Three days later, you stood in a reinforced training chamber beneath Echo's facility, facing off against your first real test.
The room was steel-plated, with shifting terrain modules—pillars, walls, moving platforms. It was like a game level designed to kill you.
"Training mode: Level 3," Voss's voice echoed over the speaker. "No lethal rounds. Nonlethal only... unless you screw up."
She was watching from the observation deck with Hartman, monitoring your bio-stats. Heart rate. Oxygen intake. Cellular activity.
You rolled your shoulders, muscles tense but focused. You could feel your power humming beneath your skin, reactive and awake.
Adapt. Learn. Evolve.
The walls shifted, and doors opened.
Two drones entered—six-foot combat units with shock blasters and batons. Their movements were precise, fluid. They weren't playing.
You didn't wait.
The first drone lunged. You stepped to the side, just a half-second too late—but your body registered the motion, calculated the angle, and adjusted.
The second strike missed you by an inch.
You dropped into a slide, grabbed the drone's leg, and twisted. It stumbled, recalibrated, and countered with a roundhouse strike. You blocked it—barely.
Pain flared along your ribs. You gritted your teeth, but already your skin was adapting—dull internal shifts regulating nerve response and hardening the tissue beneath.
The next strike didn't hurt as much.
You leapt up and mimicked the drone's spin kick—your leg following the exact trajectory. The impact dented its armor.
"Copy rate: 73%," Voss's voice said over the speakers. "Impressive."
The second drone shot a taser net.
You didn't dodge.
You caught it.
The second it touched your skin, your body spiked. Energy surged through your nervous system—but instead of collapsing, you focused. Mimicked. The current didn't burn. It flowed. Your cells rechanneled it.
Your fingers sparked.
You turned the net's energy against the drone—palms forward, electricity discharging in a focused arc.
Boom.
The drone exploded in a crackle of static and smoke.
The last drone raised a baton. You leapt forward—this time knowing how it would move. Your posture adjusted in midair. Muscles shifted. You copied its fighting algorithm, bypassed it, and planted a solid kick into its chest.
It slammed against the wall and didn't get back up.
"Training complete," Voss said. "That was Level 3. You just made it look like Level 1."
You breathed heavily, skin still tingling from the electricity. You looked up to the observation deck.
"Was that a pass?"
Hartman smirked. "You passed before you entered."
Later, as you sat in the locker room, catching your breath, Voss approached you with a tablet.
"You're not done."
You raised a brow. "What now?"
"Tomorrow, you spar with a live opponent. Another enhanced. Not a drone. I want to see how your power reacts when you're not dealing with programming—but instinct."
You leaned back against the bench. "You ever test people like me before?"
She nodded once. "A few. Most couldn't control it. One burned out. Another went feral. But you? You're still you. That's rare."
You met her gaze. "I don't want to become a weapon."
"Then don't," she said. "But learn how to fight like one. That way, no one ever uses you again."
You nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in.
You didn't ask for this power.
But if you had it—you'd master it.