They had the range to themselves for once.

  The bay was carved into one of Valiant’s inner decks, a long, narrow space with segmented lanes and a low ceiling. Aurora painted faint blue silhouettes downrange, chest-high and featureless, just enough contrast to sight on. Everything else it left alone. No aim lines, no suggested stances. Just matte walls, scuffed deck, and the low, steady thrum of the ventilation fighting a losing war with propellant stink.

  “Mercer,” Jax said behind him. “Run it again.”

  Kaden rolled his shoulders once and set his feet on the faded lane markers. SMG up, stock snug into the pocket of his shoulder. He drew a breath, let it out, and eased his finger onto the trigger.

  Short, controlled bursts. Sometimes two rounds, sometimes three, sometimes a slightly longer stitch when his finger lingered a fraction too long. The weapon buzzed in his hands, muzzle climb easy to tame. Holes appeared in the silhouette’s chest, tight and centered. No Aurora score. No floating tags. Just dark patches where rounds had gone where they were supposed to.

  “Cease,” Jax said.

  He flicked the selector down to safe, keeping the weapon shouldered, muzzle downrange, butt firm in the pocket.

  “Reload,” Jax said.

  He shifted his focus to his off hand.

  The mag release sat on the side of the weapon, a familiar ridge under his thumb. He lifted his hand off the foregrip and brought it back, ring and pinky brushing machined steel before index and middle fingers settled into place.

  He pressed.

  The magazine dropped. His firing grip stayed locked. Kaden’s off hand swept down to catch the falling mag.

  His fingers brushed smooth plastic a heartbeat too late. The mag’s corner clipped his palm, skipped, and tumbled past.

  He tried to snatch it on reflex. Knuckles scraped plastic. The mag bounced off his thigh and slapped onto the deck at his boots.

  The sound was deafening to him.

  “Again,” Jax said.

  Kaden swallowed irritation. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  He crouched, grabbed the spent mag with the same hand, and shoved it back into an empty pouch on his harness by feel. The weapon stayed shouldered the whole time, dragging at his arms, reminding him this would be worse when it wasn’t just training.

  “Reset,” Jax said.

  He brought his hand back up to the receiver, this time slowing down. Thumb and index slid along the mag well edge until they found the release. Ring and pinky braced against the receiver, the artificial joints a fraction stiffer than the rest.

  Press. Drop. As the next mag fell, he moved with it, catching it by the base before gravity could have its way. He jammed the empty into a side pouch, fingers briefly fumbling with the flap, then slid his hand down to the next full magazine, tugging it free.

  Up, in. He brought the fresh mag to the well, met it at a slight angle, stuttered, scraped metal, then corrected and seated it with a clunk.

  He smacked the base with the heel of his palm. His hand slid forward again, found the charging handle, pinched it awkwardly between living fingers and the blunt, cold curve of alloy, and yanked it back, feeling the spring tension drag across mismatched nerves.

  Release. Let the handle slide home. Back on target.

  Clumsy. Slow. The only way he was doing it when the other hand was busy keeping the weapon up and pointed the right way.

  He lost track of the iterations. Fire—two rounds. Next time three. Once he let a five-round burst buzz out before he reined it back in and forced himself to tighten up again. Safe. Drop mag with that off hand, catch, stuff the empty into a pouch, pull a fresh one from another. Seat, slap, charge, back on target. Sometimes it flowed. Sometimes the two chrome digits bit too hard or not hard enough and he fumbled the curve of the magazine and had to fight gravity for it.

  Once he completely missed the mag on the drop and had to nudge it up with his boot and snag it near his shin. Jax didn’t comment. The silence said enough.

  Beside him, Navarro’s rifle barked in steady strings. Controlled Burst made art out of mid-range killing—two or three rounds per squeeze most of the time, the occasional four-round string when she chased a flinch. She didn’t chase bull’s-eyes; she carved clean, repeatable kill boxes.

