He made a decision: he couldn't afford to pick just one approach.
He needed to observe, prepare, and maintain cover simultaneously. It was risky—spreading himself thin when he was already exhausted—but that's what his rapid assimilation ability was for. Reading patterns quickly, adapting on the fly.
He finished washing up and returned to his bunk, moving with deliberate casualness.
As he dressed, he let his eyes track movement throughout the bay, cataloging without staring.
Marcus Webb was already fully dressed and organized, watching the room with an assessing gaze. When he caught Kai looking, he nodded once.
Normal interaction, or were they both doing the same thing?
Darius struggled with his bootlaces, genuine frustration on his face. He was talking to himself quietly—"Come on, you piece of shit..." Human irritation or programmed authenticity?
Park methodically organized his footlocker with precise movements, arranging everything the same way. Habits, patterns, consistency.
Dos Santos splashed water on his face at the sink, cursing colorfully in Spanish about the early hour.
All normal. All perfectly, frustratingly normal.
"Hey Chen," Darius called out, finally getting his boot laced. "You bring any protein bars or anything? I'm starving but we probably don't have time for a full breakfast before formation."
An opening.
Kai pulled out his pack and tossed him one of his rations. "Here. I grabbed extras yesterday."
"Thanks, man!" His gratitude seemed genuine. He caught it easily, tore it open. "You're a lifesaver. Marcus keeps telling me to plan better but I always forget."
"That's because you have the organizational skills of a radroach," Marcus said, but there was fondness in his voice.
Cousins. Family bonds. Real human connection, or...
Kai forced himself to engage naturally. "I learned the hard way on the caravans—always carry extra food, extra water, extra ammunition. The wasteland doesn't care if you forgot to plan ahead."
"Trade route wisdom," Dos Santos said, emerging from the bathroom. "Bet you've got stories. Most recruits come from settlements. Caravan life's different."
Kai started stretching as he talked—hamstrings, quadriceps, shoulders. Getting his body ready for Kozlov's PT while maintaining the conversation.
His muscles protested the lack of sleep, but he pushed through.
"Different how?" he asked, genuinely curious about Dos Santos's perspective while working through a shoulder rotation.
"Settlement kids know their territory but nothing beyond it. Caravan kids know everything between points A and B."
Dos Santos grabbed his own gear. "You learn to read people fast, figure out who's dangerous, who's useful, who's just noise."
"Sounds like you're describing Ranger work," Marcus observed.
"Basically the same skillset," Kai agreed, moving into lunges. His legs burned but he maintained the motion. "The main difference is Rangers have backup and authorization. Caravans have profit margins and survival instinct."
He was watching Dos Santos as he said this. The man was nodding, relating to what he was saying.
He came from "harder settlements"—he'd understand the pragmatic view. Building rapport while gathering information.
Kowalski looked up from his rifle kit. "You really think you can learn marksmanship fast enough for Kozlov's standards? He doesn't grade on a curve."
"I learn by watching and doing," Kai said, switching to another stretch. "If I can see the proper technique demonstrated, I can replicate it within a few attempts. Won't be perfect, but I'll be competent."
"That's... actually how I learned too," Park said quietly.
It was the most he'd volunteered since Kai arrived. "Observation, pattern recognition, replication."
Kai glanced at him with interest. "What's your background?"
"Engineering settlement. We fixed pre-war tech, learned by taking things apart and putting them back together. Same process—observe, understand, execute."
He closed his footlocker. "The rifle's just another machine with specific operational parameters."
Interesting.
Park thought like he did—systematic, analytical. Potential ally? Or the perfect cover for a synthetic designed to blend in?
The paranoia was exhausting.
"Ten minutes to formation!" Corporal Hayes's voice echoed up from the ground floor.
Kai did a few quick jumping jacks, getting his heart rate up, forcing blood flow to wake up his body. The exhaustion was there, but adrenaline and necessity were overriding it.
He'd pay for this later, but right now he needed to be functional.
Marcus was watching him with an evaluating expression. "You're prepping hard for someone who just got here yesterday."
Kai flashed him a quick smile. "Kozlov said he doesn't care who my father was—everyone gets the same standards. I'd rather exceed them than barely meet them."
"Ambitious. I can work with that."
Marcus stood, checking his watch. "All right, let's move. Bay 3 doesn't get demerits on my watch."
They filed out with the others, falling into the flow naturally.
