The lights rose harsh and white, stabbing through the haze of half-sleep.

  Bash didn’t move at first. His body ached in places he didn’t know could ache. The sensation wasn’t

  sharp pain, just a deep, hollow fatigue that seemed fused to his bones. When he finally sat up, every

  motion felt delayed, as if the world were pushing back.

  Across the room, Rixor groaned and rolled over. “If this is what being alive feels like,” he muttered, “I

  vote for something else.”

  Nyra didn’t answer. She was sitting perfectly still on her bunk, eyes open, breathing slow. Taren stood

  near the door, already dressed, though her posture was slouched, exhaustion masquerading as

  discipline.

  Your movements suggest incomplete recovery, S-C said in Bash’s head. Coordination and strength

  output will likely remain reduced for several hours.

  “Great,” he murmured aloud.

  Clarification: she added. That assumption extends to everyone. Observation indicates widespread

  fatigue.

  He managed a weak smile. “That’s the most comforting thing you’ve said yet.”

  The facility was identical to the first time, the glowing rings, the floating target spheres, the sterile

  hum. The moment they walked in, the room felt colder. No one spoke. Even the low chatter that usually

  filled the hall had vanished.

  When Jouk appeared on the platform, a dozen heads bowed almost instinctively.

  “Coordination Phase One,” he said. “Repetition. You are expected to maintain or exceed prior metrics.”

  A collective exhale rippled through the ranks, quiet, resigned.

  Rixor whispered under his breath, “He might as well ask us to fly.”

  “Begin.”

  The lights flared to life, and the drills started again.

  At once Bash realized how bad it was going to be. His limbs were heavy, slow to respond. Every

  movement dragged. His hands shook just slightly, enough to miss the first three pulses. Across the

  room, one by one, Spartors faltered. The air filled with soft chimes of failure tones.

  By the end of the first sequence, his monitor flashed crimson. 27 percent.

  You are performing below standard, S-C noted.

  No kidding.

  Your micro-tremor frequency suggests muscular instability. Hydration recommended.

  What I need is a new body.

  Her tone softened. Unavailable.

  He almost laughed. Almost.

  When the tenth repetition ended, the silence was suffocating. No one looked up. No one asked how

  they’d done. The numbers above each station spoke for them, low, red, merciless. Jouk didn’t

  comment; he simply recorded the data and dismissed them.

  They moved through the food line in silence. The nutrient blocks might as well have been slabs of clay.

  Rixor sat down heavily. “Thirty percent,” he said to no one. “That’s what they call efficiency.”

  Nyra set her tray down carefully, aligning each piece before she spoke. “We’re supposed to improve.

  Not dissolve.”

  Taren’s voice was quiet. “He’s measuring how much we can fail before we stop trying.”

  Bash didn’t answer. He stared at his reflection in the dull metal of his cup. He looked… blank. Like

  someone still moving but no longer present.

  You should eat, S-C urged. Energy deficit must be corrected.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Irrelevant.

  He ate.

  They didn’t talk. Even Rixor, who usually found something sarcastic to say, just muttered a

  “goodnight” and collapsed.

  Bash lay still, muscles twitching randomly. His mind wanted to think, to analyze, but his body

  overruled it.

  You’re quiet, he thought.

  Analyzing data variance, S-C replied. All Spartors exhibited equal degradation. This is systemic, not

  individual.

  So there’s no point being mad at myself.

  Correct.

  He exhaled. “Doesn’t help much.”

  It was not meant to.

  The next morning they faced the physical arena again, the track, the machines, the endless pulsing red

  line crawling just behind their heels.

  Jouk’s voice echoed from the observation platform. “Coordination Phase Two. Repetition. Minimum

  expectation: maintain previous output.”

  The red line brightened.

  “Begin.”

  They ran.

  And immediately knew it was worse.

  Bash’s legs felt like soaked sandbags. Rixor tripped on the second lap and nearly took out another

  Spartor. The weight machines that once offered resistance now felt immovable. Even Nyra, usually the

  last to break, missed a lift and froze for a full two seconds before forcing herself back into rhythm.

  The red line passed over half the field before the first circuit ended.

  By the third, even Bash’s station flashed yellow. He pushed until his vision blurred, until S-C’s voice

  faded into static, until all that existed was breath and the line ahead of him.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When the drills finally ended, they were ghosts, silent, trembling, eyes hollow.

