I didn't sleep. Even after the lights dimmed in the infirmary and Mira drifted into a deep, chemically assisted rest, I lay on the too-clean cot, staring at the ceiling and turning the word Prospect over in my mind. To anyone else, it might have sounded like hope. To me, it felt like a sentence. A warning carved into my skin.
Before dawn, a metallic chime rang through the room, followed by an automated voice:
"Subjects 734-B and 734-C, report to Intake Station Alpha for dormitory assignment."
Mira stirred groggily, blinking at the light.
"You awake?" I asked quietly.
"Barely," she mumbled, rubbing her face. "I dreamed of wires. You?"
"Rocks. Guess it fits."
She gave me a look but didn't press. There was an understanding between us now, born of being dragged here against our will. Whatever Valancrest had planned, we hadn't come here by choice. That counted for something.
The Intake Station was a high-ceilinged hall with seamless floors and automated desks that scanned our ID bands as we stepped forward. A woman in a black and grey uniform stood behind one of the terminals. Her nametag read: Proctor Ivelle.
"Rowe. Mira. Step forward."
Two bundles of folded cloth slid across the counter. Our uniforms.
"Standard-issue gear. Two sets. Wear one, store the other. Your dormitory assignment is encoded in your ID bands. A digital map of your sector and your training cycle timetable have been uploaded. Wake-up is at 0500. Breakfast at 0530. Drills begin at 0600 sharp. Late arrivals will be penalized."
I opened the bundle. The uniform was a charcoal-grey combat suit with padding around the joints and black gloves, my ID stitched across the chest: 734-B. Mira's face said it all.
"They don't believe in color, huh?" she muttered.
"It's military. What did you expect?"
"Sequins," she deadpanned.
That earned a laugh out of me, the first in days. Humor was oxygen.
The shuttle that carried us to the dormitories glided silently across the massive complex. From above, Valancrest looked like a city built by a perfectionist. Grey stone blocks, razor-straight lines, watchtowers bristling with drones. My dorm was 7A. Mira's was 9C.
"I guess we're not roomies," she said.
"I'll find you after drills."
"Watch your back."
Inside Dorm 7A, everything was stripped bare: concrete walls, metal bunks, the air sharp with disinfectant. My roommate was already there, standing by his bed with military stiffness.
"James Rowe," I said, offering a hand.
He shook it firmly. "Koen Rivas."
Tall, lean, sharp-eyed. His uniform was folded to perfection. His bed corners could cut glass.
"Let me guess. You've done this before."
"Mercenary enclave," he said simply. "This place isn't ne w to me."
"Well, it's new to me."
He only nodded and went back to his work.
By 0500 the next morning, the dorm lights snapped on, flooding the room with harsh white. The loudspeaker crackled to life:
"Cycle commencing. All personnel report to Mess Hall 3."
The mess hall was as joyless as the dorms. Nutrient paste. Protein bars. No flavor, no pleasure, just fuel. Mira wasn't there. I told myself she was fine.
At 0600 sharp, we were herded to the Drill Fields. Hundreds of us. Instructors in black armor barked commands, their mirrored visors hiding any trace of humanity. Pushups until arms buckled. Squats. Laps around the perimeter. Reflex tests where wooden batons swung out of hidden slots, striking slow recruits in the ribs. Balance exercises on narrow beams suspended above padded pits.
Some of us, me included, were just bodies enduring punishment. But others lit up the field. A boy darted across the dirt with trails of fire flaring behind his heels. A girl lifted weights with invisible hands, her eyes glowing faint blue. Another's skin sparked whenever she sprinted, each step cracking like a storm. Koen moved like a machine, never wasting energy, never slowing down.
I had grit. That was it. And grit could only carry you so far.
By the time the horn sounded, my muscles screamed and sweat clung to me like chains. But rest was a lie.
"All units. Report to the Outdoor Training Hall for Combat Evaluation. This is a mandatory assessment. Attendance is required."
The Training Hall was an arena sunk into the earth, its stone walls towering high, ringed with observation platforms. Proctors lined the walkways above, their eyes scanning us like merchandise on display.
At the podium stood a man in jet-black armor, his face uncovered. A scar ran down his cheek like a brand.
"I am Commander Voss," he announced, his voice echoing across the arena. "This is your first Combat Gauntlet. Your performance determines your standing. Your standing determines your future here. Training groups. Dorm reassignment. Mission selection. Even food." His eyes swept the recruits. "There are no rules. You defeat your opponent, or you are defeated. If you cannot fight, you will be removed from Valancrest. Permanently."
The air went cold.
"Matches are random. Volunteers are not accepted. You fight when your name is called."
The automated voice began:
"Match One: Halden Voska versus Asha Grell."
The fight was brutal, flame against lightning, speed against raw strength. Asha was quick, but Halden's fire overwhelmed her. She left the arena on a stretcher.
More names. More fights. Some short, some savage. Medical staff ran themselves ragged.
Then the voice called:
"Match Nine: Mira, Subject 734-C versus Kyel Renner, Subject 656-A."
My chest tightened. Mira stood, calm as ever, and stepped into the pit. Kyel was huge, broad shouldered and grinning like he had already won.
"This won't take long," he sneered.
Mira said nothing. She drew her baton, its circuits humming.
"Begin."
Kyel charged. Mira dodged with ease, baton flaring with bursts of energy that staggered him. He swung wild. She let him. Then she dropped her baton. It clattered on the stone floor.
Kyel lunged for her. The ground beneath him lit up in a circuit pattern. He screamed, seizing as the trap locked him in place, frying his nerves just long enough.
"Match over."
Gasps rippled through the recruits. Commander Voss's scar twitched with what might have been the ghost of a smile. Mira retrieved her baton without a word and returned to her seat.
I couldn't look away. That was Mira. Not stronger. Not faster. Smarter.
The matches dragged on. Dozens more. My name was never called that day. I sat still, memorizing everything. The reckless ones who burned themselves out too fast. The cautious ones who played defense. The predators who went for the throat.
And then, as the sun dipped low and shadows stretched across the arena, the automated voice rang again.
"Match Twenty-Seven: James Rowe, Subject 734-B versus Ryn Calder, Subject 742-D."
The storm inside me finally broke. My time was up.