The second I stepped through the Dome Protection Club's double doors, the usual chaos was already in motion.
Lockers slammed. Cadets barked mid-grapple, cursed when they hit the mat, lit up plasma batons with a flick of the wrist. The room pulsed with sweat, charge, and repetition—like a war machine on its fifth caffeine cycle.
No one stopped when I walked in. The rhythm held. But I caught the eyes. Not all, just enough. A few shoulder checks that lingered. Someone squinted, like I might explode if they stared long enough.
Nothing loud. Nothing new.
Just the usual static that came with being me. The maybe-infected. The top scorer with the wrong last name and a face everyone pretended not to scan twice.
"Streights!" someone called across the floor. Not an accusation this time—just that clean, command-tinged voice I'd know anywhere.
Ethan Casey was already weaving through two cadets running drills, casual as a breeze through a warzone. He had the build of a squad leader and the smile of someone who didn't need to prove it. Sharp uniform. Cleaner jawline. Son of a Dome Squad Commander and probably one interview away from his own command clearance.
He tossed me a holopad without slowing.
"You're late," he said. "But since you're consistently making people motivated with your scores, I figured I'd let it slide."
I caught it one-handed. "That's what I'm here for. Morale boost and casual cardio."
"Speed, agility, endurance," Ethan said, tapping the pad as he reached me. "Top of the board. Again. You know this is starting to feel rigged, right?"
I stared at the results. My name, annoyingly, was still sitting there in the number one slot. I tried not to let the rush of relief show.
"Pretty sure the drones have a personal bias. I winked at one once."
He shook his head. "Or maybe you're actually just good."
"Dangerous talk. I want them to keep thinking it's just a glitch."
Before Ethan could fire back with another friendly compliment disguised as a performance review, another voice cut in, tight, annoyed, and just a little too competitive.
"Please tell me this week's numbers are a glitch."
Millie Turner appeared like she'd been pacing in circles waiting to ambush someone. Her jacket was already half-unzipped from cooldown. Hair tight in a regulation ponytail. Boots scuffed from overtraining.
She stopped in front of us with arms crossed and a face that screamed someone is about to get smoked in the next sprint circuit.
"Third week you've beaten my time," she said, leveling me with that classic Millie stare. "You know I hold the middle school record sector-wide, right?"
"And now you've got the canvas for a compelling comeback arc," I said. "You're welcome."
"Keep running your mouth, and you'll be limping to reflex drills."
I gave a mock salute. "Crushed or motivated?"
"Motivated," she shot back. "Reflex trial's next. I'm reclaiming the throne."
Millie was one of the few people here who didn't treat me like I had a countdown timer ticking under my skin. She didn't care about legacy lines or infection rumors. She cared about results. Beat her, and you'd better do it clean.
She used to be a track and field prodigy—sector-wide gold, scholarship to Ossius, the whole package. She didn't get here through politics or bloodline like me. She got here by outrunning everyone else. And she wasn't about to let me keep beating her without a fight.
Ethan grinned. "At this rate, they're going to start using Ray's face in recruitment propaganda."
"I'd rather volunteer for limb reattachment training," Millie muttered, but she didn't look away from me.
I smirked. "Weirdly flattered."
Then the air shifted.
"Figures," a gruff voice said, loud enough to cross the floor. "Amber boy's on top again."
Kyle Moss.
Buzzcut, broad shoulders, jaw like a bruised ego—he moved through the club like someone who'd been told the room belonged to him and had never questioned it. His Dome Squad jacket was regulation-perfect. Pressed. Polished. Probably ironed by guilt-tripped underlings.
He didn't need to find an audience. It was already watching.
Ethan stiffened beside me. Millie's eyes closed for a half-second, already tired of the conversation.
Kyle zeroed in.
"You know what I don't get?" he said, like we'd all asked. "How a walking infection vector with a geneticist dad and zero combat lineage keeps topping our physical trials."
I offered him my best smile. "Maybe the drones just like my personality."
"You don't belong here, Streights," he snapped. "You're not Squad. You didn't grow up on drills. You didn't earn your place."
I tapped my club patch. "Patch looks legit. Want to call the authenticity hotline?"
He took a step closer. "Don't act like the governor's daughter backing you up isn't why you're still here."
That one slipped past my sarcasm shield.
