"Hey, Dora the Explorer," he called, his voice cutting through the quiet. "You lost already, or you just out here picking flowers?"
His group laughed, circling closer.
Olivia folded her map, her fingers deliberate, and kept walking.
Kyle jogged up, snatching the map from her hands. "Let's see how you do without this," he said, tearing it in half and tossing the pieces into the wind.
The others cheered.
Olivia stopped, her eyes following the scraps as they fluttered away. She looked at Kyle, her face blank, and said, "Hope you know your way back."
Then she turned and kept moving, her pace unchanged. Kyle's laughter faltered, but his group kept jeering, their voices echoing through the trees.
The rifle disassembly drill came that afternoon, and it was a wake-up call.
The cadets had two minutes to take apart an M4 carbine, clean it, and reassemble it. Most struggled, their fingers fumbling with the pins, swearing as parts slipped.
Lance finished in a messy 1:43, grinning like he'd aced it. Tara scraped by at 1:59, her hands shaking as she snapped the last piece in place.
Then Olivia stepped up.
She didn't rush, didn't hesitate. Her hands moved like they were following a script. Pin out, bolt free, parts laid out in a perfect grid.
52 seconds. Not a single mistake.
Sergeant Pulk, the instructor, stared at the timer, then at her. "Mitchell," he said, his voice low. "Where'd you learn to do that?"
Olivia wiped her hands on her pants and stepped back. "Practice," she said, her eyes on the ground.
The training screen played a slow-motion replay. Every move clean, no wasted motion.
A lieutenant nearby muttered to Pulk, "Her hands didn't shake. That's special forces steady."
Lance overheard and scoffed. "So she can clean a gun?" he said, loud enough for Olivia to hear. "Doesn't mean she can fight."
But during the break, a quiet cadet named Elena, who'd been watching Olivia closely, slipped her a spare map from her own kit.
"You'll need this," Elena whispered, her eyes darting to make sure no one saw.
Olivia took it, nodded once, and tucked it into her bag without a word.
Whispers started after that. A few cadets glanced at her during the next break, trying to piece her together. Olivia didn't seem to care. She sat on the grass, retying her laces, her face as blank as ever.
Tara leaned over to Lance, her voice low but sharp. "Bet she's got some sad story. Poor kid from nowhere, trying to prove she's somebody."
Lance laughed. "Yeah, well, she's proven she's a nobody."
Olivia's fingers paused on her laces, just for a moment. Then she kept tying, her movement slow, like she was sealing something inside her.