Chapter 1: Induction Day
The sky over Hades Reach was a flat sheet of bruised gray, like ash smeared across a wound. Beneath it, a sprawling military complex sat sunken into the cratered rock, its hard lines and reinforced alloy walls designed less for aesthetics and more to withstand bombardment. This was Fort Arclight — a forward induction base for the UCIC's newest recruits.
Isaiah Johnson stood on the open platform of Docking Arm Twelve, fingers clenched around the duffel at his side, eyes narrowed against the wind that cut across the exposed catwalk. His breath misted in the air, though the suit under his uniform kept him thermally regulated. It wasn't the cold that made him shiver. It was the weight of it all — the ships, the noise, the lines of war machines and transport rovers idling like resting beasts.
Beside him, Israel adjusted the strap on his bag and let out a quiet grunt. "They really don't believe in first impressions, huh?"
Isaiah snorted. "What, you wanted a welcome banner?"
"No, but maybe not the 'get off the ship and get in line before someone yells at you' treatment."
"Pretty sure that's the banner."
They walked forward as the group of new arrivals shuffled toward the towering checkpoint station. Drones buzzed overhead, scanning biosigns and retinal tags. Ahead of them, recruits were herded through steel-framed entry lanes by stern UCIC officers in slate-gray fatigues. Past the gates, massive training yards sprawled beneath shielded domes, the glint of active drills and armored vehicles moving like choreography in a mechanical ballet.
Isaiah and Israel moved as one, unspoken rhythm synced like it always was. The older brother by just a year, Isaiah was a touch taller, leaner, sharper around the edges. Israel had broader shoulders, more compact power in his build — quiet, but with fire under the surface.
They reached the head of their lane and stood before the retinal scanner. A flat chirp. Green light. Clearance confirmed.
The officer at the desk barely looked up. "Johnson, Isaiah. Eidolon candidate. You're in Platoon 4, Inductee Block C. Follow the red line."
Isaiah nodded once.
The scanner chirped again. "Johnson, Israel. Gideon candidate. Platoon 4, same block."
Israel looked to his brother and gave a short grin. "Still not splitting us up."
"Damn right they're not."
They stepped through together, boots clanking against the grated flooring as they followed the painted red line toward the interior hub.
Fort Arclight wasn't pretty — it was all sharp corners, exposed piping, and reinforced blast doors — but it moved with purpose. Officers barked orders from control stations, armor technicians jogged between frame storage racks, and the air itself buzzed faintly with static from the shielded generators embedded deep beneath the structure.
As they passed through the intake corridor, a screen flickered on overhead. A UCIC crest blazed white — a winged blade flanked by stars, set against a planetary ring. Then the logo faded, and a woman in black uniform with silver trim appeared onscreen.
"This is Admiral Veyra of the United Colonial Front," her voice rang out, calm and forceful. "If you're hearing this, you've been selected. Not drafted. Not conscripted. Chosen. Out of thousands, you've been filtered down to the ones with potential. The ones who might survive what's coming."
Isaiah paused to glance up. Israel did the same.
"We are not at peace," she continued. "The Dreadborne threat is real. The insurrection is real. You are not soldiers yet — but if you become them, you will carry the shield of a fractured humanity on your back."
The screen went dark. They walked on in silence for a moment longer.
"Well," Israel muttered, "that was warm and fuzzy."
Isaiah's mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Better than her telling us we're already dead."
They reached Block C — a rectangular, four-story structure wrapped around a central drill yard. Recruits marched in rows beneath the towers, and servo-lifts hauled armor crates toward lower bays. Each block was a training unit, a temporary home, and a sieve. Those who passed the Grinder stayed. Those who didn't… left in medships or bags.
An officer met them at the entry checkpoint, flanked by two armed guards in urban-camouflage armor. He looked at a slate, then up at the brothers.
"Platoon 4?"
"Yes, sir," Isaiah answered.
"You're late by five minutes. That better be the last time. Head down the stairs to the briefing hall. Suit orientation starts in thirty. Welcome to Arclight."
They moved without another word.
The stairs led them down into the underbelly of Block C — a broad hallway lit with recessed panels, floors spotless and sterile. Other recruits filtered in, gathering in quiet clumps or standing alone, watching monitors that displayed footage of UCIC operations: suits in combat, dropships piercing atmo, Stalker-9 recon rovers weaving through urban wreckage.
When they entered the briefing room, a few heads turned.
Callow sat in the back row, thick-necked and silent, arms crossed. He had the look of someone who'd already broken a few noses before breakfast. Silva was three seats forward, slim and sharp-eyed, scanning the display screen ahead of him. Ortiz stood by the far wall, near the shadowed corner, observing everything and saying nothing.
Isaiah and Israel found seats in the second row. Neither spoke.
After a moment, the room darkened and the briefing display lit up.
The induction was about to begin.
---
The briefing room lights dimmed to a cool, sterile blue. A low hum pulsed beneath the floor—power running through the reinforced training hub. Recruits straightened in their seats as the main wall display activated, casting a soft white glow over their faces.
