[0500]

  siren—lights—boots

  I was already dressed when my feet hit the floor. Seven days of torture had turned into muscle memory.

  Kit on, boots ced, standing before the first kid had even rolled over.

  However, this morning was different. I finally got to see my deviation, it was time to see what I’d be working with, the kind of mechs I’d be piloting for the rest of my life. The kind of role I’d be taking in battles. My lips curled into a smile.

  I called up the interface as we shuffled out into the pre-dawn cold.

  [QUEST: SURVIVAL PROTOCOL]

  [STATUS: COMPLETE]

  [OBJECTIVES COMPLETED:]

  [Join Mech Corps — COMPLETE]

  [Survive initial processing — COMPLETE]

  [Survive basic training week one — COMPLETE]

  [HIDDEN OBJECTIVE: ■■■■■■ — COMPLETE]

  [HIDDEN OBJECTIVE: ■■■■■■ — COMPLETE]

  [HIDDEN OBJECTIVE: ■■■■■■ — COMPLETE]

  [ALL OBJECTIVES COMPLETE]

  [REWARD UNLOCKED — PENDING ACTIVATION]

  Pending?

  I pushed at it mentally—prodding, willing, virtually begging the thing to open. The interface blinked once and fell still.

  Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this thing?

  A week of feeding this system every drop of Ether I could draw, watching the connection crawl upward, earning stat points I couldn't expin—and now, at the finish line, it hands me a locked box and gives me the middle finger.

  I killed the interface before the frustration could show on my face.

  Fine. I have more immediate things to deal with.

  The formation assembled quickly. Three ranks, mostly aligned—a week of Vance's screaming had beaten basic drill into muscle memory.

  But something about the formation was off, so I counted. fourteen. We'd started the week with twenty-three.

  The awakened were all present. But nine faces were missing. Those who hadn't awakened, plus two others I hadn't noticed leaving. When had they gone? Last night? Before the siren?

  Nobody mentioned them; the formation simply closed the gaps as if they had never been there.

  Vance stepped out and scanned us.

  "First week is over. You survived. Most of you," He said in a measured tone. "Things are changing, starting today."

  He checked his data-pad.

  "Administrative note. Washout numbers across F and D-Grade training units came in higher than projected this intake. Barracks 7 will be merging with elements from other barracks within the next few days to bring units up to operational strength."

  Higher than projected?

  "Second—the assessment period is over. What comes next will make this week feel like a holiday." He cracked his neck. "Follow me."

  He marched us east, past the training yards, past the firing ranges, and past the pitted concrete we'd run on for a week. We stopped at a gate I hadn't noticed before—concealed behind supply buildings and wrapped in faded warning tape.

  Beyond it y something that made the six-mile run look like a morning stroll.

  An obstacle course; it stretched across at least a kilometre of terrain. Concrete walls, razor-wire crawls, rope climbs, water obstacles, bance beams suspended over drainage pits. Industrial fans mounted at intervals bsted crosswinds across exposed sections. The ground between obstacles was loose gravel, deliberately uneven.

  "This," Vance said, with something approaching fondness, "is the Gauntlet. Twelve obstacles. One point two kilometres. The assessment week gave us your baselines. The Gauntlet is where we find out who you actually are."

  He turned to face us.

  "Same concept as the runs. Tiernan is the Rabbit."

  My stomach tightened.

  "But we're changing the game." A smile crept across Vance's face. "The Rabbit runs first. Ten-second head start. The Pack's objective is simple—catch the Rabbit before the finish line."

  Oh, you have got to be—

  "If the Pack catches the Rabbit, everybody eats. If the Rabbit finishes uncaught—" He looked directly at me. "—the Pack runs the Gauntlet again. On empty stomachs."

  The air changed, every pair of eyes finding me.

  This was different from the run; if I fell here, got knocked over, or god forbid, let one of them get their hands on me. It wasn’t push-ups, it was a week-long trip to the infirmary or worse...

  "Think of it as teamwork," Vance added. "Learning to coordinate against a single target. Very valuable battlefield skill."

  I understood then. Not just the drill—all of it. The entire week.

  The Rabbit was never a reward or a punishment; it was a tool. In week one, I was the Bugger, an enemy the pack shared resentment towards. A unifying piece to get the squad working together. Now he was weaponising that cohesion. Teaching them to hunt as a unit by giving them a target they already wanted to catch.

  I was the training exercise.

  "Ten seconds, Tiernan." Vance raised his whistle. "I suggest you run."

  The whistle shrieked.

  Round One.

  The first wall hit at twenty metres. I leapt, caught the lip, and hauled myself over. Clearing the first barrier, I dropped to the far side and sprinted for the wire crawl.

  Behind me, the second whistle. The Pack was loose.

  I slithered under razor wire, elbows driving through gravel that shredded my sleeves. Behind me—boots on concrete, and bodies smming the wall, then Miller's voice, piercing through the shuffling.

  "Spread out! Two groups—left fnk, cut him off at the nets! Rest, stay on his tail!"

  Miller took charge, splitting the pack into pursuit and intercepting elements. It was textbook, straight out of Graves’ css.

