Kamcy
Bang!
The shot cracked through the air like thunder, sharp enough that it felt as though it split my skull in half. The recoil nudged hard into my shoulder as I pulled the bolt back and chambered another round.
Not a clip.
A magazine.
That correction had been drilled into me early—one of the first things Unit 01 had corrected with mechanical indifference. Movies lied. A lot.
I steadied my breathing, adjusted my cheek weld against the stock, and listened.
"Wind two clicks left," Unit 01 said calmly. "Target moving. Elevation steady. Fire on my mark."
I hated that it was right.
Snipers didn't work alone. Not really. Not if you wanted consistency. Someone had to watch what you couldn't—distance, wind drift, micro-adjustments. Someone had to see the battlefield as a whole while you tunneled in on a single point.
"Mark."
Bang!
The final unit collapsed, its body jerking once before going limp. The life bar above its head drained instantly, blinking out of existence.
A notification flashed across my vision.
[Test complete. You may now proceed to the final lesson of your mission: Weapons Handling.]
I exhaled slowly, tension draining from my shoulders.
Weapons training had been… excessive.
Firearms came first—pistols, rifles, shotguns. Reload drills until my fingers moved without conscious thought. Clearing jams under pressure. Shooting while moving. Shooting while wounded.
Then cold weapons.
Knives of different lengths and weights. Short blades meant for tight spaces. Long blades meant for reach. Swords balanced forward and backward. Spears. Glaives. Bows.
Weapons designed to keep distance. Weapons meant to close it violently.
How to kill quietly.
How to kill when silence was impossible.
Grenades came next.
That part might have been funny—if it weren't for the sheer number of times I'd died from improperly set explosives. Improvised devices. Tripwires. Pressure triggers. The kind of things you usually only heard about in documentaries or crime reports.
TNT placement. Blast radius calculations. Structural weaknesses. How walls could funnel shockwaves—or absorb them.
And now this.
The precipice.
"Attention, Subject 1004," Ms. Destiny's voice chimed in, smooth and artificial as ever. "Congratulations on completing your weapons handling training."
A brief, obnoxiously triumphant jingle played somewhere in the background—something straight out of an old arcade cabinet.
I ignored it.
"You will now undergo a final test to complete your mission."
The jingle cut off.
Text flooded my vision.
[Your target has been captured and is being held hostage in Compound A.]
[Objective: Rescue the target alive.]
[Time Limit: 10 minutes.]
[Enemy Combatants: 100.]
[0 / 100 neutralized.]
My jaw tightened.
Ten minutes.
A hundred enemies.
No margin for error.
"Please select your equipment," Ms. Destiny continued. "Once ready, proceed through the black door at the end of the room. Good luck."
Her voice vanished.
I stood still for a moment, rolling my shoulders, forcing my thoughts into order.
This wasn't about brute force. It couldn't be. A hundred enemies meant layers—patrols, overwatch, internal security. If I rushed in blindly, I'd die.
So I planned.
I selected combat gear: body armor rated to stop rifle rounds, snug but flexible. A combat knife secured where my hand could reach it without looking. Two pistols on my hips. Extra magazines. A shotgun slung across my back, shells strapped along my vest.
And a sniper rifle.
Always a sniper rifle.
I caught my reflection in the glossy surface of the weapon rack and almost laughed.
I looked… cool.
I stepped through the black door.
The world rebuilt itself around me.
A forest.
Dense. Quiet. Alive.
I hadn't been in many forests in my life, but I was certain I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between this and reality. The undergrowth crunched softly beneath my boots. Damp leaves clung to the ground. Shafts of pale light filtered through the canopy, catching drifting dust and pollen.
Birds chirped somewhere far off.
The air smelled of earth and pine.
I moved slowly, scanning.
Then I saw it.
Compound A.
A manor turned fortress, perched atop a hill overlooking the forest. Stone walls reinforced with modern security. Watchtowers at each corner. Armed guards patrolling in visible patterns. Cameras. Floodlights. Fencing.
I swallowed.
This wasn't a smash-and-grab.
I raised my rifle—
And everything went black.
—
I jolted awake on the training floor, gasping.
"What—what the hell just happened?"
[You were shot in the head by a sniper.]
Unit 01's voice was flat. Clinical.
That was it.
No warning.
No chance.
I clenched my fists.
So that was how this was going to be.
Attempt One, I counted mentally.