A woman stepped onto the raised platform at the front. Tall, mid-40s, sharp-featured, with streaks of silver braided into her jet-black hair. Her UCIC officer's uniform bore no decoration, no unit badge—only a slim crimson bar across her chest: a symbol of active combat service.
"I'm Commander Vance," she said, voice steady but carrying weight. "You're here because someone up the ladder decided you were worth a second look. That doesn't make you soldiers. That makes you hopefuls."
A few in the back shifted uncomfortably. No one dared speak.
Vance let the silence settle before continuing. "Some of you come from colony worlds, frontier cities, maybe even the domed metros back home. Doesn't matter. You've lived through something. We don't take greenbloods here. We take survivors."
Her gaze scanned the room like a targeting reticle. "This block houses Platoon 4. Five of you made it through the first screening. That's just enough to form one forward squad. Two cells. One recon. One anchor."
She tapped her slate. Five names flared across the wall, accompanied by outline diagrams of their frame classifications.
Isaiah Johnson — Eidolon Frame Mk X — Recon Cell
Israel Johnson — Gideon Frame Mk II — Support Cell
Callow — Bulwark Variant — Heavy Anchor
Silva — Standard Lineward Infantry Frame — Midline Specialist
Ortiz — Lineward Light Variant — Tactical Recon Hybrid
Isaiah felt the faintest twinge of pride at seeing his name first, but it faded fast. This wasn't school. This wasn't home. This was war prep.
"Your frames will be assigned tomorrow. Orientation begins with sim induction. You'll get three days of psych calibration, two days of muscle-linked interface drills, and then you'll be sent into the Grinder. If you pass… the real work begins."
Israel leaned toward Isaiah and whispered, "I swear to God, if that Grinder's just a fancy word for a glorified paintball match…"
Isaiah didn't crack a smile. "It's not."
The presentation shifted to footage—helmet cam recordings from UCIC combat deployments. Real battles. Aerial sweeps of broken cities. Swarms of Dreadbornes moving like black waves over hills and through streets. Pulse artillery flaring in the dark. Men and women in suits firing into the mass, their silhouettes outlined by muzzle flash and dying light.
The room fell completely silent.
A close-up clip showed an Alpha-class Dreadborne—bipedal, obsidian plating, heavy clawed limbs—ripping through a forward unit. Then it was stopped cold by a Baradiel-class suit, hammering it with a shoulder-mounted cannon before launching forward to crush its chest with a seismic gauntlet.
Callow leaned forward in his seat, eyes locked to the footage.
"Understand this," Vance said. "The Dreadbornes don't sleep. They don't talk. They don't negotiate. Every one of you who earns a suit will be deployed to a red-zone world within months. And if you think the insurrection's any softer? You're wrong."
The screen faded.
"Dismissed. You'll report to your barracks for basic sync clearance in ten minutes. Get used to the dirt. You'll be living in it."
As the recruits stood, Isaiah caught sight of Ortiz giving him a brief, unreadable look before heading for the door. Silva followed silently, boots clipping the floor with near-perfect rhythm. Callow lagged behind, taking in one last glance at the darkened screen before grunting and turning away.
Israel waited until they were clear, then bumped Isaiah's arm. "This still feel like the right idea?"
Isaiah glanced around the room—at the silent walls, the faint echo of footsteps, the heavy pressure of something just out of reach.
"Yeah," he said. "It does."
They walked side-by-side through the hall toward the barracks.
The living quarters weren't much to look at—concrete walls, metal bunks stacked two high, personal lockers with biometric seals. But they were clean, efficient, and sealed. The only windows showed simulated environments—desert, forest, mountain—rotating every twelve hours to avoid the mental strain of lunar isolation.
Israel took the top bunk. Isaiah took the bottom.
Across from them, Silva unpacked in silence. Ortiz sat cross-legged on his bed, reading something off a wrist-slate. Callow had already passed out in his bunk, one arm flung over his eyes.
It was the first quiet moment since their arrival.
"Hey," Israel muttered, staring up at the ceiling, "you think anyone back home would believe this?"
Isaiah didn't answer for a while.
Then: "Nah. But I didn't join to be believed."
Outside, Fort Arclight rumbled as a VT-99 Raptor tore overhead, headed for the upper atmosphere—its shadow crawling across the dome, cast by the burn of twin thrusters.
Sleep didn't come easy that night.
---
The next morning arrived in harsh light and louder noise. A tone blared through the barracks at 0500 sharp, rattling the steel-lined walls and sending a few recruits scrambling upright.
Isaiah was already up.
He'd been awake since 0430, eyes open in the dark, listening to the low mechanical hums coursing through Fort Arclight's internal systems. He hadn't said a word. Neither had Israel, who now sat upright on the top bunk above him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and muttering a curse under his breath.
A drill instructor's voice came on over the intercom. Gravel-throated, unimpressed.
> "All Platoon 4 inductees, report to Sim Bay One in full underlayer. You've got ten minutes. Move like you want to wear a suit someday."
