Tara smirked, whispering to Derek, "Told you she's useless."
Olivia stood there, her hands steady, and said, "Tara broke formation. I signaled her to wait."
Harrow turned to Tara, who shrugged. "Didn't see it," she lied.
The group snickered, blaming Olivia for the failure. She didn't argue, just nodded and said, "Understood, sir."
But as they reset, an overhead drone replay showed Tara ignoring the signal, clear as day. Harrow watched the footage, his jaw tight, and docked Tara's squad points.
The group's laughter died, and Tara's face went pale.
The camp changed after that. The air felt heavier, the whispers quieter.
Olivia stood at the front of the yard the next day, her backpack over one shoulder, her T-shirt swapped for a plain black one. She didn't bark orders, didn't raise her voice. She just showed them rifle drills, combat stances, moves that looked simple but took years to perfect.
The cadets watched, some scribbling notes, others just staring.
Tara sat in the back, her arms crossed, her face pale.
Lance wasn't there. Word was he'd been sent to medical, then reassigned to a desk job at a base in the middle of nowhere. No one talked about it, but everyone knew.
In a first aid drill, Olivia was paired with Derek, who'd mocked her in the mess hall. They had to treat a simulated casualty under time pressure.
Derek, eager to show off, shoved Olivia aside as she reached for the bandage kit.
"I got this," he said, loud enough for the group to hear. "You'd probably just make it worse."
He fumbled the bandages, wrapping them too loose, blood seeping through the dummy's fake wounds.
The instructor, a medic named Carter, shook his head. "You're killing him, cadet."
Derek's face reddened, and he snapped, "She distracted me," pointing at Olivia.
The group laughed, egging him on.
Olivia stepped forward, her hands steady, and redid the bandages in seconds, her wraps tight and perfect.
Carter nodded, impressed. "That's how it's done," he said.
Derek stormed off, muttering, but the group's laughter turned to murmurs.
Later, Carter pulled Olivia aside and handed her a medic patch, saying, "You earned this."
She took it, her face blank, and slipped it into her bag.
A week later, during a break, an officer approached Olivia. He was young, nervous, clutching a clipboard.
"Ma'am," he said, his voice low. "There's someone here for you."
Olivia looked up, her eyes narrowing. She followed him to the camp's entrance, where a man stood waiting.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped hair and a face that gave nothing away. He wore a black jacket and jeans, no uniform, but the guard stepped back when he moved.
The colonel was there, too, his hands clasped behind his back. "General," he said, nodding to the man.