  After almost ruining my uniform, I passed through the wire crawl and nded before the rope climb. I grasped onto the first hemp rope and began to hoist myself up, arms screaming as I did. It took me longer than I anticipated; a week of push-ups and Vance’s punishments had taken its toll.

  Next was the bance beam. I quickly stepped onto it and felt the crosswinds from the fans sm into me, knocking me off my feet. I reacted quickly and straddled the beam. I couldn’t cross it on two feet, the wind too strong for my meagre stats.

  After taking far too long, I cleared the beam and ran toward the cargo nets. The pursuit group was close—maybe fifteen metres back. Miller's intercept team appeared from my left, cutting across the gravel in a tight formation.

  They were getting good. Ether-enhanced physicality and reflexes tuned by a week of coordination and group lessons.

  I began to g as exhaustion had begun to catch up with me, Miller’s group converging, closer and closer.

  I leapt onto the nets and began scaling them with a practised precision, like a spider gliding across its own web. The net was by far the easiest for me, countless times scaling the observation tower, sneaking out of my house and Prep-academy practice had allowed me to move with ease.

  I grew the distance between myself and the pack and dropped from the netting. The remaining obstacles were simple and I crossed the finish line within a small margin.

  "Rabbit finishes," Vance announced. "Pack runs it again."

  Groans. Hatred. The usual.

  But there was something new: the pack had worked together, led by Miller. They'd nearly caught me through coordination alone. Nearly.

  "Back to the start. Rabbit gets five minutes and water."

  Round Two.

  Something changed in the second round.

  I felt it from the starting line—a shift in the pack's energy. Round one had been focused and unified under Miller's command. Round two started the same way; Miller barked orders, and the pack split into groups.

  But at the first wall, Briggs shoved past Torres to get over first. Torres stumbled, lost two seconds, and shot Briggs a look.

  During the wire crawl, two recruits tried to enter the same ne at the same time. An elbow caught someone in the ribs. Everyone was moving slightly too rushed and slightly too selfishly.

  Miller's fnking manoeuvre was sloppier. The intercept team arrived at the nets strung out rather than grouped. One kid had broken ahead, sprinting independently instead of holding formation.

  I crossed the finish line with more space than in round one.

  "Rabbit finishes. Again."

  Something was wrong. They should have been better the second time—more coordinated, more practised. Instead, they were worse.

  Why?

  Round Three.

  The pack fell apart.

  Miller was still trying to command, but his orders were dissolving. Nobody told him to shut up—they just stopped listening. Each recruit ran their own line, chased their own angle, and made their own calcutions. The team hunt had become thirteen individual pursuits on the same course.

  At the bance beam, Briggs and Hsu reached the entry point together. Instead of going single file, Briggs shouldered past. Hsu grabbed the railing to stop herself from tipping into the drainage pit.

  "Watch it!" she screamed.

  At the cargo nets, three recruits tangled with each other, climbing the same section—each trying to be the highest, fastest, first. They lost ten seconds fighting over the rope while I passed beneath them.

  The finish line came easily. Too easy. Thirty metres between me and the nearest pursuer.

  "Rabbit finishes again," Vance announced. His eyes flicked toward something I couldn’t see.

  "Again."

  Round Four.

  This time, it was complete chaos. Nobody coordinated, and nobody communicated. The pack hit the course as a mob—each person competing against each other as much as against me.

  Miller had stopped giving orders. He ran alone, jaw set and eyes fixed on me.

  On the bance beam, it finally reached a tipping point.

  I was halfway across when I heard a commotion behind me. Two recruits were fighting for a position on the beam. A shove—a stumble—a body going over the edge. Into five metres of freefall.

  The crack was audible even over the crosswind fans.

  A recruit y in the drainage pit, leg bent at an angle that legs don't bend at. The two who'd been fighting for position stared down from the beam, faces white.

  Vance's whistle cut through the air. "HALT! Medic to obstacle arena four!"

  The Gauntlet stopped, and medical staff appeared within a minute. The kid was carried out on a stretcher, still screaming.

  The squad stood scattered across the course, panting, bleeding from scrapes, staring at the stretcher as it disappeared toward the medical wing.

  "Reform," Vance barked. "Finish line. Now."

  We walked the rest of the course in silence.

  They were a team… Just three rounds ago they were a team. And now?

  "What the fuck was that?" His voice was low and dangerous. "Round one, you almost had him. You were coordinated, communicating, and functioning as a unit. And then—" He gestured at the stretcher's path. "What in God's green earth changed?"

  Miller spoke.

  "System issued a squad mission, Sergeant." His voice was ft. "The one to capture the Rabbit receives five bonus stat points."

  The words settled over the parade ground like a cold front.

  Five stat points. That was all it had taken. One line in their interfaces, one small incentive yered on top of the collective goal, and a functional team had torn itself apart in three rounds.

  Pathetic.

  Vance, however, simply nodded. His previous anger dissipated as though it had never existed in the first pce.

  "We're done for the morning. Everyone to the mess hall. You all eat."