The corridor smells of damp concrete and antiseptic.
My boots echo against the polished floor, a hollow rhythm that syncs with my pulse. The training yard ahead is already alive—other assets moving like shadows, soft-footed, taut with instinct.
The pursuit drill begins with a signal: a shrill chime that tears through the hum of Meridian's ventilation.
I tighten my grip on the straps of my gear. Eyes scanning, mind cataloging: trajectories, obstacles, weaknesses. My target—a synthetic runner, programmed to evade with erratic bursts, is already darting ahead. I move.
And then it happens.
My muscles shift, a subtle tremor first, then coiling energy crawling under my skin like water seeking an escape. Reflex overtakes thought.
The world slows, though my eyes see every flicker, every shadow, every possibility. I catch the runner mid-turn, body folding in impossible angles, feet barely skimming the ground. My Echo has triggered.
It feels…right.
But hollow.
There's a resonance in my chest, a void beneath the rush. Power pulses through me, intuitive, liquid, elegant—and yet there's a weight, a reminder: this isn't freedom. It's control. Calculated, registered, logged.
Every motion, every flex of muscle, every microsecond of speed is already being noted. The system will mark it, catalog it, and own it.
I land in a crouch, boots whispering against the synthetic turf. Heart racing—not from exertion, but from awareness. Awareness that every instinct, every instinctual grace, is now logged.
My signature is etched into Meridian's ledger.
I am marked.
The yard blurs around me. Others are moving too, their shadows and Echo pulses mingling with mine. I feel them—not their thoughts, not yet—but their patterns. Timing. Rhythm. Predictable deviations.
I slip between them, predator and prey indistinguishable.
Captain Varn's voice cuts through the hum of the yard, sharp and precise.
"Seren. Stop."
Not a request. A command that doesn't need volume. The sound vibrates straight into my bones. I pause mid-stride, muscles coiling like spring steel. Varn is stepping onto the field, boots clicking against the metal plating.
He doesn't just enter space; he asserts it. Everyone freezes subconsciously, eyes flicking toward him. Authority in motion.
I straighten, breathing measured, heart still thrumming from the first burst. Eyes meet his—not submissively, not arrogantly, just deliberately.
He notices.
"Yes, Captain?" I murmur.
"Interesting. Your Echo…activated without external stimulus. Log it." He says, tilting his head. Calm. Evaluative. Dangerous in its quiet.
I feel the weight behind those words. Not just a note in a file—attention is interest. Interest is danger. The system rewards control, but only when it is predictable. My surge wasn't predictable. I was reckless. Effective. Marked.
I am now an asset, distinct, logged, and observed.
I watch him walk away, every motion precise. The other youths resume the drill, but there's tension now. A subtle shift. Some glance at me, calculating.
Some glance at Varn, reading the change in his focus. Observing attention is more dangerous than pain. I file the reactions away, quietly, internally.
My hands itch with residual Echo energy. The coiled power hums faintly under my skin. Feral, graceful—but hollow. It flows beautifully, elegantly, yet something vital is missing. The resonance is precise, controlled, and…lonely.
I focus on the drill again. The synthetic runner is darting left, unpredictable. I move. My stride is longer, faster, and more instinctual than any other asset's. Time folds slightly at the edges.
I curve around an obstacle mid-air, landing silently, and the runner halts abruptly, trapped in a shadow of my movement.
I catch my breath at the final mark. Feet planted, body coiled. Every step, every motion, every heartbeat is cataloged. Signature logged. I can almost feel the digital ledger flickering somewhere, invisible but undeniable, marking my presence.
I am no longer just a participant. I am a variable.
Elara moves beside me quietly.
No words, just a glance. She doesn't smile, doesn't comment. But the acknowledgment is there. Recognition of skill. Recognition of survival. That subtle validation is more grounding than any praise.
I step back, loosening my stance. My muscles hum, tired but lit from within. My chest aches faintly—not from exertion, but from the hollowness I feel inside.
That surge, that grace, is intoxicating. But there is a void. The system will never let power be pure. It will always be measured, noted, and owned.
Captain Varn stops near me again, voice lower now, quiet enough only I can hear.
"You move with feral grace…but every motion is observed. Every signature is logged. Remember that."
I nod. Calm. Steady. Respectful, but not servile. I understand the subtext. Power is not freedom. Attention is not flattery. Observation is a leash.
Marked. Always marked.
The rest of the session proceeds with drills, but I move differently now—light, measured, aware. My Echo thrums faintly, just below threshold. Subtle ripples of energy, testing, feeling, but not enough to trigger another activation.
Observation first.
Control second.
Execution third.
I notice others reacting, whispering behind their masks, their eyes flicking toward me, reading, calculating. Peer dynamics are fragile here. Curiosity and fear mingle. Rowan would call it leverage.
I file the observations, silent. Allies are rare. Threats are everywhere. I am both.
Lunch in the mess hall is quiet. The hum of conversation under fluorescent lights, the scent of recycled air and synthetic protein paste, the soft scrape of utensils on trays.
I sit with Elara, still quiet, still understated. She doesn't speak first; she never does. But when she offers me a portion of rations, it feels deliberate, meaningful. Small gestures are currency here. Observation is everything. Trust is slower.
I eat without talking. Eyes scanning. Mind cataloging. Muscle memory and Echo control humming faintly under the skin. Attention. Observation. Signature. Logging.
Later, alone in the small dorm bay, I allow myself a moment of reflection. The hollow thrill of my first activation lingers.
Grace without freedom.
Strength without choice.
Every surge, every movement, logged, recorded, observed. The ledger is permanent. I am marked. Not just by the system, but by those who watch it most closely.
I close my eyes briefly. Feel the residual energy fading. Muscles unwind. Heart slows. Yet that hollow resonance remains. A reminder: power is a cage. Grace is a weapon. Observation is leverage. And every signature leaves a mark—permanent, undeniable.
A soft beep from the monitoring panel reminds me: the system knows. The ledger has logged the day's activity. My Echo signature is now permanent. My presence noted. My risk has been calculated.
I am no longer just 7-113. I am variable, observed, and dangerous.
And I will make sure the system regrets marking me so clearly.