Chương 35: Lessons Under Pressure

A smartphone suddenly blared from the pocket of Professor Langstrom's snow-white lab coat. The ringtone, sharp, piercing, and painfully familiar from the days when I hated every morning before going to the office, sliced through the silence of the lecture hall like a scalpel.

"Looks like the lecture's ending earlier than I expected to get into it," Selina said, smoothly pulling out the device and tapping the screen to cut off the shrill alarm.

"We'll continue discussing S-Power and the principles of energy accumulation inside energy nodes tomorrow."

"Wait, what?!" Ted nearly jumped in place, his voice cracking into an indignant falsetto.

"Does that mean there's no ability training at all today?! Are we just gonna sit through theory all day tomorrow too?" Langstrom adjusted her glasses, and under the fluorescent lights their lenses flashed with a cold white gleam for a brief moment. Not a trace of regret or fatigue crossed her face.

"You've asked far too many questions for my poor head. There's simply no time left for the practical portion," she said, wiping the board with dry finality.

"In fact, I find this rather useful. Another day in the skin of ordinary people won't hurt you. It builds discipline."

"What the hell for?!" Ted shot back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"That's nonsense! It's like buying a brand-new Lamborghini, parking it in a garage, and still dragging yourself everywhere on foot through the mud! No, it's even worse! It's like…"

"SILENCE!" the sergeant barked, instantly shutting the teenager up.

"Various situations occur in portals," Selina replied vaguely as she gathered her papers into a folder. Her gaze lingered on Ted for a second, turning cold and appraising.

"Sometimes the engine stalls at the worst possible moment, and then your legs are the only thing separating you from death. Sergeant, the lecture is over."

"Yes, ma'am!" The sergeant, who had been standing by the door up until that moment, blending into the background like an ornamental piece of military decor, suddenly came to life.

"Platoon! On your feet! Move out, now!" We sprang into motion, hastily stuffing notebooks and pens into our bags. Looking at those standard-issue army notebooks, I caught myself thinking that they had been given to us to systematize the information from the lectures. Most likely, they would be confiscated at the end of training so that not a single line about the portals would leave the base. State secrets preferred silence and clean paper. At the exit of the building, our paths split with the girls.

Mary and Louisa, escorted by a female instructor, headed toward their barracks, while we faced the harsh reality of the male sector. If I had hoped for a short break to process everything I had heard, the sergeant shattered that hope instantly.

"Run around the camp! Right now!" he barked, already heading for the exit.

"Move out! Don't fall behind!" I barely had time to dash into the barracks, toss my writing supplies carelessly into my locker, and rush back out, adjusting my pace on the move to match the sergeant's steady, springy stride.

"Damn it!" Ted's suffering groan came from inside. He had just managed to drop onto his bed.

"We already ran this morning! My legs feel like jelly!"

"Wait... wait for me!" Nick babbled. I could hear him frantically spinning the dial lock on his locker, his fingers clearly trembling with panic and haste. The camp grounds were not that large, maybe a mile and a half, two at most across. But strolling here under the moon was one thing, and running laps over gray concrete and trampled grass under the blazing sun was something else entirely. Running felt effortless to me. My breathing stayed even, and my body seemed to find the right rhythm on its own.

Behind me, however, a full-blown drama was unfolding. The teenagers lagged behind, and the sounds they made resembled death rattles more than breathing. On the turns, I caught glimpses of them: Ted's light bangs were soaked through with sweat and stuck unpleasantly to his forehead, and a large cloudy drop trembled on his ridiculous earring.

"I just... I just... ate," Ted gasped between convulsive breaths. Even though it had been a solid two hours since breakfast, he looked like he was about to throw up right onto the sergeant's boots.

"I'm... gonna... puke..."

"I didn't even... change..." Nick echoed, awkwardly clutching his glasses. He pressed them to his face, afraid they would fall off from the shaking and shatter on the gravel.

"He should've... given us time... to get ready..."

"There was no permission to talk!" the sergeant's voice cracked like a whip. He did not even turn around, his back remaining perfectly straight, his pace flawless.

"Got extra oxygen to waste? Pick up the pace!" I obediently accelerated, feeling my muscles fill with a pleasant heaviness. The sergeant and I pulled ahead smoothly, and behind us came a synchronized sound resembling the groan of a dying seal. The guys could barely move their legs, their faces flushed red. At that moment, I once again praised myself for the three months of brutal training I had put myself through before arriving at the camp.

Without that foundation, I would be wheezing alongside them now, or perhaps lying somewhere in a ditch. Teenagers had the advantage of youthful metabolism and natural flexibility, but without discipline and preparation, that was merely potential that burned out within the first five hundred yards.

"Platoon, halt! Run is over!" the sergeant commanded as we closed the loop near our barracks. Ted and Nick collapsed onto the grass at the same time, as if cut down. They lay there with arms spread wide, greedily gulping air, not caring how pathetic they looked.

"Why... why do we have to run this much?" Ted lifted his head, and despite his wild exhaustion, defiance still flickered in his eyes.

"We didn't even run twice a day in school!"

