Chương 15: The Wrong Rookie

As soon as I stepped over the threshold of the paintball 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 paintball 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…" Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

"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. At the very bottom of the box lay a rifle. As I picked it up, I could not help but grimace, after the heavy, oil-scented weapons from "Taran," this felt like a weightless plastic toy. Smooth handguard, unfamiliar balance, a complete absence of that noble weight that inspires confidence.

Still, I had not wasted several hours studying the mechanics on YouTube, I knew where the safety was, how the magazine attached, and the ballistics of these light pellets. After locking my locker and slipping the key into a small pocket on my belt, I headed toward the entrance to the arena. The moment I pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the brightly lit space, reality shuddered and froze. The air became thick like jelly, and the sounds stretched into a long, endless hum. [Attention! Familiar attack detected] [Tactical Mode activated] My consciousness instantly separated from my body. A mental projection shot up to the ceiling of the hangar, and from above, from the position of an impartial judge, I saw the unfolding picture of a treacherous ambush. The situation was crystal clear, the moment I passed through the doorway, two fighters burst at me from both sides, from behind columns, their triggers already pulled. Another stood frozen on a stone ledge above, aiming at the top of my head.

A fourth stood slightly behind, covering the others. All four wore the same white uniform as me. Rage scorched through my thoughts, my own team. My own team decided to give me a warm welcome without even bothering to introduce themselves. Did that loudmouth Alex manage to sic the team on me? Or was this some twisted initiation test? Either way, I had no intention of giving up. Bastards.

They were not even hiding, standing at full height, reveling in their surprise and anticipating how the rookie would turn into a walking paint stain. I carefully analyzed the trajectories. Four pellets had already left their barrels and were slowly drifting toward me as if through thick syrup. Three of them were clearly off target, but the fourth was aimed straight at the center of my chest. The plan formed instantly. First, a sharp shift of my body to the left to evade the only real threat.

Then, weapon acquisition. My muscles, conditioned by thousands of repetitions at the shooting range, already knew what to do. I marked my targets: first the two on the ground, then a roll behind the nearest concrete block, a lightning-fast shot at the sniper on the ledge who was sticking out like a Christmas turkey on a platter, and finally the finishing note, a shot straight into the center of the fourth player's helmet, the one I recognized by posture and stance as Alex. Time snapped back into motion.

I became a burst of pure kinetic energy. I launched forward like a released steel spring. My body moved faster than their eyes could track. The first second brought a clean, precise dodge, Alex's pellet slicing uselessly through the air where I had been a moment earlier. The second second brought the dry rattle of my rifle. Pellets struck one after another against their chests and helmets. But instead of bright splashes of paint, I saw only clear droplets of water scattering in all directions.

I glanced at the impact points of their shots, those were water too. An awkward pause followed.

"Damn…" Charlie exhaled, slowly pulling off his helmet. His face had gone pale, and his eyes were wide with shock.

"What the hell was that, Tom? What the hell was that just now?" I was still in a combat stance, the barrel of my rifle pointed at Alex, who stood frozen with his mouth open. Gradually, the realization of what had happened reached me, and I slowly, reluctantly lowered the weapon.

"You tell me," I said, my voice hard and cold.

"I came here to play on a team, not to be a target for my own people."

"It was… it was an initiation," Charlie looked genuinely guilty, even shifting under my gaze.

"It's our tradition for newcomers. Even the receptionist was in on it. At my request, she gave you a magazine filled with water instead of paint so you wouldn't ruin your gear in the first minute…"

"I see," I replied shortly, removing my mask and wiping sweat from my face. The irritation was still simmering inside. Another round of team building. It reminded me of my first day at the office, when the jokers from IT changed my password and set my desktop background to a photo of hairy nipples. That was their idea of welcoming a newcomer too. I had never understood what was funny about putting someone in an awkward position.

"That… didn't go as planned," Charlie scratched the back of his head awkwardly, glancing at his soaked teammates who were still standing there, speckled with water.

"It's usually fun…"

"Forget it," I waved it off, deciding not to escalate the conflict.

"Tom, how'd you do that? We all fired at the same time, from four different angles! And you… you moved like you were on strings. I've never seen a person react like that. Like a machine. Were you in some kind of special forces? A combat veteran?"

"I just trained a lot at the shooting club Taran," I answered, and it was the pure truth, just not the whole truth.

"At Taran?" one of the men looked at me as if I had said I had dinner with the president yesterday.

"But they only train elite operators, private contractors, top-tier personnel… Tom, come on, what unit did you serve in?"

"None," I said, without lying a single word.

"Oh, come on! Cut it out!" Charlie gave me a respectful pat on the shoulder, his disbelief replaced with genuine admiration.

"We've all spent years in law enforcement or military structures, we can tell. You don't get that kind of training at a range. So where are you really from?" I held his gaze for a moment and delivered my signature line.

"I can't answer that question." A heavy, almost reverent silence fell over the hangar. The four of them exchanged glances.

"Sounds like CIA…" Charlie whispered to the others, thinking I could not hear him. The other two nodded knowingly, and now their looks carried not just respect, but something close to awe. As for Alex, his whole expression changed. All his arrogance vanished, replaced by a kind of puppy-like admiration. He looked at me as if I were a superhero straight off a screen. It felt like, if given the chance, he would start following me around, staring at me with devoted eyes.

I had no idea what kind of spy thriller he had constructed in his head, but his excessive attention was already starting to get on my nerves. When the tension eased a little, Charlie handed out new magazines, this time filled with actual paint. He formally introduced me to the rest of the group: John and Harry, solid guys around my age, with kind faces and calloused hands. The youngest among us was still Alex.

"Listen up," Charlie switched to a businesslike tone, giving the final briefing. He addressed everyone, but his gaze kept returning to me.

"This session runs at maximum realism. A hit to the head means you're dead, leave the field immediately. A hit to the arm means the arm's out, switch your marker to the other hand. A hit to the leg means you drag it, no running. There are no referees here, everything relies on your honesty and discipline. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" we barked in unison. At exactly 4: 00 PM, a siren wailed over the arena, and that piercing sound marked the beginning of our small war.