Tara sauntered over with two other cadets, her arms crossed, her voice syrupy with fake concern. Olivia, right. So, like, where are you even from? Did you what win a contest to be here? Her friends giggled one, covering her mouth like it was all too funny.
Olivia took a bite, chewed slowly and looked up. I applied. She set her voice flat like she was stating the weather.
Tara’s smile tightened. Okay, but why? She pressed, leaning in. You don’t exactly scream, elite soldier.
I mean, look at your everything. She waved a hand at Olivia’s muddy t-shirt, her plain brown hair. Olivia set her granola bar down, leaned forward just enough to make Tara flinch.
I’m here to train, she said. Not to make you feel better about yourself. Tara froze her cheeks, reddening.
Whatever she muttered, turning away. Weirdo. Hey, hold up for a sec.
The navigation drill was a new kind of hell. Cadets had to cross a forested ridge map in hand under a strict time limit.
Olivia moved alone, her compass steady, her steps quiet against the pine needles. A group of four cadets, led by a wiry guy named Kyle, spotted her checking her map under a tree. Kyle, who’d been vying for Lance’s spotlight, saw his chance.
Hey, Dora the Explorer, he called his voice cutting through the quiet. You lost already? Or you just out here picking flowers? His group laughed, circling closer. Olivia folded her map, her fingers deliberate, and kept walking.
Kyle jogged up, snatching the map from her hand. Let’s see how you do without this, he said, tearing it in half and tossing the pieces into the wind. The others cheered.
Olivia stopped her eyes, following the scraps as they fluttered away. She looked at Kyle, her face blank, and said, hope you know your way back. Then she turned and kept moving, her pace unchanged.
Kyle’s laughter faltered, but his group kept jeering their voices echoing through the trees. The rifle disassembly drill came that afternoon, and it was a wake-up call. The cadets had two minutes to take apart an M4 carbine, clean it, and reassemble it.
Most struggled, their fingers fumbling with the pins, swearing as parts slipped. Lance finished in a messy 143, grinning like he’d aced it. Tara scraped by at 159, her hands shaking as she snapped the last piece in place.
Then Olivia stepped up. She didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. Her hands moved like they were following a script, pin-out, bolt-free parts laid out in a then at her.
Mitchell, he said, his voice low. Where’d you learn to do that? Olivia wiped her hands on her pants and stepped back. Practice, she said, her eyes on the ground.
The training screen played a slow-motion replay, every move clean, no wasted motion. A lieutenant nearby muttered to Polk, her hands didn’t shake. That special force is steady.
Lance overheard and scoffed. So she can clean a gun, he said loud enough for Olivia to hear, doesn’t mean she can fight. But during the break, a quiet cadet named Elena, who’d been watching Olivia closely, slipped her a spare map from her own kit.
You’ll need this, Elena whispered, her eyes darting to make sure no one saw. Olivia took it, nodded once and tucked it into her bag without a word. Whispers started after that.
A few cadets glanced at her during the next break, trying to piece her together. Olivia didn’t seem to care. She sat on the grass, retying her laces, her face as blank as ever.
Tara leaned over to Lance, her voice low, but sharp. Bet she’s got some sad story. Poor kid from nowhere, trying to prove she’s somebody.
Lance laughed. Yeah, well, she’s proven she’s a nobody. Olivia’s fingers paused on her laces just for a moment.
Then she kept tying her movements slow, like she was sealing something inside her. In the equipment shed where cadets were assigned gear for the next drill, Olivia waited her turn, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The quartermaster, a gruff older man named Gibbs, handed out vests and helmets with a scowl.
When Olivia stepped up, he looked her over, his lip curling. What’s this, a hobo convention? He said loud enough for the line to hear. We don’t got gear for civilians, sweetheart.
He tossed her a vest two sizes too big, the straps dangling uselessly. The cadets behind her snickered. Maybe use it as a tent, one called…
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