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Book Three Chapter 12: This Is Extortion
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 04:07:00 +0000 UTCInstructor Sarn didn’t say a word. The simulation shifted.
One moment they were watching the fall of Telnar Three. The next, everything went black. The sim booted again, but this time, they weren’t standing in formation. They were sealed inside.
A low hum began, deep and mechanical. Hydraulic clamps hissed and slammed over their limbs. Restraints snaked across their shoulders and thighs with a cold, sterile grip.
Drop pods.
Narrow, claustrophobic, barely wide enough to move their shoulders. The interior was pitch-black save for the flicker of red standby lights and the dim glow of breath sensors tracking oxygen output. Condensation formed against the steel casing just inches from their faces. Everything groaned with the weight of orbital tension. They could feel the buzz of systems activating, the mechanical exhale of engines priming beneath them. A few shifted uncomfortably, unable to shake the feeling that this was no longer a drill.
Sarn’s voice cracked through the internal comms, emotionless and clean. She sounded like she was reading off a funeral script.
"You are now en route aboard a Skycraft Carrier. Destination: the Alnuris rebel compound. Location: the Nespói Jungle."
The hiss of atmospheric sealants. The subtle change in cabin pressure. The heavy thrum of flight rising underneath them like a drumbeat they couldn’t run from.
"This is one of the worst combat zones we’ve ever mapped. Dense canopy. Shifting underbrush. Sink holes. Native toxins. Unpredictable elevation and poor line of sight. Environmental hazards will be just as lethal as your opposition. Welcome to the hells."
The HUD flickered to life inside the pod. Basic loadout interface. Nothing elegant, nothing personalized. Just flat text and inventory markers.
"Standard Mobile Infantry gear only. You’ve got a repeater lance for covering fire. A handlance for close-quarters work. A belt of bombs. A combat knife. And a light set of Legion armor. Standard issue. No mods. . You look like every other poor bastard getting dropped into a meat grinder."
"No Soul Skill access. You are Legion, not gods. You are authorized for basic Legion skills only: Flash , Adrenaline Boost, and Reinforced Skin. That’s it. No special, no miracle. You are basic ass grunts."
A red pulse lit the pod. The HUD marked a pending drop. External pressure spiked. The steel beneath them moaned with strain.
"Your goal is simple. Secure the depot. Embedded rebel cells are dug in and reinforced. Expect irregular ambush patterns. They will not behave like trained soldiers, but they will try to kill you. Civilians may be present. Navigate with discretion."
A moment of silence followed. It wasn’t long. Just enough to make their hearts kick harder in their chests.
"You are in the role of Mobile Infantry. That means you are the expendable wall the mission is built on. The line that better men will step over on their way to victory. You’re not here to win. You’re here to hold."
The pod jolted.
"Drop in ten."
The clamps around their bodies released one by one. A deep hiss vented above them as the hatch locks disengaged. Final confirmation screens appeared in front of their eyes—ready or not protocols, health stat indexing, vitals pre-read.
The countdown began.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
"You got me?" Sarn asked, voice cutting through the static.
No one responded fast enough.
"This is where you say 'Yes, ma’am.'"
They answered, rough, uneven, not quite in sync.
"Yes, ma’am."
The final seal unlocked. The pod tilted forward.
And then the sky opened beneath them.
The jungle roared up to meet them, green and black and burning hot, the kind of terrain that devoured maps and swallowed men. Screaming wind tore across the outer shell. Heat bloom. Altitude drop. Branches lashed past the viewports as canopy split like teeth.
They were falling into a kill zone.
And the jungle opened its jaws.
Sarn’s voice crackled back into the comms before impact, cold and absolute.
"If any of you die, we reset. If you leave the combat zone, we reset. If you fail to kill the rebel leader before he flees, we reset."
The words hit harder than the descent.
"I have full permission from Lisa to keep you here until you get this right. You’ll run this as many times as it takes."
A pause. Static. Then:
"And the longer this takes, the more laps you’ll owe her. And anyone else I feel like sending your sorry asses to."
