The alarm clock's shrill cry cut through Alex's dreams at 5:30 AM, dragging him from visions of tactical maneuvers and precision shots. He'd been having the same dream for three nights running—standing on a hill overlooking a massive airsoft battlefield, a sniper rifle in his hands that felt as natural as breathing. In the dream, he could see everything: enemy movements, wind patterns, the perfect shot that would turn the tide of battle.
Reality was his cramped bedroom and the stack of college brochures his mom had left on his desk—gentle reminders that there was a world beyond plastic BBs and military simulation.
But today wasn't about college applications or homework. Today was his first session with Sergeant Rodriguez.
Alex had spent the past two weeks preparing with an intensity that surprised even him. Every spare moment was devoted to research: military field manuals downloaded from obscure websites, YouTube channels run by former special forces operators, forums where serious milsim players discussed advanced tactics with the fervor of actual soldiers.
He'd also been working on his physical conditioning, running the wooded trails behind his house until his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. If Rodriguez was as demanding as Maya had suggested, Alex wanted to be ready.
The drive to the training location took him forty minutes outside Millbrook, deep into state forest land where the trees grew thick enough to block out most of the morning sun. Alex followed GPS coordinates Jake had texted him, turning off the main road onto a dirt track that looked like it hadn't seen maintenance in years.
The training facility, when he finally found it, was nothing like Pete's casual field. This was serious business: military-surplus tents arranged in precise rows, obstacle courses that looked like they belonged at boot camp, and shooting ranges marked off with professional precision. Even the parking area was organized—vehicles lined up with military efficiency.
Alex was five minutes early, but he was still the last to arrive. A dozen other players were already assembled in formation, their gear immaculate and their posture suggesting this wasn't their first Rodriguez training session. Alex recognized a few faces from various games around the region, but most were strangers.
Standing before them was a man who could only be Sergeant Rodriguez.
He was shorter than Alex had expected—maybe five-foot-eight—but built like a compressed spring, all lean muscle and coiled energy. His hair was regulation short, his uniform crisp despite the early hour, and his eyes held the kind of intensity that made Alex want to stand straighter without being told.
"You must be Rivera," Rodriguez said, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. "Jake spoke highly of your tactical instincts. We'll see if he was right."
"Yes, sir."
"Drop your gear with the others and fall in. We start with PT."
Physical training, Alex discovered, meant something very different to a former Marine than it did to a high school soccer player. The next hour was a blur of push-ups, sit-ups, mountain climbers, and obstacle courses that left him gasping and soaked with sweat. By the time Rodriguez called a halt, Alex's legs were shaking and his vision was spotted with exhaustion.
"Water break," Rodriguez announced. "Five minutes. Then we move to marksmanship fundamentals."
Alex collapsed onto a log beside Maya, who looked annoyingly fresh despite having completed the same brutal workout.
"How are you not dying?" he gasped.
"Practice," she said, offering him her water bottle. "Rodriguez runs these sessions once a month, but the serious students train on their own between sessions. You'll adapt."
"Assuming I survive."
"You will. Rodriguez doesn't waste time on people who can't handle the pressure. The fact that you're here means he thinks you have potential."
The marksmanship portion of training took place on a range that put Pete's casual field to shame. Targets were set at various distances from 50 to 200 feet, with wind flags and range cards that tracked environmental conditions with scientific precision. Rodriguez demonstrated proper shooting positions—prone, kneeling, standing—with the methodical attention to detail of someone who'd once depended on accuracy for survival.
"Marksmanship isn't about having the best equipment," Rodriguez explained as the students settled into prone positions. "It's about consistency, breathing, and understanding your weapon's capabilities. A mediocre rifle in skilled hands will outperform the most expensive setup used by an amateur."
Alex lined up his shot on a target 100 feet downrange, trying to remember everything Pete had taught him about sight alignment and trigger control. His first shot went wide, missing the target entirely. His second clipped the edge. By his fifth shot, he was starting to find the rhythm Rodriguez was teaching.
"Better," Rodriguez said, appearing behind Alex without warning. "But you're rushing your follow-through. The shot doesn't end when you pull the trigger—it ends when the BB reaches the target. Stay on target, call your shot, then cycle to the next one."
The next string of fire was markedly better. Alex managed to group his shots within the target's center ring, earning an approving nod from the sergeant.
"Natural talent," Rodriguez observed. "But talent without discipline is worthless. You want to be a real marksman, you need to practice until perfect shots become automatic."
After marksmanship came small unit tactics—the kind of coordinated movement and communication that separated serious players from weekend warriors. Rodriguez divided the group into four-man teams and ran them through increasingly complex scenarios: room clearing, patrol movements, ambush techniques.
Alex found himself paired with Maya and two other experienced players—Sarah from his home field and a quiet college student named David who moved with the fluid precision of someone who'd been doing this for years.
