Fallout - Chapter 6

The hum of early morning was always the same. Steel racks creaking under weight, boots thudding across concrete, the hiss of showers and lockers slamming shut. Controlled chaos.

I sat on the edge of the bunk, lacing my boots with slow, practiced tension. The kind of tension that didn’t come from nerves—just focus. Just years of knowing what it took to stay sharp.

This wasn’t my first integration into a new unit. Probably wouldn’t be the last. But this one felt different. Not because of the mission. Not because of the base.

Because of her.

Camden Steele.

She hadn’t said much at the briefing, but I caught the flicker of something behind her eyes when Ortega dropped my name. A shift. Not surprise, exactly—more like she’d already seen me coming.

Maybe she had.

I ran the strap of my chest rig through my fingers and stood, double-checking my kit. Rifle, loaded. Plates, secure. Comms, clipped. Everything in its place.

Everything but the question nagging at the back of my brain: what the hell was her deal?

She moved like someone with nothing left to prove and everything to outrun. I’d seen it before. I knew the look. She was tight-lipped disciplined, stitched over something jagged. Whatever it was it didn’t bleed through often, but I’d seen it in flashes –in the way her jaw clenched when she thought no one was watching, or how her fingers twitched just before she locked them behind her back during morning formation.

People like that didn’t break easy. But when they did, it wasn’t loud. It was silent. Slow. Like a fault shifting beneath the surface. And I couldn’t tell if I was curious, or already too close.

The squad moved out toward the range for the live-fire. Dust kicked up beneath our boots, the air thick with cordite and heat. The sun had climbed higher now, burning white against the sky, and the air had that dry bite that told you to keep your mouth shut and your head down.

Camden was already there when we arrived. She stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes tracking movement like she was cataloguing every breath. She wasn’t overseeing the drill – at least not officially – but no one questioned her presence.

Our team spread out, running comms checks, setting target grids. I slung my rifle over my chest and slid into the rhythm of prep, but my focus kept skipping back to her.

I remembered the first time I saw her at gear check. The brief pause she gave me. Calculated, quiet, then nothing. The next time, in the gym – she passed me without a word, earbuds in, jaw set like stone. I doubted that she had noticed me. But I did.

Then our eyes met. A flicker of something flashed beneath the bright blue. I hadn’t quite deciphered what it was yet, but it was something. Something we both understood.

Then again yesterday. A nod, barely that. Like she’d already filed me away into whatever category she reserved for “not my problem.”

And maybe I wasn’t. But she was becoming mine.

“Knight,” Ortega’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You’re up.”

I nodded, stepped onto the line. Targets downrange. Variable pop-ups. No margin for error.

The whistle blew. I dropped into cover, rifle tight to my shoulder, eyes scanning. Shots rang out – measured, controlled. I moved fast, methodical, clearing lanes, calling out targets. It felt good. Not easy – never that – but natural.

“Target right!”

I pivoted, dropped the shot. Quick, clean. By the time I cleared the last sector, sweat had soaked through the collar of my shirt and my pulse had leveled out into something manageable.

“Clear!” I called out.

I caught the faintest nod from Camden across the field. Approval? Maybe just acknowledgement. After the drill, I grabbed a canteen and took a seat on a cinderblock near the fence line. Camden was talking to a few team leads, but her eye skimmed toward me once – brief, unreadable.

I didn’t look away. She didn’t either. Not right away at least.

Later, I caught her near the armory, checking a manifest clipboard like it might bite.

“You always supervise gear like it owes you something?” I asked, keeping it casual.

She didn’t smile. “Only when people screw it up.”

“Good thing I don’t plan on it.”

Camden looked up at me then, just long enough for the weight behind her stare to settle in my chest. “You’ll learn fast,” she said. “Or you won’t last.”

Her tone wasn’t harsh. It was honest. Maybe even a warning.

I gave her a small shrug. “I’m a quick learner.”

She didn’t respond. Just turned back to the clipboard. But I swear, as I walked off, I saw the corner of her mouth twitch – almost like a smile, if you squint hard enough. Almost.

The rest of the team rotated through drills while I cleaned my rifle and tried not to look like I was watching her. Camden moved through the field like she belonged to it. Efficient. Sharp. Unreachable. The kind of soldier people didn’t bother questioning because she always had ten steps on them anyways.

“Pair drills start in twenty,” Ortega barked, waving a clipboard. “Check your gear. Buddy assignments are on the wall.”

I downed the rest of my water and walked to the sheet tacked onto the post outside the command tent.

Buddy Team: SSGT Knight – SGT Steele

Well, hell.

Even though I knew this beforehand I thought they would change it. I didn’t let the surprise show. Just pulled my gloves tighter and turned back toward the range.

She was already waiting.

I stopped a few feet from her, and for a beat, neither of us spoke.

“Looks like we’re up,” I said, keeping the tone light.

Her eyes flicked over me, assessing. “Try not to slow me down, Knight.”

“No promises, Camden.”

She blinked once. No reaction. But I’d used her name on purpose. It rolled easy in my mouth, sharper than I expected. She didn’t correct me, didn’t flinch, just gave a short nod and turned toward the course.

We hit the line side by side. Ortega gave the briefing – cover fire, bounding movement, coordinated assault through close-quarters terrain. A test in rhythm, trust, and communication. With someone else, it would’ve been routine.

With her, it felt like a wire pulled tight.

The whistle blew. I dropped to a knee and fired two shots ahead – suppressing sounds.

“Move!” I called.

Camden surged forward, low and fast, moving like she’d rehearsed it in her sheep. She hit cover, didn’t even glance back. “Covering!”

I ran up past her and dropped into the next position, picking off a flank target. “Push!”

She bounded again, taking the lead without hesitation. We moved like clockwork. No missed steps. No wasted breath. Her commands were clipped and clear. Mine answered without friction. We didn’t have to look at each other to know what the other was doing.

And maybe that’s what unsettled me.

We reached the final breach – mock structure, close quarters, plywood walls, and hidden targets. Camden checked the corner, tapped twice on my shoulder. Her hand was steady. Confident. We stacked against the doorway.

“Left,” she murmured. “I’ll go first.”

I nodded, rifle raised. “Ready.”

She kicked the door and moved in. Shots rang out – mine and hers – echoing through the structure. Two targets down, one in the back.

“Clear!”

We stood in the center of the room, both of us breathing hard but steady. I looked at her then. Really looked. She wasn’t just good. She was sharp-edged precision, honed over time and fire. And for a second, something passed between us – something quiet but undeniable.

Then she turned away.

“Not bad, Knight,” she said over her shoulder.

“Not bad yourself, Camden.”

The use of her name made her pause just long enough to let me know she noticed. She didn’t say anything else. Just walked out of the structure, her back straight, her silence louder than most people’s voices. And I followed.