The two weeks between intake and permanent squad assignments passed in a blur of brutality that Valoris's body learned to endure even as her mind struggled to comprehend.

  She woke at 04:45 every morning fifteen minutes before the official alarm, those precious minutes still mattering, and ran five kilometers before her brain fully engaged. Past recruitment posters that lined the corridors (DIMENSIONAL DEFENSE: YOUR DUTY, YOUR HONOR, YOUR FUTURE), under banners proclaiming unity and sacrifice (HUMANITY STANDS TOGETHER), through the assembly ground where painted markers declared STRENGTH THROUGH SERVICE in letters large enough to read from orbit. The academy wrapped its messaging around you like atmosphere, constant and inescapable, reminding you why you were here even when your body wanted to quit.

  Her legs stopped screaming somewhere around day five. By day ten, she could maintain pace with the middle tier of runners instead of barely staying within washout tolerance. Not good enough to stand out. Not terrible enough to wash out. Exactly adequate; the space Valoris occupied in everything except academics, where five generations of preparation gave her edges that felt less like achievement and more like accumulated family advantage.

  Combat training remained humiliating but less catastrophic. She learned to fall correctly, to take hits without breaking, to deliver strikes with sufficient force while maintaining control. She would never be exceptional, would never move with Zee's natural violence or match the scholarship students' street-hardened instincts, but she became adequate. Functional. Good enough to not embarrass herself completely. The training room walls displayed tactical quotes from famous pilots, words meant to inspire but that mostly reminded Valoris of how far she fell short of the legends whose names decorated the memorial hall.

  Academic assessments she dominated. Tactical scenarios, dimensional theory, mech engineering fundamentals… all the knowledge her family had poured into her since childhood finally justifying its cost. She placed in the top five percent consistently, sometimes top three. Not because she was smarter than everyone else, but because she'd been preparing for these specific tests since age eight while others were learning basic education or working to support their families. Another advantage she hadn't earned. Another gap between her and the people who'd actually fought for their place here.

  Meditation training deepened day by day. Daily sessions in the chambers (SERVICE THROUGH SACRIFICE etched above each entrance), reaching toward the dimensional boundary, learning to hold contact for longer periods without her consciousness fracturing. By day four, she could maintain contact for two minutes. By day twelve, five minutes felt almost comfortable – if touching something infinite and alien could ever feel comfortable.

  Pod K lost four more students during those two weeks.

  Zainab Diallo on day five: psychological evaluation follow-up revealed concerning dissociative tendencies. He'd been counting the days until he could leave.

  Leila Nazari on day six: dimensional sensitivity insufficient despite initial clearance. She couldn't progress beyond thirty-second contact without breaking focus.

  Hiroshi Tanaka on day nine: academic performance declining, combat training plateau, overall assessment of inadequate improvement trajectory. He'd tried. Just not hard enough or fast enough or well enough.

  And on day eleven, terribly, Sarah Mitchell broke during an advanced meditation session. She'd touched something on the other side of the boundary – something that touched back – and began screaming. She slammed her head violently into the floor over and over, sobbing, “Get it out of me! GET IT OUT!” Instructors swarmed her, held her down, called for medics who sedated her and carried her away with blood trickling from her scalp.

  Ten remained. Pod K had started with twenty students and now held ten. Exactly fifty percent attrition. Worse than academy average, better than some pods, devastating regardless of statistics. Kaito Thorne and Sable Vex remained, along with Zee and Quinn.

  They didn't talk about it much. What was there to say? The ones who washed out had been inadequate by whatever metrics the academy used. The ones who remained had been adequate enough to survive another day. Tomorrow might prove them inadequate too.

  So they trained. Ran. Studied. Meditated. Endured.

  And waited for permanent squad assignments.

  The announcement came during morning formation on day fifteen, when the remaining students – down from five hundred and twenty-three to three hundred and seven – stood in their depleted pods while Commander Thrace surveyed them with the expression of someone evaluating livestock.

  Behind her, the massive display screens showed rotating recruitment imagery: pilots in heroic poses, mechs standing against dimensional rift scars, civilians safe behind defensive lines. THEY DEFEND. WE STAND. The message cycled with mechanical precision, backdrop to whatever Thrace was about to announce.

  "The baseline assessment period is now complete," she said, voice carrying across the assembly ground without amplification. "Adequate performance from those still standing. Unacceptable performance from those now processing dismissal paperwork. There may be places for them among the defenders of humanity, but they will never pilot a mech."

  Harsh. True. Thrace didn't deal in comforting lies.

  "However, you have all survived initial evaluation. Today you receive permanent squad assignments. These are your people for the next four years: your family, your support structure, your tactical unit. Squad composition has been determined by compatibility analysis, aptitude assessment, tactical role requirements, and algorithmic optimization for maximum operational effectiveness."

