As the meeting room vacates, the man sighs, meanwhile spotting a figure most relevant to the wielder of the discovered artifact. Coincidentally, these two officials had been friends for ages; one could consider them childhood friends. "Ah, Vadim. Hold on for a moment. I need to speak to you privately." The man turns around, greeted by the cheerful face he had come to know ages before the professional level. He nods and accepts the order without a single question. The two walk out of the meeting room, and across the hall to where a private office is situated. They plop into their respective seats, maintaining eye contact despite their evident exhaustion. On the desk sits a bronze nameplate, once again confirming the high position of the official in the heavy wingback chair.
"What is it that you would like to tell me, Igor? Am I being imprisoned on charges of leaking the American Secretary of State's emails to the public, or have I not been found out yet?" They share few moments of mocking laughter before the serious tone of the matter at hand arises once more.
"Look Vad, the results aren't forged and these methods of testing are not fraudulent. Though I am technically not supposed to tell anyone..." He rises and walks to the door, slightly opening it to peer in both directions. He closes it after a brief look, returning it to his seat. "What I was saying is that..." He pauses and gathers his words. "The search for our little Lawrence is over, and the subject to test positive for all our criteria, the one with the highest score, is a student at your academy."
A moment of silence passes before Igor reaches under his desk to open a drawer, extracting a file with the information and action of the said student from his moment of birth until the day previous. He passes the folder over to his friend, who peruses the contents before closing it once more. "So, you mean to tell me that this boy is the focus of your operation? That he will be drafted from school to serve in a Spec-Ops team?" He begins to grow frantic. "What about his education? And his possible mortality? He's someone's son, remember, who was entrusted to us. These aren't the times of the Patriotic War! You can't just..."
Igor shakes his head.
"Give it a rest Vad. He's 18 and is enrolled in a military academy, one of the best in this vast nation, if not the best. Besides, he will be learning about foreign nations on his schedule, as he will be posing as a solo agent rather than serving on a team. Think of it... as an enriched study abroad program."
He wraps his fingers together and supports his arms on the desk.
"Vadim, if you were paying attention to the presentation - and I know listening is one of your specialties - then you must understand that this boy will be given the artifact which holds power to manipulate the flow of time... to his benefit. The reign of terror presented by the world's adversary of the age, the Islamic State, must come to an end. Too many innocent lives have been lost, including our men and women who gave up their own for the benefit of the world. I understand your devotion to your students but you must have priorities and an appreciation for the bigger picture.
Also, we will select a few classmates to accompany him in minor support roles for when the time comes. Don't worry; they'll be fine. And I'm sure you'll have full confidence in their capabilities, considering they've been trained through a curriculum almost entirely under your control."
Vadim, feeling defeated, sighs. "Fine, Igor, you win. I'll have one of my advisers observe his exam scheduled for next week. If this boy is indeed fit enough for the role of combat presented to him, I will allow the acquisition of my student by your... program." Igor nods and motions that his friend may leave. Vadim walks away without another word.
Suvorov Military School
Modern Day
A large force repeatedly pushes against my shoulder; the rest of my body attempts to counteract this motion using a stabilizing stance, which only partially absorbs the shock. The agitator is thrown farther to the right with each passing second, and as it subsides its wrath, it is given the fuel to launch once more. The hole-ridden hostile figures snap back at an increased distance for every positive hit, reaching points farther than I can run without stopping to catch my breath. Once the last figure falls, I remove the magazine from my rifle and empty the chamber. The instructor stands in shock as he witnesses what he has just seen; a possible shattering a 10+ year record held by an alum who moved on to become an Alpha Group counter-terrorist operative. I sling the rifle onto my back and adjust my earmuffs, displacing myself from the line of students ready to compete for the top score. I sit and watch the rifle guide their bodies upwards, silently ridiculing the absence of professionalism among my peers.
As the last casing touches the ground, the proctor finishes the recording of the scores we each received in accordance with the amount of ammunition used to knock down every target. I steal a peek at the paper only to find that the person ranking below me used approximately double of what I had. We take a few minutes to rest before sprinting over to the next station.
This station begins without hesitation and we are put under conditions similar to those of a 200-meter dash with hurdles. Instead of the traditional obstacles on a straight track formation, we are met by a twisted road filled with practice traps and walls to climb. I make no mistakes throughout the entire apparatus, but the determining factor to top score is physical shape, of which I am unfortunately not the most proficient in. I am outclassed by two lighter and leaner built peers of mine who also happened to have as much directional/situational awareness as well as I. I scowl at the lost opportunity but continue to the next station.
. My proficiency in the matter is called to attention by even the students, who stare at the rifle as if I had just revealed a new method of handling the 70-year-old model. The proctor picks up upon the newly established hesitant nature of the students, so he yells, "What are you waiting for? Nothing has changed, get back to the assessment on hand!" The reluctant students continue with their best efforts in damp spirits, realizing the futility of competing with the near-superhuman time I landed. I chuckle to myself, allowing my overconfident attitude take its due place in my current action.
I return to the first station to deposit my rifle and replace my muffs on the shelf. I nonchalantly whistle an old tune as I head back to my dorm room when I suddenly realize that I had completely forgotten about performing in the final stage. I turn around to see a furious instructor calling after me and a confused peer standing in his position. I quickly sprint back towards the testing area, which was approximately a kilometer from my current position.
As I finally return, out of breath from the distance running, a whistle sounds and I am quickly knocked down by my opponent. I attempt to stand but have been cheaply pinned from exhaustion. I cease my futile opposition to my dominant opponent and allow the first round to go to him. As I had arrived in time for the conclusion of the martial arts portion of the test, the entire class was able to scoff at my easy takedown. Of course, I had been matched up against the largest guy, but this was to be expected. Or was it? I stand and allow the whistle to blow for the second round. I take multiple deep breaths, preparing for an onslaught.
As the whistle blows, the opponent of mine - my classmate Abram - charges forward. I attempt to sweep his legs, but he is careful enough to slide past the obvious trap. He grabs my waist and attempts to flip me over, but I am able to keep my footing and reverse this aggression. He shakes out of my loose grip and reverts to an offensive stance. I walk around him and lunge towards him. He repeats the move as he attempted before, but unlike last time, my legs are off the ground. He attempts to knock me down, but I am able to catch the fall, and am able to slide him just enough that he lands on his back before I do. And so he did. The whistle blows for the third and final time, and the round determining the winner starts. In desperation, he charges once more but somehow trips over himself and falls onto the ground. The match is called to a halt, and it ends in my favor. A look of approval can be viewed upon the faces of the spectators sitting on the sidelines; one of the observers was none other than the headmaster himself. He rises and moves next to one of the instructors. I try not to stare, but I can feel his gaze on me and I can see that something is being said.
I don't think about it again until a few hours later, when I'm locked away in my dorm room, hunched over my desk and trying desperately to study for an upcoming written exam. It takes half my energy just to hold my head up, the hour being late and whatever anatomical power my body is used to allocating to each day already having been drained nearly dry. Someone knocks on my door - hammers really - and opens it before I can respond. It's one of my teachers. "Zima," he says coldly, addressing me by surname as per school tradition, "Headmaster needs to see you." He abruptly closes the door behind him - almost slams it, in fact - and I groan. I half-heartedly shuffle out into the hall to find that the teacher has already disappeared from sight. I have a general idea of how to get to the headmaster's office; I've never been in enough trouble during my time here to know the route by heart, but I sluggishly point myself in what I assume to be the right direction and plod forward obediently.v