10 February 2000
14:00
Scottish Army Base
The southern gates closed behind Captain Tiffany Luna Clark with a heavy iron boom that rolled across the frozen ground like thunder trapped beneath the earth. The Scottish army base stretched wide across the hillside, an expanse of stone structures, steel barracks, armored vehicle lots, and watchtowers that pierced the pale sky. The winter clouds pressed low, thick, and swollen with ice, casting a grey veil over the compound. Smoke from distant chimneys drifted in slow spirals, mixing with the breath of soldiers marching in formation on the parade grids. Farther north, mechanics worked beneath the towering frames of transport trucks, their clanging tools creating a steady metallic rhythm that echoed across the base.
Although life pulsed everywhere with the urgent tempo of military order, the southern field remained a world of its own. It lay beyond a line of blackened fencing, the ground marked by frost and churned earth, an isolated sanctuary carved into the base for one purpose alone. Tiffany's purpose. The officers respected it as her territory. The recruits feared it; even the commanders of the base assigned no duties within its borders without first informing her.
As Tiffany crossed the open courtyard toward the southern field, something changed in the air. The wind that had been biting softened as if shrinking away from her. Frost that clung to the ground shivered, then receded beneath the steady pressure of her boots. A faint shimmer in the air followed her steps, not bright or unnatural, only the slightest disturbance in the cold, like the breath of something unseen. Soldiers noticed. They always noticed.
Her stride was controlled and unwavering, her coat trailing behind her as if the fabric itself heeded her command. Every movement carried a precision that demanded attention. Conversations faltered. Training paused. Even footsteps softened when she passed. The soldiers understood instinctively that silence followed in her wake because she willed it. Their breath puffed into the air in short clouds that seemed to hesitate before drifting, as if her presence stilled even the wind.
Chris hurried across the pathway, nearly stumbling as he spoke under his breath.
"She is here."
Emma glanced over sharply. "Eyes forward. Do not stare unless you are brave enough to handle the consequences."
Kent muttered from behind her, "Move straight, breathe straight, and do nothing stupid."
Chris swallowed. "Captain Cold."
"They say she will gut you with silence before you realise you failed," he whispered.
The words slithered through the squad lines like threads of frost. They were always spoken softly, always with a mixture of dread and reverence. Tiffany heard none of it directly, but her awareness was sharp. She sensed the shift in voices, the tightening of posture, the way fear and respect clung to the recruits like the winter air.
Sergeant Dean broke through the murmurs with a voice that snapped like whipcord.
"Silence on the field."
His command cut the noise instantly. Yet even his authority felt minor beside the presence that approached. Tiffany advanced toward the heart of her territory with the steadiness of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Her black hair lashed behind her in the wind, the strands glinting with the faintest glimmer of frost. Her eyes, clear and cold as winter steel, swept across the wide expanse before her.
The southern field waited.
The recruits called it the Death Trap, a name earned by bruises, fractures, and the countless failures buried beneath its frozen soil. It sprawled across the ground like a living beast, crafted to exploit every weakness a soldier possessed. Ropes coated with ice swayed gently from wooden beams, their surfaces slick enough to peel skin from numbed fingers. Trenches carved into the ground overflowed with freezing water that seemed to reach upward like iron claws. Mud pits shifted under the surface, hiding unseen voids that swallowed boots and pride alike. Frosted walls rose in jagged shapes that resembled the teeth of some ancient creature, while crawling wires slithered low across the course, waiting to slice into clothing and skin.
Beyond the first gauntlet lay the most brutal structures. Huge suspended logs swung in wide arcs, capable of knocking grown men into unconsciousness. Sharpened stakes jutted from the earth in chaotic patterns, demanding absolute precision. And then the kill zone sprint awaited, an unforgiving corridor where blank rounds fired from all sides in a deafening storm meant to crush nerves and test instinct under extreme duress.
It was not simply training. It was warfare compressed into a single, merciless terrain. A crucible that refused to forgive anything less than absolute resilience.
Tiffany ruled it completely. No one had finished the field except for her, her veteran sergeants, and the MI6 operative who disappeared across battlefields with the ease of a ghost. Lance Lukyan. He moved like a shadow that refused to stay in one place and was somehow the only man who walked within Tiffany's proximity without fear gnawing at him. Every other soldier avoided coming too close unless ordered. Lance never did. He irritated her in ways she refused to vocalise, yet she did not silence him as she did everyone else.
Tiffany came to a stop at the center of the field. One hundred and twenty soldiers stood in rigid formation before her, their breaths forming a low mist that drifted into the air between them. She did not speak. She simply looked. Her stare moved across the ranks with the calm assurance of someone who understood power not as force but as presence. Her silence weighed more than Dean's loudest command, heavy and absolute.
