The door slid the rest of the way open.

  A figure stood in the center of the dormroom.”

  The words carried no threat, only protocol, yet the air felt wired tight. Bash let out a slow breath he

  hadn’t realized he was holding. Rixor’s shoulders eased a fraction.

  “Guess that makes us roomates,” Rixor said, tone half-joking, half-testing.

  Her gaze flicked toward him, then to Bash. “Correct.”

  The silence that followed was awkward but not hostile. She seemed to measure them both before

  continuing.

  “Commander Jouk approved met me ten minutes ago. I am to report with you at the Coordination

  Facility tomorrow.”

  Rixor glanced at Bash. “That makes three. One more and we’ve got a full set.”

  Nyra tilted her head slightly. “One more and the cycle begins.” The phrasing was so matter-of-fact it

  almost sounded ceremonial.

  Bash nodded, still feeling the residual tension buzzing behind his eyes. “Right. Coordination training

  tomorrow.” He tried to sound steady, to mirror her calm. “You hungry? Cafeteria’s still open, for a few

  more minutes, anyway.”

  She shook her head. “Harrow already escorted me to the hatchery mess. He said this wing’s hall closes

  early.” A faint curve of expression touched her mouth, almost a smile, almost curiosity. “He was

  correct.”

  Rixor chuckled. “That sounds Harrow for you. Making sure freshly hatched are taken care of, just

  makes sure it’s his schedule, not yours.”

  The moment lightened. The hum of the corridor faded as the door sealed behind them, muting the noise

  of the ship. The room felt smaller now, warmer, alive in a way Bash hadn’t expected.

  Nyra surveyed the bunks with the detached precision of someone cataloguing a space, then placed her

  small pack beneath the empty upper frame and stood straight again. “These assignments are

  temporary?” she asked.

  “Until we survive the first phase,” Rixor said, dropping onto his lower bunk. “After that, who knows.”

  Bash nodded. “Jouk wants us ready for the coordination drills tomorrow. Says we’ll be training

  independently.”

  Nyra accepted this without comment. “Understood.” She moved with deliberate economy, no wasted

  motion, no nervous gestures. Every step seemed measured to conserve effort.

  As the ship shifted into night cycle, the lights dimmed from white to amber. Shadows lengthened along

  the floor, tracing faint lines between the bunks. Bash realized how heavy he suddenly felt, fatigue

  spreading through muscle and mind alike.

  Rixor yawned, stretching until his joints popped. “I’m calling it. Tomorrow’s going to hurt.”, tall, Blue,

  motionless. The faint blue-white light from the corridor washed over her features, turning her eyes to

  pale glass. Bash’s pulse thudded once, then held. Rixor shifted beside him, ready to move if she did.

  For a few heartbeats no one spoke. Then the figure inclined her head slightly, posture disciplined, voice

  calm but low.

  “Designation Ninety-Nine. Assigned to this

  He rubbed the back of his neck, the motion slower than usual. The weight of the day hung heavy on

  him, not from the fight itself, but from almost having one. He hadn’t slept the night before, still wound

  tight from thinking Murdok was going to kill him. The stress felt like it had done more damage than

  any strike could have.

  “Feels like I’ve been fighting for a day straight,” he muttered, half to himself.

  He pulled himself onto the bed and rolled onto his side, already half asleep before Bash could answer.

  Bash hesitated near his own bunk, glancing once at Nyra. She had seated herself cross-legged on her

  bed, hands resting loosely on her knees, eyes half-closed in what looked like meditation. The silence

  stretched again.

  He turned inward. S-C, he thought, is this… normal? Mixed quarters?

  Her response came gently, voice threaded through the stillness of his mind.

  Spartors do not separate by gender or form. Function dictates arrangement, not sentiment. Emotional

  complication is a human inefficiency.

  He grimaced slightly. So no one finds this strange?

  Only you do.

  That earned a quiet exhale of amusement. Figures.

  He lay back, staring at the ceiling until his vision blurred. Around him, the faint harmonics of the ship

  blended with the synchronized breathing of his two companions. The tension in his chest began to

  uncoil.

  His thoughts wandered, to Jouk’s warning, to the new Blue sitting perfectly still across the room, to

  what waited tomorrow. Coordination training. Whatever that meant.

  You should rest, S-C whispered, tone softening. Fatigue will dull your calibration metrics.

  Working on it, he replied.

  Try harder.