The HUD pinged again, this time with a timer.
"You will have thirty seconds upon landing to gather whatever information you can. After each run, the simulation will assume you are a new squadron. The drop point will shift. The rebel placements will shift. The terrain will shift."
The countdown resumed.
"This is a dynamic sim. It learns. It punishes. It adapts. Just like the real thing."
The pod shook violently.
"If you think this is about survival, you're already dead. This is about clarity under fire. That’s the only thing that matters now."
The pod hit solid, a hard slap of velocity dropping into the world's open hand. The hatch snapped open before anyone gave the order.
They were one of dozens. Maybe hundreds. Pods streamed through the sky above, cutting trails like comet shards, their descent tracked only by flashes and tracer lines. Other squads were already landing. Some were already dying.
The world was lit with fire in the far distance, muffled explosions, rapid-fire bursts, and the low hum of dropcraft engines cycling back for air control. This was war. No introductions. No prep. No quiet.
They hit jungle and hit it fast. Then the pod opened.
Sixteen cadets dropped into the Nespói like meat tossed to dogs. The hatch yawned open and the mud waited.
Steam rose off the ground in choking waves, curling like smoke over the dense undergrowth. The jungle smelled like a rotting compost pile had been set on fire: smoke, fungus, wet bark, and the faint metallic tang of heat-reactive plant life.
It pressed in from every side, thick foliage, low visibility, branches clawing from above and roots waiting to trip below. The heat was immediate and animal. Oppressive in the way a waiting predator is.
Vaeliyan hit feet-first and spun. “Roll call. Now.”
“Still alive,” Chime grunted, climbing out from under Sylen, who looked as if he’d gotten the worst of the landing.
“Less mud this time,” Jurpat said, brushing muck off his chest plate. “Not none. Just... comparatively less.”
Elian was already upright, checking his repeater lance and dusting off his shoulder like the ground had insulted him personally. “Right in the middle of Nespói, this should be interesting,”
“Anyone know any formations?” Wesley asked, struggling to unlatch a caught buckle.
“Yeah,” Chime said. “It’s called ‘try not to die.’ Works great until someone trips over a branch and dies anyway.”
“We have a formation,” Lessa muttered darkly. “It's the fuck you, Alorna shape.”
“Log formation,” Vaeliyan said. “Now.”
That, they understood.
No training. No spacing. Just survival-born instinct. Two staggered Vs, one layered behind the other like awkward arrowheads. Not pretty. Not clean. But when Alorna's logs came screaming through the fog like missiles, this was the formation they had learned instinctively. The shape burned itself into their bones when survival meant blocking with your body and trusting the person beside you to do the same. Rear blocked for front. Flanks stayed loose to absorb hits. Center moved like a wounded animal trying to shield its young.
“Okay,” Vaeliyan growled, voice low but sharp. “Mud, rocks, and logs it is. Vexa and Leron take high flanks. Rokhan and Fenn on the rear. Sylen with me. Everyone else eyes forward, ears open, feet careful.”
“We barely survived two hours of Group Tactics,” Ramis muttered, adjusting the strap on his handlance.
“Then let’s make Alorna proud,” Vaeliyan snapped back. “Or at least make her make a single sound.”
The HUD inside their helmets flared to life, lighting their vision with synthetic red overlays. Text scrolled rapidly across the display.
OBJECTIVE VECTOR: 122° EAST BY SOUTHEAST. LOCATE AND ELIMINATE.
A soft chime ticked like a countdown. 5 seconds remaining.
They fell into motion. They’d been beaten into this shape, and it stuck. Boots sloshed through muck. Branches were shoved aside. Every direction looked the same, but their HUDs pointed the way.
“Which way is southeast again?” Fenn asked, turning slowly in place.
“Follow the icon,” Sylen replied, not looking back.
They took the first steps forward. Then a few more. Weapons were raised, even if no one had targets. Something buzzed past Chime’s ear and she flinched.
Then Fenn stepped just past the treeline.
Click.
Everyone froze.
“Guys?” Fenn said, his voice higher than usual.