"This isn't school, cadet. This is the army," the sergeant cut him off, looming over him like a monolithic rock. There was no anger in his voice, only a dry, frozen statement of fact.

"If I give the order to run, you'll run. In rain, in snow, during the day or in the middle of the night. No questions." The boys visibly deflated, their bravado extinguished under that cold gaze. I, on the contrary, felt a strange surge of satisfaction. Finally, this scout camp was starting to turn into a proper training facility. Finally, they had begun breaking us down and rebuilding us the right way.

"This is for your own survival," the sergeant added more calmly.

"Besides, you'll have to pass standards to complete the course. And right now, neither of you can't even meet the minimum score. You're ballast." The boys finally sank into complete dejection, their gazes fixed on their knees.

"Cadet Ross," the sergeant suddenly said, shifting his attention to me.

"No complaints about you. Good shape. Keep it up." I nodded silently, accepting the praise as a matter of course. I glanced at the others. There was not a trace of hatred or envy in their eyes. I understood that they saw me as something natural. To them, I was an adult, and my results seemed as natural as a math teacher being able to calculate faster than a student. Perhaps this was the first time I genuinely appreciated my age. Gaining power at thirty-two was not the same as gaining it at twelve.

None of my peers saw me as arrogant or tried to compete with me or knock me down a peg. It felt unexpectedly good. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Damn it, I still don't get it!" Ted snapped, sitting up sharply and wiping his face with the edge of his shirt. His voice filled with stubbornness again.

"Aren't we supposed to train to take down those alien losers? Teach me how to fight, show me how to break their necks! I'm not a coward, I'm ready! Running's for people who're scared!"

"Endurance and speed aren't meant for running away, cadet," the sergeant said, stepping closer, his tone turning instructive, almost paternal.

"Picture this: your partner's wounded. He needs help, and you're a couple hundred yards away. If you burn out and have to stop every ten steps, he dies. And his blood's on your weak hands."

"But we're gonna get gear, right? Like motorcycles, armored vehicles, jetpacks or something?" Ted looked at the sergeant with hope.

"I've seen how huge those portals are, a whole sportbike could fly through one no problem!"

"The United States Army does not spare equipment for its soldiers," the sergeant replied evenly.

"But you must always, do you hear me, always plan for the worst-case scenario. Your equipment can be destroyed in the first seconds of a fight. Electronics can be knocked out by an electromagnetic pulse. A wheel can come off on rough terrain. And then what? You gonna tell the enemy 'wait, I'm not used to walking'? You want your friend to die just because you were too lazy to run one extra mile back at camp?"

"Well... no," Ted muttered, looking away as his fire finally died out. He awkwardly scratched the back of his head, thinking over the sergeant's words.

"Alright. Fine. Let's run. If we gotta, we gotta." I mentally applauded our sergeant. There was a kind of higher professional elegance in his approach. He did not try to break us, did not scream until his face turned red, and did not humiliate us like those caricatured sergeants from Hollywood action movies who made recruits do push-ups until their hearts gave out for every extra question. No, his method was far more refined. He explained. Calmly, logically, methodically.

It seemed that the entire staff of this awakened training camp had gone through the specialized psychology courses for working with teenagers that Danny had briefly mentioned. There was iron logic in that. The state wanted above all to avoid a walking nuclear bomb in human form ending their life because of bullying or, worse, destroying the entire facility in a fit of rage to get back at their tormentors. We were being trained hard, but it was done with velvet gloves.

"Break's over!" the sergeant barked, and the mask of the understanding mentor instantly gave way to the face of a harsh drill instructor.

"Platoon, on me! Move!" We moved to the obstacle course. At first glance, it looked almost ridiculous, nearly childish, something between a school stadium and an advanced playground. Without slowing down, the sergeant sprang up to a high horizontal ladder and, with a single smooth motion, climbed onto it by moving hand over hand along the rungs. We followed like a pack of obedient monkeys, jumping up and grabbing onto the cold metal bars.

"Hold that position!" the sergeant ordered, already back on the ground.

"Hang by your arms until I say otherwise. Any movement, and we start the lap over!" I hung calmly from the bar, looking down at the ground. Beneath my boots, a couple of feet below, dust swirled from our run. It was completely safe. The ground was less than a yard away, and only someone extraordinarily unlucky could get hurt falling from that height. I felt the cold metal against my palms and the familiar muscles working beneath my skin. By my sense of time, no more than thirty seconds had passed.

My fingers began to ache slightly, but it was the kind of healthy, working strain I even enjoyed.

"That's it... I can't... I can't anymore!" Nick whined first. He began frantically shifting his grip, trying to redistribute his weight from one hand to the other.

"My palms are slipping! I'm gonna fall!"

"Hold on, cadet!" the sergeant's voice struck from below like a gunshot.

"That's an order! Your life depends on your grip!"

"Sorry..." Nick sobbed, his fingers giving out as he dropped with a dull thud onto the flattened grass.

"They've just... gone numb..."

"Screw this!" Ted said, watching his friend as he relaxed his grip and jumped down beside him.

