The drive to the Eastern Regional Championship venue took four hours through increasingly rural Pennsylvania countryside, giving Alex plenty of time to second-guess every aspect of his preparation. His gear was packed with obsessive precision in the back of Marcus's borrowed van, his rifle was zeroed to perfection, and his shooting fundamentals had been drilled to the point of muscle memory. None of that stopped his stomach from churning with pre-competition nerves.
"First time jitters are normal," Maya said from the seat beside him, apparently reading his expression. "I threw up before my first major competition."
"That's reassuring," Alex muttered, checking his phone for the hundredth time. Rodriguez had sent a final text that morning: *Trust your training. Execute your fundamentals. Make every shot count.*
The competition venue was a sprawling complex of wooded terrain, open fields, and purpose-built structures that looked like a military training facility. Teams were already arriving when Bravo Company pulled into the parking area—dozens of vehicles disgorging players whose equipment and bearing screamed serious competition.
"Holy shit," Jake breathed, watching a team unload gear that probably cost more than Alex's mom made in a month. "Look at their rifles. Those are custom builds, every one of them."
"Equipment doesn't win games," Marcus said firmly, but Alex could hear the uncertainty creeping into their leader's voice. The level of professionalism on display was intimidating even for experienced players.
Registration took place in a converted barn that buzzed with the controlled chaos of 200+ competitors checking in, receiving rule briefings, and sizing up the competition. Alex found himself studying other teams' designated marksmen, noting their equipment choices and trying to gauge their experience levels.
Most carried rifles that made his VSR-10 look modest by comparison—custom-built precision weapons with high-end optics and modifications that probably cost thousands of dollars. Their movements had the fluid confidence of players who'd been competing at this level for years.
"Rivera, Alex," the registration volunteer called, checking his name off a master list. "Bravo Company, designated marksman. You're in the precision shooting challenge tomorrow morning, 0800 sharp."
Alex's stomach dropped. He'd known about the individual challenges—specialized competitions that ran alongside the main team events—but somehow the reality hadn't sunk in until now.
"What's the precision shooting challenge?" he asked.
"Individual marksmanship competition. Targets at various ranges, different shooting positions, time limits. Winner gets recognition and bragging rights. More importantly, your score contributes to your team's overall standing."
Great. No pressure at all.
The team briefing that evening was held in a mess hall that could have been lifted from an actual military base. Competition organizers outlined three days of increasingly complex scenarios, each designed to test different aspects of tactical competence.
Day One: Team elimination matches—straightforward tactical scenarios where teams would be eliminated based on objective completion and casualty rates.
Day Two: Complex scenarios involving multiple objectives, civilian rescue elements, and time pressure that would test leadership and adaptability.
Day Three: Championship brackets for surviving teams, culminating in a final scenario that typically lasted several hours and pushed competitors to their absolute limits.
"Gentlemen and ladies," the head organizer announced, "you represent the finest airsoft talent on the East Coast. Over the next three days, you'll face challenges designed to test every aspect of your tactical abilities. Some of you will discover capabilities you didn't know you possessed. Others will learn that there's always room for improvement."
His gaze swept the assembled teams with the assessment of someone who'd seen countless competitions.
"Remember—this is still a game, but it's a game that teaches real skills and builds real character. Compete with honor, support your teammates, and show respect for your opponents. Good luck to all of you."
That night, Alex lay in his narrow bunk at the facility's dormitory-style accommodations, listening to the sounds of other teams making final preparations. Somewhere in the darkness, rifles were being cleaned, strategies were being refined, and competitors were dealing with their own pre-game anxiety.
His phone buzzed with a text from his mom: *Thinking of you tonight. Remember—you've already succeeded by getting this far. Everything else is just bonus. Love you.*
Another from Rodriguez: *Breathe. Focus. Execute. You're ready.*
Alex closed his eyes and ran through his mental checklist one final time. Wind reading techniques, range estimation methods, breathing patterns for different shooting positions. The familiar routine was calming, like a meditation that prepared his mind for the challenges ahead.
He was as ready as three months of intensive preparation could make him.
Dawn came gray and cold, with a mist that would affect visibility and wind patterns throughout the morning. Alex ate a light breakfast—his stomach was too knotted for anything substantial—and began the methodical process of preparing his equipment.
The precision shooting challenge took place on a range that showcased the venue's professional-grade facilities. Targets were positioned at distances from 100 to 300 feet, with shooting positions that ranged from comfortable bench rest to awkward field expedient setups that would test every aspect of marksmanship fundamentals.
Twenty-four competitors had qualified for the individual challenge, representing the designated marksmen from the top-tier teams. Alex found himself surrounded by players whose reputations preceded them—regional champions, military veterans, and sponsored shooters who competed professionally.
"First time at Regional?" asked the shooter setting up beside him, a college-aged woman whose rifle setup probably cost more than Alex's car.
"Yeah. You?"
"Fourth year. I'm Jessica Chen, Team Vanguard out of Virginia. That's a nice VSR setup you've got there—Tokyo Marui base?"
"Thanks. And yeah, with some upgrades." Alex was surprised by the friendly tone. He'd expected more intimidation tactics from experienced competitors.
"Good choice. Reliable platform, excellent accuracy potential. You'll do fine if you stick to your fundamentals."
