Marksman Training Oblivion Novels & Stories

It was that dangerous kind of stillness when your brain catches up, but your heart’s too stunned to move. Cassian Draven. Standing in the center of the cage like a god made of blood and violence. Arms raised. Knuckles split. Sweat trickling down the curve of his abs like liquid sin, glinting under the spotlight. He roared into the chaos, and the crowd roared back—drunk on his rage, his beauty, his madness. My ex. The man who once made me forget every rule I ever lived by. The one I never should’ve touched, but couldn’t stop touching.

“Do you even know how to fire that pistol?” Trailing behind Jim, Marcus chuckled. “This is a nine millimeter Glock Gen five. And I’m an ex-intel Marine sharpshooter, so shut it or I’ll put a bullet in you somewhere that hurts like hell but doesn’t kill you.” Ahead, Jim chuckled. “Okay, fine. Pick up the pace, Semper fi.” Behind him, Marcus huffed a laugh and grinned. He had to admit, he liked Jim Erikson. "How much of a lead do you think he's got?" he queried when further on, Jim knelt, piercing blue eyes scanning the ground.

He stepped over the corpse without glancing down. "You moved faster than a turned Lycan." His thumb brushed my jawline, came away bloody. "Who taught you tactical reloading?" "I don't..." The stench of voided bowels hit me. I retched, doubling over. "I didn't mean to..." "Stop lying to me." He caught my wrist, forcing my palm against his sternum. "You tracked the secondary target's approach through peripheral vision while maintaining firing stance. That's not instinct. That's training."

They also wear their teams’ respective colors as armbands. They have goggles but there’s a strict no-headshots rule. They will have headlamps on, too, as night falls, but everyone is instructed to aim a couple of feet below, in the chest area. Finally, they carry backpacks with junk (mostly water) inside so each weighs exactly 35 kilos. For the “authentic” training exercise experience, according to Colonel Anders. Kate took the opportunity to empty her closet and desk in the dorm. Right before they mustered at 1900. Yssy saw that she was indeed determined to push through with her escape plan.

She shouted, her loud scary voice echoing around the concrete room as Taylor came in with a black bag which she dropped on the ground beside Lambo. Taylor is the gang logistics coordinator, she's in charge of the weapons, so she controls the artillery. She opened the bag, and the trainees started stepping out one by one to get their guns. "Face the dartboards!" Lambo ordered, and the forty trainees turned swiftly to the dartboards on the wall, aiming for the bullseye. "Now make sure your f**king arms are on the right, if you fail to hit the dartboard, you're dead!" Lambo thundered again, and some of them began peeing on themselves as they reset their guns on the bullseye.

(Kane) The facility was a graveyard of abandoned gear and chemical foam. Miller’s tactical squad hadn’t been trained for a kinetic breach in zero-visibility conditions; they had been trained to monitor sensor pings and follow the light-bars. When the mist hit, they were nothing more than blind men stumbling through a labyrinth, and we were the predators who owned the dark.

“When you face me, don’t kill me. Play scared. Take a hit that won’t cut deep. When you get the chance, fall — and make it convincing. Do it right and you’ll earn a bed farther from the line.” His pupils widened. “And if I refuse?” “You’ll be fine,” I lied. Not about harm, but about the risk of being seen as colluding. Kaden could twist anything into use. We trained twice, small drills, until the moves lived in muscle. The boys learned to fall and to look terrified. Thea taught an angle that would hurt but not kill. Vera taught wind and balance. I taught how to take a blow without letting the sound of pain punch through. Night came. The arena filled with smoke and cheap wine and faces hungry

Maybe I was stronger than I thought. The next morning, I woke up sore all over from the training, but I was eager to continue. When I met Marcus at the training grounds, he had a different exercise planned. "Today we're going to work on awareness," he said. "A good fighter needs to be able to sense what's happening around them, even when they're focused on one opponent." He blindfolded me and had me stand in the center of the training area while he and two other pack members moved around me quietly.

Strategy markers were laid out across the ground, formations shifting as commands were called. This was what made Blackridge dangerous. Not just power. Preparation. Discipline. The Warrior stood at the edge of the field, physically present with the pack, arms crossed as he observed. His eyes met mine briefly, and I felt the tether tighten. Watch, he advised. He will reveal himself through habit. Liora blew her whistle, sharp and commanding. “Dummies to center. Elite drill. No holding back.” Massive reinforced training dummies were hauled into position, enchanted to withstand Alpha-level strikes.

"That is his greatest mistake." He moved from one spot to another with his hands folded behind him. "I want you all to locate him, and bring him to his knees.." He added in anger. "And bring him to me. Dead or alive." "Yes, Sir!" They all chorused. Their backs stiffened. Their shoulders straightened and their faces were devoid of all emotions. They pass through a series of training which sort of kills every emotion they can ever feel in life. Scars ran along their jaws and chin, giving them sinister looks. Their eyes were bloodshot as if they had been starved and ready to devour anything and anyone who crossed their path. The Smith elite teams could unearth everything and anyone. That was th