Vaeliyan spun. “Stop. Don’t move.”
Fenn looked down. “There’s a red light. I think I stepped on something. Is red good?”
“No,” Chime whispered. “Red is never good.”
The jungle didn’t wait.
The explosion wasn’t loud. It was worse than that. It was final.
Fenn vanished in a burst of fire, dirt, and jagged plant matter. The blast shredded the nearby underbrush and knocked Varnai sideways, his armor catching the worst of it. Roan dropped immediately. Elian barely managed to shield his visor as a branch whiplashed across his faceplate. Lessa screamed, not in fear, just pure reactive noise. Jurpat cursed. Xera ducked.
Then came the worst part.
The flicker.
RESET.
Everything vanished. Jungle. Smoke. Fire. Even the echoes.
They were back inside the pod. Cramped. Dark. Waiting.
Same pod. Same dirt.
And the countdown started again.
They landed in a different zone this time, a small clearing, tight but navigable, with only a few gnarled trunks crowding the edges.
Vaeliyan was the first out, already scanning. “Remember what Alorna taught us. Ropes. Logs. Rock. All of it.”
The others nodded. This time, no arguing. No disorientation. No stupid questions.
“Form up,” he barked. “We really need sweepers. I want traps caught before we walk into another landmine.”
“Anyone know what ‘Area Ping’ does?” Jurpat asked, tapping at his HUD. “I can’t bring it up.”
Elian froze mid-check and slapped his helmet. “By the gods, I’m a moron. It’s like echolocation. Ten meters out. Picks up motion, heat, and terrain disturbances.”
“Fuck,” Fenn muttered. “That would’ve been helpful to know before I blew up.”
“At least we know now,” Torman offered, voice steady.
“Let’s move,” Vaeliyan said.
OBJECTIVE VECTOR: 203° EAST BY SOUTHEAST. LOCATE AND ELIMINATE.
This time, they gathered fast. Formation locked, spacing a little cleaner, eyes a little sharper.
They moved deeper into the jungle, boots cutting through undergrowth without hesitation. The air was just as thick, just as punishing, but they were no longer strangers to it. No longer guessing.
Enemy contact came in fragments. Scattered ambushes. Rifle bursts from behind cover. Crude bombs hidden in trees. But Class One didn’t fold. They adapted. They responded like they'd been bred for it. And maybe they had.
Even stripped of Soul Skills and personalized gear, they were first-class killers. They moved with instinctual coordination, covering each other, rotating point, reacting without needing to speak. The rebels weren’t pushovers, but they weren’t Class One.
The jungle bled. The rebels screamed. And Class One moved forward.
This time, no one died in the first five minutes.
This time, they moved like a squad.
By the time they reached the objective, the rebel leader was already off the ground. The squad watched in silent, bitter frustration as his skycraft cut above the treetops, its sleek frame bursting through the canopy and vanishing like a ghost. No fanfare. No chance to even fire. Just the tail of defeat vanishing into the sky.
Then the simulation reset.
"FUCKKKKK," Vaeliyan shouted, barely restrained rage exploding from his throat as they slammed back into the sim zone, this time deeper into the choking belly of the jungle.
They were already moving before the pod hatch had even finished disengaging.
"We need to move faster," Xera said, checking her HUD while pushing through vines thick as arms. "And we need to use the terrain. I think we could’ve completed it last time if we’d gone through the ravine and hit the back of the camp. If we got into the canopy, we might have been able to shoot the skycraft down before it cleared the trees."
Vaeliyan nodded.
They tried Xera’s route.
This time, when they reached the ridge, they took the climb fast. Vexa and Leron boosted Roan into the trees, Chime and Elian covering their flank as the rest advanced uphill through wet mud and screeching insects. They were waiting in the canopy when the craft came.
What they hadn’t seen was the mounted turret on its undercarriage. The first burst shredded Roan where he crouched. The second stitched through the branches and tore into Torman. The third would have cleared most of the squad. The sim flicker before they could find out.
Reset.