As they descended the stairs, Kai was acutely aware of everyone around him—their movements, their voices, the easy camaraderie that could be genuine friendship or could be infiltrators maintaining cover.
The parade ground was filling with recruits from all bays, forming up in their designated areas. The morning air was crisp, the sky shifting from grey to pale blue.
Sergeants were already positioned, including Kozlov standing front and center, his weathered face impassive as he watched the formation take shape.
Kai spotted Commander Wolfe on the second-floor balcony of the administrative building, observing. She was too far away to read her expression, but he felt her attention nonetheless.
Does she know I listened to the transmission? Of course she does—she authorized the access.
The formation snapped to attention as Corporal Hayes barked orders.
Kai fell in line next to Darius, with Marcus on his other side. His body was cooperating despite the exhaustion, muscle memory from years of physical work on the caravans kicking in.
Kozlov's voice cut across the parade ground like a whip: "Good morning, recruits!"
"GOOD MORNING, SERGEANT!" the formation responded in unison.
"This morning we're going to find out who actually wants to be here and who's just pretending!"
He paced along the front rank, pale eyes scanning faces. When his gaze passed over Kai, there was a flicker of something—recognition, assessment, maybe curiosity about how he'd handle this after last night.
"Five-mile run. Full pace. Anyone who falls out runs it again after dinner."
He let that sink in. "After the run, obstacle course. After the obstacle course, we'll see who still has the energy for hand-to-hand combat drills."
Groans rippled through the formation, quickly suppressed.
"Something to say, Rodriguez?"
"No, Sergeant!"
"Good. Because the wasteland doesn't care if you're tired. Raiders don't care if you had a bad night's sleep. When you're in the field, you perform or you die."
His eyes swept the formation again. "Remember that."
He raised his whistle. "On my mark... MOVE!"
The formation broke into a run, and Kai settled into a sustainable pace.
His body was protesting—two and a half hours of sleep was not enough—but he'd pushed through worse. Beside him, Darius was breathing steadily, clearly in good shape.
Marcus was ahead slightly, setting the pace for Bay 3.
Kai was in the middle of the pack, which was strategic—not standing out, not falling behind.
But then he noticed someone matching his exact pace about three strides to his right. A woman, tall and lean, hair in tight braids.
She was running with the kind of controlled efficiency that suggested endurance training. When he glanced over, she wasn't looking at him, but he got the sense she was very aware of his presence.
After about a mile, she spoke, her voice steady despite the exertion: "You're keeping good form for someone who looks like they didn't sleep."
He turned his head slightly. Dark skin, calm brown eyes that were assessing him even while running.
"Thanks. Years of running between caravan stops when the vehicles broke down."
"Zara Okafor," she said simply.
"Kai Chen."
"I know. Everyone knows." She adjusted her pace fractionally, staying perfectly aligned with him. "You're the linguist they fast-tracked. The one whose father was Marcus Chen."
"Guilty on both counts."
She was quiet for another quarter mile. Then: "You move differently today than you did yesterday during in-processing."
His heart rate spiked, and it wasn't from the running. "Different how?"
"Yesterday you moved like someone confident in new surroundings. Today you move like someone performing confidence while being hypervigilant."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "People who grow up in dangerous situations learn to spot that difference."
Shit. He thought he was maintaining his cover better than that.
"Had a lot on my mind," he said carefully. "Found out some things about my father's mission yesterday that are... heavy."
"Makes sense." She was silent for another stretch. "For what it's worth, I do the same thing. Watch everything, assess everyone, trust slowly."
A pause. "Just thought you should know you're not as invisible as you think you are when you're doing it."
Was this a warning? A threat? An offer of alliance? He couldn't tell, and that was frustrating.
Before he could respond, Kozlov's voice cut through: "Pick up the pace! You're running like my grandmother, and she's been dead for twenty years!"
The formation sped up.
Kai pushed harder, his exhausted muscles burning, but he maintained position. Zara accelerated smoothly, staying with him.
By mile three, people were starting to struggle. Rodriguez fell back slightly. Kowalski was breathing hard.
But Kai was holding steady, drawing on reserves he wasn't sure he actually had.
This is what his rapid assimilation does—he'd observed how Marcus was running, how Zara moved, and he was unconsciously adjusting his stride, his breathing pattern, optimizing efficiency on the fly.
Mile four. His lungs were burning. His legs felt like lead.
But he was still running, still maintaining position in the middle of the pack where he wanted to be.
