A Fight for Survival

A Taste of Steel

The pre-dawn air hung heavy with humidity, a stark contrast to the icy dread gripping Alexis's stomach. Around her, 299 other young women, faces etched with varying degrees of apprehension and determination, stumbled through the rudimentary drills. Fort Des Moines, once a quiet Iowa landscape, had transformed into a crucible, forging these women into soldiers. 

The barked commands of Captain Millers, a woman whose voice could curdle milk, cut through the morning mist. "Move those lead feet, ladies! This ain't a picnic, it's the making of the Women's Hunters Group!"

Days blurred into a grueling routine. They woke before the sun, the shrill bugle call their unwelcome alarm clock. Calisthenics, designed to push them to their physical limits, left them gasping for breath. Push-ups, jumping jacks, burpees - each repetition chipped away at their civilian softness, replacing it with a raw, burgeoning strength.

Afternoons were a relentless assault course of military discipline. They learned to assemble and disassemble a rifle blindfolded, the metallic scent of gun oil a constant companion. They marched until their feet bled, blisters forming badges of honor beneath their rough-hewn boots. Through it all, Captain Miller's hawk-like gaze kept them on edge, her sharp tongue dispensing corrections and biting criticism in equal measure.

One particularly sweltering afternoon, Alexis collapsed during a grueling cross-country run. Her vision swam, the world tilting precariously. A hand, surprisingly gentle, pulled her to her feet. It was Molly, her fiery hair plastered to her forehead, her green eyes blazing with determination. "Come on, Alex," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "We don't leave a soldier behind."

And they didn't. They pushed each other, encouraged each other, drew strength from the shared hardship. Slowly, they began to see the results. Their bodies, once soft and untested, hardened into lean, efficient machines. Their minds, sharpened by exhaustion and pressure, learned to strategize, to adapt, to overcome.

As Alexis and Molly finished the course Molly heard a voice call out to her, "Seargent Nelson!?" Colonel Nelson asks "Yes, sir." she said as she halted her horse, and saluted him. "You're training as an experimental sniper, correct?" Nelson asked her.

"Yes, sir." she said with a nod and Nelson smiled. "Great, follow me." he said and Molly turned Alexis and handed the horses holster to giving the woman some confused looks as she left. Alexis watched confusion, but earnestly awaited her return. Maybe she was finally receiving the gun that was so long talked about for her.

Molly felt the wind knock out of her when her grandfather lead her to the weapon distribution. The Seargent in charge, turned around with a huge rifle in his arms, and handed it to her grandfather who gave it to her, then telling her that he would meet her at the rifle range. "This here is the new M1903 Springfield, formally the US Rifle. It holds .30-06. It is equipped with a five-round mag and is a bolt-action. Heard it was your favorite." Molly grabs it and checks the barrel looking around, and checking for ammo inside. Safety first, always. "Yes it is. I grew up on a weapon similar to this. What's the average?" The Seargent answers, "You can average 10-15 round a minute. Can fire up to 1,100 yards, max is 5,500, I bet you can make fire between those two numbers with ease. It does have a bayonet attachment on the front. Marines use one similar to this, what have you been using heard its a piece of junk." Molly scoffs with a smile, "Yeah, it absolutely sucks. I was using a beefed up 22. Just got the M-1 two weeks ago. I have heard rumors from the Colonel about this. This is a very much needed upgrade." The kind Seargent turns around and grabs a scope, "Right. Now since the Army doesn't traditionally work with snipers. But we made an exception, this rifle is made to fit you perfectly. Now go test it out."

This is Molly's rifle 

Molly leaves the building and heads on over to the range. She meet Alexis and her Company, Hornet. Why is the whole company here. Where they here to greet her, challenge her. Molly had no clue.

The scent of gunpowder and sunbaked earth hung heavy in the air at the Fort Des Moines shooting range. Molly lay prone on the dusty ground, her M1903 Springfield a new weight against her shoulder. The world narrowed to the crosshairs of the scope, her breath slow and even. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, but she dared not move to wipe it away. Three hundred yards away, a painted bullseye on a wooden target beckoned. "Steady," she murmured, her finger tightening on the trigger. The rifle barked, a sharp crack that echoed across the range. A beat of silence, then the satisfying clang of metal on metal. Bullseye. "Another one bites the dust!" a voice called out from behind her. It was Sarah, a wisecracking farm girl from Nebraska who had become one of Molly's closest friends in Hornet Company. She was training to become a combat nurse.

Molly allowed herself a small smile before resetting, her gaze returning to the next target. Four hundred yards. She adjusted her aim, compensating for the slight breeze that ruffled the leaves in the nearby trees. Another breath, another squeeze of the trigger. Another clang. "Damn, Molly, you're on fire!" This time it was Alexis, her best friend, her voice a mix of awe and amusement. Molly could feel Alexis's gaze on her back, a tangible wave of support. From her vantage point, Molly could see the rest of Hornet Company scattered across the range, their green uniforms a stark contrast against the brown earth. Some, like Sarah, were cheering her on, their enthusiasm echoing across the field. Others watched with a quiet intensity, their admiration evident in their eyes. These women, thrown together by circumstance, were quickly becoming her sisters.

And then there was her grandfather, Colonel Nelson. He stood apart from the others, his tall frame and ramrod posture radiating authority. He held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, but Molly knew he didn't need them to follow her progress. She could feel his gaze on her, a mixture of pride and something else...expectation. It had always been there, ever since she was a little girl, tagging along with him to the shooting range on their family farm. He had seen something in her, a spark, a natural affinity for marksmanship. And he had nurtured it, patiently teaching her everything he knew.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the forest caught her eye. A deer, its head raised, ears twitching. It was a fleeting distraction, but enough to break her concentration. She lowered the rifle, exhaling slowly. "Everything alright, Sargent?" Colonel Nelson's voice, close behind her, startled her. "Just a deer, sir," she replied, turning to face him. He nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're doing well, Molly. But let's see how you handle a moving target." He gestured towards the treeline. A moment later, a soldier emerged, leading a saddled horse. Molly's heart quickened. This was new, this was a challenge.

She mounted the horse, feeling the familiar surge of power beneath her. They rode into the woods, the air thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. Targets, painted on wooden boards, were positioned at irregular intervals along the path. The soldier gave the signal, and Molly urged the horse into a gallop. The world became a blur of green and brown, the wind whipping at her face. She spotted the first target, a fleeting glimpse through the trees. Instinct took over. She raised her Springfield, its weight reassuringly familiar in her hands. She sighted down the scope, her breath catching in her throat as the crosshairs settled on the target. Fire. The rifle bucked against her shoulder, the sound of the shot swallowed by the forest. She didn't need to check. She knew she had hit her mark. Target after target whizzed past, each one a fleeting opportunity to test her skill. And with each successful shot, a thrill coursed through her, a heady mix of adrenaline and pride. She was good, damn good. And in that moment, racing through the woods, rifle in hand, she felt truly alive.

As the weeks turned into months, a sense of camaraderie blossomed. They were no longer just 300 individuals, but a unit, bound by shared sacrifice and a growing understanding of the monumental task ahead. The fear remained, a constant hum beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by a steely resolve. They were the women of the Artemis, Hunters, and they were ready to answer their nation's call.

The only reprieve that Molly enjoyed was the marksmanship contest and ranges on horse back. Her two favorite hobbies combined into one. Molly had become the best sniper in her Company, along with the best sniper in the whole camp it self. She had not only built a reputation in marksmanship; but also in her sharp wit and fearless nature make her a natural leader, and her wisdom she bequeaths to all. The younger women especially.