The end of the briefing was as sharp and clean as the rest of Reaper’s command style.
"Assignments are set," Reaper announced, his voice cutting through the low murmur of squad chatter like a blade. "You have your schedules for the week. If you don’t know where you’re supposed to be, that’s your problem, not mine." He cast a glance toward Paul, who sat stiffly with his arms crossed like he was at a military academy review board. “That includes you, Rookie. This ain’t the academy. This is the field. Miss a step, and someone dies.”
Paul’s eyes twitched, but he didn’t respond. He knew better.
“Crone,” Reaper continued, turning his attention to the sharp-eyed elven sniper. “You're cleared for full duty. I want you running overwatch drills with Watcher by Thursday, get back in the swing of things.”
Crone gave him a slow nod, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of dark tea. She blew on it once, unbothered. "Understood, sir."
“Breaker, I need you working with 1-7 on breach maneuvers. Our medic's slow, and I don't have patience for slow.”
Breaker rolled his shoulders, his large frame looking even bulkier in the dim training room light. "He'll keep up, or he'll stay down." His grin was sharp, not cruel, but enough to make Paul glance his way.
"Good." Reaper’s eyes swept across the room, scanning each of us in turn. "You're dismissed. Except for 1-2 and 1-4.”
My jaw tightened as I caught Viper’s glance out of the corner of my eye. Their grin was already forming, their lips quirking like they'd just heard a joke nobody else had caught.
“Busted,” they muttered, standing with an exaggerated stretch.
"Don't make it worse, Vivi," I said quietly as we stood.
“Oh, you know I will.” They shot me a grin, hands shoved into their pockets as they sauntered toward the front of the room.
The squad filtered out, Breaker slapping my back once as he passed. Watcher followed, its long mechanical fingers tapping a quick rhythm on the doorway as it moved through, each step precise and measured. Crone gave me a glance, her sharp eyes narrowing for a second before she sipped her tea and strode away with a quiet, regal grace.
The quiet that followed was a different kind of weight.
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Reaper waited until the room was clear. The second the door clicked shut behind Crone, he stepped forward, his gaze hard as granite. No bark, no growl. Just pressure. The kind you felt in your gut when you realized you were standing too close to the edge of a drop.
He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to. Silence was his favorite weapon.
I kept my eyes ahead, standing at ease but not too at ease. Viper leaned against the wall, tilting their head back as if this was just another lazy afternoon.
“1-2.” Reaper’s voice was slow, deliberate. “1-4.” His eyes flicked between the two of us. “Explain.”
"Sir," I started, voice steady. "We were on time for the briefing. Made it before the official start. No rules broken, given you called us on such a short notice."
"Funny," he said flatly, tilting his head as if he’d heard something interesting. “Didn’t ask for a technicality, Tats.”
I bit my tongue.
“You weren’t here when I started talking, missed the entire first brief,” he continued, stepping forward, his hands clasped behind his back. "So now I have to repeat myself for you. Do you know what that makes me look like?"
"Like you care about your squad?" Viper offered, grinning just wide enough to show teeth.
I braced, waiting for it.
Reaper’s gaze shifted to Viper like a rifle bolt locking into place. “Step forward, 1-4.”
They sighed but obeyed, pushing off the wall with a lazy roll of their shoulders. Their grin was still in place, but it had lost some of its edge.
“Take off your vest.”
That made Viper pause. Their eyes darted to mine for half a second.
“Take it off,” Reaper repeated.
Viper's grin fell away as they unbuckled the straps, peeling off the tactical vest and dropping it to the floor with a heavy thud. Their shoulders were bare now, just the dark tank top beneath, the edges of their shoulder tattoos peeking out like fresh ink.
“You’re fast, right?” Reaper said, stepping closer. “Got all that speed, all that energy to run your mouth. Let’s see how fast you really are.” He raised his hand, pointing toward the far end of the training floor. "Twenty laps. Right now. No augment assists. No magic. No breaks. If I see you slow, I double it."
“Of course you will,” Viper muttered, rolling their eyes as they started toward the track.
“Want to make it thirty?” Reaper asked, eyes narrowing.
Vivi didn’t say another word.
They started running. No slow build-up, no easing in. Full sprint. Their footfalls echoed, steady and sharp, like drumbeats.
