SG Vol. 1 pt. 12 (Patreon)

Since I already pushed their bodies to their limits with some cardio, when the ten-minute rest is up, I lead my cadets to the range.

“I know you roaches like to ask stupid questions, so let me answer what I know is on your minds,” I say, holding a standard-issue handgun that all pilots keep on them during flights. “There are only two reasons why you would ever need to use one of these as a pilot: one, because you got shot down and want to take as many of the bastards out as you can before dying; or two, because you got shot down and want to kill yourself to deprive them of the opportunity. I strongly recommend the second option if Processor-class are present. You do not want to be alive when a Processor-class captures you.” There’s one more reason for this, but it’s not as intimidating as those are.

Since we lack an outdoor range, we’ve got to use this indoor one where we can set targets to hang at variable distances away.

I use the panel to send my target as far down range as it can go before unloading my clip into it.

Seven shots hit the bullseye on the target’s head, and the remaining eight shots scored bullseyes on the target’s torso.

Keeping up with target practice three times a week for the past decade has worked.

“I expect similar results from all of within the next three months – well, those of you who make it past this week. Today, none of you are allowed to leave until each and every one of you can score at least ten direct hits with a single clip,” I explain to them.

At least they all have proper trigger discipline and know how to properly aim.

The range fills with the sounds of gunfire and spent cases clinking against the ground.

The two who end up surprising me are Samurai and… Ginger.

Ginger looks like he’s struggling whenever he goes for the target’s head, but he still manages to land most of his shots. More importantly, not a single body shot misses and almost all of them are in the target’s bullseye.

“Looks like you’re good for something other than bitching,” I tell him.

“Thanks, sir,” Ginger replies. “I know the automatic aiming of VSUs only goes so far and doesn’t work in all environments, so I thought it’d be good to practice this so my manual aiming is good.”

Smart kid. Still don’t think he’s going to last the week, but he’s right. The aim assist built into VSUs is good in most cases but does fuck up every now and then. He already knows the other reason for why I’m having them do this. If I told them that I’m having them do this because it’ll increase their aim in a VSU, I doubt they’d take it seriously because they know they’d be able to rely on aim assist. Other instructors don’t even tell that shit to their cadets because they know there’s no point.

The other cadet to surprise me is Samurai.

Every single one of her shots lands directly in the center of the bullseye on her target’s head, and she has it set as far away as possible.

Fuck, I’m so impressed that I stood and watched for a couple of minutes as she went through three clips and never missed a single shot.

I’m tempted to mock her by saying that our branch doesn’t give awards for marksmanship excellence, but now I’m reminded that every branch offers a damn ribbon or medal for every single little fucking thing now. It’s only a matter of time before there’s a gold medal for excellence in cleaning shitters and competitions to see who can unclog one the fastest.

“You wouldn’t be this good already if you didn’t have a reason for it, Samurai,” I say. “What’s your reason?”

“Sir,” Samurai says after taking the clip out of the gun and flicking the safety on, “I wish to pilot an F-22 VSU and provide support with an M107-L.”

“Why? You want to fly in the back where it’s safe while everybody else goes ahead of you?”

“No, sir. I wish to specialize in long-range combat with the M107-L to provide cover for my allies while monitoring the battlefield.”

Pretty basic response, but it’s not a bad one.

I pick up her gun, load it, flick the safety off, and tear a single through the head of her target’s bullseye with how clustered my shots are.

“I’m not qualified to use an M107-L, so if you really want to use a gun like that, you better fucking improve and quickly. Good fucking luck ever getting qualified once you get assigned. You don’t move out of your role once you’re in it.”

I set her gun back down. She looks discouraged when I look at her, but now she’s lifting her head to look me in the eyes and nod.

“Not bad for a worthless maggot. I’ll give you that much,” I tell her.

Checking on the others, Muscles is landing half of his shots but that’s nowhere near good enough. He’s probably one of the worst in here which really doesn’t surprise me. All of his skill has gone into his physical fitness and now he’s useless everywhere else.

Valkyrie isn’t as good as Ginger and Samurai, but most of her shots hit when she’s targeting the torso.

The rest of the class does alright. Even the bratty girl from earlier is doing good.

At least this group isn’t as useless as I thought they’d be at this. Muscles is the only one in serious need of improvement here.

Muscles ends up holding everybody else back. Leaving without waiting for him to accomplish the goat I set will result in them getting transferred out of my class, so they’re all waiting on him and trying to give him tips on how to improve. They keep looking over at me as if wanting me to help him.

Well, fuck. I guess I am their instructor, so making sure this brat knows proper form and technique is my responsibility rather than making him figure it out himself.

Samurai beats me to it, though.

“Watch,” Samurai tells him, standing next to him with her own gun and going through the steps with him.

Samurai is just barely over half as tall as he is. Muscles is a serious freak when it comes to his size, and Samurai is just short.

Watching Samurai go over this with him… she’s actually reminding me of some things I’ve forgotten. It’s all muscle memory to me at this point. I’d probably fuck up explaining how to shoot properly if I did try telling him.

“See? Good job,” Samurai tells Muscles after he manages to hit every shot for the first time.

“Thanks,” Muscles says. “You’re good at this.”

They both sound so serious and monotone whenever they talk. It’s annoying, but I’m not going to tell them to get more expressive.

I’ll just bring it out of them through exercise.

“Alright, we’re done here! You maggots can handle some peashooters. Good job. Now, let’s get back out onto the field,” I say.

A short walk later and we’re in an open part of the field with dirt underneath us. “Take your jackets off and wait for me to pick partners for sparring,” I order them.

I think I’ve got a good idea for who to set up with who.

By the time I’m done going through the group, only four are left without pairings.

“Ginger and Muscles, and that leaves you two together,” I say, looking at Valkyrie and Samurai.

Ginger looks up at Muscles and gulps. Meanwhile, Valkyrie and Samurai stare each other down. Valkyrie might be smiling, looking as confident as ever, but Samurai is just staring at her back with a blank expression on her face.

“I plan on each and every one of you being on par with a black belt from the MCMAP. As pilots, you’re going to get shit for only being good in a unit. Other branches will look at you and – while sure, they might appreciate some air support every now and then as long as you’re not totally fucking worthless, they’re going to think they could make you submit any day. They’re going to be wrong. You aren’t just going to be the best damn pilots that the United States Air Force has to offer, but you’re going to excel in every possible combat situation. Small arms, explosives, survival, guerilla tactics, night warfare, spec ops, CQC, target retrieval and extraction – if you make it through this, you will be one of the best damn warriors that this world has ever seen,” I tell them.

“Sir, yes sir!” the group says at once.

“Now, anybody who I catch slacking will spar with me. In case you need a reminder for why you don’t want that to happen, take a look at Muscles’ throat.”

Everybody looks up at Muscles and see that black-and-red bruise on the front of his neck.

He should really be in the infirmary right now, he doesn’t look like he intends on going himself and I’m not going to send him there.

“Let’s go over the basics,” I say.