The training room felt heavier than before.
Jones stood at the center once again, but this time the air itself seemed to press down on him. He could feel it—not physically, but through the strain in his systems. Small indicators flickered faintly across his vision, numbers and bars shifting with every breath he took.
Commander Derick observed silently, arms folded.
"You've learned how to move," Derick said at last. "Now you'll learn how to move under pressure."
Without warning, the floor beneath Jones vibrated softly. A low hum followed.
Jones frowned. What now—
His legs nearly buckled.
He instinctively dropped into a half-crouch, hands spreading out to stabilize himself as additional weight surged through his body.
"What—" Jones gritted out.
"Artificial gravity," Derick replied calmly. "Set at one-point-five your current tolerance."
Jones clenched his jaw. Every step suddenly felt deliberate. Heavy. Controlled. His joints didn't fail him—but they resisted, forcing him to think through each movement instead of relying on instinct.
"Walk," Derick ordered.
Jones took one step forward.
Too slow.
"Again."
He adjusted, pushing slightly harder. The servos in his legs whined in protest but obeyed. Another step. Then another.
Sweat rolled down his neck—not from exhaustion alone, but from focus.
This isn't strength training, Jones realized.
This is discipline.
"Speed up," Derick said.
Jones hesitated, then increased his pace.
Bad idea.
His foot hit the floor with too much force, throwing his balance off. His body lurched forward, and he barely managed to twist sideways before crashing down.
The impact echoed through the room.
Jones lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling. His systems buzzed, running diagnostics automatically.
"No damage," the voice in his head reported.
Derick didn't move. "Get up."
Jones pushed himself to his feet slowly, correcting his posture this time.
Again.
The gravity increased.
Then weights locked onto his limbs—thick metallic bands around his arms, legs, and torso.
Jones exhaled sharply. "You trying to break me?"
Derick finally cracked a thin smile. "If this breaks you, you shouldn't be here."
The next drills were brutal in their simplicity.
Walking straight lines.
Stopping on command.
Turning without overcorrecting.
Balancing on narrow platforms while the floor shifted beneath him.
Every mistake punished him—not with pain, but with imbalance. Loss of control. Failure.
Jones fell more times than he cared to count.
But each time, he stood back up faster.
He learned how to feel the weight instead of fighting it. How to let his center of gravity guide him instead of forcing motion. His thoughts slowed, sharpened.
This body doesn't need panic, he thought.
It needs clarity.
After what felt like hours, Derick raised his hand.
The gravity eased. The weights disengaged with a hiss.
Jones remained standing—legs shaking, systems overheated, vision slightly blurred.
But he didn't fall.
Derick nodded once. "Better."
Jones straightened, breathing hard. "That's… basic training?"
"This," Derick said, turning toward the exit, "is still the beginning."
Jones watched him go, then looked down at his hands again. They trembled slightly—then steadied.
A faint grin tugged at his lips.
I'm still here, he thought.
And I'm not done yet.