"This is stupid! I'm sick of it! What's the point?" The sergeant approached them slowly, almost like a predator closing in. His shadow fell over the teenagers sitting on the ground.

"What do you mean, 'sick of it,' cadet?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying a dangerous softness.

"Now imagine this for a second: below you is not grass, but an enemy trap. Acid, spikes, or a portal anomaly that will tear you apart at the atomic level. You gonna say 'I'm bored' and jump straight into death's arms?"

"Oh, come on, why're you on my case?" Ted shot back, lifting his chin in defiance, showing all his teenage stubbornness.

"There aren't any traps right now! We're in camp! And anyway, could you even hang there that long? Or are you just good at giving orders while everyone else sweats?" A brief, almost imperceptible smile flickered across the sergeant's face. Pure professional triumph.

"I don't need to prove anything to you, cadet," he replied, and there was steel in his voice.

"Your fellow soldier'll do that for me." All three of them, the sergeant and the two worn-out teenagers, stared at me. I kept hanging there, looking somewhere past the bar. The drama below was nothing more than background noise to me.

"Cadet Ross," the sergeant called out loudly, with clear self-satisfaction.

"Are your fingers hurting too, by any chance? Or, heaven forbid, are you getting bored carrying out the order?"

"No, sir," I answered evenly, without even breaking my breathing. I continued to hang. One minute passed, then another, then a third. I could feel their eyes on me. The sergeant knew exactly what he was doing. He had seen my file, knew the results of my pre-training tests, and understood that I could hang there for an hour and a half if necessary. He was using me as a live demonstration. As a benchmark meant to shatter Ted's arrogance. And it worked.

The boys were no longer looking at me as that boring adult but with undisguised amazement. I did not mind this use of my abilities. If it made them take training even slightly more seriously, they could watch.

"That's enough," the satisfied sergeant finally said when the hand on his watch marked ten minutes.

"Get down, Cadet Ross." I did not jump down like the teenagers. Instead, I calmly moved hand over hand to the end of the ladder and descended along the support, following all safety rules. My feet touched the ground softly. My arms trembled slightly from the static strain, but it was entirely manageable.

"Holy crap..." Ted stared at me with something close to religious awe.

"Tom, how'd you do that? Are you, like, one of those... Green Berets or something?"

"That's a standard result for someone who doesn't neglect physical training and discipline," the sergeant cut in before I could say anything.

"I'm not asking the impossible from you two. Two minutes of continuous hang at least. By next week." The teenagers nodded in unison. The bar I had set was so high that a result five times lower seemed entirely achievable, even comfortable. Psychology in action.

"Training's over for today," the sergeant announced.

"You've got free time until dinner. You can spend it resting in the barracks or visiting the library. Any questions?" There were no questions. The boys, swaying slightly and slouching miserably, trudged toward the living quarters. Judging by their condition, the height of their dreams was to collapse onto their bunks and fall asleep. I, on the other hand, did not feel drained. On the contrary, my blood was circulating briskly, and my head felt clear. So I headed to the library.

The room turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Soft deep couches, dim lighting, and most importantly, an air conditioner running at full power, blowing the sticky smell of sweat and dust out of the lungs. The only disappointment was the scale. Just five bookcases, the most ordinary kind made of cheap wood. No endless shelves reaching up to the ceiling, no officers-only section. The selection of books was not impressive either.

Mostly mass-market fiction like Harry Potter, cheap paperback detective novels, and the immovable classics that everyone knew but few reread. No secret archives, no dossiers on alien invaders, no manuals on S-Power operation. At the same time, a strict notice hung on the wall: "Removing books from the library is strictly prohibited." It was paradoxical. Why such strictness for stories about boys with scars? A row of ten computers stood in the corner.

I approached one, but quickly realized that accessing the global network was impossible. The terminals were completely cut off from the outside world. However, the hard drives contained a decent selection of video games and around a hundred movies. The local library was not a temple of knowledge but a simple recreation room. Bread and circuses, so that teenagers with superpowers would not get bored during their free time and start creating their own adventures. A pity.

Physical exertion did not tire me, and I would have gladly occupied my mind with something genuinely useful, some kind of encyclopedia or a field manual on combat in portals. When I returned to the barracks, I found Ted and Nick in the middle of a lively argument. They were sitting on Ted's bed, gesturing actively, but the moment I stepped inside, an abrupt silence fell over the room. The boys immediately looked away.

Apparently, they had been discussing something that felt awkward or off-limits in the presence of an adult. I walked silently to my bunk, lay down, and took out one of the books I had brought from home. My memory palace required expansion, so I methodically began loading it with military terminology and specific slang. I had no desire whatsoever to reread The Little Prince from the local library.

"Uh... Tom?" I looked up from the page. The boys were standing at the foot of my bed, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. They looked like guilty schoolkids who had come to ask the principal for forgiveness, yet there was burning curiosity in their eyes.

"Listen," Ted began, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We were thinking... how do we get like you... you know, strong? What do we need to do?" Oh. It seemed I had shown off a bit too much on that ladder after all. Now, to them, I was no longer just a roommate but a physical training guru.