Seconds passed. Not a single soldier shifted.
When she finally spoke, the cold in her tone deepened the chill in the air.
"Echo One. This ground does not forgive. If you falter, you rise. If you rise, you rise higher. If you fail, then you do not belong here."
Her gaze hardened, cutting through their composure with the precision of a blade.
"This field runs on four pillars. Honor, loyalty, respect, trust. Break one, and you are done. This ground does not tolerate weakness, hesitation, or defiance."
No one dared move. The soldiers seemed frozen in place by something more potent than winter.
"Stations."
Dean responded instantly.
"Move."
The field erupted. Ropes strained beneath the weight of determination. Freezing trenches churned as soldiers plunged into them. Boots pounded against the frosted walls. Cold mud clung to legs, dragging bodies downward with relentless greed. The entire arena roared with noise. Yet Tiffany remained perfectly still, her presence a quiet center amid chaos.
From the rope climb, one recruit faltered. His palms were bleeding, his muscles trembling, and the ice cut deeper each time his grip slipped. Emma shouted from above, urging him onward. Kent scaled a nearby wall with quick precision, calling back encouragement. Chris struggled through the mud with curses under his breath.
Then the recruit felt it. The shift of air. The chill deepened. The shadow that fell over him was like judgment. Tiffany approached slowly, her steps crisp and unhurried. Frost curled around her boots.
"Do you intend to dangle there all day?" she asked. Her voice held no anger. It carried something worse. Disappointment wrapped in stillness.
"No, Captain," he stammered.
"Then prove it."
He did not dare fail. Some force within him snapped, pushing him beyond pain and exhaustion. He climbed. When he reached the top, Tiffany had already moved on. She never paused to witness success. She only watched to confirm that failure did not linger.
At the trench, another soldier slowed, his breath ragged. Dean barked at him with the urgency of a man who had seen the Captain bury weaker recruits beneath silence. The soldier pushed forward and dragged himself out of the water, shivering and trembling. Tiffany glanced at him once. A single look. Enough to show that he had risen.
She shifted her focus, evaluating the entire field with clinical ease.
"Sergeant Dean."
He appeared beside her instantly.
"Captain."
"Squad Four hesitated on entry, run them, again."
"Yes, Captain."
Dean shouted the order. Groans rose, but Tiffany's glance smothered any sound before it truly formed. Squad Four returned to the trench without a hint of defiance.
Sergeant Rook's voice rang across the wall obstacles. Sharp, energetic, unyielding.
"Eyes up. You look at her only if you crave regret in your bones."
Echo One belonged to Tiffany. For two years, she had shaped them into a unit forged by discipline and fear. Dean and Rook followed her from MI6, bound to her through missions drenched in blood, secrets, and consequences no official report could ever acknowledge. She rose through military ranks with impossible speed, claiming command of the southern field in six months and bending it into something that resembled a battlefield rather than a training ground.
When she disappeared for classified missions, no one questioned her absence. She returned unannounced, eyes colder, steps heavier, but with every order intact.
Her phone buzzed.
Tiffany withdrew it slowly, her expression unreadable as she scanned the encrypted message across the cracked screen.
Tiffany
I need you in Paris stronghold by morning. Situation critical. Bring Rook and Dean. Five confirmed Mimcro Monstro loose in the city. Backup essential.
I will meet you there. Still stationed in Texas.
And Tiffany, we found a lead on Gordon.
Footage outside Sri Lanka. Another SOS coming through.
Be ready.
Lance
Attached Documents.
The message struck her like iron plunged into ice. She slipped the phone back into her coat without a single change in her expression. Yet something shifted around her. The air trembled faintly. Frost thickened over the ropes. The soldiers who dared look her way felt a weight press upon their chests, not painful, but unnatural.
"Sergeant Rook. Sergeant Dean."
Her voice carried no force, yet both sergeants materialised before her with disciplined speed.
"Yes, Captain," Rook said.
"My office. Seventeen hundred."
"Understood."
"Carry on."
The brief command spread across the field like a second winter.
Emma scaled a wall and whispered to Chris, "She is colder than usual."
Chris panted, struggling beneath the swinging logs. "Something changed."
Kent muttered from behind him, "She read something. She did not even blink. Never ask. Never."
Whispers drifted like ghost breath across the field. Every soldier felt the shift, though none understood it. Tiffany lifted her gaze toward the clouded sky. The wind tugged at her coat. The frost clung to her boots. The field waited silently for her next command.
Her thoughts sharpened into a single lethal promise.
We will find you, James.