The next four attempts weren’t better. Each one ended in failure, and not the quiet, almost-earned kind. The ugly, humiliating kind.
One run, they got caught in a mudslide and were shot down trying to climb out, slipping and falling like amateurs. Another, they were caught in a brutal crossfire between rebels and a simulated mobile infantry squadron, Leron got clipped in the head and that was it. The third, an artillery shell hit Varnai dead-on, vaporizing her before anyone realized they were in range. The fourth… they never even saw the sniper. Just the sound, then the reset.
But despite the failures, they were learning.
Jurpat was the one who finally pieced it together. They were knee-deep in swamp water, the next drop, when he traced a path into the muck with his knife.
"We go back to Xera’s plan," he said. “Same flank. Same climb. But this time, we pre-set the bombs. We rig them in the trees, right where the skycraft scrapes the canopy. We get its attention, start firing, keep it on that path... then boom. We blow it out of the fucking sky."
No one argued. Any plan was better than nothing, and it certainly made more sense than Sylen's brilliant idea of trying to recruit the sim Legion to follow them.
They just nodded. Grimy. Tired. Focused.
They got ready.
And this time, they finished with time to spare. No more reset. No extra laps. At least not for being late. There’d be pain later, sure, but not for being late for punishment laps.
Today, they killed the skycraft.
Today, they won.
Only one thing left for the day: punishment laps.
They took the pad to the massive gymnasium, dragging their tired bodies forward. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and the low drone of distant equipment. Lisa was already there, arms crossed, the sharp lines of her face lit with the kind of look that usually meant pain was incoming.
What they didn’t expect, what they could never have prepared for, was the sight of Deck cuddled on her back like some overgrown parasite, whispering sweet nothings in her ear like a total weirdo. He looked blissfully content, and to the collective horror of everyone in Class One, Lisa actually laughed. Not a sarcastic snort. Not a grunt. An actual, genuine laugh. She even smiled back at him, the kind of smile that made her seem... human. Someone might’ve claimed they heard a giggle. No one would ever say it aloud. Not if they wanted to keep all their teeth and organs intact.
Lisa finally glanced over at them, Deck still clinging to her like the world’s most obnoxious and unwanted backpack. His chin was hooked over her shoulder, and he looked like he belonged there, like this was normal.
"Ah, you're all here earlier than expected," she said dryly. "Thera told me she’d be running Nespói. Guess she didn’t. Or maybe you’re faster than most at realizing the ravine was an entrance to the hangar bay."
Lessa blinked. "Hangar bay? What hangar bay? We blew the fucker out of the sky."
Deck finally detached himself from Lisa, stepping forward with a curious expression. "You’re saying you found another way to finish Nespói without using the hangar ambush?"
Rokhan squinted at him. "What ambush? You mean when we got to the ravine, climbed up the back of the camp, then got into the trees the craft barely missed? When we strapped bombs to the tree trunks so that when it crested the treeline and we opened fire, it veered into the blast and blew itself up? That?"
Deck stopped laughing. “Wait. You didn’t survive that blast, did you?”
Vaeliyan shrugged. “Didn’t have to. The sim cut before it hit us.”
For a second, Deck just looked at him. Then he turned to Lisa, voice quiet.
“They didn’t win the fight. They beat the fucking sim engine.”
Lisa nodded once, face unreadable.
“They triggered success conditions before the simulation could finish processing their deaths.”
Deck exhaled. “Holy shit. That’s not a tactic. That’s a gods damn loophole. I’m so proud of you all.”
He looked back at Class One.
“You knew it was going to kill you. And you did it anyway. Because you knew the system wouldn’t care. Not about you. Not about bodies. Just about the checkbox.”
A pause. “That’s not bravery. That’s the kind of ruthless decision-making that makes the rest of the Legion look like choir boys.”
Deck stared for a second, then burst out laughing. "Holy fuck. You guys. You’re the first group in twelve years of running Nespói that finished it without attacking the hangar.”
Vaeliyan thought back to that moment. Instructor Sarn hadn’t said a word when the sim ended, just waved them off without even glancing at Elian as they left.
