The bus pulled through the gates just after sunrise. Beyond the chain-link fencing stretched endless pine and training fields, the kind of place designed to disappear from maps. Officially, this was nothing more than a government facility for "specialized training." Unofficially, it was The Farm — the CIA's crucible.
We filed off the bus, a dozen recruits in plain fatigues, our bags slung over our shoulders. Instructors stood waiting, clipboards in hand, scanning us like hawks.
"You are here because someone in Washington thinks you're worth the trouble," one of them barked. "For the next six months, your life is ours. We'll break you down, test you, and if you survive, we'll forge you into agents of the United States government. Welcome to The Farm."
No one dared laugh.
We were marched toward the dormitories, split by gender at the entrance.
"Men to the left, women to the right. Two to a room. No exceptions."
I was paired with a tall, wiry recruit named Collins. He didn't talk much, just nodded and started unpacking with mechanical precision. The room was sparse: two bunks, two footlockers, one desk. Just enough to hold what the Agency thought we needed.
As we passed the female dorms on the way in, my eyes caught on one recruit stepping through her doorway. Blonde hair tied neatly in a ponytail, posture straight, eyes already scanning the environment like she owned it. Sarah Walker.
To anyone else, she was just another candidate. To me, she was so much more. From my memories, I knew who she would become: the CIA's finest agent, my partner, my future wife.
But right now, she didn't know me. Not yet.
The first week at The Farm was designed to break us.
Wake-up call at 5 a.m., no exceptions. The second the lights snapped on, the instructors were already barking at us to hit the field. Morning runs — miles through mud, gravel, and woods. Weight training that shredded muscle and left half the recruits gasping for air. Hand-to-hand drills where bruises were expected and blood wasn't unusual.
I kept up. More than that — I thrived. I wasn't the awkward nerd behind a computer screen anymore. I was sharper, stronger, calmer. I pushed through every run, finished every set, breathing steady.
Sarah thrived too. Even in separate quarters, we saw each other in formation, on the field, in the mess hall. She was relentless, disciplined, and precise. Where others faltered, she didn't. Watching her train was like watching someone who already belonged here.
By midday, we were drained, but the day wasn't over. The Omaha Project waited for me in the afternoons.
Professor Fleming and his team had a dedicated wing on base, a sterile environment lined with servers and terminals. There, I became the analyst side of the hybrid they were forging me into. Image recognition drills, database tests, decryption exercises. Tasks designed to measure how much information the human mind could absorb before breaking.
Where others hit their ceiling, I found I could go further. The ninety-nine percent accuracy score from Stanford wasn't a fluke. I could see the patterns no one else could.
So my days became a rhythm: dawn runs, morning fights, weight circuits, afternoons in front of glowing screens — soldier by morning, analyst by afternoon.
Every night, lights out at 10 p.m. Collins collapsed into bed without a word. Across the compound, Sarah would be doing the same in her own dorm, just as exhausted, just as committed.
I stared at the ceiling, body sore but mind alive.
I was becoming exactly what I needed to be.
And Sarah? She was on that same path. Two recruits. Two futures. Our destinies already linked, though she didn't know it yet.
This was only week one. And already, the transformation had begun.