Reaper watched them go, his eyes tracking every step, every movement. He didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched.
Then, slowly, his gaze shifted back to me.
“You think you’re clever, Tats?” he asked, his voice quiet now, almost too calm.
“No, sir,” I said firmly.
“Good answer.” He stepped closer, hands still behind his back. "You think I don't know how you work, kid? You show up just in time, right under the wire, and think you’re untouchable. Smart enough to never cross the line, but cocky enough to lean over it.”
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I didn’t answer. There wasn’t a point.
“Your biggest flaw,” he said, stepping so close I could see the small scars on his face, “is that you think you’ve figured me out.”
His eyes met mine. No anger. No disappointment. Just a quiet, razor-sharp certainty.
“You haven’t,” he said simply. “And until you do, I’m going to break every bad habit you’ve built over the past few weeks. You’ve been slipping, your performance isn’t what it was this time last year. And don’t blame your new ward, she’s been here for barely a week.”
He stepped back, his gaze never leaving me.
“No point in running you like I did 1-4,” he continued. “You’ll just dig in and grind through it. Not gonna work this time.” He tilted his head toward the mats. “Pair drills. You take every single rookie rotation today. Grapple. Spar. Do it until I’m tired of watching you beat recruits.”
I sucked in a slow breath through my nose, keeping my face still. No reaction. No frustration. Just acceptance.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice calm.
“That’s it,” he said, stepping past me. “You get it.”
He glanced toward where Viper was running, their breaths coming faster now, sweat already soaking into their tank top.
"You and 1-4 think you're smart," he said, his voice drifting back as he walked away. "But there's a reason I’m Reaper. I always collect."
I exhaled slowly, watching him leave.
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The steady thud-thud-thud of Viper’s footsteps echoed in the background, their breathing sharp but controlled. I didn’t have to look to know they were grinning again. The kind of grin that wasn't real—just something they wore to keep from feeling the weight of it all.
I glanced at the rookies, watching as they put on their gloves for the next round of sparring. Paul was among them, his eyes already on me. His gaze sharp. Ready.
This is gonna be a long one, I thought, tugging the gloves tighter over my hands.
"Don't break 'em," Breaker called from across the room, his grin wide as ever. "We still need them for mop duty."
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, walking toward the line of rookies.
I caught Watcher’s gaze as I passed. It tapped its temple with one metal finger and its biological eye gave a slow, exaggerated blink. "Your funeral, Tats."
“Thanks, Cam,” I said, rolling my shoulders.
Paul stepped up first. Of course he did.
I didn’t say anything as we squared up. Didn’t offer a nod.
He raised his fists in a learned pose, almost certainly coming from his academy time.
I followed suit.
“Fight,” Reaper barked.
Paul moved first, fast but obvious. He swung wide—a rookie’s mistake—telegraphing every inch of the movement. My feet shifted before I even had to think about it, ducking low and stepping inside his swing.
Too easy.
I drove my shoulder into his chest, knocking him off balance just enough to keep him guessing. He stumbled back, feet scrambling for purchase.
"Sloppy," I muttered, shaking out my arms. "You swing like you're chopping firewood."
Paul's eyes narrowed, his face twisting in frustration. “You think you’re better than me?” he hissed, circling slowly, his hands raised like he’d seen it in a movie. His footwork was too stiff, his weight on his heels.
“I know I’m better than you,” I shot back, keeping my movements loose, my breath even. “And so does everyone else in this room, rookie or Alpha Squad.” I had years of experience on him, of course I was better than him. Not that I was going to tell him that. Let him think I’m teasing him.
That did it. His face flushed red, and he lunged.
I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. He was all force, no thought. I side-stepped cleanly, catching his arm with one hand and twisting it down hard. His balance tipped forward, his momentum working against him. He hit the mat face-first with a loud thud, his grunt of pain sharp and satisfying.
“Don’t lead with emotion, Rookie,” I said, releasing his arm. I stepped back, letting him roll onto his side. “You’ll get played every time.”
I glanced up to see Reaper watching from the edge of the mat, arms crossed, eyes locked onto me with that same calculating stare. He didn’t say anything, just gave a slow nod like he was checking a mental box.
