"Purpose."
"Yes." He looks at me. "Someone I care about was failed by a system that valued budget over lives. I want to be part of the system that doesn't fail."
My throat tightens.
Bebo, from the counter: "I am detecting the onset of another biometric anomaly. Shall I begin logging, or would you prefer privacy?"
"Privacy, Bebo."
"Acknowledged. Entering low-observation mode. I will resume monitoring in— how long should I allocate?"
"An hour."
"Based on last night's data, I recommend allocating a minimum of two hours and fourteen minutes."
"Bebo."
"Low-observation mode engaged. Enjoy your evening."
The datapad slides off the couch. The bond hums.
Room 314. Our room. Our choices. Our future.
The first day of a life that's ours.
16
What Freedom Feels Like
Horgox
TheOOPSgymonLevel Seven smells like disinfectant and training mats, and my body reads it as an arena before my brain can intervene.
Two days of courier training have grounded me. Navigation, cargo protocols, the specific satisfaction of doing something useful with hands that were designed for damage. But walking into a combat assessment space strips all of that away and drops me back into the body that spent eight years learning that rooms like this end in blood.
My markings dim to cautious jade.
Krilly's hand finds mine. Brief. A squeeze and a release, because she understands what I need is space to process, not comfort. Her emotional state is warm and steady:I'm here, take your time.
"Not a cage," she says quietly. "Just assessment."
"I know." The knowing and the feeling are separate systems. The feeling system is running conditioning that doesn't care about context.
The assessor enters. Ytrillian female named Soral, compact and professional, scanner in hand. "Mr. Ka'reen, today's certification covers hand-to-hand proficiency, weapon handling, threat response, and protective escort scenarios. You'll be scored on control, proportionality, and de-escalation capacity as well as combat effectiveness."
Control. Proportionality. De-escalation. In the arena, the scoring was simpler: kill efficiently, entertain the audience, survive.
"The assessment begins when you're ready," Soral says. "Take whatever time you need."
When I'mready. Notbegin. Notfight. As if my readiness is a factor that matters.
I step onto the mat. The surface gives slightly under my weight, absorbing impact the way arena floors are specificallydesigned not to. My feet find position, the stance settling into my body like a language I never forgot.
"Ready."
Three adaptive AI targets, coordinated, testing threat prioritisation and response time. My body moves before my brain engages. Not killing. The distinction that makes this different from every other time I've stood on a mat and faced opponents. The first target gets a joint lock that redirects its momentum into the floor. The second's strike deflects into the wall. The third is caught mid-flank and pinned with a hold that immobilises without damaging.
Eight seconds. All three neutralised. None destroyed.