  Scores: Low twenties. A few thirties. None higher.

  Time blurred. The same two phases rotated endlessly, fine motor, gross motor, failure, rest.

  The only thing that changed was how little it hurt each day. The pain didn’t fade; they simply stopped

  reacting to it.

  Bash began to recognize patterns, when Jouk’s head tilted slightly, the next task would switch; when

  the drones rose slower, the gravity field had increased fractionally. He learned to anticipate without

  thinking.

  Nyra found rhythm again first. Her precision returned little by little, her perfectionism now tempered

  by acceptance.

  Taren adapted through discipline. She counted every breath, every rep, her movements timed to the

  rhythm of her own heartbeat.

  Rixor just refused to quit. His technique was a disaster, but he was always moving.

  By the eighth day, their metrics had stabilized, still low, but no longer falling. Bash managed a 45

  percent accuracy rating; Nyra hit 49.

  It wasn’t success, but it was something.

  Your coordination has improved by eight percent since yesterday, S-C observed one night.

  Guess you’re reading me better.

  Not entirely. A pause. My predictions still deviate by several points. I am compensating by observation

  rather than calibration.

  Meaning?

  I’m learning you instead of measuring you.

  He smiled faintly in the dark. Welcome to the club.

  By the tenth day, everything changed subtly. Movements felt smoother. The trembling stopped.

  When Bash reached for a target sphere, his hand no longer lagged behind his intention. When he ran

  the track, his strides aligned perfectly with the rhythm of his breath.

  The red line stayed behind him now, barely, but enough.

  Jouk said nothing, but Bash noticed the faintest flick of his eyes as he recorded the scores. For the first

  time, Bash thought he saw acknowledgment. Not approval, just recognition.

  That was enough.

  Rixor actually laughed after the tenth sequence. “We’re not dying! Progress!”

  Nyra even smiled, just slightly. “Fifty percent.”

  “Fifty-two,” Taren corrected, checking the monitors.

  Bash looked up at the data wall. He didn’t need to ask, every number was higher. Not great, but higher.

  The room felt lighter for the first time in days.

  The physical drills returned. They ran the track again, the red line chasing close. The weight machines

  hummed, the drones circled overhead.

  But this time, it felt different. Their movements synced naturally, almost fluid. Rixor and Bash matched

  strides without meaning to. Nyra’s timing on the resistance lifts was exact. Taren called transitions

  softly, her tone steady.

  By the time the final buzzer sounded, half the room was still standing. Their monitors flashed yellow

  instead of red.

  Fifty percent average.

  Jouk descended from the platform slowly, his gaze sweeping over them. “Coordination Phases One and

  Two,” he said, “sufficient for continuation.”

  No one spoke. They just stood there, panting, swaying, alive.

  Jouk surveyed them in silence, his gaze sweeping over the exhausted but upright Spartors. He said

  nothing of their scores or performance, only gave a short nod, the faintest acknowledgment of

  completion.

  “Rest,” he said simply. Then he turned and left the arena.

  The atmosphere afterward was different. Still quiet, but not hollow. There was weight behind their

  silence, the heavy calm of people who had endured and come through the other side.

  Rixor pushed his tray forward in the cafeteria. “Halfway there,” he said.

  Nyra smirked faintly. “You can’t know that.”

  “I can hope,” he countered.

  Bash just nodded, taking another bite. The food didn’t taste any better, but at least it didn’t feel like

  defeat anymore.

  S-C spoke softly in his mind. Your performance aligns with early stabilization models. Recovery

  appears consistent.

  So we’re improving.

  Temporarily.

  He frowned. You always know how to kill a mood.

  Fact don’t care about feelings.

  He almost laughed, shaking his head.

  They returned to their quarters without words. Rixor collapsed on his bunk but smiled for the first time

  in days. Nyra stretched silently, her motions smoother now. Taren sat cross-legged on her bed, eyes

  closed in quiet focus.

  Bash lay back, staring at the ceiling’s faint glow. His muscles still ached, but it was the good kind, the

  kind that came from progress.

  We might actually make it through this, he thought.

  S-C’s response came gently. Perhaps.

  He smiled faintly. You’re supposed to say yes.

  Certainty is inefficient.

  “Yeah,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Tell that to optimism.”