  Bash didn’t fall asleep right away. His body ached for it, but his mind wouldn’t slow down. Every

  breath seemed to echo inside the small quarters, the soft hum of the ship, Rixor’s steady breathing, and

  the near-imperceptible rhythm of the Blue across from him. Nyra hadn’t moved. She sat cross-legged

  on her bunk, eyes half-closed, perfectly composed.

  He stared at the ceiling until the pale indicator light blurred into a single white band.

  What exactly am I supposed to expect when the cycle begins? he asked.

  S-C’s voice was immediate, her tone measured but softer than usual.

  Coordination training is the first formal phase of Spartor conditioning. The purpose is adaptation,

  teaching your body to act with precision before you’re given strength to misuse it.

  Precision, he echoed. Like drills?

  More fundamental than drills, she replied. You will learn your own mechanics, how to shift balance,

  catch projectiles, throw with measured force. Weight, speed, and vector control. Every Spartor body is

  unique, even if the structure is standardized. They will test how well you inhabit it.

  Bash rolled onto his side, staring across at Nyra. The soft blue of her uniform seemed to catch the faint

  light, like water reflecting movement that wasn’t there.

  So we’re not fighting yet.

  No, S-C said. First, coordination. Then weapons. They will teach you to use extensions of your body,

  energy blades, resonance rifles, thrown constructs. Tools that react to your internal rhythm. When you

  master your motion, you’ll master theirs.

  He could almost hear her smile through the thought. You’ll enjoy that part.

  Bash exhaled slowly. And after that?

  Teamwork protocols, she continued. Ten-unit coordination. You’ll learn to move as a group,

  communication without speech, signal drills, formation shifts. Every Spartor learns how to read the

  motion of another before relying on words. The system values intuition above explanation.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to picture it all, Spartors moving in perfect rhythm, silent,

  efficient, like one organism made of many minds.

  Sounds like a lot.

  The cycle isn’t too long. Approximately thirty days of calibration before initial field release.

  Thirty days, he repeated, letting the number sink in. Then what?

  Then you will be allowed into the White Portals.

  Her tone changed slightly, still calm, but with that analytical undertone he’d learned to recognize as

  interest.

  White Portals are the first test of independence. You will be grouped into units of five to ten. There,

  you gather field resources, basic materials, attempt to unlock abilities, and Beast Fragments.

  Bash frowned in the dim light. Fragments again.

  Correct.

  He hesitated. You said earlier that data wasn’t integrated into me. So what are they, really?

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  S-C paused, as if deciding how to distill the answer.

  Every creature within a portal carries two cores: the Essence and the Fragment. The Essence is living

  energy, the creature’s consciousness imprint. When it dies, that energy disperses into the surrounding

  field. If a Spartor with compatible resonance is nearby, they can absorb it, strengthening their own core.

  Bash frowned slightly. And if more than one Spartor’s close enough?

  Then the Essence chooses based on proximity and impact potential, she replied. Whoever delivered the

  killing blow, or inflicted the most resonance damage, absorbs the greater share. The others receive

  residual traces, rarely significant.

  He processed that for a moment. So even death’s got a hierarchy.

  Everything in the system does, S-C answered softly.

  Then the residual energy collapses into matter, she explained. The Fragment. It retains the essence that

  once sustained the creature. If no Spartors are close enough to absorb the essence, the Beast Fragment

  absorbs it instead, binding the remaining essence into its structure. Every Fragment carries a

  measurable charge. enough to alter weapons, armor, or potions, but the magnitude of that effect scales

  with tier. Higher-tier fragments, especially Tier Three and Tier Four, can reshape constructs entirely.

  Bash’s mind supplied the image automatically, crystalline shards pulsing with inner light, fragments of

  beasts frozen mid-death.

  So it’s like… the remains of power.

  Not exactly, S-C corrected gently. Fragments aren’t uniform shards. Their forms mirror the creature’s

  identity, the part that embodied its resonance. A rabbit might leave a foot, a warthog a tusk, a predator a

  fang. The Fragment becomes whatever piece best represents what it was.

  He thought for a moment, eyes drifting shut. How are the beasts ranked again?

  By Tier and Class, she replied, her tone shifting into its instructor’s cadence. Tier indicates magnitude,

  from One to Four. Each Tier is subdivided: Common, Greater, Apex, and Sovereign. Thus, a T1C is a

  Tier One Common, while a T4S denotes a Tier Four Sovereign.

  Bash gave a faint, tired laugh. Sounds like a game system.

  If it helps you learn, you may think of it that way.

  He could sense the faint flicker of humor behind her neutrality. It made her seem almost alive.

