Morning had brought heat back to Groom Lake.

  The desert sun had cleared the mountains not long ago, but the air already carried that dry warmth that lived in Nevada year-round. Dust lifted lazily across the packed ground whenever a vehicle rolled past, and the low hum of generators blended with distant rotor maintenance somewhere along the flight line. The base was awake — just quieter than it had been before yesterday.

  People worked.

  They just kept looking.

  Eric noticed it within the first few steps outside the barracks.

  A pair of mechanics stopped mid-conversation as they passed. One of them tried to keep his eyes forward and failed after half a second. Another soldier walking the opposite direction gave a quick nod to Eric — then glanced, stared, and immediately found something extremely interesting on the horizon instead.

  Celeste walked beside him, posture straight as always, but the reason was impossible to miss.

  The bruise bloomed dark across the skin around her left eye, faint yellow beginning to creep into the edges where healing had already started. It was unmistakable.

  Eric let it go about ten seconds before he spoke.

  “So,” he said casually, hands in his pockets, “how’s the shiner?”

  Celeste blinked once and turned her head toward him.

  “The… shiner?”

  He gestured at his own eye.

  “The black eye.”

  Her hand rose instinctively and brushed the swollen area. She paused at the contact, expression tightening just slightly before she lowered it again.

  “It aches,” she said quietly. “But… it is deserved.”

  Eric huffed a small laugh through his nose.

  “You didn’t have to take that punch.”

  She looked forward again as they walked.

  “Yes,” she answered simply. “I did.”

  They passed a group of enlisted personnel loading equipment crates onto a transport. Conversation died as they approached. No one said anything outright, but a few heads tilted. One private very clearly pretended to check a clipboard he was holding upside down.

  Celeste continued speaking without acknowledging them.

  “If hatred has somewhere to rest,” she said, “it grows. If I could remove even a small part of it from her, then I should.”

  Eric glanced sideways at her.

  “You think that fixed it?”

  “No.”

  She shook her head faintly.

  “But it was a beginning.”

  They reached the administration building. A soldier stood outside Caldwell’s office door, rifle slung and radio clipped to his vest. He straightened slightly as they approached.

  “Sir,” he said to Eric, then nodded respectfully to Celeste. His eyes flicked once — quickly — to the bruise before snapping back to neutral. “General’s occupied. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  He stepped aside and keyed his radio.

  Eric leaned lightly against the wall while they waited. Celeste stood beside him, hands folded loosely behind her back. The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning solvent and hot electronics. A ceiling fan ticked overhead as it rotated.

  The office door opened.

  Mike stepped out.

  He looked irritated.

  He also looked tired.

  He paused when he saw them, then ran a hand across his face and exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding a conversation he didn’t enjoy. He didn’t greet them immediately. Instead, he pulled a small metal flask from his pocket and took a long pull from it.

  He winced hard as the liquor went down, shoulders tightening — and then his hand reflexively went to his side, fingers pressing near the place he’d been stabbed. He shifted his weight, uncomfortable.

  Eric straightened.

  “Hey. Everything alright?”

  Mike capped the flask and shoved it back into his pocket.

  “Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “Why don’t you go see what turdhead Tommy in there wants.”

  Eric raised an eyebrow.

  “Tommy?”

  Mike rubbed the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the closed office door.

  “He’s got ideas,” he muttered. “Big ones. Real helpful ones. I’ll talk to you later — I need to think.”

  He started walking past them, then stopped a few steps away and turned back.

  His eyes landed on Celeste’s face.

  He studied the bruise for a moment.

  “…put some meat on your eye, girl,” he said. “Swelling’s ugly.”

  Then he turned and walked down the hallway without waiting for a response.

  Eric and Celeste exchanged a brief look — confusion shared silently between them.

  The guard cleared his throat.

  “General will see you now.”

  The door opened.

  Caldwell’s office was colder than the hallway.

  Not uncomfortably so, but enough that the dry desert heat vanished the moment they stepped inside. A wall-mounted unit hummed softly near the ceiling, pushing conditioned air across the room. The scent changed too — paper, metal, and fresh coffee.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Maps covered one wall. Not decorative maps — operational ones. Sections of Nevada marked with grease pencil lines and coordinates, flight corridors sketched in thin strokes, and a cluster of circles drawn around Groom Lake itself. A large desk sat near the center of the room, organized in the way only someone who understood every item’s position could maintain.

  Caldwell stood behind it.

