The gym's back half was a chaotic shitshow, transformed into a plywood maze of padded doors, cargo nets, and obstacles that screamed surrender, the air thick with sawdust and sweat. A banner hung crooked, its letters bold: **DO THE HARD TASK RIGHT.** The goal was brutal but clear: seize a crate at the maze's heart, use precise force—save blue-vested civilians, disarm amber-vested foes, drop red-vested monsters. Headshot a human? You're out, no appeal, your ass benched. Lucina led Ashton's team: Cam on comms, his voice a lifeline through static, his earpiece glinting; Tala, a parkour queen with dreads and a thief's grin, her movements liquid; Doc Mendez, a grizzled medic with a limp and a scowl, his medkit slung low. "Call shots clear, assholes!" Lucina barked, her sword sheathed but her presence a blade, wolf ears scanning, her leather jacket creaking as she moved.
Ashton gripped a foam-round rifle, its weight foreign, his palms sweaty, the stock slick against his shoulder. The maze smelled of plywood and haze, the air stinging his eyes, paint streaks on the walls echoing his dream. He hit an amber dummy, its vest glowing: "Left thigh—disarm!" The round struck true, a clean hit, the dummy's arm dropping. Tala vaulted a barrier, tagging another: "Ankle—mobility!" Her leap was fearless, dreads flying as she landed. A red insector prop lunged, mandibles snapping, plastic jaws clicking like a trap. "Center—clear!" Ashton fired, dropping it, the recoil jarring his bones, his heart pounding. Haze flooded the maze, Hartiel's voice booming from a megaphone: "War's chaos—deal with it!" Cam's comms crackled: "Exit, ten paces right." They navigated blind, Tala's leaps guiding them, Ashton covering with shaky aim. They seized the crate, no civilian hits, high red kills, the maze's walls echoing their shouts. Marines with clipboards nodded, a rare fucking win, their pens scratching like a verdict.
Doc groaned, rubbing his back: "Fucking plywood's gonna kill me." Tala grinned, tossing her dreads: "Light work, old man." Cam fist-bumped Ashton, his earpiece glinting in the dim light. Lucina nodded, eyes sharp: "Again, less shitty." Henry spoke from the sidelines, his voice warm: "Trust surpasses skill, my friends." Ashton's aim sharpened by dusk, his hands steadier, the corps taking form like a blade forged in fire, their bond a spark that burned through doubt.