The transit shuttle was a utilitarian beast of welded armor plates and humming repulsor-lifts. It smelled of ozone, recycled air, and the faint, coppery scent of fear-sweat. Ryosuke sat among two dozen other new inductees, a silent island in a sea of nervous chatter.
He'd been given standard-issue fatigues—a durable grey polymer-fabric that clung without restricting. On his left breast was a patch: the Pacific Rim Corps emblem—a clenched fist gripping a lightning bolt, superimposed over a shattered Kaiju skull. On his right, his name: TANAKA.
The stares hadn't stopped. Whispers slithered through the cabin.
"…looks like a holovid star…"
"…they say he came out of two-century cryo with a full System…"
"…freak eyes, man. Gives me the chills…"
Ryosuke ignored them. He kept his Six Eyes at a low, passive burn—just enough to parse the world in overwhelming detail without the migraine. He saw the micro-tremors in the hands of the kid from Tokyo-3 sector, the overcompensating swagger of the burly recruit from the Nordic territories who'd clearly augmented himself with some low-grade, Warhammer-derived muscle-graft. He saw the latent thermal bloom around a quiet girl in the corner, suggesting a pyrokinesis awakening.
And he saw the shuttle's pilot, a grizzled veteran with a neural-interface jack at his temple, through the open cockpit door. The man's energy signature was a steady, disciplined thrum, intertwined with the shuttle's own systems. Synchronization, Ryosuke's new instincts supplied. The man was partially synced with his vehicle even now.
[Passive Observation: Pilot-Machine Synchronization estimated at 12%. Rudimentary.]
[Analysis: Your baseline, once established, will exceed this within initial training.]
The Godly Mecha System's messages were cold, factual. It only cared about stats and sync. It had no opinion on his appearance, his past, the collapsing multiverse. It was a lens, and through it, he was beginning to see the new rules of this world.
"Listen up, maggots!" The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, rough as gravel. "Welcome to your first day of not being useless. I'm Sergeant Vance. You are currently flying over the Shatterdome Memorial District. Look out the starboard ports. That's your history."
Ryosuke turned. The shuttle banked, and the view stole the breath from every recruit.
Below sprawled a titanic graveyard of metal. The carcasses of ancient Jaegers—Cherno Alpha's colossal, rusted hull; Striker Eureka's sleek, shattered frame; even the broken, horned crown of a Category IV Kaiju—lay where they had fallen two centuries ago, preserved under colossal nano-carbon domes. They were monuments, the size of mountains.
And rising around them, like saplings in a forest of dead gods, were the new facilities. Glimmering spires of alloy, landing pads buzzing with personnel carriers, and massive hangar doors behind which hummed a power that made the air vibrate.
"The old giants bought us time," Vance's voice continued, devoid of sentiment. "Now we build new ones. Faster. Smarter. Deadlier. And we pair them with you. Some of you will wash out. Some will die in simulators. A few of you might just become something that can look a Star-Eater in the eye without pissing your suits. We're about to find out which is which. Prepare for landing at Terra Prime Jaeger Academy."
The shuttle descended toward a landing platform that extended from the side of a dazzling white tower. As they disembarked, the scale of the academy truly hit. The air thrummed with energy—the deep bass of heavy machinery, the shriek of plasma torches, and a cacophony of voices in languages Ryosuke's implant translated seamlessly.
He saw a group of cadets in orange jumpsuits guiding a massive mech-hand on a hover-dolly. The hand was sleek, blue, and crackled with faint electrical energy. In another bay, a mech torso was being sprayed with a black, liquid material that hardened instantly into ablative armor.
"Form up! Single file! Follow the green guideline!" A drill instructor, a woman with a cybernetic arm and a voice that could dent steel, herded them off the platform.
They were marched through cavernous halls. Holographic displays flickered, showing data streams, mech schematics, and news feeds from across the Federation: "…Naruto-sector shinobi report successful repulsion of minor demonic incursion…", "…Star Fleet's 7th Fleet engages Devourer probe near Gamma Hydra…".
The group was funneled into a large, sterile chamber labeled NEURAL BASELINE SCAN.
"You will be assessed for three things!" the DI barked. "Neural resilience! Psionic bleed-through! And most importantly, your raw Synchronization Potential—your Sync-Ceiling. This number determines what class of Jaeger you can pilot, how long you can pilot it, and how much of your fancy new awakening you can channel through it. Step into the marked circles."
