The recruits were herded to a wide concrete square at the heart of the barracks. The building itself was a hulking structure of grey stone and steel, surrounded by tall fencing and watchtowers. The air smelled faintly of oil, gunmetal, and the sweat of too many bodies packed in one place. Shouts from drill sergeants cracked like whips as lines were quickly formed, names checked, and papers collected.
This was the processing stage, a brisk, almost mechanical sorting. Recruits stepped forward one by one to present their documents, have their names ticked against a register, and answer a handful of sharp questions about birthplace, family, and motivation.
The line moved faster than most expected, though the officers' eyes were sharp, their voices clipped. A wrong word or a missing signature was enough to end a hopeful career before it even began. Two recruits were pulled out of the line on the spot, one for presenting forged documents, the other for failing to state his correct identification number. Their protests were drowned out by orders, and they were escorted away without ceremony.
Everyone else, including Winter, made it through. Benjamin's meticulous preparation showed in every paper she handed over. Her false identity held, seamless and convincing. She was waved forward without suspicion.
Then came the medical examination stage.
The recruits were funneled into a long hall that smelled of antiseptic, sweat, and chalk. Fluorescent lights flickered faintly overhead, bathing the room in a cold, clinical glow. Beds were lined along one side, and on the other, a row of partitions where examinations were carried out. White-coated military doctors moved briskly between stations, their assistants calling names from clipped lists.
The procedure was thorough, if impersonal: height and weight measured, blood samples taken, hearing and vision checked. Recruits were told to strip down to underclothes for physical inspection, and a steady hum of embarrassment hung in the air as strangers shuffled about in discomfort.
One by one, names were called, papers stamped or, in some cases, seized. Ten recruits were disqualified here, either for health complications, poor eyesight, or conditions they had not disclosed. The atmosphere grew heavy as the line shortened, and the faces of those still waiting became pale with worry.
Finally, it was Winter's turn.
She stepped behind the partition, where a balding middle aged doctor in round glasses sat at a metal desk, her file spread open before him. He had already reviewed her basic results, yet his eyes kept darting back and forth between the file and the medical sheets. His brows knit together in quiet thought.
Winter stood still, calm, her posture composed.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, glanced at her again, then slowly stood from his chair. For several moments he paced, as though weighing something heavy in his mind. Finally, he asked in a low, measured tone:
"Do you suffer from depression… or any psychological issues?"
"No," Winter replied, her voice steady and detached.
The doctor studied her face for several long seconds, searching for the smallest crack in her composure. But Winter's expression was unreadable, her eyes cool and unwavering.
At last, he gave a faint hum, sat back down, and scribbled something in her file. He did not press further. With a final push of his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he stamped her papers and waved her on.
Winter left the partition as though nothing had happened, though she could feel the faintest trace of suspicion lingering behind her.
Minutes later, Stella emerged from her own examination, practically skipping over to Winter with the same irrepressible energy as before.
"I passed!" she beamed, hopping beside her. "Didn't think I would, but look at me now!"
Winter said nothing, but Stella's grin only widened as she fell into step at her side, clearly unwilling to let her go.