  He gestured to two chairs without ceremony.

  “Have a seat.”

  Celeste accepted immediately. Eric followed a second later, lowering himself into the chair with a slight lean back, eyes wandering over the room while Caldwell moved to a side table.

  “Coffee?” the general asked.

  “Yes, please,” Celeste answered.

  Eric made a face.

  “I’ll pass.”

  Caldwell poured anyway — a habit rather than an offer — and set the mug in front of Celeste. Steam curled upward, carrying the bitter aroma across the desk. She wrapped her hands around it, not drinking yet, simply holding it as if absorbing the warmth.

  Caldwell sat and looked at them both for several seconds before speaking.

  “Do either of you have any idea,” he said evenly, “how much money we spent yesterday for forty-five seconds of training?”

  Eric shrugged lightly.

  “More than I make in a year.”

  “More than most people make in a lifetime,” Caldwell corrected. “Fuel, munitions, airframe wear, ground vehicle deployment… we ran a combat-scale operation.”

  Celeste lowered her gaze slightly.

  “It was necessary.”

  Caldwell leaned back in his chair.

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t,” he replied. “I’m asking what we learned.”

  Eric tilted his head slightly.

  “You remember when one of your Apaches fired on me?”

  Caldwell nodded.

  “I do. They reported a confirmed hit.”

  Eric watched him carefully.

  “And did you see one?”

  Caldwell’s expression tightened just a fraction.

  “…No.”

  “The systems thought they hit me,” Eric said. “The pilot thought he hit me. You thought he hit me.”

  Caldwell didn’t respond.

  Eric rested his forearms on his knees and leaned forward.

  “But I was standing there.”

  The general’s fingers tapped once on the desk surface.

  “We saw the projectile impact,” Caldwell said. “We didn’t see the effect.”

  Eric gave a small nod.

  “That’s the problem.”

  Caldwell’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Explain.”

  Eric gestured lightly with one hand.

  “You’re relying on feedback systems that confirm contact,” he said. “Sensors, impact signatures, thermal readings. Against normal targets, that works.”

  He paused.

  “Against what’s coming, it won’t.”

  Silence filled the room for a moment.

  Celeste lifted the mug and took a careful sip.

  “You are saying our weapons are ineffective,” Caldwell said.

  “I’m saying,” Eric replied calmly, “you currently don’t have the ability to do the kind of harm required to stop an invading force.”

  The words landed heavily.

  Caldwell’s gaze shifted briefly toward the operational maps behind Eric, then back.

  “And you’re certain of that.”

  Eric nodded once.

  “Fairly.”

  The general leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk.

  “Then why,” he asked, “do you look like you want to repeat the exercise?”

  Eric met his eyes.

  “Because we need to adapt.”

  He took a breath.

  “And next time… I want Inaria included from the start.”

  Celeste’s head turned slowly toward him.

  “What?”

  Eric raised a hand toward her — open palm, a gentle pause request — without taking his eyes off Caldwell.

  “Hear me out.”

  Caldwell exhaled once through his nose.

  “You want me,” he said, “to allow the unstable one into another live-fire training session. With aircraft, armored vehicles, and personnel present.”

  “Yes.”

  The general studied him.

  “She isn’t trained,” Caldwell said.

  “She’s capable,” Eric replied. “She just doesn’t know how to control it yet.”

  “She’s not tempered.”

  “That’s what the training is for.”

  Caldwell leaned back again, eyes shifting briefly to Celeste.

  “ And who would lead this training? You?” he asked her. “From what I witnessed yesterday, she barely tolerates your presence.”

  Celeste remained quiet.

  Eric answered instead.

  “No. I’ll lead the training.”

  Caldwell tapped his finger slowly against the desk, considering.

  “You have no prior attachment to her.”

  “No.”

  The tapping stopped.

  “Suppose I approve it,” Caldwell said. “Suppose I give you full authority over her training.”

  He leaned forward again.

  “What assurance do I have she won’t lose control and hurt someone?”

  Eric didn’t hesitate.

  “You don’t.”

  Caldwell held his gaze.

  “This is war,” Eric said calmly. “People break in war. The best I can do is help her break in a direction that protects the people around her instead of endangering them.”

  The general studied him for a long moment.

  “…What exactly do you have in mind?”

  Eric leaned back slightly in his chair.

  “I’d like to start with a conversation.”

