William didn't sleep much at night in the DCR facility. He wasn't sure if it was nerves, insomnia, or just the strange way his new heart beat — too steady, too controlled, like an engine humming in his chest. Whatever the cause, the moment morning alarm lights flickered to life across the barracks, he was already awake, sitting on the edge of his cot.
A message blinked on the inside of his HUD as soon as his eyes opened.
REPORT TO TRAINING WING 3.
ASSIGNMENT PENDING.
— Commander Kael Draven
He exhaled slowly and stood. His joints still felt weightless and almost springy from yesterday's calibration tests — like he had more strength in him than he knew how to use. Today, he'd be expected to learn.
Or prove.
He wasn't sure which mattered more to the DCR.
The corridors were busier than yesterday. Recruits and cyber-humans of all variants moved in sharp, efficient lines — NE-types with reinforced limbs, NT-types with shifting iridescent armor plates, NI-types with glowing circuit tattoos that pulsed when they spoke. William kept his pace steady and quiet, trying to blend in, though he suspected he stood out in ways he didn't yet understand.
Training Wing 3 was larger than the others, a wide internal arena with high ceilings and walls lined with holo-projectors. A small group waited at the center of the room — three figures, all armed, all watching him approach.
A woman stood in front, arms folded. Her white-gold hair fell neatly around her shoulders, and her eyes glowed faintly with active nanites. She wore reinforced training armor that looked like it had never once been dented.
To her right stood Noir — quiet as always, chin slightly lowered, violet-hued eyes locked on him with unreadable calm. She gave him a small nod when he arrived. He tried to return it without looking awkward.
The third figure he didn't recognize.
A tall, well-built man with short dark hair, broad shoulders, and cybernetic lines running up his spine like metallic vines. His expression was neutral but assessing, as if dissecting William from the inside out.
The woman spoke first, "Hey new guy. I'm Delilah, or I guess you'd call me Seraph." And motioned William forward.
"You're on time. Good." Noir quietly spoke. She didn't smile, but her voice carried a faint tone of approval.
Seraph stepped in again "William Von Ruthven — today you begin evaluation for squad placement. As of now, you will be tested alongside members of Squad 00, the unit you are being considered for."
She stepped aside so William could see all three of them clearly.
"This is Noir Avalon — you've already met."
Noir dipped her head again.
"And this," Seraph continued, "is Jeremiah Smith. Codename: Zombie. He's our current heavy support."
Jeremiah gave William a single nod and a quiet grunt that might have been a greeting.
William nodded back. "Nice to meet you."
"You'll get used to him," Seraph said, dryly. "He doesn't waste breath."
Jeremiah shrugged. "Talking's inefficient."
William wasn't sure whether that was a joke or sincerity.
Seraph clapped once, sharply, drawing their attention back.
"Now. Before you're officially part of Squad 00, you'll be evaluated in three main areas: coordination, physical capability, and combat synergy. The DCR doesn't assign squads based on personality. We assign based on whether you can survive together."
She stepped closer, her gaze narrowing.
"And whether you'll keep each other alive."
There was no weight quite like being reminded how fragile he still felt — despite the machine-enhanced strength beneath his skin.
Seraph started the lesson with no further warning.
"Form up. Triangle pattern. William, you're rear-left."
William moved into place, mirroring Noir and Jeremiah's positions. Seraph circled them like a commander inspecting soldiers.
"Your bodies are new. Your minds are adjusting. But squad formation is instinctual — or it will be. Watch each other. React together. Move together."
She tapped her wrist module and a series of drones materialized from the far wall, humming with bright red sensors.
"Task one: maintain formation while avoiding incoming fire. Non-lethal training ammo. Begin."
Before William could respond, the drone opened fire.
Blue-white projectiles shot across the air like crackling sparks. William ducked, but the formation was moving — Noir sliding into a low sprint, Jeremiah stepping forward to absorb a shot with his armored shoulder.
"Move, William!" Seraph barked.
He followed, adjusting his pace, watching the others. Noir was impossibly fluid — she seemed to be where she needed to be before the drone finished aiming. Jeremiah moved slower but with perfect, deliberate placement. William tried to match his timing but nearly slammed into Noir when she shifted directions abruptly.
"Too close!" she called sharply over her shoulder. "Leave half a step of space!"
"Right! Sorry—"
Dodging another round, adjusting his steps, focusing on the flow rather than the panic. His perception sharpened — his nanites flaring faintly in his eyes. The world slowed just slightly, enough for him to start predicting the drone's trajectories.
Seraph's voice echoed:
"Good. Your nanites are responding. But keep your awareness broad — not tunnel focused."
The drill lasted a full ten minutes. By the end, William was breathing hard, but he managed to stay in formation without tripping anyone or taking a hit.
Seraph nodded once.
"Acceptable. Again."
He groaned internally.
But they did it again.
