The hotel suite felt different tonight.
It wasn't just exhaustion—it was the weight of knowing that their journey wasn't over, not by a long shot. The five members of Bravo Company had dragged themselves here after the international meeting, after the announcement that had changed everything.
They were no longer National Champions celebrating victory.
They were five survivors standing at the edge of something infinitely larger: the International Airsoft Tournament.
The suite itself was luxurious by most standards. High-rise windows revealed the city skyline, the glittering lights reflecting against the glass table where their gear lay scattered. The carpet still smelled faintly of cleaner, but underneath lingered the acrid tang of gun oil and sweat carried in from their equipment bags. The space was big enough for twelve, yet with only five, it somehow felt too small—like the walls were inching closer each time one of them exhaled.
And then there were the cameras.
Mounted high in the corners, their small red lights blinked steadily, broadcasting every word, every grim look, every frustrated sigh to the waiting world. The program had made it clear: this wasn't just a competition. It was a spectacle. Every team was being followed, dissected, their struggles made into entertainment for millions of viewers across the globe.
Bravo Company was no exception.
Marcus leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, jaw tight. His uniform shirt was undone halfway, sweat still clinging to his collarbones. He looked like a soldier after a firefight—focused, restless, unwilling to admit exhaustion.
Maya sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling rapidly through her tablet, which was already flashing recruitment stats and commentary clips. The cameras loved her sharp expressions, her eye-rolls, the way she muttered analysis as though she were a commentator herself.
Jake sat slouched in one of the armchairs, rubbing at his face, his hair sticking in five directions. The match commentary feed was still playing on the holo-screen behind him, replays of Alex's semifinal duel with Chen running again and again while analysts debated shot angles and tactical choices. Jake didn't even glance at it anymore.
Sarah perched on the windowsill, legs drawn up, staring out at the city lights like they might contain answers. Her tablet sat idle beside her, forgotten for once. She hadn't spoken since they got back.
And then there was Alex.
He sat at the table, Champion disassembled in front of him, Promise lying close by. The pistols' parts gleamed under the overhead light—slides, barrels, frames, each piece laid out with surgical precision. He wasn't cleaning them because they needed it. He was cleaning them because his hands needed something to do, because if he let them go idle, his mind would spiral back to the impossible weight pressing down on his chest.
National Champions.
The words still didn't feel real. The highlight reels of their victory over the Apex Predators were already everywhere—slow-motion shots of Alex's duel with Elena, the commentators losing their voices as his BB connected, the roar of the crowd when the impossible had become reality.
And yet that victory was already history. The world had barely given them twenty-four hours to breathe before announcing the next mountain they had to climb.
---
The Weight of Tomorrow
"Three teams. Twelve members each. That's the standard," Marcus said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. He wasn't looking at anyone, just at the countertop like he could carve answers into it with sheer focus. "And us? We've got five."
The cameras whirred softly, zooming in.
Maya didn't look up from her tablet. "Correction: we've got five exhausted people who barely survived the Nationals. And now we're supposed to go recruit seven more while the rest of the world already has full rosters."
Jake groaned and flopped his head back against the chair. "They might as well just hang a banner that says Bravo Company: First to Get Wiped."
Sarah finally stirred, her eyes flashing toward him. "Don't say that. Not on camera."
"Everything's on camera," Jake muttered. "I could fart in the corner and some analyst would call it 'a sign of psychological instability.'"
Despite herself, Maya smirked. But the humor didn't stick.
Alex set Champion's barrel back into its frame and paused. "He's not wrong."
The others turned to him.
"Look at us," Alex continued quietly. His voice was steady, but underneath it lay a current of strain. "Five people. Nationals was hard enough. But this?" He gestured vaguely toward the cameras, toward the city skyline that represented the global audience watching. "This is something else. We don't just need bodies. We need specialists. A medic. A scout. A demo expert. Another sniper, maybe. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and out-experienced. And the whole damn world is watching to see if we fail."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy.
Marcus finally pushed off the counter, pacing like a caged animal. "Which is why we can't waste time. Tomorrow, we start hunting recruits."
---
The Debate
The holo-screen lit up again, this time displaying a scrolling list of "free agents"—players who hadn't yet signed with any team. Stats, specialties, and highlight reels filled the display like a digital menu.
