Specter: Project Archangel

Chapter 2 | Under Pressure

James Collins strode into the training grounds at 07:55, wearing standard-issue workout gear, but somehow managed to make it look casual, as if he'd just rolled out of the bed and thrown on whatever was closest. He wasn't sure what to expect - Blake hadn't given him much detail, but he seemed like the type to take punctuality as seriously as a death threat.

He surveyed the area, noting the obstacle course, the shooting range, and the various equipment scattered about. The place was already filled with other operatives, but the scarred, one-eyed veteran was nowhere to be seen. James stretched lazily, rolling his shoulders and heading towards an unoccupied section of the grounds, figuring he'd warm up while he waited.

As he started some stretching exercises, James caught a glimpse of someone approaching. He was built like a bulldozer - thick neck, broad shoulders and a face that looked like it had been carved out of stone.

"Collins, right?" the man grunted as he came to a stop in front of James. "Heard you made it into Specter."

James slowed to a stop, looking the guy over with a raised eyebrow. Only now did he notice that not only the man, but almost every person present was watching him closely. There was nothing surprising about this - James had only recently joined SOCOM, and had already jumped to the highest rung of the ladder, which was the specter's division. The co-agents were certainly not so much curious as suspicious.

"Yeah, that's me. And you are...?"

"Becker. Been training here for a long time. Longer than most." He let the statement hang in the air like it was supposed to mean something. "Listen, I'm here to give you some friendly advice."

James met Becker's intense gaze with an easy smile. "Friendly advice? Well, don't keep me in suspense, big guy. I'm all ears."

Becker's eyes narrowed, clearly not appreciating James' lighthearted tone. He stepped closer, looming over him. "You might think you've landed a dream gig, but you're wrong. Get out while you still can."

"Get out while I still can?" James repeated, "Am I missing something?"

Becker crossed his thick arms. "Blake Mason," he said, voice gruff. "They call him Black Widow for a reason."

"Oh?" James raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance despite knowing what was coming next.

"Every team, every partner he's ever had ends up six feet under. You think I'm joking? Ask around. Myers. Rodriguez. Decker. Good men. Experienced. They're all gone now. And what's the one thing they had in common? Blake Mason."

James scratched his chin, seemingly lost in thoughts.

"You know, I wasn't sure about this division," he deadpanned, "but now that I know there's a deadly curse involved, I'm definitely staying."

Becker stared at him. The slight edge of frustration creeped into his face when James brushed off his attempt at a jab.

"You don't get it, do you? I'm trying to do you a favor here."

Something serious flickered in James' eyes, but it got quickly replaced by his trademark grin. "I'll tell you what, Becker. If I do end dead, you can have my spot. Sounds good?"

Something snapped in Becker. He turned beet red, puffed out his lips, tensed up - he looked like he was about to lash out, but the strong female voice made him pause.

"ALRIGHT, FALL IN!"

Everyone, including Becker, instantly snapped to attention. James turned his head to see a tall, muscular woman in her fifties approaching with a commanding stride - Sergeant Kendricks. She strode onto the training grounds like she owned the place-because in a way, she did. She was famous for running recruits into the ground, pushing them to their limits, and then beyond. It was clear she enjoyed her work, and despite the gray streaks in her hair, she could probably still outrun half the operatives.