Isaiah rose, pulled on his slate-gray UCIC underlayer—a lightweight, heat-regulating fabric that hugged the body and responded to biometric sync. As he adjusted the wrist seals, he glanced across the room.
Ortiz was already fully suited, double-checking his gear in silence. Silva moved with the same crisp efficiency, his locker already closed behind him. Callow muttered something under his breath, clearly not a morning person, but moved fast enough.
Israel grumbled as he slipped down from the bunk and zipped up his underlayer. "Bet the instructor's the kind of guy who wakes up before the alarm just to be pissed off earlier."
"You do that already," Isaiah replied, tugging his boots tight.
Together, the five recruits moved out of the barracks, footsteps light but fast. The corridors of Fort Arclight were already alive—tech crews moving in formation, frame engineers hauling crates of neural-linked components, and drill officers barking orders in the background like war was already at the door.
Sim Bay One was a massive chamber buried deep within the southern wing of the base. Reinforced alloy walls, blast-rated observation windows, and a domed ceiling covered in hundreds of motion-sync sensors and reactive panels. At the center of the floor: a staging ring with five upright pods—sleek, obsidian-gray sarcophagi with neural ports along the back.
A row of technicians waited for them at a console bank. Above, in the gallery, Commander Vance watched from behind armored glass, arms folded.
One of the techs—a younger woman with buzzed hair and a neural brace along her temple—stepped forward and gestured them toward the pods.
"Step in. You'll feel disorientation, nausea, and minor neural drift. Standard. Calibration begins as soon as you're inside."
Isaiah was the first to move. He'd expected resistance from his body, some lingering anxiety.
But instead, there was calm.
He stepped into the pod, the interior cradling him like a second skin. A dozen needle-fine neural links extended from the walls and embedded gently into contact points along his spine, shoulders, and the base of his skull.
Darkness followed. Then pressure. Then—
He opened his eyes.
The sim was loaded.
He stood in a ruined city square beneath a gray-orange sky, sun bleeding through broken towers. The air smelled of static and wet concrete. Crows scattered overhead. Beside him, four others blinked into existence—Israel, Callow, Silva, and Ortiz—all rendered in tactical sim-armor colored with faint streaks to differentiate between users. Isaiah's had a faint orange glint on the edges of the visor and gauntlets.
The environment felt too real. There were no HUDs, no indicators—just sensation, motion, and instinct.
Then the voice came.
> "Sim Induction Trial 1: Threat Processing and Field Maneuver. Welcome to the Grinder."
A beat. Then:
> "Scenario: Urban ambush. You are being hunted. Survive and eliminate all hostiles. No resets. Sync death ends the session."
Gunfire erupted from the far end of the plaza.
"CONTACT!" Callow shouted, instinctively ducking behind a rusted transport husk.
Silva and Ortiz were already moving to flank, vanishing into the broken alleys. Isaiah and Israel snapped to formation, moving side by side, rifles up. Isaiah had no idea where the weapon came from—nanotech replication, maybe—but it felt solid in his grip.
Shadows shifted near a collapsed bridge. Figures emerged—tall, humanoid, fast. Their sim-armor was matte black with glowing slits for eyes. Training drones, sim-hostiles. Each carried a pulse-blade or rifle.
They moved like they wanted blood.
"Left!" Israel called, firing two short bursts that hit the nearest hostile center mass. It collapsed with a hiss of light.
Isaiah rolled forward, came up behind a cracked statue, and loosed a volley into the enemy flank. Sparks bloomed. One of the hostiles spun out and slammed into a wall.
Callow charged forward, firing without finesse but with brute aggression, covering Isaiah's blind side.
A hiss filled the air.
Two more sim-hostiles dropped in from the rooftops behind them.
Isaiah turned. Too slow.
A flash of motion—Israel was already there, tackling the first and dragging it down with a blade swipe that separated its head in a flicker of digital blood. The second lunged—
—and vanished in a headshot from Ortiz, perched halfway up the stairwell of a broken building.
Isaiah exhaled.
Silva's voice crackled across the simulated comms. "Four remaining. Shifting to zone two."
The cityscape began to change—buildings twisting, breaking apart as if the world itself was shedding its skin.
The sky twisted.
The sun dulled into gray. Buildings around them shimmered, pixelating along their edges before being replaced by jagged towers of rusted steel and fractured glass. Rooftops shifted. Streets rerouted.
Isaiah crouched behind cover, eyes scanning the far end of the street. The Drones had stopped firing for now. The system was recalibrating.
He tapped his simulated earpiece. "Everyone still green?"
"Still up," Silva responded immediately.
"Same here," Ortiz echoed, his voice calm, clinical.
"Yeah," Callow said between deep breaths, "but what in the hell was that? The map just went full-on nightmare zone."
"Means we're doing well," Israel muttered. He stepped up beside Isaiah, rifle lowered but ready. His green-trimmed armor looked like it had seen a whole war already—covered in simulated dirt, scuffs, even what looked like impact burns.
The sim didn't just track survival. It tracked strain.
"They want us rattled," Israel added. "We're not supposed to get comfortable."
