The instructors herded us onto the training field before dawn, the air still cold with morning fog. Today was different. No long runs, no weights. Instead, the obstacle course loomed — walls, trenches, mock buildings set up for close-quarters scenarios.
"This is a live-simulation drill," the lead instructor barked. "You'll run it in pairs. You'll encounter hostiles. You'll neutralize the threat. Any questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. Bartowski, you're up first."
I stepped forward, helmet clipped, training weapon slung. A recruit named Collins — my dorm roommate — was assigned as my partner. He checked his gear nervously while I scanned the course. Doors. Windows. Ladders. Piping along the wall. Piles of crates stacked at odd angles. To everyone else, it was an obstacle. To me, it was an opportunity.
The whistle blew.
We sprinted into the course. Shouts erupted ahead as instructors playing "hostiles" opened fire with paint rounds. Collins dropped behind cover, fumbling with his rifle. I dropped too — but instead of raising my weapon, my eyes darted.
There: a dangling chain from a loose pulley. Above it, a stack of heavy sandbags hung in the rafters.
While Collins panicked, firing blindly, I yanked the chain hard. The pulley screeched. The sandbags crashed down like a hammer, scattering two of the "hostiles" before they could flank us.
The instructors shouted in surprise, caught off guard by their own setup.
We moved deeper into the course. Another hostile appeared in the window, aiming down. Instead of firing, I spotted a broken length of pipe along the wall. I snatched it up, jammed it into an electrical panel, and sparks erupted. Smoke filled the window, forcing the hostile to retreat coughing.
By the time we reached the extraction point, my weapon hadn't fired a single round.
The whistle blew again.
"Instructors, evaluate," came the order over the loudspeaker.
One of the field agents marched over, scowling. "Bartowski. Why the hell didn't you use your firearm?"
I stood tall, calm. "Because neutralizing doesn't always mean shooting. Guns are tools. So are sandbags, pipes, smoke, leverage. MacGyver once said you can do more with a roll of duct tape and a Swiss Army knife than a whole arsenal."
The instructor's eyes narrowed. "You think this is a game, Bartowski?"
"No, sir," I replied evenly. "I think this is reality. Out there, bullets run out. Guns jam. But the environment is always there. If I can end a fight without wasting ammo — or lives — why wouldn't I?"
The instructor stared at me for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tear me down or admit I had a point. Finally, he barked, "Back in line."
As I jogged back to formation, I caught sight of Sarah across the field. She hadn't said a word, but her eyes lingered on me, just for a second. Not judgmental. Not dismissive. Curious.
I straightened my shoulders.
Let the others prove they could shoot straight. I'd prove I could think straight.
And that was going to make all the difference.