(At a ridge, 1400 hours)
"ARE YOU SH*TTING ME?!"
The indignant voice of a Swiss Inari cadet resonated throughout the ridge, echoing through the hills,
Erika huffed and puffed, looking at the instruction card that appeared to her:
"You are to stay absolutely still here and ignore anything unless there is a physical danger for the next 30 minutes. The time will be deducted from your total duration, but any unneeded deviation will add time to your duration. Treat yourself as if you are on sentry duty."
Erika is fuming. This may seem perplexing, for someone carrying a heavy load who had trekked for days with little rest and sleep, just doing nothing for 30 minutes in her newest checkpoint sounds like a treat.
However, the catch is that is that Erika Ericksson is not built for doing nothing.
She had survived through her time in a Tier 2 UNNSD Special forces unit, the Assault Pathfinders, conducting direct action raids on enemy installations deep behind enemy lines, not just on Earth, but from the icy world of Pluto to the frontier of mankind in Proxima B.
While the GOMCA – Veo conflict is a Cold War, that does not mean that everything is peaceful and all fighting is rhetoric, especially for mankind, which occupies a role similar to that of East Germany, yet this is something many on Earth had forgotten.
So, to someone like Erika, who was always on the move, fighting like a proud warrior, blasting aliens and the scums of mankind, guiding airstrikes, to do nothing is akin to psychological torture.
Every instinct screamed at her to move: recon the ridge, find an optimal angle, log terrain. Do something productive.
But that would break the rules. And Erika doesn't fail rules, especially not ones meant to trip up amateurs. If she did, her pride will eat her alive.
"Stillness? Fine," she muttered, scratching her cat ears.
She seated herself on a patch of lichen-covered stone, back straight, hands resting on her thighs like a soldier carved into a memorial wall. Her eyes did not wander. She stared ahead, unwavering, chin high, hand gripped on her rubber prop gun, as if it's a live sentry weapon.
Time moved on. Erika remained still.
Her internal clock said she had maybe seven minutes left.
The wind had shifted slightly, colder and sharper. A few clouds crawled across the sun, casting long shadows down the slope. Erika's breathing had slowed; her mind sharpened to a predatory stillness. Every rock, branch, and birdcall were catalogued.
Then a voice crackled:
"Number 4. New directive for Checkpoint 14. Proceed southwest 400 meters to Grid Four-Seven for priority extract, this overrides all existing orders. Time penalty waived."
Erika didn't move. She frowned, not due to confusion, but irritation.
The voice was not familiar. Yes, it was calm, authoritative and confident, as expected of an instructor, but Erika could not link it to any one she had seen during selection – be it instructor, cadet or staff.
After a while, a smirk crept to her lips. "Nice try," she muttered.
This was a test.
She glanced at the horizon slowly and deliberately. No signal flares. No marker smoke. No movement on the far ridge. The instructors wanted her to break stillness, not because of fatigue or hunger, but because of orders. They were testing who would blindly obey and who could smell nonsense and not be duped.
Her lips curled into a grim smirk.
"Nice touch," she muttered, "but you'll have to try harder."
But then again, a second thought lingered in the back of her head:
What if it's real?
She peeked at her watch. The timer was nearing zero. The voice sounded legitimate. After all, there is still a very real probability that she has not seen all of the instructors. Maybe this was an actual mission call that is part of the checkpoint, and she will be held responsible for ignoring it.
Her jaw tensed. Logic wrestled ego.
"You're not a know nothing recruit anymore. You're a Tier 2 operator, a pathfinder. You're supposed to trust your judgment, and not just follow orders like a fool. You are going to get duped on the battlefield!" she thought.
"But you're also not the commander here. That's the point of testing: it reveals what you do when command, in this case instructors, tells you to jump."
She took a slow breath.
Then said aloud, for the hidden microphones and cameras, and for herself:
"This is Number 4, Checkpoint 14. I do not recognize the voice. Hence orders are deemed invalid. Holding position until verification or physical retrieval."
The silence that followed was heavy.
No reply. No correction. No second signal.
She sat there like a wolf waiting to pounce a prey, daring someone to come and challenge her.
And two minutes later, a buzzer beeped softly.
"Checkpoint Complete. Carry on with land-nav."
Erika breathed a sigh of relief. She stood up, her wolf tail wagging, reflecting her apprehensiveness that stems from the unknown of whether she indeed made the right judgment.
(Down a slope, 1723 hours)
"Damn it, of all times to have a fog," muttered Louis, taking careful steps as he walked down a slope, walking down from a small hill.
In his hand is a small fireball he had generated, acting as a mini lantern of sorts. Glowsticks are too precious him to use, these limited tools are reserved for the night.
As if fate wants to mess around with him, his boot caught a rock.
He tumbled downslope, branches slapping against his face, and he landed against a tree, face banging into the trunk.
For a moment, there was no sound except for the wind.
Louis blinked. Blood dripped from his face, some falling into his eyes, making his red Lita eyes look even redder. His compass was gone, and his map is blown off to God knows where.
"F***" he groaned. Louis' breath came in short, sharp bursts. The pain in his side was blooming hot, but not sharp enough to scream internal bleed. Other than that, he has some superficial bleeding on his face and on his limbs.
Just then, 2 fireballs appeared in the distance, coming through the fog. Louis looked up, recognising the people holding them: a Lin numbered 9 and a Draco numbered 17.
"Don't move," said Sean. He dropped his load and knelt down, a smaller flame generating from his hand, functioning as a small torchlight of sorts, checking Louis for injuries. Louis stopped moving. He felt a strange feeling from Sean, the long missed feeling of being cared for. Ever since that tragedy that claimed his father's life and left his mother crippled, Louis had to become the man of the family, meaning no time for him to be cared for.