Isaiah nodded but didn't respond right away. His brother always had a sharper read on situational psychology. He wasn't the loudest or the flashiest, but he felt things quicker than most.
They pressed forward together, boots crunching broken glass beneath them.
The five recruits advanced into a narrowing alley choked with debris and flickering light. The walls leaned inward, almost claustrophobic. Ortiz moved ahead of the group, precise and silent. Silva held the left side, eyes constantly shifting between corners. Callow, bringing up the rear, adjusted his heavy pulse-rifle with each step, his breathing audible through the sim audio feed.
Suddenly, a sound cracked overhead—like shattering crystal.
Israel reacted first.
"Down!"
The entire team dropped as a hostile landed hard on the metal walkway above, pulse-blade extended. It lunged, targeting the middle of the column—Callow. But before it got close, a clean, sharp thump echoed.
Israel's rifle kicked back once.
The hostile's head snapped sideways in a digital burst of fractured polygons. It collapsed into the rubble below.
"You good?" he asked, turning just enough to catch Callow's wide-eyed nod.
Isaiah gave his brother a side glance. "That's two you've poached from me."
"Not my fault you pause to admire the moment."
Isaiah smirked, but only briefly.
Another wave hit them harder.
Four hostiles this time—better armed, better coordinated. They emerged from the shadows of a burned-out storefront, two with heavy rifles, two with blades. No warning. Just motion and heat.
Silva took the first shot, tagging one center mass. Ortiz followed up, using height and cover. But the drones weren't falling easy this time.
One of them rushed Isaiah—bladed arm spinning in a tight arc. He dodged left, barely missing the edge, and slammed his elbow into its neck joint. It staggered. Isaiah pulled the trigger three times, putting it down.
Israel spun into the fight, fluid and vicious.
His movements weren't flashy, but they were efficient. One of the hostiles lunged, and Israel sidestepped, dragging his rifle across its body and dropping it in one swift arc before transitioning to the next target. His aim was clean, his footwork tighter than anything Isaiah had seen in any other sim they'd run together.
He's getting better, Isaiah thought. Fast.
By the end of the engagement, the alley was quiet again—only the whine of cooling pulse weapons filling the dead air.
Then came the voice.
> "Section cleared. Initiating final stage."
The sky peeled away above them, revealing a domed structure of shifting alloy and jagged steel. In the distance, an obsidian tower rose—glowing with pulsing veins of amber light. Walls formed around it like ribs curling inward. It looked ancient, but wrong, as if its purpose was never meant to be understood.
> "Tower Protocol initiated."
Isaiah exhaled through his nose. "That's subtle."
Callow looked up at the structure and whistled. "What are we climbing, a haunted oil rig?"
Ortiz had already moved toward the base. "Focus. This isn't about theatrics—it's a pressure trial."
Vance's voice cut in—cold and loud over their earpieces.
> "You're being watched. Make every motion count."
The base of the Tower opened, a massive hatch groaning as it unfurled like a rusted maw. A ramp extended outward.
Isaiah looked to Israel, who nodded.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Let's find out," Israel replied, tightening his grip on his rifle.
Together, they stepped forward into the dark, side by side.
---
The Tower swallowed them whole.
Inside, light was low and tinted with a bruised amber hue. The floor beneath their boots felt solid but uneven—textured like old concrete fused with metal veins. High above, the ceiling disappeared into haze. They were in a corridor, narrow and sloped upward, with walls that seemed to shift at the edges—like the sim itself hadn't finished rendering all the way.
No instructions came this time.
Only the sound of their breathing and the distant scrape of machinery in motion.
Israel took point, rifle up, eyes scanning for motion. Isaiah followed directly behind him, their boots syncing in tempo. Silva, Ortiz, and Callow formed the tail, maintaining tight spacing without a word.
The deeper they moved, the more the structure closed in. Not physically—but in atmosphere. There was weight in the air. An artificial tension. Like the Tower was watching them.
"It's designed to erode trust," Israel murmured quietly, breaking the silence. "Force stress fractures."
Isaiah didn't answer. He didn't need to. His jaw was tight, eyes forward.
After twenty meters, the corridor opened into a small chamber—octagonal, smooth-lined, with walls lined in retractable alloy shutters. Nothing in the room moved. No enemy presence. Just a solitary pillar in the center with a flickering green node.
"Trigger point," Silva said flatly.
"Trap," Ortiz added.
Isaiah stepped forward carefully, crouched beside the node, and scanned the area. "No motion sensors… but I'm betting we don't get to walk out untouched."
Israel raised his weapon toward the nearest wall. "Let's assume every surface can be breached."
He was right.
The moment Isaiah touched the node, the shutters peeled open.
Four drones dropped into the room from above—sleek, humanoid, matte-black, but smaller than before. These weren't meant to kill.
They were meant to test.
Each one moved with calculated feints, reacting to hesitation, probing for weakness. Their weapons were stun-batons and simulation knives—close-quarters threats designed to exploit bad footing, bad angles, bad instinct.
