Chapter 15. The Wrong Rookie

As soon as I stepped over the threshold of the airsoft club, a sharp, clinging smell of fresh paint hit my nose. From deep inside the arena came a chaotic, deafening cackle, that very specific teenage laughter that instantly made my temples itch. It felt as if I had accidentally wandered onto a playground in the middle of recess. Fortunately, that noisy horde was clearly wrapping up their session and heading out, not part of my group.

People usually come to airsoft in tight-knit groups of around ten, the perfect number to split into two teams of five and stage a tactical slaughter. I, on the other hand, had always struggled with friends, and finding nine like-minded people willing to run through concrete ruins felt like something out of fantasy. Of course, in a moment of desperation I could have invited my mom, or Stephanie, who had been trailing after me lately anyway, or, heaven forbid, my former office coworkers, the kind of guys whose bellies had long outgrown their ambitions. But that would have been a circus, not training.

Good old Facebook came to the rescue. In niche groups, loners like me often find shelter with serious teams. I got lucky, I stumbled upon a fresh post from a group of adult men who promised not just casual shooting, but trials as close to real combat conditions as possible. They were missing exactly one fighter to complete their roster.

I passed through the lobby and approached the reception desk. The girl behind the computer was the embodiment of calm, methodically entering data without reacting in the slightest to the wild screams behind the wall. Apparently, she had developed immunity to any noise during her time here.

“Hello, I signed up for the 4:00 PM session,” I said, trying to sound confident.

“Mr. Ross?” She lazily raised her eyes to me, endless boredom written in them. “Your ID, please.”

I handed over my driver’s license. She briefly compared the photo to my face, marked something in the system, and gave a routine, almost mechanical smile.

“Thank you for choosing our club, Tom Ross. What size uniform do you need?”

“L,” I replied shortly.

“One moment.”

She turned to the shelf, deftly pulled out a plastic box with camouflage and protective gear, and slid it toward me.

“The locker room is straight down the hall and to the right. Your session starts in ten minutes. Don’t be late.”

As I walked down the corridor, the teenage noise became almost unbearable. The arena doors burst open, and a flock of kids around fifteen rushed past me. They were literally drenched in yellow paint, from head to sneakers. If those had been real bullet wounds, there would have been nothing left to bury, just a body full of holes. But they looked absolutely happy, arguing about who had taken out whom first. Well, they had their own goals, to burn off energy and have fun. Mine were far more mundane and grim, I needed survival experience.

In the locker room, I found two men. They were already finishing getting into their camouflage. One of them was Charlie, the same guy I had been messaging on social media. Around forty-five, solidly built, with a short haircut and a hint of gray at his temples. The way he tightened the straps on his gear made his military bearing obvious. His profile picture in uniform had not lied, this was a man who knew exactly how to handle a weapon.

The other one was… Alex. The same beach boy with a dazzling white Hollywood smile and the attitude of a spoiled rich kid who had recently been bothering me at the gym, trying to pry out the secrets of my training and buy nonexistent steroids. He froze with an unfastened vest in his hands and stared at me as if he had seen a ghost. Damn it, out of all the clubs in the city, he ended up here.

“Tom Ross, right?” Charlie looked me over with interest, pausing his adjustment of knee pads.

“Yeah, that’s me. Hope I didn’t disappoint.”

“In your Facebook photo you looked… how should I put it… more worn out. And about ten years older. Change your avatar, Tom, you’re gonna scare people!” He laughed loudly and shook my hand firmly. “Glad you came. One of our guys bailed at the last moment, and losing a reserved slot is a sin.”

“It’s fine,” I forced a polite smile. “I’ve wanted to try something more serious than a regular shooting range for a while.”

“Alright, Tom, get changed quickly. We’re waiting for you on the field. I’ll introduce you to the others and bring you up to speed.”

The moment the door closed behind Charlie, Alex, who until then had been silent as if holding water in his mouth, practically exploded. He stepped toward me, and his face twisted into such a mix of offense and indignation as if I had personally forgotten his birthday.

“So your name’s Tom Ross, huh?” he said through clenched teeth, crossing his arms over his chest and nervously tapping his foot. “You know, I’ve been going to the gym every morning, looking for you. I thought maybe you were sick or something… And you just disappeared!”

I felt irritation start to boil inside me. Make excuses? No. Lie? Too exhausting. I decided it was time to change tactics. If I was learning to be a fighter, then it was time to try on the mask of a special agent. A cold gaze, minimal emotion, maximum distance. Let him fill in the details of my “secret” life himself.

“Well?” Alex leaned forward, clearly expecting a detailed explanation. “You gonna keep playing silent?”

I looked at him the way one looks at an annoying insect, without anger, but with a clear desire for it to fly away. My voice came out dry and mechanical.

“You were asking too many unnecessary questions. Because of that, I had to change my training location. I’d leave now too, but I gave Charlie my word, and I don’t break my promises.”

Alex froze. He blinked a couple of times, trying to process what he had just heard.

“What? But I just… I wanted…”

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“You done?” I cut him off, not changing my icy expression.

“Yeah, basically, but…”

“Then get out,” I said flatly, walking toward my box. “I prefer to change in private.”

Alex muttered something under his breath, shot me a sideways glance, and finally left the locker room, slamming the door loudly behind him.

I exhaled. Looks like it worked. Apparently, maintaining the image of a harsh special agent is not that difficult if you simply stop caring about what others think of you. Now the most important thing remained, to show what I was capable of where shots speak instead of words.

Inside the plastic box, a full set of gear was waiting for me, a blindingly white uniform, exactly like Charlie’s and Alex’s. It was a kind of urban camouflage, designed for combat in concrete jungles. I started gearing up, heavy plastic shin guards, knee pads, a rigid chest plate of a body armor vest. All of it was light, almost toy-like compared to real military armor, but more than enough to protect against paint capsules flying at speed. The final touch was a helmet with a massive panoramic visor, equipped with a ventilation system so that breathing would not fog up the view and the sharp fumes of paint would not sting the eyes.