Paul scrambled to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His eyes locked on me with a mix of frustration and something sharper. He didn’t like being embarrassed, especially not in front of the squad, let alone the recruits.
Good, I thought. Let it burn.
“Again,” Reaper called. “Keep it clean.”
Paul raised his fists. His stance was a little lower this time. Not perfect, but better. He’d learned something at least.
I raised my hands, shifting my weight to the balls of my feet. My eyes tracked his hips, not his hands. The hands lie. The hips tell the truth.
This time, he didn’t rush. Smart. He circled slowly, looking for an opening. The rest of the squad had gone quiet, their attention flicking between us like spectators at a fight night. Breaker leaned forward on the bench, his arms resting on his thighs, eyes sharp and watchful.
"Come on, Paul," Breaker called with a grin. "Don't let Tats dance circles around you!"
Paul's eyes flicked toward him, just for a second. Rookie mistake.
I moved. A quick step in, my left feinting high, and when he raised his arms to block, I slammed my foot behind his leg and shoved him forward. He hit the mat again, harder this time, his breath leaving him in a short, pained wheeze.
“Keep your eyes on the fight,” I said, leaning down just close enough for him to hear. “Not the crowd.”
“Alright, enough,” Reaper barked, stepping forward. “Switch partners.”
I pulled back, standing straight. My heart wasn’t pounding, but the heat of the fight was still there, simmering under the surface. My eyes stayed on Paul as he climbed to his feet slower this time, one hand pressed to his ribs. He glared at me, his breathing shallow, sharp, his jaw tight with frustration.
“You’re dead, Tats,” he muttered under his breath as he walked past.
I didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. His anger wasn’t a threat. It was just noise.
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The next few sparring rounds were nothing special. I moved through the rotations, pairing up with rookies and letting them take their shots. I dodged more than I hit, but I made sure each one felt their mistakes. I didn’t have to win every round—just had to make them earn it. And earn my own freedom from Reaper’s scrutiny.
“Duck next time,” I muttered to the last rookie as they stepped off the mat, rubbing their jaw where I’d clipped them. “You see my hips turn, you duck. Simple as that.”
They nodded, still breathless.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen the ache starting to settle in. My arms felt heavier than before, the fatigue creeping in slow but steady. That’s the point, though. Wear you down until instinct takes over. Until you either break or learn.
Watcher was waiting for me at the edge of the mat. Its sleek, almost insect-like frame perched in a crouch, arms resting on its bent knees. Its metal joints clicked faintly, the hum of internal motors a subtle background noise. Its glowing optical sensors shifted, the nearly blind meat-eye next to them focusing on me before the machine did.
“Hard-fought,” it said, its synthetic voice smooth and deliberate. “But wasteful.”
“Not in the mood, Cam,” I muttered, walking past it to grab my water bottle.
The faint whir-click of its servos followed me. “Correction: You are always in the mood. Just not to hear things you already know.”
I shot it a glance, tilting my head back to gulp down water. “Shouldn’t you be plugging yourself into a wall somewhere?”
“Unnecessary,” it replied, rising from its crouch with eerie fluidity. Its limbs moved too smoothly, too perfectly, each step calculated with surgical precision. It followed me to the bench, tilting its head at an unnatural angle to look at me directly. “You’re letting 1-7 live rent-free in your head.”
“Paul?” I snorted. “He’s not worth the space.”
“Incorrect,” Watcher said, its optical sensors dimming to a dull glow. “He’s under your skin. Tells me he’s more than just noise to you.” It tilted its head again, its tone sharper this time. “You hit him harder than you should have.”
I glanced toward Reaper, who was watching the rookies spar now. He hadn’t called me out for it. Not yet, anyway.
“I’ll survive,” I muttered, tossing the water bottle back into my bag.
Watcher crouched next to me, its legs folding neatly beneath it like a spider. “Surviving isn’t winning,” it said quietly. “It’s waiting to lose.”
I shot my friend a glare. “When’d you get so philosophical?”
“Since you started making mistakes.”
The grin that tugged at my mouth was involuntary, but I didn’t stop it. “Alright, Prophet-Bot. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Watcher tilted its head again, its limbs uncurling as it rose back to full height. Its segmented fingers flexed once before it turned away, walking back toward the rest of the squad.