The debrief was a haze: damp uniforms, sharp disinfectant, the bone-cold hunger that crept in after the adrenaline collapsed. The cohort seated in the main hall, field-dressed and slumping, while instructors prowled behind, watching for any evidence that the violence had not been instructional.
Dane stood in the center, eyeing the lot of them as if he too was unsure how many survived the morning whole.
"There are lessons in simulation," Dane intoned, "and lessons you bleed for." He let his gaze rake the benches. "You will remember today, or you'll become a memory yourselves."
He ticked off the points, each with a name:
"Aria, you failed to maintain line after the first contact. You retreated. If you do this again, the world will move up the calendar and make it your funeral."
Aria looked down, face red even under the crust of blood at her cheek.
"Kale," Dane continued, "improvisation only matters if you live to tell the story. Control your variables."