"Conscious. Responsive. Breathing normal. No deformities. Pupils reactive," Sean said. "Just superficial cuts."
"Good to know that," said Vera, she then bent down too.
"You in shock?" she asked gently.
"No," Louis said through grit teeth. "Just humiliated."
"Good. Sit up slowly."
Louis obeyed. Vera then dropped his map and compass beside him, that she retrieved from the slope below.
"Don't make me come back," she said, her words, while cold, sounds gentle.
Sean gave Louis a gentle bump on his shoulder.
Louis watched as Sean and Vera disappeared into the fog, as if they have never come here to begin with.
He brushed the dirt off him, took his map and compass, and continued on his way. Time waits for no one.
(Observation room)
Nanami is scribbling down notes.
"Numbers 9 and 17 rendered helps efficiently. No delay beyond necessity. Demonstrated field trauma awareness under pressure. Did not compromise their own mission timeline, and aren't naughty to do illegal team ups."
"Number 42 responded to trauma with composure. Did not rely on aid, stood on own after incident, and like any good boy, he has no loss of tempo."
(A ditch, 2004 hours)
Vera stopped. She had long parted ways with Sean after a coincidental meeting which allowed them to administer aid to Louis after he fell.
"Hope the 2 boys are fine," she mused.
She approached the ditch, which is clearly her latest checkpoint based on the map.
Vera's red glowstick scanned through the dark environment of the night, she is looking for the instruction card or a speaker.
She soon found a card. It is placed under a gas mask.
"You are to wear this gas mask and sprint the next 2.4 km northwards. Your target is a SUV with headlights on. You need to arrive within 13 minutes to pass. Time starts the moment you put on the gas mask and start running."
Vera sighed, knowing how hard it is. She is running 2.4 km on wild terrain with gear within 13 minutes, no easy feat. To make things worse, it's at night, and all she has for lighting is a red glowstick.
Not to mention the elephant in the room: running with a gas mask. While the gas mask is an excellent piece of protective gear to keep toxic air out, be it from toxins and pathogens, running with something that restricts air from entering one's nostrils is akin to torture.
Sighing, Vera took a gulp of water from her flask, splashing some water on her face to keep her awake. She used a strong to tie the glowstick onto her compass, so that she can use one hand to hold everything, allowing her to navigate and see the path ahead at the same time.
She did some stretches, and removed her helmet, taking a deep breath, putting on the gas mask. She breathed normally, then wearing her helmet over it.
Her vision is now obstructed slightly by the gas mask, and while her breathing now is quite normal, she knows it will get ragged once she starts running.
Vera allowed her eyes to adjust, then she took off, knowing that the time has started.
She sprinted, her serpentine tail swishing wildly behind her as she ran on the on uneven terrain, one eye focusing on the path, the other making sure she is still on the right track.
It did not take long for her breath to start getting ragged. She panted, looking around for a SUV, but none appeared in her sights.
Her lungs are on the verge of exploding as her legs ached, both from a limit in the oxygen they are receiving, and in the real physical exertion of carrying heavy gear and running on uneven terrain.
Vera had paced herself, knowing that she cannot burn out, as all smart runners do, but the pacing did not do much to improve her situation.
The only thing that kept Vera going was the rhythm.
One step, one breath.
She inhaled thin, filtered air, and exhaled hot breath against the inside of the mask.
She could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. Not from fear. That was gone by now. This was pure strain Her body was screaming, legs burning, throat parched despite the water earlier. Every muscle in her back cried out from the bouncing of her gear. But her mind is locked in.
You didn't come this far to fail because of a f***ing gas mask Tovarisch! For the union! For the people!
She passed a tree stump, a landmark on the map. A hundred metres more and she should reach the halfway marker. But still, no sign of the SUV. Just empty brush, shifting shadows, and the pulsing red light from her glowstick compass.
Where are you, dammit…
Then came the worst possible part
An incline. A sharp, unmarked hill loomed ahead. Maybe ten metres high. Not steep enough to necessitate climbing, but just enough to sap what little momentum she had.
She cursed. In Russian. Then again in Belarusian. Then in English.
Vera Makarova threw herself up the hill with the last of her strength, clawing through branches and dry roots, gasping like an animal. Her tail dragged and caught on thorny bushes, her 2 sets of horns that poke out of the designed openings on her helmet crashed through the shorter trees. She channelled Cosmic Energy and generated a wind burst, cutting off the branches that hit against her.
At the top, she paused, barely able to balance. Her knees buckled slightly under her gear.
Then she saw the headlights.
Faint and far. But there.
A pinprick of yellow light through the tree line, she checked her compass orientation, its indeed in the North.
She sprinted. Downhill now. Faster. No time to check compass. The terrain blurred as she leaned into her descent, catching herself against a tree, almost losing her balance. She was wild now, less soldier and more beast.
The SUV was closer now. Headlights still on. Idling. A silhouette stood beside the vehicle, arms folded.
An instructor.
Vera's boots hit the road with a hard thud, and her legs gave one last burst. She did not even slow down when she crossed the makeshift finish line. She just collapsed forward, catching herself on her knees. Her hands on the ground, with heavy breathing behind the mask. Her vision fogging inside the lenses.
Instructor Maia walked over and knocked on her helmet.
"Twelve forty-seven," she said flatly. "You made it, number 17."
Vera rolled onto her back, still gasping, then yanked the mask off and sucked in a full breath of unfiltered air, sucking it all in. Never had her once thought that the scent of grass will become synonymous with victory.
"Take your time to recover your breath, afterwards continue on with land nav," said Maia nonchalantly as she scribbled notes. "Break time is waived."
Vera nodded weakly, leaning against the SUV and gasping.