Isaiah snapped back, bringing his rifle to bear and tagging one in the leg. It staggered, not downed. Israel moved in from the side, jamming his shoulder into a second and forcing it into the wall before sweeping the barrel of his rifle across its chest.
Callow charged one head-on and got knocked flat for it.
Silva pulled him up by the collar and dropped the drone with a short, efficient burst.
Ortiz stayed mobile, never still, tagging two clean shots from behind the pillar and dropping his target with surgical precision.
The whole engagement lasted fifteen seconds.
At the end of it, the drones lay scattered, dissolving into digital ash. No celebration. Just silence.
The pillar light turned from green to white.
"Next section," Isaiah said, already moving.
The team ascended through a set of rising platforms—each one unsteady, vibrating faintly under their weight. The Tower shifted again. This time, not in geometry but in tone.
Lights flickered and dimmed. Audio dropped out.
For a brief moment, every recruit stood in total silence—no comms, no environmental feedback.
Then the hallway ahead of them lit with a dull, crimson glow.
Sim-hostiles emerged—not in formation, but scattered, hunched, snarling.
Dreadborne analogs.
Their forms weren't perfect—still mechanical in nature—but they had the frame of bipeds, hunched backs, armor like fused bone and industrial plating. The faces were malformed and eyeless, replaced with clusters of flickering sensors and jagged ridges.
Silva stiffened. "These weren't in the last iteration."
"They're running new programming," Ortiz said. "Experimental."
Callow's voice was low. "What the hell are those things?"
Israel's grip tightened. "Doesn't matter."
They attacked.
The analogs didn't move like drones. They moved like animals with tactics—flanking, isolating. One launched itself straight over the group, rebounded off the wall, and almost caught Callow mid-turn.
Isaiah tackled it midair and slammed it down, driving his forearm across the back of its skull until it sparked and collapsed.
Israel moved with quiet violence, stepping into each strike with precision. He dropped one analog with two shots, spun to his left, and body-checked another off the platform entirely.
Ortiz hung back and picked his shots.
Silva met his target head-on, blade for blade. Their clash echoed.
Isaiah locked eyes with a third analog as it circled him.
It didn't roar. It didn't posture. It charged.
He sidestepped and pivoted on instinct, slamming the butt of his rifle into its head before dragging the muzzle across its flank and unloading.
It fell.
The silence afterward was absolute.
Then the Tower pulsed again—this time with faint light, like a heartbeat deep within its shell.
A voice, not from the system, but from above—Commander Vance, once more.
> "Simulation complete. Four minutes, eleven seconds. Casualty count: zero. All data logged."
A pause.
> "Proceed to the elevator. Debrief begins in twenty."
The simulation began to fade around them—sky breaking apart, floors dissolving into black scaffolding.
Isaiah lowered his weapon, looked over at Israel. His brother stood still, chest rising and falling with calm control.
Their first trial was done.
---
The simulation peeled away in full—light fading from amber to sterile white. The recruits stood still as the last remnants of the Tower disintegrated around them. Platforms vanished beneath their boots and were replaced by the familiar polished steel of the UCIC's training annex. Overhead, panels folded back into position with a mechanical hiss, revealing ceiling-mounted lights that cast everything in cold, clean brightness.
A soft tone rang out. Then came movement.
Panels in the walls slid open, revealing a debriefing corridor lined with flickering blue strips of light. A large number 04 lit up at the end of the corridor above a wide blast door. It opened before they reached it.
"Let's move," Isaiah said, already starting forward.
Silva rolled her shoulder. "I've got three microfractures and a simulated wrist sprain. Could've been worse."
"Wanna trade? I've got simulated tinnitus," Callow muttered, rubbing his neck.
Israel walked behind them, quiet, focused. His expression hadn't changed since the simulation ended, but Isaiah could feel the energy rolling off him. Not fatigue. Something else.
Anticipation.
Inside the debrief room, the lighting shifted again—soft gray tones now, warmer than before. There were five seats arranged in a staggered semicircle facing a low platform. Isaiah didn't like how clean it was. No screens. No data pads. Just waiting.
The door sealed behind them with a heavy clang.
A new voice broke the silence.
"Congratulations, recruits."
They turned.
Commander Vance entered from a side panel. He wasn't alone. A tall woman followed him—lean, dressed in a high-collared UCIC coat. Her sleeves bore gold chevrons and an emblem stitched at the bicep: an eagle above a ring of six stars.
Admiral Ayla Veyra.
Israel's eyes narrowed slightly.
Veyra walked with purpose, stopping just ahead of the platform, arms folded behind her back.
"You've completed induction protocols," she said, her tone crisp but not cold. "That makes you the first five to successfully clear the Tower on its revised simulation sequence. Your data has been tagged for accelerated tracking."
Callow whispered under his breath, "Is that good?"
Ortiz answered flatly. "It's not bad."
Veyra continued. "From this point forward, your names are entered into active UCIC combat registries. That means everything you do from here on out is no longer theoretical. It's real. You're not trainees. You're assets."
She stepped to the side, and Vance took her place.
