The second trial did not begin with Selene's voice.It began with the smell.
The arena reeked of sweat and scorched copper now, the residue of too many fragments brushing against the suppressor grid. The air was thicker, damp with human fear—a sour tang that clung to the throat, impossible to swallow. Beneath it lingered the antiseptic bite of ozone, always humming, always clean, like the Federation thought it could sterilize reality itself.
Kahn stood among the others for the first time. Five recruits, grey uniforms identical, the sameness meant to erase them—but the fragments beneath their skin refused to be hidden. He could smell it on them: faint metallic notes, subtle distortions in the air pressure, breaths that didn't quite sync with the sound of their lungs. The suppressors worked, but only barely. Concepts leaked like heat through cracked glass.
The hum overhead grew sharper, settling in his teeth. His fragment twitched at the proximity of others. Not in hunger—yet—but in agitation, like a predator sensing rivals.
The lights dimmed. Copper veins flared. The arena floor trembled with a low, grinding groan that carried through bone. Dust drifted down from the obsidian ceiling in faint motes, catching the copper light like falling sparks, and the polished floor reflected them in warped, uneven gleams.
Selene's voice finally cut through:"Team trial. Containment is never solitary. Observe one another. Fail together, or adapt together."
The floor split. Dust hissed upward, smelling of dry stone and mildew. Figures unfolded from the copper lattice—three echoes this time. Their bodies were wrong in different ways: one with arms like scaffolding, joints bending backward with a sound like creaking metal; another thin as paper, ribs flattening and curling as though it might fold into two dimensions; the third bloated with cracked skin that leaked black fluid smelling of tar and rot. The stench rolled out in waves, coating the air until every breath tasted of oil and rust. The heat of the chamber seemed to dip with their arrival, as if they dragged a cold, grave-air atmosphere with them.
A whisper slithered through Kahn's mind, not his own:Patterns… align them… balance them…
He glanced sideways.The symmetrical recruit was here.
Tall, poised, perfectly still. Even the sweat on his brow ran in mirrored lines down his temples. When he turned his head, it was exact—an angle that looked too rehearsed, too clean. His eyes locked on Kahn with mechanical precision, and in them Kahn saw reflections splitting, doubling, arranging themselves into flawless order.
The fragment in Kahn's arm flared, chaotic, jagged. Static hissed behind his teeth. His skin prickled as if rejecting the symmetry pressed against him.
The echoes lurched forward. Their footsteps were wrong—too soft, too loud, out of rhythm with the sound they should have made. The bloated one dripped black sludge across the polished floor, and each drop hissed when it hit copper, leaving behind a bitter stench like burning plastic. The puddles spread slowly, reflecting the recruits in warped, oily fragments.
The recruits broke. Two stumbled back, panic etched across their faces. The buzz-cut woman advanced, fists clenched, her fragment sparking faint motes of light that smelled faintly of burning glass. The symmetrical man raised one hand, and the air itself tightened. Shadows across the arena snapped into mirrored halves, folding until they aligned with each other in unnatural precision. Even the sludge puddles froze, their ripples settling into perfect concentric rings.
Kahn's stomach turned. His fragment bucked violently, whispering with jagged insistence:Break it. Twist it. Scatter the lines.
The echoes shrieked. The paper-thin one split down the middle like a torn page, duplicating itself into two identical halves that staggered forward in sync. Their screams were high-pitched, shrill, and carried a chalky taste that coated Kahn's teeth.
"Hold the line!" Voss barked from the arena's edge. His voice was rough smoke, grounding. "Control, not panic. Breathe with it."
The symmetrical recruit moved first. His fragment warped the arena into balance. The echoes' movements slowed, forced into mirrored gestures, their lurching stagger corrected into grotesque harmony. For a moment, containment seemed possible.
But the pressure of it hit Kahn like a migraine. His vision doubled, his reflection beneath the polished floor grinning when he didn't. The smell of hot iron filled his mouth, metallic and dry. His knees buckled as the fragment inside him writhed, demanding release.
The bloated echo broke the symmetry first. It vomited a stream of black sludge that splattered against the mirrored lattice. The smell was overwhelming—tar, copper, spoiled meat. The perfect pattern fractured. The symmetrical recruit's jaw clenched, his control faltering.
The whispers surged in Kahn's head:Now. Unmake. Break what he builds.
The floor beneath him rippled like wet paper. He let the fragment slip. Reality stuttered. One of the paper-thin echoes folded wrong, its mirrored half crumpling inward as though someone had torn it off the page. The sound was obscene—like cartilage breaking under water. The stench of mildew burst from it as it collapsed.
The chaos spread. The bloated echo convulsed, symmetry unraveling. Its sludge splashed wildly, eating holes into the copper veins, leaving the air sharp with the acid stink of corrosion. The scaffolding echo lurched forward, its metal joints screaming in protest, sound bouncing across the arena like nails on glass.
Kahn staggered, chest heaving. His fragment purred, satisfied, hungry for more. The symmetrical recruit's eyes burned into him, fury sharpened by something colder: recognition. Where symmetry sought control, Kahn's fragment thrived on fracture. The opposition was undeniable.
Selene's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade:"Contain or collapse. Choose."
Her words vibrated the suppressor grid itself, pressing down until Kahn's bones felt hollow. His fragment hissed. Across from him, symmetry coiled tighter, snapping the puddles and echoes back into alignment.
Kahn's vision swam. He smelled tar, iron, ozone, copper—too much, overwhelming. He tasted rust at the back of his throat. The world bent between order and chaos, both fragments pulling at the same air, the same bodies, the same fragile frame of reality.
And in the mirrored floor below, his reflection split.One half smiled in symmetry.The other twisted into chaos.
Both were his.