  Two lanes down, Tanaka stood with a pistol, his injured leg set just so. Every shot was deliberate. His reloads were one-handed: eject, tilt, slap a new mag home, then catch the slide on his belt to rack it. No drama, just practiced necessity.

  Vos split his time between live fire and a Hornet control rig clipped to his vest, eyes tracking invisible paths only he could see. His slinged arm still complained if he raised it too long, so Jax had him alternating—shoot, then drone, then shoot again. Just enough to keep the muscles from atrophy.

  “Last cycle,” Jax called eventually. “Make it clean. Then we go find new ways to make you hate me.”

  Kaden took a breath, feeling sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades.

  SMG up. Short stitch this time—three, maybe four rounds, tight and fast. Safe. Mag release. As the magazine dropped, his off hand moved with it, fingers closing cleanly around the base.

  He rammed the empty into an open pouch, hand already sliding to the next full mag. Tugged it out, brought it straight up into the well, slammed it home in a single smooth line. Slap. Fingers on the charging handle, pull, release, back on target.

  No wobble. No scrape. It didn’t feel natural, but it felt possible.

  “Good enough for today,” Jax said. “Liang will yell at me if I steal all her progress. Rack it.”

  Kaden safed and cleared his weapon, heart thudding heavier from effort than nerves. His HUD chimed quietly in the corner of his vision.

  [AURORA//MOTOR ADAPTATION]

  Left Hand (Ring/Pinky) – Integration: +3%

  Context: Fine manipulation under load

  Feedback: Successful compensations logged

  He dismissed it without lingering.

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  Navarro slid her rifle into the rack with a satisfied exhale. “Controlled Burst felt decent today,” she said. “Groupings didn’t make me want to cry.”

  “Gross misuse of Aurora stat buffs,” Vos said. “Making all the rest of us look bad.”

  “You don’t need any help with that,” Navarro replied.

  Tanaka racked his pistol, checked the chamber, holstered with methodical precision. “You kept everything on the target,” he said to Kaden as they stepped clear of the lane. “That counts. Get that strength stat up and I won’t feel bad when I make you carry me.”

  “Working on it,” Kaden said.

  “Glowing praise,” Vos said. “We should celebrate. With more PT.”

  Jax’s expression didn’t change. “You’re very in tune with the universe, Vos,” she said. “Gym. Now.”

  They knew the way by heart. Down one deck, across two bulkheads, into the same battered space full of metal, rubber, and bad decisions.

  Jax didn’t bother with a speech this time. She dropped her helmet on a bench, rolled her shoulders, and snapped on a weight vest.

  “Same menu,” she said. “Different day. Sleds, treadmills, carries. We’re not getting softer just because Aurora says ‘good job’ once.”

  Navarro groaned quietly. Vos made a face. Tanaka just moved toward the sled like it had been waiting for him.

  The sled sat on its track, already scuffed from a hundred runs. Tanaka, all six foot four and somewhere around two-eighty of solid muscle and armor-habit, loaded plates in automatic motions, finding the weight that would hurt without breaking anyone.

  “Front harness,” he said, looking at Kaden.

  Kaden stepped in. Straps settled across his shoulders and chest. He wrapped his hands around the sled handles, skin and metal biting into worn padding, and leaned until the harness went taut.

  “Short steps,” Tanaka said. “Drive, don’t drag.”

  Kaden dug in.

  The sled resisted for a heartbeat, then started to move. Metal whispered over the deck. His legs lit up almost immediately, the distance to the far end of the track suddenly much longer than it looked.

  His grip shifted from firm to hanging on. The handle crept in his palm as sweat slicked his skin around the implants. He forced himself to loosen just enough that the bar sat in the hook of his hand while his legs did the heavy work.

  Tanaka trotted alongside, not quite relaxed, not quite strained, just there. “Breathe,” he said. “You stop breathing, it gets harder.”

  “Thought that was the point,” Kaden panted.

  “Point’s to move,” Tanaka said. “Pain’s just the invoice.”