"Who do we prioritize?" Maya asked. "Sniper? Heavy gunner? Intel?"
"Medic," Alex said immediately.
"Sniper," Marcus countered.
Jake sat up a little. "No, no—machine gunner. Without suppressive fire we're going to get pinned down the first time we run into a full team."
Sarah finally turned from the window. Her voice was calm, clinical. "Intel specialist. Doesn't matter how strong you are if you don't see the trap before it's sprung."
The room erupted into layered arguments, each one louder than the last.
Marcus slammed a hand against the wall. "We need firepower—"
"We need survivability," Alex snapped back, louder than he intended.
The room froze. The cameras zoomed in, feeding on the tension.
Alex's chest rose and fell rapidly, but his eyes stayed locked on Marcus. "Look, you want to talk tactics? Fine. But you know damn well if we don't have a medic, the first time one of us takes a round to the chest or a landmine goes off under our feet, that's it. No second chances. No rescue. Game over."
Sarah nodded slightly. "He's right. The medic isn't optional. It's the foundation. Without one, we're not a team—we're just five people waiting to bleed out."
Marcus's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.
Maya's voice softened. "So, medic first."
The tension eased fractionally. Alex exhaled slowly, setting Promise's slide back into place with a satisfying click.
The debate wasn't over—it never really would be—but at least they'd agreed on the first step.
---
Televised Reality
The holo-screen behind Jake shifted, showing live coverage of rival teams. Commentators' voices filled the room.
"…and the German Wolfpack just signed their second medic, a controversial move but one that gives them redundancy in survival scenarios…"
"…meanwhile, Japan's Crimson Lotus added a demolitions expert ranked number three worldwide. A huge pickup for them—"
"…but the big story right now is Bravo Company. National Champions, yes, but entering the international stage with only five members. Analysts are already questioning whether they can even survive the first week…"
Jake groaned again. "See? They're already writing us off."
Sarah's lips tightened. "Good. Let them."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "Good?"
"They'll underestimate us," Sarah explained simply. "Just like they did at Nationals. And we'll make them regret it."
The others fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them.
Alex holstered Champion and Promise, his fingers brushing over the engravings. Regional Champion. Para mi hijo. His mother's words burned in his chest. She hadn't sacrificed for him to come this far only to crumble now.
---
Foreshadowing
The night stretched on with more planning, more arguments, more restless pacing. Eventually, Rodriguez entered, carrying his own tablet loaded with recruitment protocols. His face was lined with fatigue, but his eyes burned with determination.
"Listen up," he said, dropping into a chair. "This recruitment isn't just about scouting talent. Every country, every team is fighting over the same pool. You'll be competing not just on the field, but here in the war of reputation, persuasion, and speed. Some of those free agents will be courted by three, four, five teams at once. And make no mistake—the rival U.S. teams would rather sign talent just to bench them than let you have them."
Maya grimaced. "So it's not just recruitment. It's sabotage."
Rodriguez nodded grimly. "Welcome to the international stage."
The cameras captured every word, every shift in expression. By tomorrow, the analysts would be dissecting it, speculating on Bravo Company's chances, tearing apart their strategy before it even began.
But none of that mattered to Alex in this moment.
He looked around at his teammates—Marcus pacing, Maya biting her lip, Jake running a hand through his hair, Sarah watching everything with quiet intensity. Five people who had fought through hell together. Five people who had already done the impossible once.
Now they had to do it again.
"Tomorrow," Marcus said finally, his voice low but steady. "Tomorrow we find our medic."
Alex nodded. His chest felt heavy, but in that heaviness was resolve.
The world thought they were underdogs.
The world thought they were doomed.
Good. Let them.
Because Bravo Company wasn't done yet.
Not by a long shot.
---
Author's Note:
Chapter 41 shifts the story from the euphoria of Nationals to the crushing reality of the international tournament. Bravo Company is exposed, vulnerable, and under the camera's eye at all times. Their first step into rebuilding is agreeing on what they need most: a medic. The stakes of recruitment are laid out as rival teams strengthen, commentators doubt them, and the clock ticks louder.
This chapter is the first step of Bravo Company's transformation from "five survivors" into an international contender.