The recruits complied. Ryosuke stood on a glowing blue disc on the floor. A hemispherical scanner descended from the ceiling, humming with a sound that set his teeth on edge.
[External scan detected. Primitive. Permitting limited access for calibration.]
The System's message was almost… disdainful.
Beams of light played over him. He felt a faint, invasive tingling in his mind, like static on a forgotten channel.
At a control console, two technicians watched data cascade across their screens. One, a young man with an eager face, leaned forward. The other, older, with the weary eyes of someone who'd seen too many hopefuls flame out, sipped recaf.
"Starting with the pretty boy from deep-stasis," the young one said. "Let's see what two hundred years of dreamtime did."
The scan progressed. Numbers flickered.
"Neural resilience is… off the charts. Like, literally off my charts. I'm recalibrating."
The older tech raised an eyebrow.
"Psionic signature is… complex. Multiple interwoven energy patterns. There's a spatial warping field passively emanating from his body. It's resisting the scan."
"Resisting? That's not possible with the Mark VII scanner."
"Tell that to the scanner, Soren. It's trying to get a lock and just… sliding off."
"Sync-Ceiling. Give me the number."
The young technician tapped commands. The machine hummed louder. On Ryosuke's disc, the lights intensified. He felt the pressure increase, a mental hand trying to squeeze his consciousness into a measurable box.
His Limitless technique, operating on a purely subconscious, defensive level, reacted.
The static around him thickened. The scanning beams visibly warped, bending around him an inch from his body before resuming their path.
At the console, the number for Sync-Ceiling flickered wildly: 50%... 75%... 120%... ERROR.
"What the hell?" Soren put his recaf down. "The scale only goes to 100. That's theoretical perfect sync with a Mortal-class frame."
"It's still climbing! 150%... 200%... It's not stabilizing!"
"Shut it down! Manual override!"
The younger tech slammed a button. The scanner whined and retracted. The chamber fell silent.
Every recruit was staring at Ryosuke. The DI's cybernetic hand clenched into a fist.
Ryosuke opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. The world through the Six Eyes was hyper-defined, every dust mote, every nervous pulse in the recruits nearby, every cooling vent in the ceiling laid bare. He reined the perception in.
"Recruit Tanaka," the DI said, her voice dangerously calm. "What was that?"
"I… don't know, ma'am," Ryosuke said, which was mostly true. "The scan felt invasive. I think my… abilities… reacted defensively."
The two technicians were at his side, handheld scanners buzzing. "No damage to the unit," the younger one reported, awe in his voice. "But the readings we got before the spike… Sir, his baseline neural activity is operating on a frequency we've only seen in bonded Primordial-class pilots. And that spatial field…"
The DI studied Ryosuke. Her cybernetic eye whirred, zooming in. "A defensive spatial warp. As a passive trait." She shook her head. "Alright, pretty boy. You just made my life complicated. The commandant will want to see this. The rest of you—finish your scans! Move!"
She pointed a finger at Ryosuke. "You. With me."
He was marched out of the chamber, down a quieter hallway, and into a lift that shot upwards. They exited into an observation deck with a breathtaking, wall-sized window overlooking the main Jaeger construction bays. In the central bay, a completed mech stood in its gantry—a modern Mark XII, painted gunmetal grey, with reinforced joints and shoulder-mounted railguns. It was powerful, deadly, and to Ryosuke's newly awakened senses, it felt… crude. A blunt instrument.
Standing before the window was a man. He wore the deep blue uniform of a Corps Colonel, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him. His hair was silver, his face a roadmap of old scars. One eye was organic, a sharp grey. The other was a sophisticated bionic, glowing with a soft blue light.
"Commandant Idris," the DI said, snapping a salute. "Recruit Tanaka. Anomalous scan results."
Commandant Idris turned. His bionic eye focused on Ryosuke, and Ryosuke felt a brief, intense pressure—a scan far more advanced than the one below.
"I've been reviewing your file, Recruit," Idris said, his voice a low rumble. "Ryosuke Tanaka. Last known pilot of the Jaeger Valiant Resolve, lost with all hands closing the final Breach. Presumed KIA. Now you awaken, not a day older, wearing the face of a character from an old manga data-stream, and humming with enough exotic energy to fog our sensors." He stepped closer. "The Multiversal Shift plays cruel jokes. But it also makes weapons. The question is, what are you?"
