- Bad Odds -

Posted on 31 Jul 2026 @ 7:08am by 2nd Lieutenant Elora Rykov & Master Sergeant Candice Laramie

1,047 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: General Sim Postings
Location: Marine country - Gym

ON:




The training gym was unusually quiet for the evening shift.

Most of the company had already filtered out after the day's drills, leaving only the rhythmic hum of the environmental systems and the occasional metallic clank of unattended equipment settling back into place. Elora Sirah Rykov wiped the perspiration from her brow with a towel before stepping toward the free weights. Her recent promotion to Rifle Company Executive Officer had brought more paperwork than she cared for, and the gym had become one of the few places where her thoughts could finally slow.

Or so she thought.

Four Marines stepped through the doorway almost in unison.

Corporal Mason Drake led them, flanked by Lance Corporal Owen Hale, Corporal Victor Serris, and Private First Class Nolan Pierce. All four wore Alpha Team training uniforms, their expressions devoid of the camaraderie normally shared between Marines.

Elora looked up, all smiles. "Something I can help you with?"

Drake folded his arms. "Actually... yeah." His voice carried none of the usual military professionalism. "We've been wanting a word."

Elora set the towel aside. "Go ahead." Her smile faltered. They sounded serious.

Drake took another step forward. "You shouldn't be the RXO." The statement hung in the air.

"You were Foxtrot's leader," Serris added. "You never even applied for the position."

"Travis put his name in," Pierce continued. "He earned that opportunity."

"And somehow," Hale said bitterly, "Command hands it to someone who wasn't even in the running."

Elora remained composed. The smile was long gone now. "The Commanding Officer makes appointments based on what they believe is best for the company."

Drake shook his head. "Convenient answer."

"It isn't an answer," Elora replied evenly. "It's the truth."

"You should decline it." Drake remarked.

"No." The single word came without hesitation Elora took a step back now, with out thinking.

"You could fix this." Drake insisted stepping closer to her as she tried to move away.

"My responsibility is to serve where I'm ordered." Elora said evenly.

"You don't deserve it." Peirce crossed his arms, obviously agitated.

"I didn't ask whether you believed I deserved it." though to be fair she had asked herself that question a lot. Somers had said she had been referred by RCO Mathews before her departure. Taren had pointed out that she had been screened and chosen for the position over the other candidates. She belonged there. Even if she didn't fully understand why.

Silence.

Then Drake spoke again. "Step down."

Elora met each of their eyes in turn. "No. I won't."

The room seemed to shrink. "I will not abandon the Marines who have been placed under my responsibility because four people disagree with Command's decision." The authority in her voice was a mask for the fear starting to eat at her gut.

Hale clenched his fists. "So that's it?"

"That's it." Elora said with a nod.

Drake's expression hardened. "You think you're better than us." Drake said anger clear in his voice now.

"I never said that." She shook her head as she spoke.

"You didn't have to." Drake stated.

Elora recognized the shift before anyone moved. Years of combat training made certain tensions unmistakable. She eased into a defensive stance. "I don't want this."

Drake lunged first.

The punch caught her shoulder instead of her face as she pivoted aside, driving an elbow into his ribs before Serris slammed into her from the side. Momentum carried all three into a rack of padded mats, sending equipment crashing across the floor.

Pierce grabbed her arm.

She twisted free with a practiced joint lock, throwing him over her hip. Hale rushed in immediately afterward, driving a fist into her ribs hard enough to steal her breath. Pain exploded through her side.

Elora retaliated with two quick strikes that staggered Hale backward before Drake recovered and tackled her low.

All five Marines crashed onto the deck. Boots. Fists. Elbows. The discipline of the training hall vanished beneath raw anger.

Elora covered her head as repeated blows landed across her shoulders and upper back. A boot slammed into her side. Another caught her forearm as she tried to push herself upright.

She managed to throw Drake away long enough to scramble toward open space.

Serris intercepted her.

His sweeping kick caught her planted foot. A sharp crack echoed through the gym. White, hot pain shot through her right ankle as she collapsed to one knee. She bit back a cry. The joint refused to support her weight.

Another punch split her lip. A forearm slammed across her collarbone. Someone drove a knee into her shoulder, forcing her against the deck.

"Stay down!" The elbow drop across the back of her head. She saw stars.

"No!" She growled “I WONT!” She shoved Pierce backward with everything she had left.

The opening was barely enough.

Favoring her injured ankle, Elora stumbled toward the emergency exit. Every step sent another wave of pain racing up her leg, but instinct overruled agony.

The door hissed open. She forced herself through it. Behind her came shouting. No one pursued though.

Not immediately. The corridor swallowed the sounds of the gym as Elora limped away, one hand braced against the bulkhead, leaving behind only scattered equipment and the aftermath of violence that should never have existed among Marines sworn to serve together.


===Mean While===

Far above the gym floor...

Inside a maintenance ventilation shaft...

A single figure remained perfectly still.

Hidden behind thermal baffling, dressed in matte-black adaptive gear that reflected almost no light, the observer never revealed a face.

The miniature optical recorder mounted beside one gloved hand continued capturing the final moments of the confrontation.

Not all of it.

Only enough.

Enough to identify the attackers.

Enough to show that Second Lieutenant Elora Rykov had never thrown the first punch.

The recording ended.

The operative quietly withdrew deeper into the ventilation network, leaving no sign that anyone had ever been there.

No name.

No rank.

No report.

Only a fragment of evidence carried away into the shadows.


OFF:



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