The fog hadn't lifted.
Simon Petrogev stood at his assigned kiosk, adjusting the tactical gloves issued with the cadet uniform. His heart thudded—not from fear—but anticipation. It was a kind of anticipation born not of instinct but of calculation. Where Mason felt the primal instinct of fight or flight, Simon felt the steady hum of possibility. His mind raced with contingencies, with a thousand potential outcomes. Who would falter? Who would rise?
The kiosk's screen flickered to life.
Team 12: Simon Petrogev, Enni Veil, Malk Rigos, Tarn Lest.
Objective: Disable the enemy's uplink beacon before time expires. Timer: 60 minutes.
Names meant little in a test like this. What mattered was how they moved, how they reacted under pressure. Simon was already running scenarios in his head—mental chess against cadets he'd never met before. Malk, bulky and slow to speak; Enni, sharp but maybe reckless; Tarn, quiet but steady. He would observe them, learn their patterns, and shape his strategy from there.
He spotted them quickly. Enni, a short but fierce-looking girl with bright red hair tied back; Malk, a bulky brute who looked like he bench-pressed gunships; and Tarn, quiet and lean, eyes sharp, steps soft. All of them looked ready, but Simon needed to see how they'd act when the stakes got high.
The gates opened with a hiss.
Entering the Zone
The landscape was different from Mason's trial—no crumbling ruins, no hidden traps. Instead, a dense urban mock-up of broken towers, street intersections, and half-buried rubble stretched out before them. Drones buzzed overhead, tracking movements, recording reactions.
Simon led from the center—not as a commander, but as an observer. He didn't need to bark orders; his team's behavior would tell him everything he needed.
"If the uplink is broadcasting, it'll be somewhere central but defended," Simon said calmly, scanning the horizon. "We need elevation. Enni, scout the eastern route. Tarn, check for patrols to the west. Malk—stay with me. You're the shield if something goes south."
Enni, her bright red hair a sharp contrast against the gray landscape, nodded and dashed off to the east. Tarn, as quiet as ever, headed to the west, his sharp eyes cutting through the fog. Malk remained at Simon's side, his bulk slowing him down but giving him a certain weight of presence. Simon noted the hesitation in Malk's eyes. Not used to orders yet, or maybe just not used to being led by someone like Simon.
Malk grunted. "You in charge now?"
"Not really," Simon replied. "Just thinking ahead."
An Opening
Ten minutes into the mission, Enni's voice crackled over comms. "Two cadets on patrol, no sign of beacon. Moving patterns are lazy, probably relying on drones for surveillance."
Simon's brain clicked. Lazy? That's an opening.
"Tarn, anything from the west?" Simon asked.
Tarn's voice returned shortly after. "Same. Low coverage."
Simon adjusted the strap on his rifle, feeling the weight settle comfortably against his body. He had it. This was too easy.
"It's a false comfort. They want us to get sloppy. The beacon will be above ground, maybe on a rooftop. Look for lines of sight. The tallest point in the mock city," Simon said. He pointed toward a crumbling broadcast tower near the center of the zone. "That's our best bet."
Malk frowned, clearly unconvinced. "You sure?"
Simon didn't answer. He just kept walking toward their objective. The next move was already set.
The Ambush
They got there quickly—too quickly.
A flash of motion. The shot rang out.
Malk went down in a spray of simulation foam, his chest sensors lighting up red, signaling that he was "dead." The ambush hit with lightning speed—too fast for Simon to react as smoothly as he'd planned. But then again, he hadn't counted on the other team being so prepared.
"Sniper!" Tarn shouted.
Simon dropped behind a nearby crate, instinctively pulling his rifle up and scanning for threats. The world seemed to narrow.
The sniper's nest. A distant, half-seen shadow. Simon's pulse quickened.
The air grew thick, and suddenly, the world wasn't as clear as it had been. His plan, his sharp, calculated movements, crumbled. Malk was out. The angles were all wrong. His mind felt foggy as panic nudged at the edges of his thoughts.
The moment stretched. His chest tightened. Don't freeze. Don't freeze.
Then, Enni's voice cut through his haze, sharp and urgent. "Simon! What do we do?!"
It was the sound of a trigger, an anchor pulling Simon back from the brink. He blinked, shaking the fog out of his mind.
He made a choice.
"Tarn, flash grenade left. Enni, when it goes off, move right and flank the sniper's nest. I'll draw fire."
Tarn hesitated. "That's suicide."
Simon smiled grimly, despite the tension in his chest. "Not if I'm fast."
He darted from cover, hearing the loud whoosh of the flash grenade being thrown. A moment later, it exploded in a burst of white light that seared his vision. Pain simulation crackled across Simon's left side, a foam round clipping him, but it didn't matter.
Enni was already moving—slipping past him like a shadow to take out the sniper. Simon felt the adrenaline surge as the world snapped back into focus. They pushed forward.
The Uplink
The final stretch was a stairwell leading to the rooftop. The timer flickered—12 minutes left. No time to waste.
They burst onto the rooftop, and there it was—the uplink beacon, sitting pretty in the center, humming softly under a weak light. But it was defended by a cadet with a shield generator and stun baton.
Simon glanced around, scanning for weaknesses. One entry point. Narrow approach. A direct assault would be suicide. His mind ticked over options. No. Fake it. Draw them in.
"Stairwell is a death funnel," Simon muttered to himself. "We fake it."
He gave Tarn the signal to draw attention by firing from the stairwell. Enni climbed up the ventilation shaft on the opposite side. Tarn didn't hesitate this time; he fired, and Simon could hear the echo of shots in the distance.
Enni took her shot. The defender turned, and in that instant, Enni was on him, taking him out from behind.
Simon rushed to the beacon, fingers flying over his datapad. Shutdown code—entered. The system blinked green.
Objective complete. Return to base.
Aftermath
As they walked back toward Field Theta, Simon nursed the bruise where the foam round had struck. He could feel the sting deep in his ribs, but he ignored it. Tarn clapped him on the back, shaking him from his thoughts.
"Thought you froze for a second back there."
Simon's lips quirked into a half-smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He had frozen. He wasn't sure he could explain it any other way.
"I did," Simon admitted, his voice quiet, almost distant.
"Still pulled through. Not bad for a strategist."
Simon offered a tight smile. Adaptation. That's all this was. The fear, the hesitation—it lingered, but Simon had survived it. Had adapted. He'd made the choice to keep moving.
The screen above the field blinked with the next message:
Trial Complete. Scores Posting at 1200 Hours. Debrief to Follow.
Simon looked around at the group of tired, battered cadets—Mason among them in the distance. He wasn't sure why, but for the first time since arriving at the academy, Simon felt like he belonged. His calculated moves had paid off. And that, at least for today, was enough.