  She paused, letting that settle. Valoris felt her stomach tighten. Algorithmic optimization. They'd been sorted like data points, categorized and arranged according to metrics she'd never fully understand. Above the assembly ground, another banner proclaimed ONE MISSION, ONE FUTURE, as though reducing humans to compatible variables served some greater purpose.

  "Squads consist of five members. One designated squad leader based on tactical assessment scores, command potential, and psychological stability evaluation. Squad leaders are not necessarily the strongest combatants or highest academic performers. They are the ones deemed most capable of coordinating four other humans into functional tactical units."

  Beside Valoris, Zee shifted slightly. Almost imperceptibly, but present, some tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there seconds before.

  "Squad names follow designation protocol: Primary family name of squad leader, followed by numerical designation. Your squad name is your identity. Earn it or disgrace it. Either way, it's yours."

  Thrace pulled up a tablet, consulted it briefly, then looked back at the assembly.

  "When your squad is called, the leader will take position at designated markers." She gestured to spots on the ground marked with luminescent paint. Sixty-one positions, five meters apart, organized in grid formation. "Squad members will join your leader as names are called. Alphabetically. Efficiently. Without excessive emotion or commentary."

  Without excessive emotion. Because watching algorithmic sorting assign you to strangers for four years shouldn't inspire feelings.

  "Squad assignments are final. No appeals. No transfers. No special requests. The academy has determined optimal configurations. Trust the system or wash out questioning it."

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She consulted her tablet again.

  "Squad Crowe-01. Squad leader: Crowe, Marcus."

  A blond boy Valoris vaguely recognized from academic testing moved to the first position marker with confident strides. Legacy family, she thought. Something in the way he carried himself suggested resources and preparation.

  "Squad members: Castellan, Derek. Hsu, Jennifer. Kowalski, Zofia. Morrison, Dante."

  Four students moved to join him, efficient, professional, no visible reaction to their assignments. Squad Crowe-01 stood together, evaluating each other with the kind of careful assessment people used when meeting inevitable companions.

  "Squad Delgado-02. Squad leader: Delgado, Bianca."

  Bianca Delgado moved to the second marker like a girl who knew what she was doing. Her squad joined her, circling her as though to protect her already.

  "Squad Thorne-03. Squad leader: Thorne, Kaito."

  Kaito moved to his position marker with the same easy confidence he brought to everything, grinning as his squad members were called.

  "Squad members: Gray, Corwin. Kaine, Petra. Korrin, Jace. Vex, Sable."

  Sable Vex, the quiet girl from Pod K, joined Kaito's squad with her characteristic precision. The others moved with varying degrees of enthusiasm or resignation. Squad Thorne-03 looked... functional, Valoris decided. Kaito's natural leadership might balance whatever tensions the others brought.

  The assignments continued. Squad after squad, leaders taking positions, members joining them. Some squads looked cohesive immediately; similar builds, compatible energy, natural synchronization visible even in how they stood together. Others looked like collections of mismatched parts that someone had decided should function as a whole.

  Valoris watched Zee as the assignments progressed. Her expression remained neutral, professional, giving nothing away. But something in her posture suggested calculation; where will I end up? Who will I be stuck with? Will I be leading or following?

  More squads. More assignments. The assembly ground filled with small clusters of five students each, all of them processing the same reality: These people are my squad now. For four years. For better or worse.

  The names continued, alphabetically relentless. Each announcement another group of strangers bound together by algorithmic determination. Valoris's hands were clenched at her sides without her quite remembering when she'd made fists. Her breathing had gone shallow. Around her, other students stood with similar tension, waiting to discover their fates.

  "Squad Kade-07. Squad leader: Kade, Valoris."

  The world tilted.

  Everything – sound, sight, awareness – compressed into those four words that couldn't possibly mean what they seemed to mean but did, absolutely did, undeniably did.

  Squad Kade-07.

  Not just assigned to a squad. Not just given a tactical role. Made the leader. The person responsible for coordinating four other humans into a functional tactical unit. The one whose decisions would determine their success or failure. The one who–

  And of course, of course they'd named the squad after her family. After five generations of Kade pilots, legendary Kade mechs, famous Kade deployments. Squad Kade-07, carrying the weight of that history into every evaluation, every ranking, every moment when people would look at them and measure them against impossible standards.

  I can't do this, Valoris thought, the panic immediate and suffocating. I don't know how to lead people. I can diagram tactics but I can't… I'm barely adequate at combat, mediocre at physical training, only good at academics because my family paid for private tutors since I was eight. They made me leader because of my last name. Because of test scores that represent accumulated advantage, not actual capability. Because the algorithm saw "Kade" and assumed I'd inherited leadership along with corruption scars and family expectations.

  I'm going to fail them. Whoever they are, whatever they need from a leader, I don't have it. I'll make the wrong calls. I'll get them injured or killed or washed out because I don't know how to translate theoretical tactics into actual human coordination. I'll disgrace the squad name… my family's name… and prove what I've suspected all along: that I'm an imposter who shouldn't be here.