"Rivera, you're team leader for this exercise," Rodriguez announced, causing Alex's stomach to drop. "Your mission is to advance 200 meters through hostile territory and eliminate a high-value target. Enemy forces have unknown numbers and positions. You have thirty minutes."
The scenario area was a maze of natural cover and artificial obstacles—fallen logs, plywood barriers, and camouflaged positions that could hide enemy players. Rodriguez had positioned several "opposing force" members throughout the area, armed with automatic weapons and instructions to make the exercise as realistic as possible.
Alex studied the terrain, his mind racing through possibilities. A direct assault would be suicide against entrenched defenders. Stealth might work, but thirty minutes wasn't much time for careful infiltration. He needed something that combined speed with tactical intelligence.
"Maya, you're our overwatch," he decided. "Find a position with good sight lines and call out enemy movements. Sarah, you and David are with me—we're going to move fast and use suppressive fire to keep their heads down."
"Aggressive approach," Maya observed. "You sure about that?"
"They're expecting us to be cautious. Sometimes the best tactic is the one nobody sees coming."
The exercise began with the sharp crack of Rodriguez's whistle. Alex's team moved out immediately, using a bounding overwatch technique where one element provided covering fire while the other advanced. It was a basic military tactic, but executed with the kind of precision that came from hours of practice.
They made it fifty meters before the first contact.
The enemy position opened up from a concealed bunker, automatic fire raking the ground where Alex's team had been moments before. BBs snapped through the air with angry buzzing sounds, forcing the team to dive for cover behind a fallen tree.
"Contact front!" Sarah called out, her voice steady despite the incoming fire. "Bunker position, eleven o'clock, approximately thirty meters!"
Maya's voice crackled over their radio system: "I see two shooters in the bunker, one more in the tree line to your right. The bunker's your main threat."
Alex's mind raced through options. The bunker was too well-positioned for a frontal assault, and they didn't have time for a lengthy flanking maneuver. But there was a third option—one that would require perfect timing and a healthy dose of audacity.
"Sarah, David—on my mark, I want sustained fire on that bunker. Don't worry about accuracy, just keep their heads down. Maya, can you get an angle on the tree line shooter?"
"Affirmative. Give me thirty seconds to reposition."
"Copy. Sarah, David—you ready?"
Both players nodded, their rifles trained on the enemy position.
"Execute!"
The next sixty seconds were pure chaos. Sarah and David opened up with everything they had, their automatic rifles chattering as they poured suppressive fire into the bunker. The enemy shooters were forced to duck for cover, their return fire becoming sporadic and poorly aimed.
While his teammates kept the enemy pinned, Alex sprinted toward the bunker in a wide flanking arc, using every piece of available cover. His heart hammered against his ribs as BBs whined past his head, but his focus was absolute. This was the same kind of calculated risk he'd taken in his first game, but refined by weeks of study and practice.
Maya's rifle cracked once from her overwatch position, and Alex heard one of the enemy players call out "Hit!" The tree line threat was neutralized.
Alex reached the bunker's blind spot just as Sarah and David's magazines ran dry. In the brief lull as they reloaded, he could hear the enemy shooters preparing to resume fire.
"Grenade!" Alex called out, lobbing a foam training grenade into the bunker. The explosion simulator went off with a satisfying bang, and both enemy players raised their hands in surrender.
"Bunker neutralized," Alex reported over the radio. "Moving to phase line bravo."
The rest of the exercise went smoothly. With the main defensive position eliminated, Alex's team was able to advance rapidly to their objective—a mannequin representing the high-value target. David put two precise shots into the target's center mass, and Rodriguez's whistle signaled the end of the exercise.
"Time: eighteen minutes, forty-three seconds," Rodriguez announced as the teams regrouped. "Casualties: zero friendly, four enemy. Mission accomplished."
Alex felt a surge of pride, but Rodriguez's expression remained neutral.
"Debrief," the sergeant said simply. "Rivera, walk me through your decision-making process."
For the next twenty minutes, Rodriguez dissected every aspect of the exercise with surgical precision. He praised Alex's aggressive tactics and quick thinking, but also pointed out moments where better communication could have reduced risk, positions where the team had been unnecessarily exposed, and opportunities for more efficient movement.
"Overall assessment," Rodriguez concluded, "solid leadership under pressure. You made good tactical decisions and adapted when the situation changed. But you're still thinking like this is a game. In real combat, that bunker assault could have gotten your entire team killed."
"This isn't real combat, though," Alex pointed out.
Rodriguez's smile was sharp. "No, it's not. But the habits you build here, the instincts you develop—those become part of who you are. Train like your life depends on it, and when it matters, you'll be ready."