  By the time Kaden reached the end of the track, his thighs were shaking and his lungs burned. He let the sled coast to a stop, leaning back into the harness for a second before forcing himself upright.

  “Switch,” Tanaka said.

  They swapped roles. Tanaka slid into the harness and took off with grim efficiency, limp present but contained. He didn’t talk while he pulled. He didn’t have to. The lesson was in the way he shifted his weight, in how he refused to let the bad leg be an excuse.

  “Kaden,” Navarro called from the treadmill bank, breathless. “You’re missing the comedy show.”

  He glanced over as he unbuckled.

  Navarro ran on a steady belt, rifle slung, breaking her pace every few seconds to hit the stop, plant, snap the weapon up, hold as if on a target, then drop and start moving again. It was ugly, sweaty, and exactly what Jax wanted: repetition until it looked less ugly.

  Vos, on the variable-grav treadmill, lurched as the gravity ticked up a notch. His next step landed like his boots had been filled with lead, and he grunted, catching himself on the rail with his good arm.

  “Feet, Vos,” Jax said. “If the deck throws a tantrum mid-fight, I don’t want to watch you fall on your ass.”

  “Noted, Sergeant,” he said. “On my long list of things not to do while being shot at.”

  They rotated. Kaden dragged the sled back, muscles complaining in fresh ways now that Tanaka’s weight braced it. Then Jax picked up a weight vest from a hook and tossed it at Kaden. It hit his chest with a solid thump.

  “Vest on for this part,” she said. “You're too scrawny. Make him work.”

  Kaden shrugged into it, buckled it down. A hundred extra pounds settled across his shoulders and chest, a solid, unyielding band of mass.

  “Partner carries,” Jax said. “Tanaka first.”

  Tanaka dipped, hooked an arm behind Kaden’s knees and another across his back, and hoisted him up—Kaden plus the vest, all awkward bulk and deadweight.

  “Too easy,” Tanaka grunted, but there was honest strain in it now. “You should eat more.”

  “Pretty sure I’m heavy enough,” Kaden said, jostled against his chest plate.

  Tanaka carried him down and back, pace steady. By the time he set Kaden down again, his breathing was louder, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt.

  “Your turn,” he said. “Vest off. You don’t need the extra when you’re hauling me.”

  Kaden stripped the vest off with fumbling fingers, dropped it by the cones, and stepped in front of Tanaka. Six foot four. Two-eighty of muscle and mass. A man built to stand in doorways and refuse to move.

  Kaden wrapped an arm behind Tanaka’s knees and another across his back and tried to haul him in a standard cradle carry.

  His legs took the weight for half a second, then buckled just enough that he had to set Tanaka back down before they both hit the deck.

  “Again,” Tanaka said quietly. No judgment, just expectation. “Adjust.”

  Kaden reset his stance, rolled his shoulders, and changed the plan. Fireman’s carry. He ducked, got his head and shoulders under Tanaka’s center of mass, grabbed at a wrist and a harness strap, and heaved.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then Tanaka came up, slowly, like the ship’s gravity had doubled. The 280 pounds across his shoulders made Kaden’s back scream. His thighs shook. His grip on Tanaka’s arm wobbled as his left hand fought to hold on.

  “Got you,” Kaden ground out.

  “Sure do,” Tanaka said, voice calm near his ear. “Take a step or we’re both going down. One at a time. Breathe.”

  Kaden stepped.

  Every pace felt like punishment. Tanaka was a furnace draped over his shoulders, dead weight except for the subtle shifts he made to help without stealing the work. Kaden focused on one step, then the next, forcing his legs to listen.

  Halfway down the marked lane, his vision sparkled at the edges. He clenched his jaw and kept moving.

  “You drop me,” Tanaka said mildly, “and I will haunt the shit out of you.”

  Kaden huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “I’ll write it into my will,” he panted.

  He made the turn at the cone at the end of the lane with all the grace of a drunken forklift and trudged back. When he finally let Tanaka slide down off his shoulders, his legs almost gave for real.