The range safety officer called for attention, and the friendly chatter died away as competitors focused on the task ahead.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Eastern Regional Precision Challenge. You'll have ninety minutes to engage targets at five different stations, with varying distances, positions, and environmental factors. Scoring is based on accuracy and time, with penalties for safety violations or procedural errors."
Alex felt his heart rate spike as the implications sank in. Ninety minutes to prove that his three months of intensive training had been sufficient preparation for this level of competition.
"Competitors to Station One. Begin when ready."
The first station was deceptively simple—prone position, 150-foot target, no time pressure. Alex settled into his familiar shooting position, feeling the VSR-10's stock against his cheek and the scope's eye relief align perfectly with his vision.
Breathe. Relax. Natural point of aim. Sight picture. Trigger control.
His first shot struck the target's center ring with a satisfying thwack. His second was equally precise. By his fifth shot, Alex had grouped all his rounds within a circle smaller than a golf ball, earning approving nods from the range officers.
Station Two introduced complications—kneeling position, 200-foot target, moderate wind from the left. Alex had practiced this exact scenario dozens of times with Rodriguez, but the competition environment added pressure that made his hands slightly unsteady.
Focus. Trust your training. The rifle knows what to do.
His first shot was slightly left of center—wind compensation error. His second corrected for the drift and found the center ring. By the end of the string, Alex was shooting with the kind of unconscious competence that Rodriguez had been trying to instill.
Station Three was where the challenge became serious. Standing position, 250-foot target, crosswind that required significant holdover correction. Around him, Alex could hear other competitors struggling with the difficult conditions—muttered curses, the sound of misses striking the backstop, the occasional exclamation of frustration.
Alex took his time, reading the wind flags and grass movement to estimate drift. The standing position was inherently less stable than prone or kneeling, requiring perfect balance and breathing control.
His first shot missed the scoring rings entirely. His second clipped the edge. His third found the center, and Alex felt the familiar surge of confidence that came with solving a difficult shooting problem.
By Station Four, Alex had found his rhythm. The awkward shooting position—prone but canted at an angle to simulate shooting around cover—would have been impossible three months ago. Now it felt like a natural extension of his training with Rodriguez.
Station Five was the killer—300-foot target, time pressure, and environmental conditions that changed constantly as the morning mist shifted and swirled. Alex watched two competitors ahead of him struggle with the distance, their shots falling short or drifting wide in the tricky conditions.
This was what all the training had been building toward. The moment when equipment, skill, and mental preparation either came together or fell apart under pressure.
Alex settled into position and began his pre-shot routine. Range estimation using the scope's reticle. Wind reading from multiple indicators. Breathing pattern that would provide the steadiest hold.
The target seemed impossibly small through the scope, a tiny circle of scoring rings that demanded absolute precision. Alex's first shot felt perfect from the moment he broke the trigger—smooth follow-through, natural call of the shot, the kind of execution that happened when conscious thought gave way to trained instinct.
The BB struck dead center.
His second shot was equally precise. His third. By his fifth and final shot, Alex was shooting with a confidence he'd never experienced before, each round finding the target's center with mechanical precision.
"Time!" the range officer called, and Alex set down his rifle with hands that were surprisingly steady.
The scoring took twenty minutes that felt like hours. Alex tried not to watch as range officers tallied points and calculated rankings, but he couldn't help stealing glances at the scoreboard as numbers appeared beside competitors' names.
When his score was finally posted, Alex had to read it twice to believe it.
Third place. Out of twenty-four of the region's best precision shooters, Alex Rivera had finished third.
"Holy shit, Alex!" Maya's voice cut through his stunned disbelief as Bravo Company surrounded him with congratulations. "Third place! At your first Regional!"
"I can't believe it," Alex said, staring at the scoreboard. "I actually can't believe it."
"Believe it," Marcus said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You just proved that all that training was worth every penny. More importantly, you've given our team a serious advantage going into the main competition."
Jessica Chen appeared beside them, extending her hand with a smile that held genuine respect.
"Impressive shooting," she said. "Especially for someone competing at this level for the first time. Your fundamentals are rock solid—whoever trained you knew what they were doing."
"Thank you. That means a lot coming from someone with your experience."
"Keep training, keep competing. You've got real talent for this."
As Bravo Company walked back toward the main competition area, Alex felt a transformation that went beyond simple confidence. The precision shooting challenge had proven something he'd been wondering about for months—he belonged at this level. His equipment was competitive, his skills were legitimate, and his preparation had been sufficient to succeed against experienced opponents.
The main team competition was still ahead, with challenges that would test every aspect of their tactical abilities. But for the first time since arriving at Regional, Alex felt like Bravo Company had a real chance to make their mark.
He'd proven himself as an individual. Now it was time to prove himself as part of a team.
The radio crackled in his ear as Marcus called for a team meeting.
"Alright, people," their leader said, his voice carrying new confidence. "Alex just showed everyone that we're not here to make up the numbers. We're here to compete. Let's go show them what Bravo Company can do."
Alex shouldered his rifle and followed his teammates toward their first team challenge, feeling the weight of the VSR-10 and the satisfaction of knowing he'd earned his place among the region's elite competitors.
The real test was just beginning.