The final portion of the training session focused on advanced marksmanship—long-range shooting that required understanding of ballistics, wind compensation, and target leading. Rodriguez set up targets at distances that pushed the limits of airsoft equipment, then demonstrated shots that seemed impossible.
"Precision shooting is as much mental as physical," he explained, settling into a prone position behind a heavily modified sniper rifle. "You need to read the environment, understand your equipment's limitations, and most importantly, control your own physiology."
His first shot struck a target 250 feet away dead center. His second hit a moving target that was barely visible through the trees. By his fifth shot, Alex was convinced he was watching some kind of magic.
"Your turn, Rivera," Rodriguez said, gesturing toward the rifle. "Let's see what you can do with proper equipment."
The sniper rifle was unlike anything Alex had ever handled. Where his Combat Machine was functional and reliable, this weapon was a precision instrument—every component carefully selected and tuned for maximum accuracy. The scope alone probably cost more than Alex's entire loadout.
He settled into the shooting position Rodriguez had demonstrated, trying to remember every detail of the instruction. The target was 200 feet away—not impossibly distant, but far enough to require real skill.
His first shot missed by inches. His second was closer. By his third attempt, Alex was starting to understand the weapon's rhythm, the way it responded to his input.
The fourth shot was perfect.
The BB struck the target's center ring with a satisfying thwack, and Alex heard several of the other students murmur appreciatively. More importantly, he saw Rodriguez nod with what might have been approval.
"Natural ability," the sergeant said. "With proper training and equipment, you could become a very effective long-range shooter. Question is, are you willing to put in the work?"
Alex looked down at the precision rifle, feeling its weight and balance, imagining what it would be like to own something like this. The price tag would be enormous—probably more than he could save in a year of part-time work. But the possibility was intoxicating.
"Yes, sir," he said without hesitation.
"Good. I run advanced marksmanship courses for serious students. Monthly sessions, focused specifically on long-range shooting and precision tactics. It's expensive, and it's demanding, but it's the best training you'll find outside the military."
As the session wound down and students began packing their equipment, Alex found himself surrounded by players eager to discuss the day's exercises. His performance had clearly made an impression—several people asked about his background, his equipment, his plans for future training.
But it was Maya's assessment that mattered most.
"You did well today," she said as they walked toward the parking area. "Rodriguez doesn't offer advanced training to just anyone. He must see real potential in you."
"I can barely afford basic equipment," Alex pointed out. "How am I supposed to pay for advanced courses and precision rifles?"
"Same way the rest of us do—work, save, prioritize. Sarah's been saving for two years to buy her current setup. David works three part-time jobs to fund his airsoft habit. If you want it badly enough, you'll find a way."
The drive home gave Alex time to process everything he'd experienced. The physical demands, the tactical complexity, the precision required for advanced marksmanship—it was all far beyond what he'd imagined when he first stumbled onto Pete's field.
But it was also exactly what he wanted.
That evening, Alex sat at his computer researching part-time job opportunities in Millbrook. Pizza delivery, grocery store clerk, restaurant server—none of it was glamorous, but all of it represented a path toward the equipment and training he craved.
His mom appeared in his doorway as he was calculating how many hours he'd need to work to afford Rodriguez's advanced course.
"How was your training session?" she asked.
"Intense. Educational. Expensive," Alex said with a rueful smile.
"Expensive how?"
Alex explained about the advanced courses, the precision equipment, the level of commitment required to compete at higher levels. His mom listened with the careful attention she brought to all his interests, asking questions that showed she was trying to understand rather than judge.
"It sounds like this is becoming more than just a hobby," she observed.
"Yeah. Maybe. I know it seems crazy, spending so much time and money on what's basically playing war games, but—"
"But it's given you purpose," his mom interrupted gently. "You have goals again, friends, something you're passionate about. That's not crazy, mijo. That's healthy."
"Even if it means working part-time while keeping up with school?"
Maria Rivera studied her son's face, seeing the determination there, the sense of direction that had been missing since the divorce.
"If you can handle the responsibility, and if your grades don't suffer, then yes. But Alex—this has to be about more than just equipment and training. What are you really working toward?"
It was a good question, one Alex had been asking himself. The easy answer was that he wanted to become a better airsoft player, maybe compete in major tournaments. But there was something deeper driving him, something he was only beginning to understand.
"I want to be someone people can count on," he said finally. "In the game, on a team, maybe eventually in real life. I want to be the kind of person who doesn't let others down."
His mom's smile was warm with understanding. "Then I think this is exactly what you should be doing."
That night, Alex lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his mind full of possibilities. Precision rifles, advanced training, regional competitions—it all seemed within reach if he was willing to work for it.
For the first time since his parents' divorce, Alex Rivera had a clear vision of his future. It might not be the path anyone expected, but it was his path.
And he was ready to fight for it.