Ryosuke met the Commandant's gaze, both organic and bionic. "I want to pilot, sir. I want to fight."
"Everyone wants," Idris said dismissively. "Can you? Your scan suggests a Sync-Ceiling that breaks our tools. It also suggests your body is a walking reality anomaly. Pairing you with a multi-billion credit Jaeger is a risk. A calculated one I might be willing to take, if you can prove control." He gestured to the window. "See that Mark XII? Its pilot, Lieutenant Caine, has a Sync-Ceiling of 68%. He's one of our best. He can make that machine dance. But he can't make the air around it bend light. You can."
Idris turned fully to him. "Before you touch a simulator, we need a field test. A simple one." He nodded to the DI. "Bring in the DT-19."
The DI left, returning a moment later with a small, tracked drone about the size of a dog. It had a single, red photoreceptor and a stubby barrel mounted on its front.
"A training drone," Idris explained. "Its pulse is non-lethal but… persuasive. It will fire on you for sixty seconds. Defend yourself. Use only your awakened ability. No evading outside the marked circle." He pointed to a yellow circle on the floor, two meters in diameter.
"The purpose?" Ryosuke asked, his heart beginning to beat faster.
"To see if your power is a tool or a tornado. To see if you have the instinct to protect as well as prevail. The Corps needs pilots, not loose warheads. Begin."
The DI activated the drone. Its photoreceptor glowed, targeting lasers painting a dot on Ryosuke's chest.
Defend yourself.
The drone fired. A bolt of concentrated blue energy shot across the room.
Instinct, older than his memories, took over.
Ryosuke didn't move his feet. He simply thought. The concept of Infinity. The uncrossable distance.
The air between him and the drone compressed. The energy bolt hit that compressed space and slowed, as if moving through meters of thick gel. It crawled forward, light diffracting around it, before dissipating entirely a foot from his chest.
The drone fired again. And again. A rapid staccato of pulses. Each one met the same, invisible wall, slowing to a halt and dying in a sparkle of harmless light.
Ryosuke stood calmly in the center of the circle, hands at his sides. Through the Six Eyes, he saw the drone's power source, the heat building in its barrel, the precise trajectory of each shot. It was effortless. Like stopping rain with an umbrella.
[Ability: Neutral Limitless (Infinity Barrier) - Active.]
[Energy Consumption: Negligible.]
[Synchronization Implication: High precision control suggests exceptional compatibility with fine-mech manipulation.]
Commandant Idris watched, his expression unreadable. After forty-five seconds, he held up a hand. The DI stopped the drone.
The room was quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside the window.
"A perfect defense," Idris murmured. "No wasted movement. No loss of control. You contained the effect exactly where you needed it." He walked up to the dissipating energy of the last pulse, waving a hand through the shimmering air. "Fascinating. This isn't a shield. It's a manipulation of space itself."
He turned to Ryosuke. "You have the instinct. And you have the control. For now." He made a decision. "You will proceed to basic training. You will be watched. You will be tested harder than any recruit in this academy's history. If you are a weapon, we will learn your balance, your edge, and your sheath." A grim, almost-smile touched his scarred lips. "And if you are something else… we'll find that out, too. Dismissed."
The DI led him out. As the elevator descended, Ryosuke leaned against the wall, finally allowing himself to feel the adrenaline crash. He'd done it. He was in.
[Objective Updated: Complete Jaeger Academy Basic Training.]
[New Data: Synchronization Potential estimated as 'Effectively Unlimited' by local metrics.]
[Warning: Excessive attention from command structure detected. Recommend cautious progression.]
Back in the bustling hallway, among the other wide-eyed recruits heading to their barracks, Ryosuke allowed himself a single, deep breath. The narcissistic part of him gloried in the stunned looks, in the Commandant's measured praise. The soldier part of him catalogued the test, the implications, the scrutiny.
But a new part, the part born in that cryo-pod two centuries displaced, simply looked ahead. To the simulators. To the mechs. To the war beyond the stars.
He touched the Corps patch on his chest. The fight had changed. The enemy had changed. He had changed.
But the mission felt the same.
Hold the line.
He followed the green guideline towards his new life, the ghost of a confident smirk—his smirk, now—playing on his impossibly perfect lips. The first step was taken. The next one would be in a pilot's harness.