"One recon cell. One anchor cell," he said. "Effective immediately. Each will receive a squad leader designation, secondary assignments, and unit integration notices before deployment."
Isaiah shifted slightly in his seat. Israel didn't move.
"This is where the path splits," Veyra added. "Some of you will serve as boots-on-ground for the Lineward Divisions. Others—"
She looked directly at Israel and Isaiah.
"—will be candidates for the Suit Teams."
Callow's eyebrows shot up.
Silva leaned forward slightly.
Ortiz remained unreadable.
"Not yet," Vance clarified. "But you're being monitored. Make the next week count."
Veyra nodded once, then turned to leave.
"Dismissed," Vance said.
The room hissed open again behind them.
Isaiah stood, but stayed quiet.
He was trying not to show it, but he felt it—what the sim had pulled out of him. The way the Tower had forced them to rely on instinct, to move in sync without words. He glanced over at Israel, who was still seated, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
"You good?" Isaiah asked.
Israel finally looked up. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Just… thinking."
They filed out together, the other recruits moving in silence behind them.
The hallway beyond the debrief room led into an open barracks block—one of many in the UCIC's training sector. Bunk rows, reinforced lockers, hydration stations, and a tactical readout screen flickering on the far wall.
Everything here was polished and practical. Sterile, but not empty.
They'd earned their place here.
---
Later that evening, the barracks were quiet.
Most recruits had turned in, the lights dimmed to soft amber as the internal chronos ticked toward lights-out. Rows of bunks sat evenly spaced, each paired with a storage locker and a narrow wall-mounted panel for personal data access. The air was clean and still, touched faintly by the low hum of ventilation systems.
Isaiah sat at the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, staring at a blinking message prompt on his datapad.
Suit Team candidate status: Under Review.
Projected clearance: 82%
Assignment tracking: Provisional.
It wasn't a confirmation. But it was close.
Across the aisle, Israel lay back with his arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His datapad rested beside him, untouched.
"They're gonna pick us," Isaiah said eventually, quiet so it wouldn't carry.
Israel didn't answer immediately. "Maybe," he said. "We cleared the Tower. But that's not the same as being ready."
Isaiah looked over. "You're not worried."
"I'm not arrogant either."
Isaiah smirked a little, but it didn't stick. "What if they split us up?"
"They won't."
"You sure?"
"I'd walk if they did."
Silence settled again. It was the kind of silence only shared by brothers who knew how to sit in it—no need to fill it. Just the presence was enough.
A few bunks down, Callow was laid out snoring, one arm dangling off the side like he'd been dropped from low orbit. Ortiz sat upright in his own bunk, quietly assembling and disassembling a training sidearm for the third time in a row, eyes sharp but distant.
Silva sat on the floor beside her bunk, back against the wall, datapad resting on her knee. She didn't read. Just stared.
They weren't a team yet.
But they'd bled together once. That was enough to start something.
The barracks doors hissed open.
A staff sergeant stepped in, clipboard in hand. "Johnson. Johnson. Ortiz. Silva. Callow. Front and center."
No hesitation. All five moved.
The sergeant didn't smile. Didn't explain.
"You're being pulled for immediate integration brief. All other recruits will follow standard transition protocol. You five are exceptions."
Isaiah's chest tightened. Israel's brow furrowed just slightly.
As they lined up, the sergeant gave a nod. "You've been assigned to the same operational squad. Full deployment readiness within the week."
Isaiah and Israel locked eyes for a brief moment. Relief, laced with tension. They were staying together.
The sergeant turned. "You'll form the forward assets of a UCIC combat team. Three of you will fall into the Lineward Squad. Two of you," he said, glancing at the Johnson brothers, "are being evaluated for Suit Team integration. Your placements will be finalized after mobility and sync tests."
Callow gave a low, half-whispered, "Hot damn."
Silva elbowed him in the ribs without looking.
"Follow me."
They were led out of the barracks and into a deeper part of the base—one rarely seen by fresh recruits. The halls grew more reinforced, more angled, as though the building itself had been layered in defense and silence.
They passed through two bulkhead doors, each one scanning their IDs as they walked.
Inside, the room opened into a full tactical command staging area. Digital tables, modular armor racks, and screens showcasing planetary overlays and hostile movement forecasts. A hub, not just for training—but for deployment prep.
And there, mounted in the far wall, were five loadout lockers. Their names were already printed on them.
S. Callow
T. Silva
D. Ortiz
I. Johnson
Z. Johnson
No rank. No division tags. Just the names.
The sergeant turned back to them. "Welcome to Lineward Forward Unit Delta-9. Get some rest. Tomorrow, you begin suit trials and squad orientation."
He left them standing there, the door hissing shut behind him.
No one said a word for a long moment.
Then Callow stepped forward and tapped his locker. "Think I might cry."
Silva shook her head. "Try bleeding first."
Ortiz just watched the names, like he was waiting for them to vanish.
Isaiah exhaled, slow and long.
Israel stepped up beside him, gaze steady.
They weren't just recruits anymore.
They were one step closer to war.