Darius pulled up beside him, sweat streaming down his face. "You okay, man? You look rough."
"I'm fine," he managed. "Just working through it."
"You sure? Because—"
"Webb! Chen! Save your breath for running!" Kozlov barked.
Mile five. The finish line was in sight.
The formation was strung out now—the strongest runners ahead, the strugglers behind. Kai was right where he calculated: solid middle, competent but not exceptional.
He crossed the finish line and immediately bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.
Around him, other recruits were doing the same. Some were in better shape, some worse.
Kozlov walked through the formation, evaluating. "Not terrible. Not great. Rodriguez, you fell behind—you'll run again tonight. The rest of you have five minutes to hydrate, then it's the obstacle course."
Kai grabbed his canteen, taking measured sips.
His heart was hammering, his vision was slightly blurry from exhaustion, and he had Morrison's assessment in less than three hours.
This is fine. You can do this. You just need to—
"Chen."
He turned. Zara was standing there, offering him her canteen. "You're going to need more water than that. You're running on empty and trying to hide it."
He met her eyes. They were calm, knowing, and completely unreadable.
"Why do you care?" he asked quietly.
"Because people who notice things the way we do shouldn't waste energy pretending to each other."
She pushed the canteen toward him. "Drink. The obstacle course is going to be worse."
Kai took the canteen, drinking deeply. The water was cold, almost painfully so, and exactly what he needed.
When he lowered it, he met her eyes directly.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I got maybe two and a half hours of sleep. Spent most of the night in the Archives learning details about how my father died that I've been waiting fifteen years to know."
He handed back the canteen. "So yeah, I'm running on empty and trying to hide it. The question is: why are you calling me on it instead of letting me crash and burn?"
Zara took the canteen but didn't break eye contact. "Fair question."
"Because if you're testing me for someone—Morrison, command, whoever—I'd rather know now."
He kept his voice level, but there was steel underneath. "And if you're not, then you're taking a risk by showing me you're that observant. People who notice as much as we apparently both do usually have reasons for staying quiet about it."
A flicker of something crossed her face—respect, maybe, or recognition.
She took a drink from her own canteen, considering him.
"Not testing you for anyone," she said finally. "The opposite, actually. I grew up in a settlement that got raided every few months. You learn fast that the people who survive are the ones who see threats coming. Who watch, assess, and don't trust easy."
She capped the canteen. "I've been watching everyone in my bay, in the mess hall, during drills. Keeping notes, even."
"And what have you noticed?"
Her lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "You want to know if I've seen what you've been looking for."
"I want to know if your observations match mine," he corrected. "Or if I'm seeing patterns that aren't there because I'm exhausted and processing some heavy shit about my father's mission."
Zara glanced around. Kozlov was occupied with chewing out Rodriguez. Other recruits were scattered, recovering, too focused on their own exhaustion to pay attention to two people having a quiet conversation.
"Marcus Webb," she said, voice low. "Natural leader, pragmatic, always calculating odds. But he's also genuinely protective of his cousin and the people he considers 'his.' Real loyalty, not performed."
Kai nodded. That matched his read.
"Darius Webb. True believer, wears his heart on his sleeve. Either the most genuine person here or—" she paused.
"Or a perfect performance," he finished quietly.
"Exactly." She was watching his reaction carefully. "Dos Santos is exactly what he seems—wasteland survivor, pragmatic, self-interested but not cruel. Park thinks like a machine, but he's consistent. Kowalski talks too much, which is usually a sign of nerves, not deception."
"You've thought about this a lot."
"I think about survival a lot." She shifted her weight. "And here's what I noticed about you: yesterday during in-processing, you were confident, observant, socially capable. Professional. Today you're all that plus hypervigilant, paranoid, and forcing yourself to maintain cover despite obvious exhaustion."
Her voice dropped even lower. "That's not just grief about a dead father. That's someone who learned something that changed how they see everything around them."
His heart was pounding again, and it wasn't from the run.
She held up a hand. "I'm not asking what you learned. Whatever it is, you have reasons for keeping it quiet. But I am saying that if you're trying to identify who you can trust, I'm someone who sees what you see. Who thinks like you think. And who isn't going to pretend I haven't noticed you're asking the same questions about everyone that I've been asking for weeks."
"Which are?"
"Who's competent. Who's trustworthy. Who would have your back when things go bad."
She met his eyes. "And who might be something other than what they appear to be."
The last phrase hung in the air between them, loaded with implications.
