Chapter 16. The Problem Named Tom

“We’ve got two objectives, guys!” Charlie snapped the words out, raising his voice over the roar of the ventilation a minute before the start. “Protect our flag and rip theirs out. John, Harry, take heavy defense, dig in like concrete. Alex, Tom, you’re with me on the assault. Move fast, don’t give them a second to breathe.”

“Yes, sir!” we shouted in unison.

At that very second, a siren howled above the arena, signaling the start of our local war. The sound was so piercing it felt as if the bones themselves vibrated.

“Let’s go!” Charlie barked and dashed forward, waving his hand mid-run to signal Alex and me to split off in different directions.

The tactic was clear: a fan-shaped spread to cover maximum ground and avoid friendly fire. I gave Alex a short nod, pointing him to the left flank. The guy obeyed without hesitation, without a trace of arrogance. It seemed my story about being some mysterious government agent had knocked all the pride out of him. In his eyes, I had become an unquestionable authority, almost a demigod.

I sprinted to the right. The arena greeted me with the smell of dust, old rubber, and paint soaked deep into the wood. Makeshift cover was everywhere: nailed planks, concrete blocks, and the skeletal remains of various structures. For the local veterans, this was home turf. I had to adapt on the fly.

But I had a trump card, something the veterans in training videos and my instructors kept repeating: speed. I caught a glimpse of the opposing team, solid guys in black, walking mountains of muscle. They were good, but their bodies were built for heavy lifting, not for explosive sprints. My muscles, enhanced by the [Trainer] system, were developed across the board.

A shadow in a black vest suddenly emerged from around the corner. My reaction was instant. As Parker taught: do not wait, do not aim forever, just shoot. I raised my rifle and fired a short three-shot burst. A sharp “pak-pak” sound, and a bright yellow mark bloomed across the opponent’s helmet. One down.

“Damn it…” came from under the helmet of the “dead” player. He began to slowly get up and leave the game, but I was already moving.

Parker was stingy with praise, but he drilled knowledge properly. His main rule: never look an enemy in the face. Do not search for human traits there, do not waste precious milliseconds thinking about age, gender, or nationality. There is only a target and the direction of the barrel. If the barrel is pointed at you, you shoot first.

A dozen yards ahead, just past a sharp concrete corner, I almost collided with another opponent. The distance was critical, too late to shoot. That was when the body trained by Master Santiago took over. His jiu-jitsu was not about flashy tournaments, spectators, or gold trophies, it was about surviving in war.

Reflexes moved faster than thought. I caught the opponent’s arm, unbalanced him with a short, precise motion, and threw him over my hip. A dull thud as his body hit the ground, his rifle flying aside. Before he could even process what happened, my foot was already pinning his chest to the ground, and my rifle was aimed straight at the center of his visor. Two shots point-blank. Yellow paint covered his view.

Parker always said, “If you’re not saving ammo, shoot twice. After one shot, there is still a small chance the enemy survives and hits you from behind. After two, revenge is something he can only dream about from the afterlife.”

“You son of a bitch!” the opponent shouted, low and oddly melodic. The voice made it clear, it was a woman. I did not care. In combat, there are no genders, only those still in the game and those already out.

I pushed off and kept moving. Every flicker of shadow, every rustle fed into my peripheral vision. The horizon stayed clear.

Soon I reached the enemy base, a squat concrete box with hollow window gaps. By the wall, I spotted Charlie. He was boosting Alex up so he could climb onto the ledge and grab the flag. When he saw me, Charlie broke into a satisfied grin.

“How many?” he asked shortly.

“Two,” I replied, catching my breath.

“Nice. I got one too,” Charlie’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Two left inside. Dug into the corners, waiting for us to grab the flag and turn our backs so they can shoot us in the head. We need to flush them out.”

I nodded. We took positions on either side of the doorway. Charlie quickly flashed a series of complex military hand signals. To my embarrassment, I only understood half of them, but the overall idea was clear.

“Let’s go!” he roared and charged inside first.

At that same second, bursts of fire erupted from the dark corners. Charlie took the full hit, his vest instantly splattered with green marks. But he bought me those two seconds. I slipped in right behind him and, using his body as a living shield, methodically stitched both shooters.

“Game over!” Charlie announced cheerfully, pulling off his helmet. “That is it, guys, base is clear! Alex, no need to grab the flag, we wiped them out. High five, Tom!”

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We slapped palms hard. The impact was so strong my hand rang.

“Charlie, what the hell was that?” one of the “dead” players grumbled, stepping out of the corner. “We agreed on realism, not kamikaze plays! What was that stunt?”

“Heh, do not complain if you do not understand strategy,” Charlie replied smugly, wiping sweat from his forehead. “It is called self-sacrifice for mission success. I chose the hero’s path so my squad could win. Just like in real life!”

“In real life, there would not be anything left of you after a run like that,” the loser snapped, brushing paint off his camouflage.

I listened to their argument in silence, and somewhere deep inside I agreed with the guy from the black team. In reality, I would never be able to send someone to certain death for the sake of a “flag”, and Charlie’s move carried a bit too much reckless excitement.

“Who the hell is that?!” A woman stormed toward us like a hurricane. Strands of red hair had slipped out from under her helmet liner, her eyes shooting lightning straight at me. “Where the hell did this damn Rambo come from?!”