"I'm sure that Carrow girl is not protecting you because she believes in you," Kyle said. "You're in her head. That's what viruses do, right? Quiet. Manipulative. Spread before anyone notices. Maybe she's your first infection."
Ethan stepped between us. "Ray, Kyle. Simmer down, will you? Coach is about to be here any moment now."
He ignored him.
"Take off the glasses, Streights. Show everyone what's really behind those lenses."
"No."
"What's the matter? Scared that your amber eyes might trigger an infection alarm?"
I could feel my pulse climbing. Not from fear. From restraint. My knuckles itched. My grip twitched.
And then—because the universe has the worst timing—the voice came slithering back in.
Llet mme iin. Jjust aa llittle. Ii'll mmake ssure hhe sstops bbreathing tthrough tthat ssmug hhole iin hhis fface.
No.
Ccome on. Hhe's ddisrespecting yyou. Hhe's bbarking llike aa tthreat. Yyou wwant ccontrol? Ttake iit. Wwith fforce.
"I said no!" I snapped.
Too loud.
The air around us chilled. A few cadets nearby stopped mid-movement. Someone dropped a baton. The whisper ripple started, low and fast.
Kyle's face split into a victorious grin.
"There it is," he said. Talking to yourself. Symptom number one. I hope everyone's paying attention."
Eyes flicked toward me. A few stepped back.
Ttold yyou. Tthey aalready tthink yyou're oone of us. Mmight aas wwell eearn iit.
I clenched my fists. Bit the inside of my cheek until the metallic tang hit my tongue. Focus. Stay grounded.
Then the double doors slammed open like the facility itself had lost patience.
Boots followed—heavy, even, and deliberate. Not hurried. Not stomping. Just the kind of steps that made you aware of how much noise you were making by comparison.
The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. Cadets straightened on instinct. Conversations clipped mid-word. A sim pod beeped once, then went silent like it regretted existing. Even the drones hovering above the mat froze in place, mid-drill.
Coach Barion Marley didn't enter the room so much as take command of it. And the room obeyed.
Mid-thirties. Broad, scarred. Moved like he knew exactly how much force he needed to shatter you and chose not to. His Dome Squad coat bore the kind of wear that didn't come from fashion choices—frayed edges, a burn along one sleeve, squad patch dulled from years of weather and breach dust. His right hand was bound in a black exo-brace, the kind used after trauma. Word was, he lost full rifle function during a failed mission outside the wall. They pulled him from active duty and dropped him here, into coaching. Lucky us.
His hair was close-cropped, not for style but because he didn't want it getting in the way. His stare didn't just land on you—it scanned, measured, catalogued. You got the feeling he didn't need a data pad to know exactly how you'd perform in a crisis.
I stood straighter before I even realized I'd moved.
Because this was Dome Squad, in the flesh. Not the posters, not the propaganda reels. The real version. And as much as he scared the circuits out of everyone here... I'd kill to wear that coat.
When he finally spoke, the room didn't just listen. It shut up and learned.
"Moss. Streights," he said, voice low and razored.
And suddenly I felt like I'd been called out in a stadium full of ghosts.
Kyle went rigid. I held still, pulse in my ears.
"I've been standing outside that door for three minutes," Marley said, tone scraping against the walls. "Listening to one of you invent conspiracy theories and mocking one another."
Kyle opened his mouth, probably to blame me for existing.
"Don't." Marley raised a hand. One word. No room to breathe in it.
Kyle shut his mouth so fast it clicked.
Then his gaze shifted to me. I braced.
"You're top of the board," Marley said. "That doesn't just mean running fast and flipping drones. It means control. Discipline. You lose it over some loudmouth cadet? What are you gonna do when a Class B tears your arm off mid-mission? Cry about tone?"
I gritted my teeth. "No, sir."
"Good. Because if I wanted emotional breakdowns in my club, I'd start a theatre division."
He turned to Kyle without missing a beat.
"And you. Ignore your club president's orders again, and I'll kick you out of the club. We don't need people who cannot follow instructions from their leaders."
Marley then clapped his hands once. Loud, sharp, no room for confusion.
The club moved like muscle memory. Cadets fell into formation without a word, a clean line of red and black jackets snapping into place across the floor. Like they'd been waiting all day for an excuse to look disciplined.
"This morning, five infected pings showed up near the east perimeter. Two drones are offline. One scout's missing. That's not a sim. That's reality. That's what we're training for. Not this drama."
He swept the room once, slowly.