  The room was quiet again. Rixor murmured something incoherent in his sleep. Nyra hadn’t moved; her

  breathing was so even that Bash wasn’t sure she hadn’t powered down.

  So tomorrow’s just… coordination, he said finally. Learning how to move in this body.

  Correct, S-C replied. The first step is familiarity. Before strength, before weapons, before tactics, you

  must understand the limits of your own form.

  Bash nodded faintly, letting the thought settle. Feels strange, having to relearn something that used to

  be instinct.

  Instinct without calibration is chaos, she said softly. This is where instinct becomes precision.

  He nodded to himself, letting his thoughts slow, the information settling into a rhythm with the hum of

  the ship.

  You should rest now, S-C said again, gentler this time. Your metrics will be evaluated the moment you

  wake.

  Yeah, he thought, drifting toward sleep. I’m getting there.

  Bash lay still, staring at the faint light seams running across the ceiling. His thoughts circled back to SC’s last words about Fragments, looping like a song he couldn’t forget. He waited a moment before

  asking the question that had lingered since the cafeteria.

  What about Relics?

  S-C’s tone shifted, quieter, but carrying that subtle caution.

  Relics are not biological, she said. They are artifacts left behind by extinct higher species, engineered

  constructs, infused with resonance patterns far older than the Nexus itself. They surface rarely inside

  the Portals, usually buried within collapsed zones or beneath stabilized anomalies.

  Bash frowned slightly. So, old tech.

  Old purpose, she corrected. The Council classifies them by influence, not function. Some amplify

  resonance, others distort it. All are unpredictable.

  He rolled onto his side, watching Nyra’s still form on the opposite bunk. Her breathing was slow,

  perfectly steady. What happens if someone finds one?

  Protocol requires immediate surrender to the Council, S-C replied. Possession is considered a

  containment violation. The discoverer or team that reports a Relic receives compensation Fragments

  too?

  Partly, she said. Each return triggers a Nexus evaluation, behavioral imprint mapping, memory

  verification, and resource taxation.

  Taxation, he repeated. You mean they take a cut.

  Twenty-five percent of all recovered Fragments. The official purpose is redistribution for

  manufacturing and Council research. Unofficially… resource control.

  He stared upward again, tracing the faint seams of light with his eyes. So every time someone risks

  their life in a portal, the Nexus just… skims off the top.

  That is one interpretation.

  And the scans, how deep do they go?

  Into memory thresholds. They assess cognitive resonance against event data. In theory, it is only to

  verify accuracy.

  And in practice?

  Another pause. When S-C spoke again, her tone had that same almost-human softness she used when

  she knew the truth wouldn’t comfort him.

  In practice, they learn what you felt. The Nexus sees intent, not just action.

  Bash exhaled, long and slow. So no one really leaves the portals alone.

  No one ever does, she said.

  He turned onto his back, hands folded across his chest. The ceiling lights had dimmed to faint lines,

  pulsing in rhythm with the ship’s systems. Beside him, Rixor snored softly, his exhaustion finally

  catching up. Nyra hadn’t moved in over an hour.

  Why tell me all this? he asked finally. Why not just let me figure it out when it happens?

  Because you asked, S-C replied simply. And because understanding is the only resistance the system

  allows.

  He almost smiled at that, high-grade Beast Fragments equivalent to the portal’s tier. Compliance is

  rewarded.

  And if they don’t comply?

  A small pause. Then the Nexus intervenes.

  Bash blinked. Intervenes how?

  All Spartors are required to submit for post-mission scans, S-C said. There is no avoidance. Everyone

  complies because resistance is futile. The Nexus sees everything that enters or leaves a portal.

  He swallowed. So if someone tried to hide a Relic...

  It would be detected during neural recall and correction. Memory reconstruction if required.

  He felt the weight of those words settle like lead in his chest. You mean they erase them.

  They realign deviation, S-C said softly. Same principle, different application.

  He didn’t answer. The hum of the ship filled the silence between them, a sound so constant it felt alive.

  After a while he asked, And the scans? You said everyone’s scanned after a portal run.

  Correct.

  That’s for , almost. That’s depressing.

  It is awareness.

  Silence settled again. The hum deepened slightly as the ship shifted into full rest cycle. Bash felt his

  eyelids grow heavy, the thoughts in his head drifting and fragmenting like dust in low gravity.

  Before sleep claimed him, one last thought surfaced. If the Nexus can see intent, then they’ll see mine

  too.

  S-C’s response came quieter than ever, a whisper at the edge of consciousness.

  Then you must decide what it is you intend to show them… and I will help you do it.