---
The training field shimmered beneath the pale-blue overhead shields of the simulation dome, casting a faint glow across the polished ferrocrete. Rows of modular walls and barriers shifted on hydraulic tracks, reconfiguring in real time. The recruits stood on the sidelines, observing as their field was remapped into a staggered combat course.
Sergeant Halvorsen paced in front of them—older, broad shouldered, with a bionic eye that glowed a dull red every time he blinked. His presence alone demanded attention, but it was the way he moved—like every step had weight—that made the group straighten.
"This is your final evaluation before placement is locked," Halvorsen said. "Recon, anchor, or Suit Team candidate. If you mess it up here, you're getting reassigned to logistics."
Callow raised an eyebrow at that. "He's joking, right?"
"No," Silva said flatly.
Halvorsen turned on his heel. "Lineward training requires more than being able to shoot straight. We don't need meat with rifles. We need soldiers who can think while the sky's falling."
He gestured toward the shifting field. "Each of you will run the course in two-man teams. Navigate, eliminate, survive. Keep your heads down and your eyes sharp."
Israel gave Isaiah a look. They didn't need to say anything. Halvorsen called the pair first.
"Johnson. Johnson. You're up."
The course accepted their biometrics as they stepped forward, reshaping instantly—turrets recessed, new terrain features rising in jagged angles. The environment adjusted for them specifically.
Isaiah rolled his shoulders. "We're back in the ring already?"
Israel didn't respond. He just stepped through the gate.
The moment both boots crossed the threshold, the course lit red and came alive.
Gunfire snapped from an elevated platform, forcing them into immediate cover.
"Turrets, top left," Isaiah called, spotting the blink of sensor nodes.
"Suppress and flank," Israel answered, already peeling off to the side.
Isaiah opened fire, placing clean shots into the sensor panels, drawing the turret's aim. Israel slid low between modular barriers, then vaulted the side platform. A clean shot later, the turret hissed and collapsed inward.
They moved together without second-guessing.
As they rounded a corner, mock hostiles appeared—combat droids with humanoid profiles, moving on magnetic treads.
Isaiah didn't hesitate. He rolled into a crouch, tagged the lead unit in the joint, and dropped it clean. Israel followed up, catching another in the upper torso.
The course escalated—more cover, more droids, tighter spaces.
But the rhythm was there.
They didn't speak again. They didn't have to.
When the last hostile dropped, the red lights faded.
The field cleared.
Halvorsen nodded once. "Clean. Fast. Efficient."
Callow whistled from the sidelines. "Damn."
Silva looked thoughtful. "They didn't even have to talk."
Ortiz remained unreadable.
"Next pair!" Halvorsen barked.
Callow and Silva moved out. Ortiz waited behind, his expression unreadable but focused.
Israel and Isaiah moved back toward the group, helmets unlatched.
Isaiah was breathing heavy but steady. "That felt good."
Israel just nodded.
When the last of the runs were completed, the recruits were lined up again. Halvorsen walked down the line, pausing briefly at each name.
"Final placements will be uploaded by zero-hundred. Squad briefing at oh-seven sharp. That means you're not late, you're early."
He paused at the end of the line.
"You've survived training. That's not nothing. But don't confuse this for war. What comes next isn't simulation. You won't get a restart."
Then he was gone.
The recruits stood in silence for a long beat before drifting back toward the barracks in pairs and trios.
Isaiah lingered at the edge of the dome, staring up through the transparent shield at the stars beyond.
"You think it'll feel different," he muttered.
Israel stood next to him. "What?"
"Being out there. Actually in it."
Israel was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "We'll find out soon."
And they turned to walk back—shoulders square, boots silent against the floor—knowing the next time they stepped onto a battlefield, it wouldn't be for a simulation.
It would be for survival.
---
Morning came fast.
The dorms stirred before the overhead lights fully brightened, boots hitting the floor, lockers sliding open, datapads blinking with assignment confirmations. The air carried a sharpness—somewhere between adrenaline and anticipation. This wasn't training anymore. This was the edge of the real thing.
Isaiah stood at the edge of the mirror, fastening the collar of his undersuit. His datapad had buzzed an hour earlier.
Suit Team Integration: Approved
Designation: Eidolon Frame Candidate
Assignment: Forward Unit Delta-9 – Active
Israel's screen showed the same. Except his designation read:
Gideon Frame Candidate
He hadn't said much, but Isaiah could read it in the way his brother moved—deliberate, steady, already bracing for whatever came next.
Callow was half-dressed, still trying to decide if he should wear his undersuit tucked or untucked. "I don't get why we're even meeting before breakfast."
Ortiz responded without turning around. "Because war doesn't run on your stomach."
Silva, fully suited, slid her sidearm into the holster with practiced ease. "He's not wrong."
At 0700 sharp, they assembled in the loading bay.
Veyra stood at the head of the formation, arms behind her back, posture like steel.
"You've been evaluated, assessed, and handpicked," she began, her voice carrying over the windless chamber. "Not for perfection—but for potential."
Behind her, a row of armatures unlocked and rotated forward, revealing five standard-issue armor frames mounted upright. Three were Lineward variants. Two—distinct in size and complexity—were designated for Suit Team integration.