I changed tactics.
High ground. Always high ground.
I circled wide, staying low, using terrain and foliage for cover. Crawled when I had to. Counted patrol routes. Marked guard rotations.
I spotted two snipers this time—one in a tower, another hidden deeper inside the manor.
I steadied my breathing and aimed.
No spotter this time.
Just me.
The tower sniper dropped first—a clean headshot.
Then the second—
Or so I thought.
A dog burst from the treeline.
I barely reacted before it slammed into me, teeth sinking into my arm. Pain detonated up my nerves. I screamed, fired blindly.
Missed.
A guard rounded the corner.
Gunfire erupted.
Bullets punched into my chest at close range, crushing the breath from my lungs.
Black.
—
[Cause of death: Massive internal bleeding.]
I lay there afterward, shaking.
It hurt.
Even knowing it was a simulation didn't dull it.
Attempt Two, I noted.
Explosives.
I fired a grenade launcher at the right side of the manor wall from a distance. The blast tore through a patrol and collapsed part of the structure—but it also triggered every alarm in the compound.
All attention drew to the location the shot came from.
Gunfire rained down.
I moved fast, flanking through the area where the dog patrol had been before. This time I shot first. Making use of grappling gear, I scaled the wall and made quick work of the only two guards left watching this section due to the ruckus I'd caused.
Inside the manor, I cleared rooms fast and messy. I didn't know where my target was, so I stuck to a process of elimination. If I didn't find my target on this side, I'd try the next wing on my next run. With that in mind, I committed to the left wing.
Bodies piled up.
I found the hostage—a unit with TARGET written across its torso.
Untied them.
Turned upon hearing footsteps behind me—
A knife slid between my ribs, just below the vest.
I shot my attacker twice, dropped him, staggered forward—
And collapsed as more guards arrived.
Black.
—
[Cause of death: Punctured lung.]
I screamed when I came back.
Attempt Three.
Slow.
Quiet.
Methodical.
I avoided the compound entirely at first, using a crossbow to silently eliminate patrols and dogs. No alarms. No alerts.
I found a maintenance tunnel beneath the left wing—rusted bars, barely wide enough to squeeze through.
I waited.
Timed patrols.
Killed quietly.
Knife. Suppressor. Close range.
Five minutes left when I reached the hostage.
On the way out, the target slowed.
A guard spotted us.
I turned and fired.
Two shots rang out.
Mine killed him.
His shattered my knee as more guards poured in.
They didn't rush me after that.
They just shot me until I stopped moving.
Black.
—
[Cause of death: Hemorrhagic shock.]
I couldn't feel my legs when I woke up.
Attempt Four.
No finesse.
Pure violence.
Grenades. Suppression fire. Relentless advance.
Bodies everywhere.
I reached the hostage and checked the remaining time.
A sniper round punched through my eye.
Black.
—
[Cause of death: Cranial trauma.]
Attempt Five.
Stealth mode it is, then.
This time, no firearms. Instead, I took knives. A sword. Throwing daggers. A glaive. Explosives—just in case.
Given what I could surmise, this mission adhered closely to reality, so I waited—hoping for nightfall. Just as I'd hoped, night came, and with it, I moved.
This time, patrols overlapped.
I killed four guards silently, slipped into the tunnel, avoided cameras, and listened in on their communications using a stolen radio.
I reached the hostage, and as if the system was trying to screw me over, the target unit lagged behind, wasting precious time. For some reason, it began acting scared—burning seconds I didn't have.
Alarms blared.
Cameras caught missing patrols.
Gunfire erupted.
The hostage was shot.
Mission failed.
I refused to die running. Instead, I fought until they overwhelmed me.
Black.
—
I lay on the floor afterward, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard.
Five tries.
Five deaths.
Ten minutes each.
Ten minutes to die.
And I still hadn't won.
Goddamnit.
Ms. Destiny
I observed Subject 1004's data stream in silence.
Five attempts.
Five failures.
Yet he was among the first four subjects to complete weapons handling—and it showed.
Reaction times improving.
Tactical adaptability increasing.
Pain tolerance rising.
Significantly.
He hadn't noticed.
None of them had.
Each death left a deeper neural imprint. Each resurrection dulled hesitation and sharpened resolve.
Mr. Adeyemi would be pleased.
"Continue the simulation," I instructed.
The system complied.
All four subjects stirred.
Another attempt would begin shortly.