  He caught himself on his hands. The chrome digits scraped the mat. The other three fingers spread to take the worst of it.

  He sucked air for a few seconds, then pushed himself upright.

  “Getting there,” Tanaka said. “Another couple weeks and you might only hate me a little for going down.”

  “Another couple weeks and I’m filing a complaint with Aurora about your mass,” Kaden said.

  “That’s on genetics, not the System,” Tanaka said.

  They finished the block with lighter work—stretching, mobility, the unglamorous stuff that kept joints from seizing when someone shouted “move” at a bad time.

  Kaden’s thighs trembled. His calves felt like they’d been replaced with tension cable. His left hand shook faintly when he flexed it, the skin around the implants slick with sweat. He watched ring and pinky move with the rest of his fingers, a fraction of a beat behind.

  [AURORA//MOTOR ADAPTATION]

  Left Hand (Ring/Pinky) – Integration: +2%

  Note: Load-bearing & gross-motor engagement logged

  He acknowledged the ping and blew out a slow breath.

  The showers were quick and businesslike. Theta-3 had long since learned that lingering just meant running late for whatever block Aurora spat at them next. Kaden let hot water hammer his shoulders for a few seconds, then shut it off and dragged a towel over skin that felt two sizes too small.

  In the mirror, fogged and streaked, his left hand didn’t look any less wrong. Two chrome digits catching the light, hard and clean. He flexed them once, watching the motion travel up through tendons and nerve grafts.

  Still wrong. Less wrong than before.

  He pulled on shipboard fatigues. Just an undershirt, trousers, boots. His HUD blinked a small update into the corner of his vision.

  [BLOCK COMPLETE]

  Next: STANDBY – LOCAL

  Jax was waiting by the hatch when he stepped back into the squad bay, her own hair still damp, sleeves shoved up, datapad tucked under one arm.

  “Range, gym, showers,” she said. “You’re not completely useless. Miracles do happen. You’re on light standby for the rest of the cycle. Eat something that isn’t a stim bar. Hydrate. Stretch. If Aurora pings you, answer it. If it doesn’t, don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” they said.

  Navarro headed straight for her bunk, dropping onto it with a groan. “If anyone needs me,” she said, “don’t.”

  Vos slid onto the edge of his own bunk, poking at a drone cradle with exaggerated care. “I’m going to pretend I’m doing maintenance,” he said. “In reality, I’m going to see how long I can stare at the ceiling without having an existential crisis.”

  “Five minutes,” Navarro said without opening her eyes.

  “Rude,” Vos said.

  Tanaka eased himself down onto the lower bunk in the corner, stretching his leg out carefully. “If any of you cramp up and fall over, I’m not carrying you to medbay,” he said. “We did enough of that already.”

  “Noted,” Kaden said.

  He sat on his own bunk and unlaced his boots. His hands were slower than usual; the left cramped once halfway through, the new joints seizing for a moment before the muscles around them relaxed.

  He stared at the hand for a second, then flexed it into a fist, feeling the slight drag where old bone met new metal, not in perfect sync, but near enough.

  “You keep glaring at it,” Vos said from across the aisle, “it’s going to develop a complex.”

  “It started it,” Kaden said.

  “Looked all right from where I was standing,” Vos said. “Reloads on the range. Sled handles. Didn’t drop me in the spine. I’m giving it a passing grade.”

  “High praise,” Kaden said.

  He toed his boots off and lay back, folding his hands on his chest. The bunk felt narrower than usual, the ship’s hum a little louder. Somewhere else on Valiant, other crews were doing their own versions of the same thing: training, recovering, trying not to think too hard about the next red ping Aurora might throw at them.

  For the moment, there wasn’t one.

  Kaden let his eyes close, the ghost ache of his missing fingers and the dull burn in his muscles fading into the background as the ship’s vibration smoothed out into something almost like a lullaby.

  He didn’t notice the moment he drifted off.