And again.
By the fourth round, the movement felt less like running and more like following a rhythm — Jeremiah's weight, Noir's quick pivots, Seraph's voice calling corrections. William found himself adjusting automatically, slipping into formation like he'd always been part of it.
When Seraph finally called a stop, William bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath.
Noir offered him a water bottle.
"You didn't die," she said lightly.
"Not yet," he muttered, taking it.
Jeremiah grunted approval. "You keep up better than most rookies."
Seraph crossed her arms. "He keeps up because he watches. Keep watching. Squad 00 requires adaptability."
William wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm trying."
"That's why you're here," she replied.
Next, Seraph led them into the armory annex. Rows of rifles, pistols, blades, and heavy gear lined the walls. A large holographic firing range flickered to life ahead of them.
"This portion tests how you fight with others nearby," Seraph explained. "You will fire under pressure, with movement, and with two teammates in your peripheral vision."
She turned to Noir.
"Ghost. Pair with William."
Noir stepped beside him quietly, pulling two training pistols from the rack. She handed him one.
"We move together," she said. "Follow my lead."
The range lit up with shifting holographic targets. Noir moved first — swift and soundless — firing with perfect precision.
William followed, trying to match her angle and timing. Her aim was frighteningly smooth; her body barely shifted as she shot. He found himself firing one beat behind, always barely catching up.
"Don't mirror," Noir murmured. "Complement."
William blinked. "Meaning what?"
"Cover the gaps in my line. Don't copy my aim — offset it."
He swallowed and adjusted. Target popped left — Noir shot right. Target appeared high — he shot low. The rhythm clicked suddenly, and their shots began to alternate like a single pattern.
Seraph's voice floated across the range.
"Better. Keep that synchronization. Rouge-types will exploit any hesitation."
Jeremiah took the opposite line, firing a massive heavy-pistol that echoed across the range. His shots were slower, but each one hit dead center. William could feel the pressure of the shockwaves in his chest.
By the end of the session, William's hands were sore and tingling from recoil, but Seraph actually looked… satisfied.
"Good integration," she said, noting something on her tablet. "You and Noir have compatible firing patterns."
"Compatible?" William asked.
"Your instincts align. That's rare."
He glanced at Noir. She didn't meet his gaze — simply reloaded silently.
But he thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward.
Finally, Seraph brought them back to the central arena. The lights dimmed slightly. William's nerves returned.
"Final evaluation," Seraph announced. "Close-quarter synergy. I want to see how you handle unpredictability."
Jeremiah cracked his knuckles. Noir loosened her stance. William took a breath.
Seraph didn't explain the rules.
She just said:
"Begin."
A panel in the floor snapped open — releasing three training drones with stun-batons and high-velocity taser lines. They rushed the group immediately.
Jeremiah intercepted the first, grabbing its arm and slamming it into the ground. Noir slipped around the second, striking a pressure point in its neck joint, disabling it instantly.
The third went straight for William.
He barely had time to block before the baton struck his forearm, sending numbness through his bones. He stumbled, almost fell — until Noir suddenly cut across his line, kicking the drone's knee backward. It staggered. William followed up, punching it square in the chest and forcing it back.
Another drone burst from the wall.
Seraph's voice echoed:
"Use your mobility. Don't fight alone."
William ducked a swing and slipped to Noir's side, matching her step. She seemed to anticipate his movement, and together they cornered the drone between themselves and Jeremiah.
"Zombie! Now!" Noir called.
Jeremiah lunged in, grabbing the drone's head and crushing it with a single twist.
The next wave came faster.
Training bats. Shock-lines. Weighted nets.
It became chaos — controlled chaos — but chaos still.
Noir moved like a shadow, Jeremiah like a tank, and William… William found himself falling into place between them, reacting before he thought, countering at angles he didn't know he understood.
Something clicked.
Something fit.
He wasn't perfect — far from it. He took two hits he should've avoided. Noir saved him twice, Jeremiah once. But he didn't fall. He didn't freeze. He kept moving.
When the final drone fell sparking to the ground, Seraph raised a hand.
"Enough."
They all stopped.
William was breathing heavily again, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. He looked down at his arms — faintly bruised but already healing. His nanites hummed quietly.
Seraph approached him slowly, tapping her tablet.
"Evaluation complete."
William straightened.
She looked at him with an unreadable expression.
"…Welcome to Squad 00, William."
His breath caught.
Noir gave him a very small smile — the first real one since he'd met her.
Jeremiah punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Don't slow us down."
William managed a weak laugh. "I'll try not to."
Seraph closed the tablet.
"You start real squad training tomorrow. Rest up. You'll need it."
As the others began exiting the arena, William lingered for a moment, staring at the empty floor, letting the reality settle into him.
Squad 00.
He didn't know if he deserved it yet.
But he would.
He had to.
And tomorrow, training would begin again.