"Drop and give me twenty!"
Marcus hit the deck with nineteen other Marines. His body moved without hesitation—perfect form, controlled breathing, muscles that knew this routine.
His mind watched from somewhere behind his eyes, cataloging each movement his body performed automatically.
Nineteen pushups. On the twentieth, he deliberately let his form slip.
Just enough to look human.
"On your feet! Formation in the courtyard, five minutes!"
The platoon thundered toward the door. Marcus followed, matching their pace while his enhanced awareness tracked every movement around him.
Garcia stumbled slightly on the steps. Williams favored his left ankle. Morrison's breathing was slightly elevated—probably fighting a cold.
Too much information. Normal Marines didn't notice these details.
Outside, Lieutenant Colonel Martinez stood at the head of formation. Her uniform was crisp despite the early hour. Silver oak leaves caught the morning light.
Behind her, Thompson watched the platoon with predatory interest.
"Marines!" Martinez's voice carried across the courtyard. "Today's schedule includes formal inspection at 0900, followed by advanced marksmanship training. I want to see the same excellence you showed yesterday carried forward."
Her eyes swept the formation and stopped on Marcus.
"Private Thorne. Front and center."
Marcus's stomach dropped. He stepped forward, came to attention six feet from the Colonel.
"Ma'am."
Martinez studied him. "How was your medical leave, Marine?"
"Fine, ma'am. Ready for duty."
"Good to hear. Master Chief Thompson tells me you're quite the marksman. Says you've got an interesting shooting style."
Marcus kept his expression neutral. "I do my best, ma'am."
"I'm sure you do." Martinez glanced at Thompson. "Today you'll be assisting with recruit training. Think you can handle that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Outstanding. Dismissed."
Marcus returned to formation. Garcia caught his eye and mouthed, 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭?
After breakfast, Marcus found himself at Range C with a dozen nervous recruits. Thompson handed him a training manual and a clipboard.
"These boots need to qualify before they ship out. Show them how it's done."
The recruits looked like they'd barely finished basic training. Fresh faces, uncertain stances, weapons held like foreign objects.
Marcus remembered feeling that way himself—except Marcus Chen had never held a rifle, and Marcus Thorne apparently had years of experience he couldn't access.
"All right, listen up." The words came naturally. "First rule of marksmanship—the weapon doesn't make the shot. You do."
A recruit raised his hand. "Sir, what's the longest shot you've ever made?"
Marcus paused. His body wanted to answer, muscle memory stirring with half-formed responses about distances and conditions he'd never experienced.
"Long enough," he said. "Focus on hitting what's in front of you before you worry about records."
He demonstrated the shooting positions—prone, kneeling, standing. His body moved through each stance flawlessly.
The recruits watched with the reverence of students studying a master.
"Now you try. Start with prone position, fifty-meter targets."
The first recruit fired. His shots scattered across the target like buckshot.
Marcus moved behind him, observing the problems—breathing wrong, trigger jerk, poor sight alignment.
"Hold your breath differently. Take the shot at the natural respiratory pause." Marcus adjusted the recruit's grip. "And squeeze the trigger straight back. Don't slap it."
The recruit tried again. Better grouping.
"How'd you know to fix those problems?" another recruit asked.
𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥, Marcus thought. 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦.
"Practice," he said. "Experience."
"What about Luna Station training?" The question came from a recruit named Phillips. "My instructor at basic said you made some impossible shot during night exercises. Zero-G, no atmosphere, like 800 meters?"
The other recruits turned to stare. Marcus felt their expectation like a physical weight.
Luna. Again. The story Garcia had mentioned, now spreading like legend through the training pipeline.
"Wasn't impossible," Marcus said carefully. "Just took the right conditions into account."
"Can you teach us that kind of shooting?"
"Let's start with hitting targets at fifty meters. Walk before you run."
Marcus moved down the line, correcting stances and offering advice his conscious mind didn't understand. His body knew these techniques intimately.
His muscle memory contained years of training and experience that belonged to someone else.
A recruit struggled with his weapon malfunction drill. Marcus watched him fumble with the bolt, trying to clear a jam that wasn't really jammed—just a training scenario with a blocked barrel.
Without thinking, Marcus reached over and twisted the bolt assembly a quarter turn counterclockwise. The action cleared immediately.
The recruit stared. "How'd you know to do that? The manual says—"
"Sometimes the manual's wrong." Marcus realized his mistake immediately.
He'd corrected a problem that should have been invisible, using knowledge he shouldn't possess. "Trial and error teaches you things books can't."
From across the range, Thompson watched everything. His expression was unreadable, but his attention never wavered from Marcus's instruction methods.
The morning progressed. Marcus continued teaching techniques he didn't remember learning, sharing experience he'd never gained.
Each demonstration felt like walking a tightrope—too much knowledge would expose him, too little would blow his cover as an experienced Marine.
During a break, Garcia approached with his usual grin.
"Heard you're playing instructor today. Remember when we had to do this shit back on Luna? You hated teaching the boot recruits."
Marcus nodded noncommittally. "Yeah."
"Course, that was before your big moment. What was it Thompson called you after that night shoot? 'The Ghost' or something?"
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵. Marcus had never heard the nickname before, but Garcia spoke like it was common knowledge.
"That was a long time ago."
"Long time, hell. That was six months ago. Right before you went on leave." Garcia studied his face. "You sure you're okay, man? Ever since Mindoir, you've been different. Quieter. Like you're thinking about stuff all the time."
Before Marcus could respond, Thompson's voice cut across the range.
"Thorne! My office, five minutes."
Garcia whistled low. "Good luck, brother."
Marcus walked toward the range office, his mind racing through possibilities. Had Thompson caught him making another mistake? Seen through his improvised instruction?
Through the office window, he glimpsed Thompson and Martinez in conversation. Their voices carried just enough for him to catch fragments.
"...different since he came back..."
"...not the same Marine..."
"...something happened down there..."
They stopped talking when Marcus knocked.
"Enter."
Marcus stepped inside. Martinez sat behind the desk while Thompson leaned against the wall.
"Close the door," Martinez said.
The latch clicked shut. Marcus came to attention.
"At ease, Marine." Martinez gestured to a chair. "Sit down. We need to talk."
Marcus sat, keeping his spine straight. The silence stretched.
"Your performance today was impressive," Martinez finally said. "The recruits respond well to your instruction. Master Chief Thompson has some interesting observations about your methods."
Thompson spoke from the wall. "You teach like someone who's seen combat. Real combat, not just training exercises."
"I've been deployed, ma'am. Master Chief."
"According to your record, your last deployment was garrison duty on a colony world. No combat action listed." Martinez opened a file folder. "Yet you demonstrate tactics and techniques that suggest otherwise."
Marcus felt sweat beading on his forehead. "Training exercises can be realistic, ma'am."
"They can be." Martinez leaned forward. "Tell me about your medical leave."
"Routine visit home, ma'am. Memorial service for my parents."
"How was Mindoir? Colony recovering well from the reconstruction?"
A test question. Marcus realized he had no idea what Mindoir's current status was, what reconstruction she might be referencing, whether he should know details about recent developments.
"Yes, ma'am. The colony's doing well."
Martinez and Thompson exchanged glances.
"That's interesting," Martinez said slowly. "Because according to the colonial administration, Mindoir's been under evacuation protocols for the past two months. Pirate raids. Most of the population has been relocated to safer systems."
Marcus's mouth went dry.
"So I'm curious," Martinez continued, "how you attended a memorial service on a mostly abandoned world."
The office felt like it was shrinking. Thompson pushed off from the wall, moving closer.
"Want to try that answer again, Marine?"