Cross The Border

The morning air was crisp, carrying a sense of foreboding as the participants gathered at the edge of the training ground. Ahead of them stretched the infamous "Cross of the Raven"—a narrow, swaying bridge suspended above a chasm. Below, jagged rocks loomed like the teeth of a waiting predator. Qoval, their mentor, stood before them, his tone sharp and commanding as he outlined the rules.

“You have one minute and thirty seconds to cross this bridge,” he began, gesturing toward the precarious structure. "You will carry a weight of seven kilograms strapped to your weaker leg, and your dominant hand will be bound to your body. You’re allowed one instance of help—fifteen seconds to free your hand. On both ends of the bridge are TSM units that will fire at you every eleven seconds. Dodge them or fail. Fail today, and you return to day one. Fail day one, and you’re dismissed. Understood?"

The group nodded in unison, their faces a mix of determination and dread.

“First up, Fozic. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Fozic stepped forward without hesitation, his expression unreadable. He adjusted the weight on his leg and flexed his bound hand experimentally, as if testing the limits of the drill. The moment the timer began, he darted onto the bridge with astonishing agility. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, as if he had calculated every step beforehand. The TSM units fired, but Fozic seemed to anticipate their attacks, dodging with uncanny ease. He reached the other side with seconds to spare.

The crowd murmured, impressed but wary. Something about his performance felt... off.

Qoval’s voice rang out, sharp and accusing. “We are here to man up and strengthen ourselves, not to cheat or slack off! Fozic, explain yourself.”

Fozic turned slowly, his calm demeanor unshaken. “I followed the rules. If you have proof otherwise, present it.”

Before Qoval could respond, a voice crackled through his earpiece. “Stand down, Qoval. You’re not the final judge here.”

Furious but powerless, Qoval clenched his fists and fell silent. From the monitoring room, the supervisors exchanged knowing glances. The screens before them displayed detailed stats on every participant—strength, stamina, tactical skill—feeding into algorithms that assessed their potential.

“He’s using tactics unfamiliar to this world,” one supervisor noted. “If he’s from outside, that could explain it. Keep an eye on him.”

The second participant stepped forward, drawing sharp intakes of breath from the crowd. She was a slender girl with strikingly pale features, her expression unreadable save for a faint, unsettling smirk. Unlike the others, both her hands were bound, and she made no move to use her allowed 15-second relief.

“What’s she doing?” someone whispered. “She’ll never make it like that.”

The girl stepped onto the bridge as the timer began. Her movements were deliberate, almost languid, as if she had all the time in the world. But there was an efficiency to her steps, a confidence that unnerved the onlookers. When the TSM units fired, she seemed to know exactly when and where the shots would land, dodging with precision that bordered on preternatural.

“She knows the drill too well,” Qoval muttered under his breath. “Someone sent her. She’s exploiting it.”

In the monitoring room, the supervisors watched her progress with interest. “Mark her stats,” one of them ordered. “She could be useful. But confirm her origin.”

As the drill continued, Wrex watched from the sidelines, his mind churning. The stakes for earning the TSM license weighed heavily on him. Without it, crossing the border to the True Residents—a territory shrouded in secrecy—would remain an impossible dream. For Loria, the license represented her path to the strongest facilities and the upcoming raid. But for Wrex, it was something more—a chance to uncover the truth buried in his past.

His father’s cryptic words echoed in his mind: “Learn, survive, and remember what you’re fighting for.” But what was he fighting for? His comrades—Loria and Fozic—seemed like enigmas themselves. Loria was focused and driven, but her determination to succeed alongside him felt... unsettlingly personal. And Fozic’s foreign tactics and unfamiliar manners only deepened Wrex’s unease.

“I need to focus,” he thought, shaking off his doubts. “Whatever this mess is, I’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Loria, too, was grappling with her own suspicions. She had already placed her trust in Wrex, believing him to be a reliable ally in their shared quest for the TSM license. But Fozic was another matter entirely. His precision, his calculated movements—they were too perfect, too unnatural. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was an inside agent sent by the government of the 8 Superentis to spy on them.

Unbeknownst to her, Fozic harbored suspicions of his own. To him, Loria’s sharp instincts and unrelenting drive marked her as an outsider—possibly a spy sent by the True Residents. Their mutual wariness simmered beneath the surface, each watching the other for any sign of betrayal.

As the drill progressed, the weight of surveillance bore down on the participants. Cameras and sensors captured every move, every misstep. The supervisors in the monitoring room were already making decisions about who would advance and who would be sent back to day one.

When it was finally Wrex’s turn, he stepped onto the bridge with a calm focus that belied the turmoil within him. The timer began, and he moved steadily forward, dodging the TSM shots with practiced ease. But as he reached the halfway point, a sudden memory flashed in his mind—a fragmented image of a shadowed figure, a voice whispering his name. The distraction cost him precious seconds, but he pushed through, his determination unshaken.

By the time he reached the other side, his chest heaved with exertion. He glanced back at the bridge, his mind racing. “What’s coming for me?” he wondered. “What am I really fighting against?”

That evening, as Wrex returned to his quarters to rest and clear his mind, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw the second participant—the girl with the unsettling smirk—approaching him. Her expression was unreadable, but her words cut through the silence like a knife.

“I see, I see. You too want to fly over there, right?” she said, her voice soft yet unnerving. “You know, those who fly high might never land.”

Without waiting for a response, she walked past him, leaving Wrex standing in the dimly lit hallway, his mind even more tangled than before.