned, Blake. Pack your kit. Your transport leaves in thirty minutes.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. Conduct unbecoming. Physical contact without consent with another contestant after a documented verbal warning.” Mac doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. “Thirty minutes. With or without your gear.”
Blake looks at me. At Heather. At Mac. Finding no allies anywhere he looks.
He leaves without another word.
Mac turns to Heather. “You alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Medical tent. Have them look at your arm and whatever is making you limp. We have counselors. I’d like you to speak with one tomorrow.”
“That’s not necessary, sir.”
“It was an error putting you two in a tent together. There’s a female counselor on staff. I’ll have her check in with you tomorrow morning. That’s not a request.”
“Yes, sir.”
He glances at me. “Sulla.”
“Sir.”
He holds my gaze for a moment. The same nod as always, small, certain, enough. Then he’s gone.
Heather looks at me. Rubs her arm where Blake grabbed her. “Thanks.”
“You handled yourself.”
“I know.” She almost smiles. “But thanks anyway.”
She walks toward the medical tent.
I stand in the empty space behind the supply tent, listening to Blake’s footsteps fade. Listening to the camp settle back into its ordinary sounds.
He’s gone.
Good.
The announcement at dinner is brief. Mac doesn’t editorialize. Blake is gone. That’s all.
“He’s gone,” Reid says.
“Yes.”
“Good,” she says.
“Yes.”
Later, I lie there in the darkness thinking about Heather’s voice through the trees this morning. About her stillness against that wall. About the decades I spent being exactly what Blake is.
Different targets. Same damage.
I don’t sleep for a long time.