The firing range reeked of cordite and industrial disinfectant.
Marcus stood at station five, gripping an Alliance standard-issue pistol. The weapon's weight surprised him—heavier than he'd expected, balanced wrong in his untrained hands.
Yet his fingers found the proper grip automatically. His stance shifted into textbook form without conscious thought.
"Range is cold!" The voice echoed off concrete walls. "Check your weapons, check your gear, check the man next to you!"
Twenty Marines moved in synchronized precision. Marcus mimicked their motions, ejecting his magazine, inspecting the chamber, reinserting the mag with a sharp click.
His hands performed each action flawlessly while his mind scrambled to keep up.
The Marine beside him—GARCIA according to his name tape—glanced over. "You look green, Thorne."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah? When's the last time you qualified?"
Marcus had no answer for that. Garcia's eyes narrowed.
"Weird. Usually remember my last qual score." Garcia chambered a round. "Hope you ain't one of those transfers who can't shoot for shit. Reflects bad on the whole unit."
Station five faced a row of human-shaped silhouettes fifty meters downrange. Black ink on white paper. Center mass marked with scoring rings.
The bullseye stared back at Marcus like an accusation.
A man built like a tree trunk approached their line. Master Chief Thompson, according to the name tape stretched across his barrel chest.
Gray stubble covered his jaw. His eyes swept each Marine with professional assessment.
"Listen up, shitbirds." Thompson's voice could have cut steel. "This ain't basic training anymore. You're supposed to know which end the bullets come out of.
"Today's a simple combat qualification. Thirty rounds, three positions, pass-fail. Fail means extra training. Extra training means I see your ugly faces every day until you get it right."
Thompson stopped at station three. Studied the Marine's stance. Kicked his right foot six inches to the left.
"Better. Try not to embarrass yourself."
He moved down the line. Adjusted another Marine's grip. Corrected someone's sight picture. Professional. Clinical.
When he reached Marcus, Thompson paused.
"New transfer, right? Thorne?"
"Yes, Master Chief."
Thompson circled him like a predator. "Stance looks good. Grip's textbook. You qualified Expert back at your old unit?"
Marcus felt the weight of twenty pairs of eyes. "I did my best, Master Chief."
"That ain't what I asked." Thompson's stare could have melted armor plating. "Expert, Sharpshooter, or Marksman?"
The silence stretched. Marcus had no idea what those terms meant, what scores they represented, what his fictional previous unit might have recorded.
His mind raced through possibilities.
"Sharpshooter, Master Chief."
Thompson grunted. "We'll see. Range is about to go hot. Don't make me look like an idiot for believing you."
The Master Chief moved on. Marcus exhaled slowly.
"Range is hot! You may commence firing!"
The world exploded in gunfire.
Marcus raised his weapon. The sights aligned perfectly—front post centered in the rear notch, target floating on top like a textbook diagram.
His finger found the trigger.
Then something impossible happened.
He could see the bullet's path. Not literally—but he knew, with absolute certainty, exactly where the round would strike.
The knowledge sat in his mind like basic math. Pull the trigger now, hit dead center. Adjust two degrees left, clip the nine ring.
Compensate for the slight breeze he shouldn't have been able to feel, account for his elevated heart rate, factor in the weapon's mechanical tolerances.
Perfect accuracy, just like the voice had promised.
But perfect would attract attention. Perfect would raise questions. Perfect would destroy any chance of blending in.
Marcus adjusted his aim slightly. The knowledge in his head screamed that he was deliberately missing, but he squeezed the trigger anyway.
The recoil jolted his wrists. Downrange, a small hole appeared in the target's eight ring. Close to center, but not perfect.
He fired again. Another eight ring, two inches from the first shot.
Again. This time a nine.
The pattern emerging on his target looked good—better than good. But not superhuman. Not impossible.
Around him, other Marines struggled with their weapons. Garcia cursed as his shots scattered across the target.
Another Marine two stations down wasn't even hitting paper.
Marcus continued firing. Each shot required a conscious effort to miss the bullseye.
His unnatural accuracy fought him, demanding perfection while he forced deliberate imperfection. Thirty rounds. Twenty-eight hits in the eight and nine rings, two deliberate tens to show capability without raising suspicions.
"Cease fire! Cease fire! Range is cold!"
Marcus lowered his weapon. His target showed a tight cluster of holes, all within the higher scoring areas.
Impressive by normal standards. Impossible by accident.
Thompson walked the line, examining targets. He spent long seconds studying each one, making notes on his clipboard.
When he reached Marcus's station, he pulled the target from its frame and held it close to his face.
The Master Chief's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes.
"Interesting pattern, Thorne."
Marcus kept his voice level. "Master Chief?"
"Most recruits either spray and pray or get lucky with a few good shots." Thompson rotated the target, studying the shot placement from different angles.
"You shoot like someone who's trying real hard not to be perfect."
The statement hit like a physical blow. Marcus forced himself to breathe normally.
"I don't understand, Master Chief."
"See, the thing about shooting is, it tells a story." Thompson tapped the target with one thick finger.
"This here? This is the story of someone who knows exactly where his bullets are going. Someone who has to fight his own muscle memory to miss."
Garcia leaned over to look. His eyes widened at Marcus's score.
"Damn, Thorne. You sandbag us?"
Thompson's stare never left Marcus's face. "Question is—why would anyone do that? Why would a Marine deliberately shoot worse than he's capable of?"
Marcus met his gaze. "Maybe I'm just having a good day, Master Chief."
"Maybe." Thompson folded the target and tucked it into his clipboard. "Or maybe you're the kind of Marine who's got secrets. And secrets, Thorne? Secrets make me curious."
The Master Chief turned and addressed the entire line. "Qual scores get posted tomorrow. Anyone who failed gets to see me bright and early Monday morning.
"Anyone who thinks they're hot shit gets to prove it next week at the advanced course."
He paused at Marcus's station one more time.
"Especially the ones with interesting patterns."
Thompson walked away, leaving Marcus with the uncomfortable certainty that his first day as Marcus Thorne had created exactly the kind of attention he'd hoped to avoid.
Garcia slapped his shoulder. "Whatever you did back at your old unit, you better teach me. My grouping looks like a shotgun blast."
Marcus nodded absently, watching Thompson's retreating figure. The Master Chief glanced back once, his expression unreadable.
The supernatural accuracy had worked exactly as promised. Every bullet had gone precisely where he'd intended—even when he'd intended to miss.
But Thompson was right. The pattern told a story.
And Marcus was beginning to realize that in this world, even controlled imperfection might be perfect enough to expose him.