"Top ten cadets, on deck. You're up for weapons trial. No guns. No armor. Just your melee choice and two minutes to prove you're not dead weight."
His gaze snapped to me and Kyle like a targeting lock.
"Moss. Streights. You're first. The rest of you—prep for the reflex test."
And that was it. No dramatic pause. No chance to object. Just a verbal boot to the back.
Marley turned away, and the pressure hit.
Great. Of course I'd get Kyle as my trial partner. Because why not throw me into an arena with someone who thinks I'm a bioweapon with a superiority complex?
My pulse ticked up. Not fear, exactly. Just that familiar static in my chest. The kind that said, don't screw this up, or everyone watching will remember. Including Marley.
I exhaled through my teeth, jaw tight. If I was going to survive this—and walk away with my reputation still breathing—I had to be sharper than ever.
Kyle stormed toward the east lockers like he planned to punch the wall into submission. I headed west, jaw tight, lungs tighter, sarcasm taking a backseat to the quiet throb of pressure behind my eyes.
The locker hissed open after scanning my wrist, revealing a combat suit that was created specifically for this type of drill.
Sleek, matte black. No flashy logos. No fancy padding. Just smart-thread plating, kinetic dampeners, and a built-in humiliation system. If you got hit by plasma, the spot lit up red for everyone to see. No excuses. No hiding. Just shame, fully illuminated.
I'd say it looked cool, but the last time I thought that, I left the ring with a glowing shoulder and a limp in my pride.
I stripped off my uniform and pulled the suit on, the material clinging like it had opinions about me. The seals clicked at my wrists and neck, locking me in. No turning back. No pretending this was casual.
I hit the panel beside the locker, and the wall rack hissed open with mechanical flair, like it was about to announce the armory section of a post-apocalyptic fashion show.
Rows of plasma practice weapons extended outward on smooth metal rails. Everything gleamed under the overhead blue light like it had just been polished by a very nervous intern. Broadswords. Shock-resistant staves. Twin daggers that practically screamed, "I have something to prove." All of them retrofitted for training—balanced, simulation-safe, technically nonlethal... unless you counted the ego damage from a direct hit to your dignity.
My hand hovered over the plasma sword.
Standard issue for most Dome Squad Commanders. Sleek. Reliable. Just enough edge to say "I know what I'm doing" without sounding like a showoff. It was the same weapon I always picked in Nash's sim games. Swords were the commander's choice. Clean arcs. Tactical precision. The symbol of authority.
It was the smart pick.
It was the expected pick.
And yet—
My fingers hesitated, then drifted down the panel. Lower. Toward the one weapon I wasn't supposed to be thinking about.
The scythe.
Unconventional. Overkill. Way too agricultural. Nobody trained with one unless they wanted to be a cautionary tale in sparring class.
Except I'd used it before. In dreams. In hallucinations. And worse? I'd been good with it.
My hand stopped just above the handle.
Figures. Of all the things to be naturally cursed with, I get "mutant farm tool proficiency."
I sighed and grabbed the scythe anyway.
I stepped away from the panel, blade folded and locked, the faint pulse of dormant plasma humming against my glove. I then headed back to the arena, which was already packed with an eager crowd.
Across the arena, Kyle emerged in full combat mode—black suit on, axe spinning like he couldn't wait to open the ring with my spleen.
Of course, he picked the axe.
Big. Brutal. No subtlety whatsoever. It was basically the weapon equivalent of yelling all your thoughts at once and hoping volume counted as strategy.
Barion stepped into the circle. "This trial measures one thing. Control and weapon mastery. Two-minute round. Winner will be determined by whose bodysuit suffered the most damage."
His gaze swept over us like a scanner. Then he stepped back.
"Begin."
The ring flared to life, and Kyle charged like he thought subtlety was for cowards. His axe came down in a wide, screaming arc—big enough to scare a newbie, but too slow to land on anyone with working knees.
I slipped aside, blade up. Let the scythe kiss the edge of his swing just enough to spark. No red. No contact. Just a warning.
He reset fast and came low, trying to sweep my legs. I jumped over the blade, pivoted around, scythe trailing behind like it had teeth and a grudge. We broke apart, breath sharp. Still no hits.
Then the voice stirred, low and cold.
Hhe sswings llike aa hhammer ttrying tto hhit gglass. Tturn hhim.
I shoved it aside.
