The transport truck was a metal box filled with thirty terrified teenagers and the smell of desperate sweat. Officer Halloway had deposited Veles in the back and promptly disappeared into the comfortable cab upfront, leaving the recruits to stew in their own anxiety.
For the first hour, silence reigned. Everyone was too busy processing the fact that they had just signed away their freedom. But as the shock wore off, the need for human connection — or dominance — took over.
"It's not gonna be that bad," said a loud voice near the front of the truck.
The speaker was a guy named Dax. He was big, with a neck thick enough to stop a low-caliber bullet and a jaw square enough to calibrate a carpenter's tool. He wore a leather jacket that was too tight, trying desperately to project an image of unbothered toughness.
"My cousin's in the Legion," Dax continued, looking around for an audience. "He says the mortality rates are inflated by the media to scare civilians into compliance. He says as long as you aren't an idiot and follow orders, it's easy duty. Good food, easy patrols. We'll probably just be guarding supply lines."
A few of the younger, smaller recruits looked up, hope warring with skepticism on their faces. They wanted to believe him. They needed to believe him.
Veles, sitting in the corner, felt the burn start in the pit of his stomach.
Don't, he told himself. It doesn't matter. Let him talk. Let them have their hope.
"Besides," Dax flexed an arm, grinning. "I did three years of varsity wrestling. Any demon gets close to me, I'll snap its neck before it knows what hit it. You guys stick close to me, you'll be fine."
The burn intensified. It clawed up Veles's throat, turning into acid paste on his tongue. The sheer volume of bullshit coming out of Dax's mouth was physically painful to Veles.
It wasn't just that Dax was lying. It was why he was lying. He was terrified. He was puffing his chest out because if he stopped talking, he might start screaming.
Veles bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. The pain of the bite was nothing compared to the agony of silence enforced by the System. His breath hitched. His eyes watered.
He couldn't hold it.
"You're lying," Veles said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the truck's rumble like a knife.
Dax froze mid-flex. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "What did you say, twig?"
The dam broke. The words poured out of Veles, cold, analytical, and unstoppable.
"You don't have a cousin in the Legion. If you did, you'd know the supply lines are the most dangerous postings because that's where the intelligent demons ambush convoys. You're making it up because you're scared shitless. Your hands are shaking. You've been tapping your left foot non-stop for an hour. You're trying to act tough so no one realizes you're about to piss yourself."
The silence in the truck became absolute. Every eye turned to Veles. The hope that Dax had kindled sputtered and died, replaced by the cold reality Veles had just voiced.
Dax's face turned a mottled shade of red. He stood up, hunching over in the low confines of the truck. "You think you're smart, huh? You think you can just run your mouth?"
"I think your varsity wrestling won't mean anything when a scythe-demon rips your arms off," Veles said, the words tumbling out even as his mind screamed at him to shut up. "You're going to get people killed because you think real war is like a high school gym mat."
Dax roared and lunged.
He didn't get far. The truck swerved violently as the brakes screeched, throwing everyone to the side. Dax slammed face-first into the metal wall. The momentum pinned him there as the vehicle shuddered to a final, grinding halt.
Six hours. That's how long it had been. Six hours of driving, and Veles had waited until the very last minute to make an enemy.
The rear doors flew open, flooding the dim interior with blinding daylight and the smell of sulfur.
"Everybody out! Move! Move! Move!" a voice like gravel inside a blender screamed from outside.
Dax glared at Veles, blood trickling from his nose — a mirror image of Brayden Miller just that morning. "You're dead," Dax hissed, wiping the blood away. "First live-fire exercise, you're dead."
Veles grabbed his duffel bag and stood up. As he shuffled toward the exit, he felt the eyes of the other twenty-nine recruits on him. There was no gratitude for exposing the blowhard. There was only fear and distaste.
He was the guy who killed hope. He was the guy who couldn't read the room.
Veles stepped out into the blinding sun, alone in a crowd. He had technically been in the army for less than a day, and he had already ensured he would have zero allies.
The System was working perfectly.