Page 9 of Metal & Mud

When they regrouped outside, Adams snapped her fingers. “Wake up. This is not a friendly game. If you get sloppy here, you get sloppy in the real world. That leads to dead teammates. Understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” came the unified response.

They ran the drill again. The movement felt smoother, the team slipping into a steadier rhythm. Yet Logan burned with frustration over the small missteps. Franklin smirked every time Logan did something slightly out of sync. Finally, the third run was declared decent enough to move on.

“Incoming paint rounds,” Nichols said, gesturing for them to switch out magazines. “We have first squad playing OpFor inside. Expect them to surprise you, maybe with a homebrewed tactic or two.”

Bron grabbed an extra mag with a resigned sigh. “Time to ruin my uniform.”

At the entrance, Carter quietly reminded Logan, “Remember your corners.”

Logan nodded, but as they stacked up near the door, his frustration with Franklin resonated in his chest. Adams signaled the go, and Franklin, second in the stack, stepped in with Carter at his back. Logan was third, Bron behind him, followed by Adams controlling the rear.

The first room erupted in chaos as the OpFor soldiers fired from behind a table. Franklin yelled for cover, Carter took aim, and Logan’s heart pounded louder than the bursts of paint rounds hitting the walls. Feeling a rush of energy, Logan barreled forward, wanting to prove he could take decisive action. In his eagerness, he kicked the door into the second room and fired at two silhouettes. From the squeals of protest, he could tell he had struck both enemy soldiers.

His momentum catapulted him toward the next door without reloading. He had not even paused to confirm if Carter or Franklin were still behind him. By the time he lunged into the fourth room, the rifle clicked empty.

“Should have reloaded,” Sergeant Orkin from first squad said with a rueful grin. The muzzle of his own rifle was already aimed, loaded with paint. He fired rapidly, and several rounds smacked into Logan’s chest with stinging force. One of them, angled low, smashed right between his legs.

Logan toppled to his knees, breath catching in his throat, as Orkin signaled the room was clear. Outside, the rest of his team filed in. Carter had a blotch of yellow paint on his back, and Bron had green splatters across both shoulders. Franklin was coated in red, looking ready to explode with anger. Adams was the last to arrive, wearing streaks of blue paint across one arm.

She stared down at Logan, who struggled to regain his voice and stand up straight. “We got ambushed,” she said. “Because you missed a door and left us exposed. Now half the team is painted, including me.”

His gut twisted. He wanted to argue—that he had nailed two OpFor soldiers, that he had tried to do something bold rather than stand idle—but the irritation on everyone’s faces was clear.

Outside, Nichols made them rehash their mistakes while the other squads took their turn. Then he assigned them the role of OpFor for the next run, which meant suiting up in more gear to hide in corners and ambush others. It was a small punishment that let them see how a breakdown in communication wrecked a team’s cohesion. Logan spent the rest of the afternoon sore, sweaty, and miserable.

By the time they returned to the barracks, the sun had started to set. The hallway lights hummed overhead, and the smell of starchy food from the dining facility wafted through the building. Logan gathered up the paint-stained uniforms belonging to Carter, Bron, Franklin, and Adams, then trudged to the laundry room. He laid them out on the long folding table and began attacking each spot with a stiff brush and dish soap.

He was leaning over Franklin’s jacket, blotting at a bright yellow stain on the chest, when a figure stepped into the doorway. He glanced up and froze, meeting Sergeant Adams’s scrutinizing look. She wore civilian clothes: athletic shorts, a tank top, and sneakers. Damp hair framed her face, which looked softer without the usual tension of the day.

“How’s the uniform cleaning going?” she asked, climbing up onto the edge of the table and letting her feet dangle. She was still imposing despite her relaxed posture.

He cleared his throat. “It’s going. Sorry about today, Sergeant. I know I let the team down.”

Adams nodded, studying him. “You did. You let your frustration push you to act without thinking. We ended up caught in a crossfire and pelted with paint. That doesn’t fly in this unit.”

“I know.” He put the brush down, hands aching. “I wanted to prove I was more than just the rookie. Franklin gets on my nerves.”

“He gets on everyone’s nerves sometimes, but you can’t let it throw you off. You have to stay focused. Acting on impulse makes you a liability.”

She paused for a moment, and he felt a strange lurch in his chest when her eyes met his.

“You’ve got potential. You’ve got speed, strength, heart. I’ve seen your record, didn’t dig into every detail, but enough to know you’re capable of doing well here if you stick it out. What you need to learn is how to harness that power without losing control.”

Logan exhaled. “I’m trying, Sergeant.”

“You will try harder,” she said. “Because I’m restricting you to post this weekend. No heading into Blackstone or wherever you planned to go. If you need food other than the dining facility, you can get it delivered. But the gate guards will make sure you don’t leave. I already cleared it with Nichols.”

A protest sprang to his lips, but he held it back. He had half-planned to drive off post for a breather, maybe see a movie or get something decent to eat. Now that was gone.

Adams hopped down from the table, her feet landing lightly. “You need time to settle. Handle your frustrations here, learn to handle them in the field. Show me you can stop flying off the handle, and maybe next time I’ll let you prove yourself differently. Understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” he said. He clenched a folded sleeve, feeling a mixture of relief and dread. She might be a disciplinarian, but there was a flicker of something more than hostility in her tone.

“Good. Keep scrubbing. I want those uniforms spotless.” With that, Adams walked out, leaving a faint trace of soap mixed with floral shampoo in the air.

Logan stared at the empty doorway and thought about her words. She had seen at least a spark of promise in him. That was something. Not quite acceptance, but it meant if he worked hard enough, he could move beyond the “Hollywood” label and become a respected part of the team. Whether Adams would ever see him in any other light, he had no idea. But a small, foolish part of him wanted her to.

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