The Eidolon Frame stood lean, angular, orange trim glowing faintly along its limbs.
The Gideon Frame stood broader, plated in deep green, with hardpoints visible beneath its forearms.
Isaiah inhaled sharply at the sight.
Israel gave a quiet nod.
"These are not toys," Veyra continued. "They are war-frames, designed to amplify the best of you—and expose the worst. Once you're synced, there's no room for error."
She tapped a control on her forearm. The platform beneath the Lineward armors shifted forward.
"Silva, Ortiz, Callow—you're locked into the Lineward Squad of Delta-9. You'll be embedded with the Suit Team and operate as forward recon and direct engagement support."
Callow exhaled slowly. "No pressure."
"Johnson. Johnson," Veyra said, turning to face the brothers. "Step forward."
They did.
"Effective immediately, you are candidates for Suit Team Delta-9. Further sync trials will determine operational clearance, but as of now—you are active assets. Get used to the weight."
Isaiah looked at his suit.
It was real now.
Not a simulation. Not a maybe. But real.
Veyra turned away. "Briefing in one hour. Suit prep begins immediately. Dismissed."
As the others moved, Isaiah lingered, eyes still on the Eidolon frame.
Israel placed a hand on his shoulder. "We made it."
Isaiah nodded slowly. "Yeah. But it's just the start."
And together, they stepped into the prep zone, toward the machines that would define the rest of their lives.
---
One hour later, the brothers stood inside the Suit Integration Bay, a vaulted chamber layered in gunmetal and blue light. The air smelled faintly of sterilization agents and micro-lubricant. Massive cranes and robotic arms hung suspended from the ceiling, poised above each armor cradle like waiting vultures.
The Eidolon and Gideon frames stood in the center of the bay—fully powered down, but somehow still imposing.
Isaiah ran a hand along the plating of his frame. The orange shimmer was muted under the lights, but it gave the whole thing a pulse, like it was breathing beneath the metal.
"Can't believe this is mine," he muttered.
Israel stood beside his Gideon unit, hands behind his back, quiet and composed. "It's not yours until it stops killing you."
Isaiah chuckled. "You're such an optimist."
Before Israel could reply, a technician approached—tall, gaunt, with a tablet and a headset pressed against his temple. "Johnson brothers. We're running diagnostics and prepping neural interface calibrations. You'll each be strapped in for a test sync. You pass that, the suits boot with your ID locks."
The tech pointed toward a pair of black chairs lined with cable ports and cranial diodes.
"Strap in. Don't flinch."
Isaiah dropped into his seat. The harness clamped over his chest. Dozens of fine cables slithered across his scalp and spine, finding contact points.
Across from him, Israel remained calm, eyes forward.
The tech raised a hand. "Sync initializing. You'll feel pressure in the back of your skull. Keep your eyes open."
Isaiah braced—
—and then the world twitched.
A flood of noise, heat, thought—not pain, not exactly, but like something had grabbed the back of his mind and pulled it forward.
Flashes of imagery. HUD lines. Synthetic readouts. His own voice, echoed back with delay.
> EIDOLON FRAME STATUS: LINKED
NEURAL CONNECTION RATE: 94%
CALIBRATION COMPLETE
SYNC STRENGTH: ACCEPTABLE RANGE.
It passed almost as fast as it started. Isaiah sagged in the chair, chest heaving.
Then a ping from across the room.
> GIDEON FRAME STATUS: LINKED
NEURAL CONNECTION RATE: 96%
CALIBRATION COMPLETE.
SYNC STRENGTH: ACCEPTABLE RANGE.
The tech gave a satisfied nod, scribbling notes. "You're both cleared. You'll get adjusted AIs within the week. Until then, suits stay dry-docked."
Isaiah groaned and pushed himself up. "Why do I feel like I got headbutted by a dropship?"
Israel stood slowly, not winded at all. "Because you flinched."
Isaiah rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
As they walked out of the integration bay, side by side, the lights dimmed behind them. Their suits—Eidolon and Gideon—stood idle for now.
But not for long.
Outside the chamber, the rest of their squad waited—Callow tossing a ball of ration gum into the air, Ortiz leaning back against a wall, Silva reviewing tactical briefs from her datapad.
Callow spotted them and grinned. "So? You guys still alive?"
Isaiah rubbed the back of his neck. "Barely."
Ortiz looked at Israel. "Didn't even faze you, huh?"
"No."
Silva gave a slight nod. "Good. You'll need that."
Their datapads all pinged at once.
MISSION SIM: 0900 HOURS.
PREP FOR BRIEFING.
FORWARD UNIT DELTA-9: ACTIVATION SEQUENCE CONFIRMED.
They all stared at the notification in silence for a second.
Callow broke it. "Well… guess we're not tourists anymore."
Isaiah looked around at the squad. The weight of it settled in his chest—not fear, not even nerves. Just reality.
"Guess not."
And together, they walked down the corridor, deeper into the heart of their new future, shadows cast long behind them.