Deck turned to Lisa, grinning wide. "Fuck me. I know you were gonna make them run four laps because of the extra credit and all, but please, for once, just accept the voucher for what it is. That’s not just impressive. That’s borderline insane. Even when we got to test the recreation, we didn’t think anyone would be that fucking suicidal and pull it off."
Lisa arched a brow, considering it. Her face was stone again, the smile gone. "All right. Two laps. That’s all. But they get next class’s gifts now, then. Let’s see how much they still feel like champions afterward."
Deck shrugged, amused. "I mean, they’re going to hate it anyway. Might as well get used to it. They’re Class One. It’s tradition to suffer."
Lisa stepped onto the pad and was gone in a flash.
Deck turned toward the group. "So, I saw the cadet lounge kerfuffle. Very impressed, the lot of you."
Vaeliyan crossed his arms. "Why did I get punished when I figured out the synth trick?"
"Oh, that? Here. Look at it again." Deck pulled out the original note.
"If you peel the sticker off," Deck added, "you'll see why."
Vaeliyan peeled off the sticker, Deck’s own smug face, and underneath was fine print so small it would put Dr. Wirk’s lecture notes to shame.
The note read: "Give to Deck for extra credit..." but beneath the stickered face, it added:
"If sticker is not removed, then Lisa is granted the right to do with the offending class of cadets as she sees fit, up to and including five tiger-based motivational laps. But as this sticker has been removed, the lap count shall be no more than one."
Vaeliyan finished reading, shoved the note into Deck’s hand, and declared, "I would like to redeem this note, please and thank you."
Deck blinked. "You already did that."
Vaeliyan pointed at the note. "You’re the one who taught us this. Do you see what’s missing from your fine print?"
Deck’s eyes scanned the note, then widened. He paled. "It doesn’t say it can only be redeemed once..."
"Oh, and I’ve got the other fifteen too. Now that I know the trick." Vaeliyan smiled, razor-sharp and far too pleased. "I think you’re the one who’s going to be running punishment laps if Lisa finds out."
Deck went a shade paler. "I liked you, kid. But this is extortion."
"What do you want?"
Vaeliyan shrugged. "Not sure yet. But I think Lisa's going to like hearing about us doing only one lap."
Lisa returned a few minutes later, only to see Deck bent forward, hands together in a begging posture, pleading with Vaeliyan, who didn’t budge. If anything, Vaeliyan looked even more entertained than before—like he was going to enjoy himself no matter how many laps Lisa threw at them.
So did the rest of Class One.
Lisa’s voice cut through the rising murmur like a whip.
“What is going on?”
Sylen didn’t even hesitate.
“Deck has something he needs to tell you.”
Deck gave Vaeliyan one last, pleading look.
“Vael... good buddy... old pal... don’t make me do this.”
Vaeliyan shook his head, expression deadpan.
With a groan, Deck dropped to the floor like a dying worm and crawled to Lisa, his face dragging against the polished gym floor as he held up the note in both hands like a peace offering to a wrathful god.
Lisa looked at him, then at the note.
“This isn’t the worst,” she muttered. “So one of them figured out the fine print. One lap. That’s fine.”
“No,” Deck groaned, already anticipating what came next.
Lisa narrowed her eyes. “No?”
Deck sighed, still on his knees. “He found all of them.”
Lisa went very still.
“What?”
Deck didn’t meet her eyes. “He found all of them. All fifteen.”
There was a silence, thick, slow, and terrible.
“So now they get fifteen single-lap days they can redeem?” she said carefully.
“No,” Deck muttered again.
Lisa’s voice was glacial. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I... handed him back the note,” Deck said. “And it doesn’t say anywhere that it can only be redeemed once.”
Lisa became instantly, terrifyingly calm.
“Alright, kids. No punish.”
There was a pause. Then she turned that deathly calm toward Deck.
“Do you want to see what tiger-based motivation looks like with the gift you’re about to get in the next class?” she asked, smiling at him like a shark.
Deck swallowed.
“Yes ma’am,” they chorused.