Kyle snarled, "What's the matter, Streights? Too scared to fight back?"
He lunged again, axe up. I let the scythe whistle past his ribs—close enough to sting, not enough to light. Still nothing.
He faked low, just like before.
I braced, ready to block the knee strike—only to take a punch straight to the faceplate. Solid. Dirty. Exactly his style.
I reeled. The axe followed. Powered off mid-swing, then lit up at the last second. My scythe caught most of it, but not all.
The blade skimmed my shoulder.
Red bloomed across my suit.
One hit.
I turned to Marley, expecting a warning, a rule check, something.
"I've seen enough," he said.
My gut sank.
"That's one strike," Kyle said, grinning. "We're not done yet."
I kept my tone steady. "Still time on the clock."
Marley didn't speak. Just stared like he was doing math on how fast I was about to lose. Then, after a long pause, he gave a nod.
The ring pulsed again. Kyle came in swinging hard—reckless now. Too much rage, too little aim.
And this time, the voice wasn't just whispering.
Rrotate rright. Ccounterclockwise. Ddon't ggive hhim ttime tto ssquare hhis hhips. Mmove bbefore hhe rresets. Hhit hhigh—tthen ddrop.
I moved.
The scythe whipped in a tight arc, slashing across his ribs. Red lit up. Kyle swore and lunged again, but I didn't let him set his feet. I kept circling, forcing his stance wide. The scythe wasn't about power—it was about angles. Leverage. Speed.
Ddon't sstop. Ddon't wwait. Nnext sswing iis hhigh. Ddeflect aat tthe wrrist aand sslice lleft—lleg.
I parried high, redirected his axe just off-target, and dropped low. The blade curved behind his knee, and the suit flared red again.
Kyle spun, shouting something I didn't bother catching. His axe came in too wide, and I was already inside his guard.
Bback ffacing yyou. Ggo ffor tthe sshin. Hhook aand sslide. Ddon't hhesitate.
I stepped through, pivoted, and caught his shin. More red. He was panting now, flinching between swings, desperate to land something. I could've ended it then. Could've cut him down another three times before he even reset his grip.
Instead, I let him try.
"Stop running and fight!" he snapped.
I smiled. "You're confusing running with outmaneuvering. I get it—it's the footwork."
He lunged again, teeth bared.
Ttap ccenter. Ffinish iit.
I let the scythe's flat kiss his chestplate.
Red bloomed across his sternum.
The ring flared.
Time.
Kyle froze, breathing hard. His suit was glowing like a war crime. I had one mark.
The silence snapped with his voice.
"He's cheating! He's syncing with something—I swear—he's using the virus!"
Barion stepped in, unimpressed.
"No, he's not."
Marley reached into his coat and pulled out a black, rectangular device—not school-issue. Military-grade Chrysotrax detector. The kind only Dome Squad units carried into breach zones. No delay. No false positives. No excuses.
He stepped in front of me, held it to my chest. The scanner blinked to life.
Green.
"Ray Streights," Marley said. "Negative for Chrysotrax. This isn't a guess. This is Squad-grade confirmation."
The room quieted. I can hear Kyle gritting his teeth.
Marley didn't stop there.
"This detector's used by frontline teams. You doubt it, you're doubting the very squads you want to join."
Silence.
Then he turned to me. "Glasses off."
I hesitated, then did it. The air felt sharper without them.
Marley locked eyes with me. "That's the look of a future commander. Focused. Calculated. Cold under pressure. You want to lead out there? You follow that example."
He tapped my shoulder once. Not gently.
"Good job, Streights."
Then he pivoted to the rest. "Next pair. Turner and Casey—front and ready."
Movement rippled through the line. A few cadets glanced my way. No one said anything. They didn't have to.
I slid the glasses back on.
And yeah, I felt it.
Not pride exactly. Not relief.
Just... something close to being seen.
The scythe cooled in my grip. I powered it down, the hum fading like a breath held too long.
Inside my head, the voice stretched with something that felt suspiciously like a smirk.
Ssee? Hhe ssaw iit. Hhe ssaw wwhat yyou aare. Bbecause oof mme.
I pinched my palm until it stung.
"I didn't let you in."
Yyou ddidn't hhave tto.
I didn't answer. Just watched Millie and Ethan take their places in the ring, still buzzing from the hit of Marley's approval.
Because whatever else I was?
I'd earned that.
For now.