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Team GRY had split up across the sprawling landscape of the abandoned junkyard, each member settling into their respective hiding spots. Today’s training drill was straightforward in its purpose but challenging in execution: capture and hold the center checkpoint for as long as possible. The aim was simple, but the competition was fierce.
Perched atop a high pile of rusted car parts and crumpled metal, the Assassin crouched low, his body concealed in the twisted mess of debris. He was fiddling with his makeshift blowgun—a wooden device he’d pieced together over the past few weeks. The gun, while rudimentary, was reliable; it shot small, pointy darts that could leave a nasty sting. The Assassin had swapped his usual darts for safer, blunted wooden ones, keen not to cause real harm to his friends. As he tested the weapon’s trigger, a grin flickered across his face; everything seemed to be in working order.
He wondered briefly where the rest of the team had hidden themselves around the junkyard. The Assassin figured the Agent, ever the elusive and stealthy presence, was likely tucked away in a spot where she could remain out of sight, ready to spring into action. As for the Vandal, he could only guess that she was setting up a few underhanded “surprises” in areas where someone might step—a classic, if rule-breaking, tactic of hers. The Doctor, he assumed, would be behind cover, somewhere she could easily dip back into for a quick recovery if needed.
The Artilleryman, however, was a mystery. He wasn’t one for direct confrontations and often opted to stay on the sidelines. Though when he did engage, his positioning tended to be unpredictable; there was no telling where he might be lurking this time.
The Assassin had already positioned himself strategically, high up where he could get a clear line of sight on any potential threats. He shifted his weight carefully, believing he was thoroughly hidden among the junk. He had even mapped out a series of escape routes if he needed to reposition. Yet, despite his focus on the task at hand, an uncomfortable urge gnawed at him—he really needed to use the bathroom. He gritted his beak, mentally cursing his timing but unwilling to leave his post. The signal could come at any moment.
And then, just as he’d predicted, the Doctor’s sharp screech split through the air, signaling the start of the match.
The Assassin stayed perfectly still, his sharp eyes scanning the area below, waiting for any sign of movement. He had the advantage in the opening seconds; with the other team members still finding their bearings, he could probably get away with a few initial shots without giving away his position. He spotted the Doctor first, leaping from one metal wall to another, clearly trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. Perfect.
He aimed and fired, the soft hiss of the blowgun almost lost in the expanse of the junkyard. The dart struck the wall beside the Doctor’s hiding place, causing her to pause and duck back further into cover. The Assassin chuckled quietly to himself; he knew the Doctor’s habits well enough to know she’d be extra cautious now, giving him a few precious moments to move closer to the checkpoint undetected.
With a smooth roll, he dropped from his perch and crept toward an old, battered car with a shattered windshield. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he settled down, peering through the splintered glass to watch for movement. He was ready, or so he thought.
What he hadn’t noticed was the Agent, hidden in the shadows of the back seat. The moment he settled in, she struck, wrapping her arms around him in a sudden chokehold. He reacted quickly, swinging his fist backward and catching the Agent on the side of her face. She loosened her grip with a soft groan, giving him just enough time to twist around and fire another dart directly at her. The dart hit its mark, and the Agent fell back, clutching her side where it had stung her.
“Bon travail,” she muttered, her voice dripping with both irritation and respect. Using her gloved hand, she wiped a thin line of blood from her beak where he’d managed to punch her.
The Assassin offered her a small nod of acknowledgment before turning his attention back to the windshield, scanning the junkyard. He spotted the Doctor again, cautiously peeking out from behind her previous hiding spot. With another well-aimed shot, he forced her to retreat back into cover, buying him more time.
He slipped out of the car, moving stealthily toward the checkpoint. The rules of the game were straightforward: to capture the checkpoint, one had to stay within the designated area for a full five seconds without interference. So far, nobody had even reached the checkpoint.
Descending to a lower vantage point, the Assassin’s field of vision narrowed. His mind began to wander, wondering where the Artilleryman and Vandal were lurking. Just as he moved forward, his foot slipped, and he stumbled, dropping into cover just as a series of wooden bullets thudded into the junkpile around him. So the Artilleryman was on the move.
Pinned down, the Assassin weighed his options. His best chance would be to pop up and take a precise, well-aimed shot. He steeled himself, tightening his grip on his blowgun, and whispered to himself, “Well, mate... it’s now or never.”
With a quick breath, he rose from cover, his movements deliberate and focused. He took aim, time slowing in his mind as he aligned the blowgun with the Artilleryman’s head. A quick burst of air sent the dart flying, and it struck true—right on the forehead. The Artilleryman let out a yelp and crumpled backward, dropping his rapid-fire crossbow and muttering a low, miserable whine as he crawled off to the sidelines to recover.
The Assassin couldn’t help the smug grin spreading across his face. A headshot! Relishing the success, he sprinted toward the checkpoint, feeling his confidence swell with each step. He landed on the metal platform, his feet steady and sure as he began counting out loud.
“One... two... three...” His voice held a triumphant edge. “Four...”
Just before he could call out the final number, a dart whizzed past him, narrowly missing his shoulder. The bullet had come from the Doctor. He reacted instinctively, dodging sideways, his reflexes still sharp despite his excitement.
“... Five!” he shouted, throwing his hands up in victory, his rifle clattering to the ground as he declared himself the winner.
As he celebrated, his friends gathered around him one by one. The Agent approached first, clutching her side but nodding approvingly. “Good job, monsieur,” she conceded with a smirk.
The Doctor followed, her face lighting up in a smile as she clapped her gloved hands in applause. “Ja, well done! Excellent reflexes!” she praised, clearly pleased with his performance.
The Artilleryman, still rubbing his forehead, gave a weak thumbs-up, though he winced as he murmured, “Good skills... but maybe next time, avoid the face, eh?”
They shared a laugh, but as the adrenaline wore off, the Assassin looked around, noticing someone was missing. “Oi, where’s Vandal? She missed the best part!”
As if on cue, footsteps echoed from around a pile of twisted metal. The Vandal appeared, a mischievous grin on her face and a dusty crate tucked under her arm.
“Look what I found before we start! Beer!” she announced proudly, holding up the crate as though it were a golden trophy.
The rest of Team GRY exchanged glances, their smiles fading into exasperated glares.
“We already finished…” the Agent sighed, facepalming as she shook her head.
Vandal blinked, her grin faltering momentarily before she chuckled, shrugging it off. “Ah, well... at least it’s time to eat, right?” she laughed, setting the crate down and patting it.
With a round of amused groans and laughter, the team gathered around the crate, their banter and good-natured teasing filling the air as they settled in for a meal. They might have spent the afternoon trying to outwit each other, but as they sat together, it was clear that, no matter what, Team GRY was in it together—quirks, rivalries, and all.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
