I sighed as I looked out over the group of first-year university students struggling in front of me.
The room smelled faintly of gun oil and cheap cleaning solvent, a scent I had long since stopped noticing until moments like this, when it mixed with nervous sweat and hesitation. It reminded me of training yards filled with recruits who didn't yet understand what failure really meant.
Half of them couldn't even get past the first step.
I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, watching one student fumble a basic disassembly for the third time. *I know they're just probies, but if they don't get this down, they will die.* There was no exaggeration in that, no dramatics, just fact.
I had seen it happen. I had seen a soldier fumble a reload under pressure. I had seen hands shake just enough to cost seconds, and I had seen those seconds turn into body bags. And now I was staring at a room full of future statistics.
I exhaled slowly, already regretting agreeing to give this lecture. At the time, it had seemed like an easy way to fill an empty day. Now it felt like a waste of breath.
"Did any of you actually read the textbook assigned for this course?"
My voice cut cleanly through the room. Several students shifted in their chairs. One looked down at his desk. Another suddenly became very interested in their rifle. The rest stayed very quiet.
I narrowed my eyes. "No? Well then, I'll tell you all right now, none of you will pass your first semester."
That got their attention.
"Congratulations," I continued, my tone sharpening, "on being the first class in the entire history of this course to all fail."
The reaction was immediate. Voices overlapped as tension replaced indifference.
"That's not fair!"
"I can't fail this, my commander would kill me!"
"They can't fail an entire class!"
I let them talk for a moment, watching them carefully. Fear. Good. Fear meant they might actually listen.
I raised a hand slightly, not enough to demand silence but enough to command it anyway. Once the noise died down, I spoke again.
"So, what I'm hearing is that none of you want to fail. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am!" came the quick response.
At least they could follow simple instructions.
"Then here's my advice," I said, stepping forward. "Read your textbook thoroughly and do your own independent research. What you learn here isn't for a grade."
I paused, letting that settle.
"It's for survival."
A few of them straightened at that.
"Now," I continued, picking up one of the rifles from the table, "the first and most important step, before anything else, is to make sure you do not have a round in the chamber."
I glanced up at them. "Why aren't you writing this down?"
That finally got them moving. Pens scratched across paper. Someone fumbled for a notebook they should have already had out. I resisted the urge to sigh again.
Maybe there was hope. Maybe.
Four hours later, I answered one of the few intelligent questions I had heard all day.
"Yes, correct," I said, allowing myself a small smile.
The student in front of me relaxed slightly, clearly relieved not to be torn apart for once.
"Maybe there is hope for you all yet."
A couple of them chuckled, the tension easing just a little. It had taken four hours to get them from completely incompetent to barely acceptable. Not great odds, but better than nothing.
I glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. Five minutes left. Not enough time to teach anything meaningful.
"Alright," I said, clapping my hands once. "Listen up."
The room quieted quickly now. That was something, at least.
"Ideally, we'd still have more time," I said, "but there's not much else I can teach you in five minutes."
I set the rifle down carefully before continuing.
"So remember this, clean weapon, clear mind. If your gear isn't ready, you aren't ready."
A few of them nodded, more serious now than when they had walked in.
"Class dismissed."
The room came alive as they packed up, talking among themselves. Some sounded relieved, others thoughtful. One or two actually looked like they might go read that textbook.
I picked up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and stepped out into the hallway. The noise faded behind me, replaced by silence.
Much better.
Outside, the air was cooler. I crossed the parking lot, my boots striking the pavement in steady, practiced steps. My car, a black 1971 Dodge Challenger, sat waiting where I had left it. At least something today was reliable.
I climbed in, tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, and started the engine. The familiar rumble grounded me, and for a moment everything felt normal.
Then my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Specialist Morgan, you are to report to HQ immediately. General Shaw has been shot, and he is asking for you."
Everything else stopped.
"…What?"
There was no answer, just the weight of the words hanging in the air.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Avery Shaw. The man who had trained me, pushed me, broken me down and rebuilt me stronger. The closest thing I had ever had to a father, even if he was an asshole.
"Understood," I said, my voice suddenly very steady, and hung up.
The Challenger roared as I accelerated hard out of the parking lot. I took the turn too fast, the tires screaming in protest, but I didn't slow down. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.
By the time I reached HQ, my pulse was pounding. I slammed the car into park and got out in one motion, already moving.
Something felt wrong.
The moment I stepped inside, it hit me. A shift. Subtle, quiet, but there.
My instincts flared immediately. My sixth sense was practically screaming at me to get out.
I slowed slightly, scanning the area. Too quiet. Too still.
But he was hurt. Waiting. Asking for me.
My jaw tightened, and emotion overrode instinct.
I moved faster.
By the time I reached the front desk, I was already pushing past it. "General Shaw, what room?" I demanded.
The answer barely registered.
I was already moving down the hall, faster, closer, my instincts still screaming at me to stop. I ignored them.
I reached the door and didn't hesitate. I pushed it open.
The room was empty.
My brain registered it instantly.
Wrong.
Then cold steel pressed against my throat.
I froze.
A breath behind me, close, too close. I hadn't heard them. I hadn't felt them.
A mistake.
My last clear thought came sharp and immediate.
*I should have listened.*
Then everything went dark.