In the equipment shed, where cadets were assigned gear for the next drill, Olivia waited her turn, her backpack slung over one shoulder.
The quartermaster, a gruff older man named Gibbs, handed out vests and helmets with a scowl. When Olivia stepped up, he looked her over, his lip curling.
"What's this, a hobo convention?" he said, loud enough for the line to hear. "We don't got gear for civilians, sweetheart."
He tossed her a vest two sizes too big, the straps dangling uselessly.
The cadets behind her snickered. "Maybe use it as a tent," one called.
Olivia caught the vest, her fingers tightening around the canvas. She didn't argue, didn't ask for a replacement. She just slung it over her shoulder and walked out, her boots echoing on the concrete.
Gibbs laughed, shaking his head. "That one's going to wash out by tomorrow," he said to the room.
Outside, Olivia adjusted the vest with a few quick knots, making it fit perfectly, her hands moving with the same precision she'd shown with the rifle.
The terrain run the next morning was brutal. Ten miles over rough ground, full gear, no breaks.
Olivia stayed in the middle of the pack, her breathing even, her steps steady. Tara was right behind her, muttering the whole time.
"Pick it up, charity case," she hissed. "You're dragging us down."
At the halfway mark, Tara nudged Olivia's elbow, just enough to throw her off. Olivia's foot caught a rock, and she veered off the path, her ankle twisting as she hit the ground.
Captain Harrow saw it.
"Mitchell!" he roared. "Broke formation. Squad loses points."
The group groaned, some shooting her dirty looks.
Lance turned, his face flushed. "Nice one, Mitchell. Real team player."
Olivia didn't argue. She got back in line, her jaw tight, and kept running, her limp barely noticeable.
When the run ended, Harrow pointed at her. "Five extra laps. Move."
The others watched, some smirking, as Olivia started running again, her breath coming in short gasps. She finished, her face slick with sweat, her hands on her knees.
No one offered her water.
Tara tossed an empty bottle at her feet. "Hydrate with air," she said, laughing.
Olivia picked up the bottle, crushed it in her hand, and dropped it in the trash. Not a sound.
During a night drill, the cadets were tasked with setting up a perimeter under simulated enemy fire. Flares lit the sky, and instructors shouted orders, creating chaos.
Olivia worked alone, securing a rope barrier with steady hands.
A cadet named Marcus, stocky and loud, decided she was an easy target. He grabbed her rope, yanked it free, and tossed it into the mud.
"Oops," he said, grinning. "Guess you're not cut out for this, huh?"
The others nearby laughed, their flashlights bobbing as they watched.