"The difference between training and reality is that training has safety protocols. Reality has consequences."
—Gareth Lancer
The training yard was a brutalist canvas of scarred earth and shattered concrete, a deliberate monument to Arcadia's philosophy: perfection through repeated failure. Rows of recruits stood at attention, the morning chill doing little to cool the nervous energy crackling through the air. Drones circled overhead like patient carrion birds.
Gareth stood in the front line, his posture not just correct, but efficient. Every subtle shift of his weight was optimized for balance and quick movement. The instructors called him a genius, but his body told a different story—one of muscle memory being perfected. He had been competent before. Now, he was becoming dangerous.
He was also intensely aware of Lyra standing a few places down, a fact that was distracting in a way he couldn't quite quantify.
Commander Vale's voice cut through the yard, sharp and clear. "Today, you fight without safety nets. Your abilities are tools, not excuses. Survive using what's yours."
The shimmering barrier at the far end split open with a sound like tearing metal. Six sim-droids stepped forward, their humanoid frames moving with the fluid, lethal grace of perfect programming.
Lyra leaned in, her voice a low whisper. "You sure your new upgrade doesn't come with a user manual? Because those things look like they mean business."
He cracked a faint grin, the expression feeling more natural now. "Don't worry. I'm a fast learner."
Riven, two positions down, snorted. "He writes the manuals. Probably in his sleep."
[SYSTEM BOOTING: Low-Level Scan Active]
[Recommendation: Minimal adaptation. Allow baseline skill dominance.]
Vale's amber eyes swept the line. "Pair three. Engage."
Gareth stepped forward into the marked combat circle. His opponent sim-droid immediately charged, servos whining as blades extended from its forearms with a menacing snikt.
He didn't wait. He moved first.
A low, fast sidestep. His boot swept the drone's leg in a perfect arc, using its own momentum against it. His body flowed into the movement, twisting into a counterstrike with an economy that spoke of thousands of hours of practice. The drone recovered with inhuman speed, lunging with both blades extended—
Gareth leaned back just enough. The blades passed a hair's breadth from his throat, close enough for him to feel the displacement of air. He caught the droid's wrist, redirected its momentum with a pivot that looked effortless, and drove it into the ground with a force that cratered the earth.
Metal screeched. Sparks flew. The yard fell silent except for the hum of the overhead drones.
[System Feedback: Minor Assistance. User Dominance — 97%.]
The message flickered across his vision. He released the sim-droid's arm and stepped back, posture relaxed. The training unit rebooted with a series of unhappy sounds, its chest dented, systems running diagnostics on its sudden defeat.
Vale watched from behind the tinted viewing glass. "Clean work, Lancer. You've done that before?"
Gareth straightened, a genuine, slight smile touching his lips. "Not exactly, ma'am."
Vale tilted her head, her cybernetic eye processing more than just visual data. "Keep those habits. Your system won't always be faster than your instincts." She paused, then added quieter, a note of genuine respect in her tone: "But your instincts were plenty fast on their own."
---
Later, in the cavernous cafeteria, Gareth sat across from Lyra and Riven. The space buzzed with the controlled chaos of hundreds of cadets trying to eat, socialize, and mentally prepare for the next round of training.
Riven wasn't pretending to be unimpressed. He looked like someone who had just watched a magic trick and was trying to figure out the mechanics. "You fight like you're running a combat simulation in your head. It's unsettling. I assume you still bleed?"
Gareth shrugged, taking a bite of something that was allegedly chicken. "Bleeding's cheaper than losing. Also more survivable in the long run."
Lyra smirked, setting her cup down. "Didn't know they programmed humility into your system upgrade."
"Just patched it in yesterday," he said, the joke feeling less forced this time. "Still working out the bugs."
Her eyes flicked up, holding his gaze for a moment longer than casual conversation required. Something warm and unspoken lingered there—a curiosity that was more than just tactical, a respect that was edging toward something else. This time, Gareth didn't just analyze it; he felt it, a pleasant, confusing warmth spreading in his chest.
"You're staring," Lyra said, but her tone was teasing, not accusatory.
"Not analyzing?" he asked, a genuine question.
"Same difference," she said, leaning back with a smile. "Keep telling yourself that, genius."
Riven looked between them with the expression of someone watching a very slow-moving collision. "You two realize you're doing the thing, right?"
"What thing?" they said simultaneously, then stopped, looking at each other with matching confusion.
"That thing." Riven gestured vaguely between them. "The 'we're clearly interested but too socially incompetent to admit it' thing. It's painful to watch, but also kind of hilarious."
Lyra threw a protein cube at him. He caught it, grinning triumphantly.
---
That night, Gareth trained alone in the empty combat dome. The massive space felt cavernous and silent, echoing with the ghosts of the day's clashes.
No audience. No safety net. Just Gareth against his reflection in the polished metal walls.
Each strike cracked through the air with surgical precision. His body moved with a fluidity that felt both foreign and deeply right. Every dodge and pivot was effortless, mastery forged into instinct. His body was remembering things his mind had forgotten.
Then the system stirred—faint symbols ghosting over his vision.
[Predictive Combat Module: Initializing.]
[Warning: Memory synchronization incomplete.]
[Estimated completion: Unknown.]
Gareth stopped mid-swing, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. "Memory synchronization?"
Static whispered through his head—fragmented voices overlapping like corrupted audio files:
"Subject Lancer... control breach... shut it down—"
"No, wait—he's adapting faster than predicted—"
"If we lose containment—"
"We won't. He's the only one stable enough to—"
The flashes died as quickly as they came, leaving him alone in the ringing silence. Sweat dripped down his face. His hands—these new, optimized hands—were perfectly steady, but a cold dread, a real emotion, was settling in his gut.
[Calibration: 67%]
The air around him felt heavy, electric with something old trying to wake up. Something that had been waiting eighteen years.
He didn't know what the experiment had created when they made him.
But standing there, barefoot on the cold training dome floor, he felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. He was becoming stronger, faster, more capable. But he was also unearthing something, and for the first time, he was genuinely afraid of what he might find.