Kai made a decision. Calculated risk, but potentially valuable ally.
"The Archives last night," he said quietly. "I listened to my father's final transmission before he died. Partial recovery, heavily corrupted, but what came through..."
He paused, choosing words carefully. "He discovered something in Colorado that terrified him. Something about infiltration, about people not being what they seem. He died trying to expose it, and the investigation got buried."
Zara's expression didn't change, but he saw her eyes sharpen with understanding.
"And now you're wondering if the same infiltration has reached here," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm wondering who I can trust when the mission that killed my father is apparently happening again, fifteen years later."
He kept his voice level despite the exhaustion and paranoia. "I'm wondering if I'm being paranoid because I didn't sleep, or if paranoia is actually the appropriate response."
"Probably both," Zara said pragmatically. "But here's what I know: I'm human, I'm observant as hell, and I've been keeping notes on everyone because I don't trust easy either. If you're trying to identify potential threats or potential allies, I can share what I've seen."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because if something's wrong—if there's a real threat—I want to know about it before it kills me."
She said it matter-of-factly, like she was discussing weather patterns. "And because you're asking the right questions, which means you're either genuinely trying to uncover something dangerous, or you're already compromised and this is an elaborate test."
"And if it's a test?"
"Then I haven't told you anything that would get me in trouble. I'm just a cautious recruit who pays attention."
She shrugged. "But my gut says you're legitimate. People who are performing don't look as exhausted as you do right now. They don't risk physical failure during PT when they're trying to prove themselves."
He almost laughed. "So my complete physical and mental exhaustion is actually evidence in my favor?"
"In a weird way, yes." Now she did smile, just slightly. "Real people make mistakes. Real people get overwhelmed. Real people look like shit when they're processing trauma and running on no sleep."
"Obstacle course! Move it!" Kozlov's voice cut through the brief moment.
They both turned toward the course—walls, rope climbs, mud pits, barbed wire crawls. Kai's body was already screaming in protest.
"Can you make it through this?" Zara asked, not unkindly.
"I don't have a choice," he said. "Morrison's assessment is at 0900. I need to prove I'm functional despite everything."
"Then here's what we do," Zara said, her voice taking on a tactical edge. "Partner exercises. When they pair us up, I'll work with you. We can talk more while making it look like normal training conversation. And I can help keep you upright if you start to crash."
"Why would they pair us up?"
"Because Kozlov pairs people who are running similar times. We crossed the finish line within seconds of each other."
She started walking toward the course. "Plus, you need an ally who's actually paying attention. And I need confirmation that my paranoia isn't just paranoia."
Kai followed her, his mind racing despite the exhaustion.
This could be exactly what he needed—someone observant, competent, and already predisposed to question everything. Or it could be a perfectly calculated approach by someone designed to identify threats to an infiltration operation.
But right now, he needed to survive the obstacle course without collapsing. Analysis could come later.
The recruits were gathering at the starting point. Kozlov was already barking instructions about proper technique.
Kai spotted Marcus near the front, Darius beside him. Rodriguez looked like he might throw up.
And there, standing at the edge of the training area, partially obscured by the equipment shed—a figure. Tall, wearing what might be older Ranger gear, watching the formation.
Kai only caught a glimpse before they stepped back into shadow.
Was that real, or was he hallucinating from exhaustion?
"Chen! Okafor! You're paired together for the rope climb and wall scaling!" Kozlov's voice snapped him back to attention.
Zara caught his eye. See? Told you.
"First exercise!" Kozlov continued. "Wall climb. Fifteen feet, standard handholds. Pair climbing—one person spots, one person climbs, then switch. GO!"
They moved to the wall together. "You climb first," Zara said. "I'll spot you."
Kai positioned himself at the base of the fifteen-foot wall, rough handholds jutting out at irregular intervals.
As he gripped the first holds and pulled himself up, he realized he could use this—the physical exertion gave him a reason to speak in fragmented bursts, and the elevated position gave him a better view of the training area.
"Rodriguez," he said quietly as he reached for the next handhold, muscles screaming. "You said he looks like he might throw up. What else have you noticed about him?"
"Youngest in his bay," Zara responded from below, keeping her voice low. "Eager to prove himself. Father's a Ranger who warned him about Colorado specifically. Real fear there, not performed."
He pulled himself up another few feet, and from this angle he could see the equipment shed more clearly.
The figure was gone—or moved. But there was something on the ground near where they'd been standing. A piece of paper weighted down with a rock.