  Caldwell pulled out a stack of papers and tossed them on his desk. "Granted, in the meantime lets talk about these civilians"

  The desert stretched wide beyond the installation.

  They walked far enough that the buildings softened into shapes, then into pale blocks against the horizon. The hum of generators faded. Vehicle noise thinned into distant echoes carried by wind. Sand shifted under each step, loose and warm where sunlight struck, cooler in the shallow depressions carved by old gusts.

  Eric stopped first.

  “This’ll work.”

  Inaria halted several paces behind him. She kept her distance, arms folded tightly across her chest, shoulders tense. Her eyes tracked the empty horizon instead of him. The wind tugged strands of her hair across her face and she made no effort to move them.

  Eric looked around once, gauging the distance back toward the base, then lowered himself into the sand. He crossed his legs, settling comfortably as if he had chosen a quiet park instead of a barren desert. A small flask appeared in his hand. He took a sip, grimaced slightly at the burn, and set it beside his boot.

  Then he lit a cigarette.

  The smoke rose straight for a moment before the wind stole it away.

  Inaria stared.

  “You dragged me all the way out here,” she said at last, voice guarded, “so you could sit?”

  Eric nodded.

  “Pretty much.”

  Her brow tightened.

  “I thought you said training.”

  “I did.”

  She waited.

  He took another slow pull from the cigarette before answering.

  “First lesson,” he said, “we talk.”

  Her expression hardened.

  “I’ve talked enough.”

  “Have you?” he asked gently.

  Silence stretched between them. The wind hissed across the sand, lifting a faint veil of dust that moved past their feet and continued into the open distance.

  Inaria shifted her weight.

  “You don’t know me,” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “You don’t know where I came from.”

  “Nope.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “You don’t know what I lost.”

  Eric exhaled smoke slowly, watching it scatter.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t.”

  She seemed prepared for an argument. The lack of one stalled her.

  Eric brushed some sand aside with his hand, flattening a small patch between them.

  “But I do know this,” he continued. “You’ve spent your entire life with someone else deciding what happens to you.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “You were told where to live. What to eat. When to move. When to fight. When to stop.”

  He looked up at her.

  “And now you’re here. First time nobody’s holding a leash… and you don’t know what to do with it.”

  The words landed harder than his tone.

  Inaria’s arms tightened across her chest.

  “I know what I want,” she said.

  “Do you?” Eric asked.

  She hesitated.

  Her gaze drifted toward the base in the far distance, toward the people moving like specks beyond sight.

  “I want… something,” she said quietly. “I just don’t know what fixes it.”

  Eric nodded slowly.

  “Good.”

  She blinked.

  “…Good?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Because that means you’re at the beginning.”

  He tapped the sand between them.

  “Training isn’t about making you stronger. You’re already dangerous. Yesterday proved that.”

  Her expression shifted slightly — irritation mixed with uncertainty.

  “Then what is it about?”

  Eric leaned back onto his hands.

  “Choice.”

  The wind picked up briefly, sweeping a ripple across the dunes behind them.

  “In a fight,” he said, “you’ve only been doing one thing — pouring everything you have straight forward. Power, emotion, anger. All of it.”

  Her cheeks flushed faintly.

  “I fight.”

  “You lash out,” Eric corrected gently. “Different thing.”

  She opened her mouth, then stopped.

  He gestured toward the open desert.

  “You’ve never been allowed to decide anything important for yourself. So when you finally get freedom, every feeling hits at once. Rage feels like direction.”

  He pointed at her.

  “But rage isn’t direction. It’s fuel.”

  She watched him carefully now.

  “And fuel without control?” he continued. “Burns whatever’s closest.”

  The words lingered in the hot air.

  Inaria slowly lowered her arms.

  “…So what do I do?”

  Eric picked up the flask again and took a short drink before answering.

  “You learn how you work.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  “I already know how I work.”

  Eric shook his head.

  “You know how you react. Not the same thing.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “I’m not here to command you. Not here to replace the last person who told you what to do. I’m here to help you figure out how to choose what you do.”

  The wind carried a small swirl of dust between them. She watched it pass over the smoothed patch of sand he’d cleared.

  “And that starts,” he said, “with you deciding whether you even want to train.”

  She looked at him, surprised.

  “You’re giving me a choice?”

  “First real one you’ve probably ever had.”

  The desert fell quiet except for the soft hiss of moving sand.

  Inaria lowered herself slowly to sit across from him.

  “…Then tell me how.”