Seems like we're starting from the top.
The Five-Forty's Lead declares, "Naughts, you're up. Your metrics are reaction, speed, and precision. A starting shot will go off. React quickly, move with agility, and strike with lethality. Whichever of you lands the first hit will be the victor."
"Your Cortex Shielding will deflect it," Mister Mason adds.
"Yes, without fail. This is a training drill. They've been enhanced to an extreme during these exercises. Prepare yourselves, Naughts. When both your hands are on your knives, I will assume you're ready for the shot to go off any moment."
Both of them limber up, standing in opposing corners. Zero exhales a deep breath and lowers her center of gravity, hand gripping the hilt of the huge kabar knife across her tailbone.
Four-Naught is still getting himself ready. He's glowing a staticky orange. Conflicted. With my Halo, I focus on Zero, who's emitting a tranquil aquamarine. My vision becomes one with hers as I occupy a space in her mind.
My thoughts mold together with hers.
"He's nervous. Don't hesitate."
She nods. He stands ready.
I'm holding my breath.
I think everyone is.
Silence ticks by.
Bang!
Zero wins.
It's that fast. Her knife clangs against his Shielding, which flares a violent orange at the impact. On the injury display, it shows a pierce to his heart, and an alarm buzzer briefly blares.
That's it. Exercise over.
She sheathes her blade and turns her back on him as he fumes at his Five. When she steps down, she gives me another nod. Severe, this one. Heh. Or maybe this naught. Instead of this one.
I sigh to myself. Dog damn it. Not funny.
Mister Mason lets out a long whistle. "Adjust you did, Zero. Twenty milliseconds under average. Outstanding. That's one win for us. Nice job."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The screens display her grade. Only hers, because she won. Four-Zero got the dreaded goose egg, but Zero's reaction is scoured at 252, speed is 237, and precision is 301, for a total CR of 790. I'm a little confused. I don't know how much more precise she could have gotten than a stab to the heart.
Still, she seems somewhat satisfied. Even having just one metric above three hundred is pretty good, relative to what Mister Mason said. That's the only basis I have so far.
"Nice job, Five-Naught," Mister Mason calls. "Ones, you're up!"
"Oh dear," ours sighs, then steps onstage.
The Forty's Lead says, "Ones will be sealed within a psio field around the stage's perimeter to block outgoing fire. Inside it, we will simulate a small section of battlefield with various forms of cover and terrain. The first to land lethal damage will be the victor."
Okay, that actually sounds like a lot of fun.
Mister Mason reads off his Holo, "Metrics are… positioning, mobility, and again, precision."
"When ready, Ones."
"Good luck, Four-One!"
"You too, Five-One."
The alarm blares.
I slip into her head, occupying a space adjacent to her mind. The terrain is reminiscent of a destroyed city, with all kinds of fallen pylons and concrete rubble to jump around on and hide behind.
"Go high," I tell her, "get above him."
Every Prime One has a brace on their non-dominant forearm that fires an electric blue bolt of psionic energy, which stops on contact with solid surfaces and pulls them toward it. Grapple bolting, it's called. It's cool as shit, but it's funny that they need hardware to do what we Fives can do naturally.
One's bolt hits the broken ceiling above and it whisks her upward. Gunfire follows her, whizzing past and hitting the psio field like it's rippling water. He saw the reposition, so she needs to suppress and move. One does exactly that, poking her head out to fire on his position then darting left and sliding behind a low fractured wall.
He's lost her, but he's repositioning too. She seizes the chance to get visuals. They both do it at the same time and bullets whip. My One takes a bad hit to the shoulder, falling onto her back. He closes the distance and finishes it before she can recover.
I leave her head. Can't help if she's missing shots. The alarm blares and he helps her to her feet before the simulation drops and they land on the cleared stage. The Fifty gets our first loss. Tragic. One is a good sport about it.
He gets a CR of 672. It's still too early for these numbers to mean anything to me. But I wonder what I'll get…
Mister Mason calls out, "It's okay, Five-One. It happens. How's the shoulder?"
Her Aura is somehow still pink, and she laughs a little. "It's fine! The hit knocked me over, but the Shield held, so I'm not hurt."
"You'll get him next time. Let the Orders take a look at you, make sure you're okay. Two, your turn. Knock her out of the ring!"
"Understood."
The Forty's Lead announces, "Twos, your drill will be more direct. You'll clash your abilities on a neutral standing, and whichever deals lethal damage first wins. Your three metrics are potency, efficiency, and stability."
He nods and she nods. Everybody's nodding.
The alarm blares and they circle each other, waiting and watching. She's expelling nauseating green, but he's a calm and collected amber. The intel I pass him isn't too detailed.
He has the advantage. Seize it.
Almost right after, he swipes his Conduit. A shockwave booms and surges across the stage, sending her flying. Their Six tosses their Seven into the air, who catches their Two in the mechanized hand like a baseball mitt.
Our Two doesn't stand on ceremony, dropping offstage before his grade comes up. Potency is 296, efficiency is 214, and stability is freaking 315. His CR is 825. Whoa.
"Try harder, Zero."
"Shut up, Two."
They're friends. It's fine.
I wish I had a friend to joke around with…
"Nice job, Two!" Mister Mason whoops. "Three, my boy! You're up!"
Decked out in his ExoArmor, all a big mechanical bunch of gunmetal gray armored plating, he punches his fists together and laughs before jumping up onto stage with a resonating boom.
"Threes," the Lead declares, "yours will be a contest of physical strength. Defeat or surrender. The match will only end with one or the other. Your metrics are might, efficiency, and technique."
"Just a good old fashioned brawl!" Mister Mason adds.
The two of them slam helmets and laugh before going to their corners. Absurd. Threes are very strange creatures. All brawn. No brains. And the ExoArmor disrupts Auras, so I'm not able to help in this one.