  The thoughts crashed through her awareness with drowning intensity, each one true and terrible and inescapable. But her body moved anyway, muscle memory from two weeks of training overriding the panic, carrying her toward position marker seven on legs that had gone numb and distant.

  Around her, other squad leaders watched with varying degrees of interest or indifference. Some knew who she was: legacy recruit, famous family, five generations of expectation. Others didn't care. She was just another squad leader now, responsible for four other people's survival. Just another name on the roster. Just another girl who'd been given authority she hadn't earned and responsibility she didn't know how to fulfill.

  The assembly ground's display screens cycled to new imagery: squads in perfect formation, pilots moving with synchronized precision, text proclaiming TOGETHER WE DEFEND. Aspirational propaganda promising coherence that Valoris couldn't imagine achieving with strangers she hadn't met yet.

  She reached position marker seven and stood there, trying to make her expression neutral instead of terrified, doung her best to breathe normally instead of in shallow gasps, desperate to look like someone who deserved to be a squad leader instead of someone actively drowning in impostor syndrome.

  I don't know how to do this, the thought repeated, louder now, more panicked. I can see tactics but I can't– I don't know how to lead actual people–

  She pushed the thought down. Stood straight. Made her expression neutral. Let none of the panic show.

  "Squad members," Thrace continued, consulting her tablet. "Maddox, Saren."

  The girl with severe features and black hair, the one Valoris had seen studying alone in the mess hall, eating with mechanical precision while reviewing materials on her tablet, moved toward position seven with controlled fury barely contained beneath rigid military bearing.

  She stopped three feet from Valoris and looked at her with cold assessment that felt like being dissected. Grey eyes that missed nothing. Expression that communicated absolute contempt without speaking a word. Her gaze said clearly: You don't deserve this position. You haven't earned it. I'm going to watch you fail.

  Valoris felt something shrivel under that stare. Every inadequacy she'd been trying to suppress suddenly visible, exposed.

  "Renn, Milo."

  A boy Valoris didn't immediately recognize, then remembered the name: Pod O's infamous equipment modifier. The one who'd gotten written up twice on day one for tampering with academy systems. He approached their squad with focused energy, adjusting glasses that were so smudged with fingerprints and what looked like grease that she wondered how he could see through them.

  "Hey," he said, looking between Valoris and Saren with the kind of quick assessment that suggested his mind was already cataloging, categorizing, calculating. "Kade-07. Awesome" He caught himself, pushed his glasses up. They immediately slid back down. "Right. We'll see how this goes."

  Saren's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Milo's eyes were already tracking to the other squads forming nearby, measuring distances, evaluating.

  "Sterling, Quinn."

  Quinn moved with their characteristic precision, counting something silently as they crossed the assembly ground. Valoris had seen them every morning during Pod K's two-week cohabitation. Always awake at exactly 04:32, always the same morning routine, always counting tiles or steps or something else only they could perceive. Everything about them suggested desperate need for structure.

  They stopped beside Milo and looked at Valoris with flat assessment. "What squad ranking are we projected to achieve?" The question hung in the air, matter-of-fact, as though asking for tactical data instead of predictions about collective performance.

  "I don't know yet," Valoris said carefully, trying to keep her voice steady despite the panic still clawing at her throat. "We haven't trained together."

  Quinn's expression didn't change, but something in their stillness suggested this answer was insufficient. They pulled out a tablet, began typing with focused intensity. Recording, maybe. Or calculating something that would prove Valoris's inadequacy mathematically.

  "Zavaretti, Kessa."

  Zee walked toward Squad Kade-07 with shoulders tensed, lips tight. She hadn’t said anything these past weeks but Valoris knew she’d been hoping to make squad leader. She’d probably do a better job of it.

  She stopped beside Quinn and looked at Valoris with the same assessing expression she'd used that first day in the mess hall. So you're the squad leader. Let's see what you've got. Not hostile. Not quite friendly. Professional evaluation from someone determining whether the person designated as leader actually deserved the position.

  Valoris felt the weight of four sets of eyes on her: Quinn's analytical intensity, Milo's rapid attention, Saren's cold contempt, Zee's professional evaluation, and knew with absolute certainty that she was about to disappoint all of them. That they could see through her neutral expression to the panic underneath. That they knew she was inadequate before they'd even begun training together.

  Five generations of Kade pilots, she thought desperately, and I'm the one who's going to fail. Not in combat. Not in deployment. Right here, right now, unable to even look like I know what I'm doing.

  She kept her expression neutral. Steady. Let none of it show. But she suspected they saw it anyway.

  Thrace continued reading squad assignments. Schmidt-08, Ahmed-09, moving down the list, but Valoris barely heard. Her entire world had condensed to five square meters containing five people who were now indefinitely bound together.

  Squad Kade-07.

  She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

  Instead she stood very still and tried to look like someone who knew what they were doing, while internally drowning in the certainty that she had no idea, had never had any idea, and was about to prove it spectacularly to four people who were depending on her not to fail.