Focus. Climb first, investigate later.
"Dos Santos," he said, testing her. "You said self-interested but not cruel. What makes you sure about the 'not cruel' part?"
"Watched him during mess hall. A younger recruit—not from our bays—dropped his tray. Made a mess. Dos Santos helped him clean it up without being asked, even though it made him late to evening formation."
Zara's voice was steady, analytical. "People who are purely self-interested don't help when there's a cost and no benefit."
Kai reached the top of the wall, gripped the edge, and for a moment he had a clear view of the entire training area.
His vision swam slightly from exhaustion, but he forced himself to scan quickly.
There. Movement at the far corner of the armory building.
Someone in older Ranger gear, definitely watching the training. The distance was too great to make out features, but the figure raised one hand—could be adjusting their cap, could be a deliberate gesture toward him.
Then they were gone, disappearing around the corner.
"Chen! Focus or fall!" Kozlov's voice cut through his observation.
He descended quickly, using technique he was rapidly assimilating from watching others. When he dropped to the ground, his legs nearly buckled, but he caught himself.
"You okay?" Zara asked, and there was genuine concern in her voice.
"Fine," he lied. "Your turn."
As Zara climbed with efficient, practiced movements, he positioned himself to spot her but also to think.
That figure was real, not a hallucination. Watching him specifically. And they'd left something by the equipment shed.
"Park," he called up quietly. "You mentioned he thinks like a machine. Has he always been that consistent, or did something change?"
"Always," Zara responded, pulling herself smoothly up the wall. "I've been watching for three weeks. Same patterns, same behaviors, same routines every day. If he's not human..."
She paused at the halfway point. "Then whoever designed him is really committed to the long game."
She reached the top faster than he did, surveyed the area briefly—she's looking for the figure too—then descended.
"Next exercise!" Kozlov barked. "Rope climb! Twenty-five feet! Same pairs!"
The rope hung from a metal frame, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Kai's arms were already shaking from the wall climb, and he had at least six more obstacles to get through before this was over.
He gripped the rope, and immediately his hands protested. The rough fiber dug into his palms as he pulled himself up, using his legs to support his weight the way he'd observed others doing.
Ten feet up, his vision blurred. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second.
"Chen!" Zara's voice from below. "Legs! Use your legs!"
He adjusted, locking the rope between his feet, redistributing the weight. Better.
He continued climbing, but he was moving slower now, the exhaustion becoming harder to hide.
Fifteen feet. Twenty feet.
"Darius Webb," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "True believer or perfect performance. Have you tested which?"
"Tried," Zara called up. "During a tactical drill last week, instructor set up a scenario where Darius had to choose between following orders and helping an injured teammate. He chose the teammate without hesitation, took the punishment lap afterward without complaint."
A pause. "Either he's genuinely that idealistic, or the programming accounts for moral consistency under pressure."
Twenty-five feet. He touched the marker at the top and started descending.
Halfway down, his arms gave out.
He slipped six feet before catching himself, rope burn searing his palms, body swinging.
Below him, recruits had stopped to watch.
This is it. Strategic moment. Show weakness, see how Zara responds.
"I've got you!" Zara's voice was urgent. "Controlled descent! Hand over hand, don't rush!"
He forced his screaming muscles to obey, lowering himself carefully.
When his feet hit the ground, he actually did stumble this time, catching himself on his knees.
Zara was there immediately, hand on his shoulder, positioning herself to block Kozlov's direct line of sight. "Stand up," she said quietly. "You can do this. Three more obstacles, then you're done."
"I don't—"
"Yes, you do." Her voice was firm but not unkind. "I've seen people genuinely give up. This isn't that. This is exhaustion. There's a difference. Stand up, Chen."
He looked up at her. Her expression was intense, focused, but there was something else there—investment.
She was choosing to help him, not because she had to, but because she'd decided he was worth the effort.
He stood, legs shaking.
Around him, other recruits were finishing their rope climbs. Kozlov was watching, his pale eyes assessing.
"Can you make it through the next three?" Zara asked quietly.
"Have to," he said. "Morrison's waiting."
"Then here's the play: mud crawl is next. That's all core and determination. I'll go first, you watch my technique. Barbed wire crawl after that—low and steady, don't rush. Finally hand-to-hand basics, which is more about learning than performance."
She was already moving toward the next station. "Save your questions for the crawls. We can talk while moving."