Jones no longer remembered how many days had passed.
Time inside the training facility blurred together, marked only by system rest cycles and the steady presence of Commander Derick. The man never rushed him, never praised him unnecessarily—but he never went easy either.
Today's room was different.
The floor was divided into moving segments, each one shifting at random intervals. Narrow platforms rose and fell slowly, while thin beams extended across gaps that dropped several meters down.
Jones stood at the edge, eyes scanning the terrain.
"This drill," Derick said, "is about control under instability."
Jones nodded. His posture was better now—balanced, grounded. Still not perfect, but no longer clumsy.
"Gravity?" Jones asked.
Derick tapped a control panel. "Two-point-zero."
The pressure hit instantly.
Jones inhaled slowly as his body compensated, internal systems adjusting power distribution across his frame. He felt heavier—but stable.
"Begin."
Jones stepped forward onto the first platform.
It shifted.
He adjusted smoothly, knees bending just enough to absorb the movement. No stumble. No panic.
Another step.
Then another.
His mind stayed quiet—focused. He no longer tried to force motion. Instead, he let the body respond naturally, guiding it like a current rather than a weapon.
Halfway across, the platforms began moving faster.
Jones' systems warned him of rising strain, but he ignored it. His eyes tracked patterns now. Timing. Rhythm.
Left. Pause. Right. Forward.
A beam extended suddenly.
Jones didn't hesitate. He stepped onto it, arms spreading instinctively for balance. The beam swayed.
Once—twice—
He stabilized.
Derick watched closely. Good.
By the time Jones reached the end, his internal temperature was high and his limbs felt dense with resistance—but he was still standing.
Derick nodded. "You're starting to trust your body."
Jones exhaled. "I'm starting to listen to it."
The next drill came without warning.
Light pulses filled the room—random flashes triggering response indicators in Jones' vision.
"Reaction training," Derick said. "No thinking. Just movement."
The first signal hit.
Jones dodged instinctively.
The second—he ducked.
The third—too slow.
A padded striker clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling back a step.
"Again."
Jones reset.
This time, he didn't anticipate. He reacted.
His movements sharpened. Cleaner. Faster—but controlled.
His systems stopped overriding his decisions. Instead, they flowed with them.
Minutes later, Jones dropped to one knee—not from impact, but exhaustion.
Derick approached, stopping in front of him.
"You're improving," he said. "But don't confuse control with comfort."
Jones looked up. "I won't."
Derick turned away. "Rest. Tomorrow, we add endurance suppression."
Jones watched him leave, then slowly stood on his own.
His body hummed quietly—steady, obedient.
For the first time since waking up in metal, Jones felt something close to confidence.
Not power.
Control.