Securing the Foothold

Joints locked tight. Both weapons raised, screaming silently into the open room. Then the pressure shifted. My right wrist flexed on command, the stiff plastic giving way to real tension. Underneath my combat boots, the ground wasn't asphalt or solid floorboards—it was thick, ribbed fleece yielding under every ounce of pressure. I carefully dipped the right rifle barrel down an inch, pressing the muzzle directly into the dense fibers to test the density. Soft. Spongy. Not ideal defensive cover, but solid enough to hold a firing stance. I locked my knees, braced into the ridges, and scanned the perimeter. I'm operational.