As far as I'm concerned, Three is on his own.
But I'm rooting for him anyway!
The alarm blares. The fight begins.
The two human tanks dive at each other, suits hissing and superheating as they grapple for control. Four-Three wrenches an arm free and sends a powerful hydraulic fist crashing against the side of my Three's head. I frantically look up at the injury report to find it unchanged.
Good. He's fine. So far, at least.
My Three drops his weight, hooks an arm around Four-Three's waist, and hip throws him onto the ground. The impact nearly fractures the stage and probably shakes the floor. I'm floating so I don't feel it, but I can hear things rattling around.
He follows through with a rocket propelled downward spike of a punch that Four-Three barely manages to evade. My Three keeps up the pressure, punching his fists together and throwing them apart as his orange shield expands, encompassing his opponent. There's nowhere to escape to, and Four-Three's shield isn't ready yet.
He makes the mistake of attempting to break his way out while my Three plants his boots and draws a fist back. His suit screams with steam and heat and ringing metal as the fuel injectors pump more and more potential energy into the payload. By the time Four-Three realizes the mistake, it's too late.
My Three's full body cross punch could level a building, let alone defeat his opponent. The explosive release of absurd power makes Four-Three vanish in a cloud of smoke. The shockwave nearly knocks me out of the air, but Zero grabs hold of my wrist before I soar away.
I find myself in disbelief. The screens above display it at two thousand Newtons. That force could break concrete. The injury display on Four-Three is a third in the red. He's definitely unconscious.
Three pulls off his helmet with a gasp as the smoke clears. The glass on Four-Three's visor is fractured, and the ExoArmor is dented in where the impact hit hardest.
"Mister Mason?" Three cries out. "Is–Was that okay? Is he okay?"
The Orders rush in with a stretcher to carry him off, armor and all, leaving the room silent and my poor Three looking around in bewilderment. Mister Mason whistles, beholden to the force readout.
"Three, I don't know where that came from. But uh, yep. He'll be fine. I think."
"Will he?" Three looks terrified. Now that his helmet is off, he's kicking out a nauseating green Aura. "I think I'm gonna be sick, sir."
"Get that armor off, kid, have a seat, get a drink. Orders?"
The faceless men assist him off the platform and to his station, which begins removing the pieces of the ExoArmor. I'm trying to get his attention but he's in total shock, and I don't just mean surprise. His vitals are all over the place, and his Aura is too.
I've seen Three fight in the simulations, and he's a clumsy idiot. Never have I seen him like that. Maybe being a slacker is working out for him? I just hope he's okay…
His grade posts on the screen.
Might is 331. Efficiency is 305. Technique is 314.
His CR? It's 950.
Whoa. That's almost a thousand.
"Three victories, one loss," Mister Mason calls with a grin, trying to get us past the mishap. "Go Five-Fifty! Next up!"
Eight whispers something to Nine and points, so I look. A trio of shadows. Black Orders dressed in black suits are gathered on the observation deck. How long they've been there, I can't say, nor can I read anything of their Auras.
The Watchers.
They're scary.
Nobody knows anything about them. And we've been observed by them plenty of times, but this feels different. I can't pin down exactly why. Only that their presence makes me very uneasy. Not once have they ever said a word to us, or the Leads, or even the Captains. It's like nobody aside from us recognizes their presence. All they ever do is watch us.
One of them is much, much bigger than the other two. I can't tell how I know it, but I feel like that one is looking right at me.
Mason cheerfully asks, "Four, ready to bring us home another win?"
"Huh? Oh, yes, sir." Glancing up at the Watchers, she mutters under her breath, "Shit."
As she steps up, the people above turn their heads to follow her. Four keeps throwing glances up at them, expelling a jagged orange and white Aura. Trepidation and terror. Her opponent, on the other hand, a tall boy with a cold look in his eye like Two, is just as calm as our Zero was.
She's going to lose. In front of the Watchers too.
"Fours," the Five-Forty's Lead says loudly, snapping all our attention from them to her. "A duel. A leaf will float from above. The moment it touches the floor between you, go for the kill. Whether that's by blade or range. Same as the Naughts, your metrics are reaction, speed, and precision. Hands on your tantos when ready."
Four is distracted. She keeps looking at the Watchers.
The anxiety around her gets worse.
I barge my way into her mind.
"Stop it, idiot. You'll only embarrass yourself in front of them if you lose. You will lose if you don't focus. Beat this guy and then freak out. Not the other way around."
Shaking my head, I back out of hers.
I've done more than she deserves.
The rest is up to her.
Her Aura doesn't change. It gets worse, actually, more jagged, more nervous. For whatever reason, she puts her hand on the grip of her tanto and takes her starting stance before she's actually ready.
The leaf drifts down.
She's doomed.
It touches the floor and, hey, look at that, she loses. The other guy hit her with an electrical throwing knife that stuns her like a taser. The injury report reads that it isn't lethal but he still wins because she's incapacitated.
Four-Four only scores a CR of 620.
My eyes roll. She lost to an amateur.
Zero goes to help her but Four swats her off, staggering over the edge of the stage with an angry snarl. "Damn it. Damn it!"
Mister Mason soothes, "It's okay, let it out," before he remembers we're being watched. He stiffens up. "That's religious diction, Subject Five-Five-Four! Another hour of cardio tomorrow! I'm so sorry!"
Chomping down on her lip, she screams with her mouth closed.
I have a chance to be mean. I should say something.
But… I don't think I want to be mean…
"Five-Five," Mason calls, waving me forth. "You're up."
Oh. It's my turn. I guess.
Okay. Forget it. Forget everything.
The Watchers are here. I have to win.
I'm eager to prove myself.