Elite Scrutiny
The cockpit of the prototype frame smelled of ozone, burnt copper, and the metallic tang of a machine cannibalizing its own pilot. Kaelen clawed at the harness, his vision swimming with ghost-data—a mosaic of high-velocity combat maneuvers he had never performed, ripped from the squad he’d siphoned during the Outer Sector trial. The frame’s interface light, a steady, predatory blue, pulsed in rhythm with his racing heart. His neural sync was forty-two percent compromised.
He had forty minutes before the next trial, but the immediate threat wasn't the Proving Ground. It was the tracking bug latched onto the frame’s chassis like a tick, broadcasting his internal instability to the Academy’s central security hub. Kaelen slammed his fingers against the manual override, trying to purge the telemetry, but the frame resisted. It siphoned more of his focus, flooding his mind with the cold, calculated efficiency of a veteran pilot from a defunct research lab. The memories weren't his, but the muscle memory was. His fingers moved with unnatural, jittery precision, bypassing diagnostic blocks he’d spent hours failing to crack. He wasn't just piloting; he was being rewritten.
The heavy pneumatic doors to Salvage Bay 4 hissed open. The rhythmic thud of security boots—the kind that signaled a Vane-sanctioned audit—echoed against the steel. Director Vane entered, flanked by two sentry drones, their optical sensors locked onto the frame’s violet heat signature with algorithmic hunger.
“The telemetry logs from the Outer Sector were… erratic, Kaelen,” Vane said, his voice as clinical as a scalpel. He didn't offer a greeting. He walked to the frame, his gloved hand hovering inches from the chassis. “A bottom-tier pilot doesn't suddenly synchronize with a frame-state that shouldn't exist. Explain the surge.”
Kaelen felt the frame’s interface pulse against his cortex. The stolen combat memories swirled behind his eyes like static. He had to keep Vane away from the core log. “Intuition, Director,” Kaelen said, his voice flat. “The frame is damaged, but it’s responsive. I’m just adapting to the feedback loop.”
Vane’s eyes narrowed, scanning the interface. “You’re operating on borrowed time. This frame is a relic of a research lab that was shut down for a reason. If I find even a trace of unauthorized data-scraping in the forensic audit, you won't just be expelled. You’ll be dismantled.”
As Vane turned to leave, he tapped a command into his tablet. A sharp click echoed from the frame’s chassis. He had activated the tracking bug, turning it into a live-stream feed. Vane offered a thin, predatory smile. “We’ll see how your ‘intuition’ holds up under real-time observation.”
Once the doors sealed, Kaelen slumped in the seat. The bug was hard-wired into the neural bus; removing it would trigger a catastrophic system lockout. He had to feed it a loop. He channeled his remaining focus, feeding the bug a steady stream of ‘clean’ data—a masked, fabricated performance loop that mimicked a standard-tier pilot. It was a lie, but it bought him time. The process pushed his sync-compromise to forty-five percent. His vision blurred, the edges of his own identity fraying as the machine’s hunger grew.
He hauled his gear toward the hangar exit, his steps heavy with the phantom weight of the memories he’d consumed. He reached the heavy blast doors, ready to sprint for the transit platform, when a shadow detached itself from the bulkhead.
Lyra stood by the exit, her hand resting on the hilt of her kinetic blade. Her white-and-gold interceptor loomed behind her. She didn't look like a rival; she looked like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.
“The telemetry doesn't lie, Kaelen,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She stepped forward, the tip of her blade pressing against the cold plating of his cockpit canopy. “I’ve seen the feed. I know what you’re hiding in those logs—and I know it’s going to get you killed before the trial even starts.”