10 February 2000
14:00Scottish Army Base
The southern gates slammed shut behind Captain Tiffany Luna Clark, the echo rolling across the frozen ground like a hammer against steel. Beyond those gates, the base thrummed with the noise of war's machinery—engines growling, recruits shouting, officers barking orders into the wind.
But none of that sound lived here.
Here, the world belonged to her.
Her boots struck the frost-hardened earth with a rhythm that silenced doubt. Every crunch of ice underfoot sent ripples through the ranks. Soldiers quickened their pace without being told. Backs straightened. Breathing hitched. The cold itself seemed to wait for permission to move.
"She's coming."
"Eyes forward!"
"Don't look—don't even breathe wrong."
"Captain Cold…"
"She'll gut you with silence if you slip."
The whispers slithered through the squads like a current—fear, reverence, and awe intertwined. Then Sergeant Dean's voice cracked through the air like rifle fire.
"Silence on the field!"
The murmurs died instantly. Dean's tone carried the same steel as his Captain's, but where her cold was still and cutting, his burned with command. His cropped brown hair bristled in the wind, his green eyes hard as bayonet glass.
Tiffany moved into the heart of the field, her long black coat slicing through the Highland wind.
Before her stretched the Death Trap—a savage beast of a course that devoured weakness whole.
Ropes hung like nooses, slick with ice and smeared with old blood. Trenches brimmed with freezing water, eager to swallow the unwary. Mud pits clutched at boots like living things, dragging bodies down to suffocation. Frost-coated walls loomed ahead, studded with jagged stone. Crawling wires lay just above the ground—one mistake and they would rip skin, cloth, and pride apart. Beyond them waited the gauntlet: swinging logs, sharpened stakes, and the kill-zone sprint, where recruits had to run beneath a storm of blanks while terror clawed at their spines.
It wasn't a course. It was war, stripped of glory and mercy.
No one had ever conquered it—Except her.And her sergeants.And Lance Lukyan, the ghost who appeared and vanished across battlefields.
"Form up."
Her voice never needed volume. Command lived in her tone.
One hundred and twenty soldiers locked into formation. Frosted breath rose in unison, chests heaving, eyes fixed forward.
She let silence settle. One heartbeat. Then another. Even the wind waited.
"Echo One," she said. "This ground does not forgive. Neither do I. If you falter, you rise. If you rise, you rise higher. If you fail…"—her eyes cut through the line, cold and unblinking—"…then you do not belong here."
Silence pressed down like gravity.
"This field runs on four pillars. Remember them." Her gaze swept across the formation. "Honor. Loyalty. Respect. Trust. Break one—and you're off my field."
No one moved. No one dared.
"Stations."
"Move!" Dean bellowed, his voice detonating like artillery.
The formation broke apart in perfect chaos. Ropes strained. Trenches churned with bodies. Walls rang with impacts. Mud sucked at boots. The air filled with the raw sounds of survival—grunts, curses, and the scrape of flesh against frost.
Tiffany stood unmoving, the calm eye of the storm.
"Squad Three!" Dean roared. "Faster! Crawl like your life means something!"
From across the course, Sergeant Rook's voice thundered, bright with flame where Dean's was frost. His short red hair caught the weak sunlight, a flicker of fire in the cold. "Climb or fall! The Captain's watching—hesitate, and she'll carve regret into your bones!"
At the rope climb, one recruit faltered. His bleeding hands slipped, breath ragged.
"Don't stop now!" Emma shouted from above.
"She's watching," hissed Kent as he vaulted a wall.
"She'll bury you in silence," muttered Chris, crawling through mud.
Then—bootsteps.
The recruit froze. Tiffany's shadow fell across him like a verdict.
"Do you intend to dangle there all day?" Her voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that could freeze blood.
"N-No, Captain!"
"Then prove it."
Her tone was ice and inevitability.
He hauled himself upward, teeth gritted, scraping over the edge with a hoarse cry. When he looked down, she was gone. She never stayed to watch victory—only to witness failure.
At the trench, a soldier slowed, gasping for air.
"Captain's watching!" Dean's bark split the wind. "Move unless you want her to bury you there!"
The man surged forward in panic, crawling until he rolled free of the pit. Tiffany's eyes flicked over him—cold, assessing, done.
"Sergeant Dean."
He appeared instantly. "Captain."
"Squad Four hesitated on entry. Run them again."
"Yes, Captain."
"Squad Four! Back in the trench!" Dean thundered.
A ripple of groans—but one glance from Tiffany ended them. They dove back without protest.
Rook's voice crashed from the wall. "Eyes up! Not on her—unless you want to regret being born!"
Every movement sharpened, driven by the fear of her notice.
And Tiffany simply watched.Measuring.Judging.Carving soldiers from raw flesh and will.
Echo One had been hers for two years. Dean and Rook had followed her from MI6 to this northern exile, their loyalty forged in missions the army would never be told about. She had risen faster than any officer before her—Captain in six months. Her unit, her rules, her field.
No one entered the southern grounds without permission. No one questioned her drills. When she vanished on missions, not even command asked where she went. She returned with scars and silence—and only her sergeants ever stepped into her office.
The truth that bound the three of them was a secret buried deep beneath rank and code.
Her phone buzzed.
Tiffany drew it from her coat without hurry. Her expression didn't change as she read the encrypted message on the cracked screen.
Tiffany,I need you in Paris stronghold by morning. Situation critical. Bring Rook and Dean—we'll need their strength. Five confirmed Mimcro Monstro loose in the city. Backup essential.I'll meet you there, still stationed in Texas.
And Tiffany… we've got a lead on Gordon.Footage outside Sri Lanka.Another SOS coming through.Be ready.
— Lance
The words struck like cold iron—but her face remained unreadable.
She slid the phone back into her coat. Around her, the storm of movement continued: shouts, mud, blood, breath.
"Sergeant Rook. Sergeant Dean."
Her voice didn't rise, but both men appeared at once—summoned by tone alone.
"Yes, Captain," Rook said.
"My office. Seventeen hundred."
"Understood."
"Carry on."
The phrase left her lips like frost.
They saluted and vanished into the chaos.
The soldiers pushed harder, unaware the air had shifted around their Captain.
"She's colder than usual," Emma muttered as she climbed.
"Something's changed," Chris panted beside her.
"She read something," Kent hissed. "Didn't even blink. Don't ask. Don't ever ask."
The whispers slid through the ranks like ghost-wind.
At the center, Tiffany lifted her gaze to the overcast sky.
Her thoughts were sharp as glass.
We will find you, James.