Jones stood at the edge of the training platform, shoulders squared, systems idling at low output. The marks from the impact drills still traced faint lines across his frame—evidence of restraint, not failure.
Commander Derick faced him from across the room.
"You've learned how to take force," Derick said. "You've learned how not to lose yourself when the system pushes back."
Jones waited. He knew better than to interrupt.
"Now," Derick continued, "you learn when to release it."
The platform shifted again, expanding outward. This time, the mechanical arms didn't emerge.
Instead, a humanoid training unit rose from the floor.
It was roughly Jones' size, plated in dull gray alloy, joints reinforced for repeated punishment. Its eyes glowed faintly blue as it powered on.
"Training droid," Derick said. "No lethal settings. Adaptive response enabled."
Jones felt his systems stir—anticipation rippling beneath the surface.
"Rules?" Jones asked.
Derick's gaze sharpened. "You may strike. But only with intent. No excess force. No loss of control."
Jones nodded once.
The droid moved first.
Fast.
Jones sidestepped instinctively, feeling the rush of air as a mechanical fist passed where his head had been. He didn't counter immediately. Instead, he repositioned, circling, watching.
*Don't rush. Read it.*
The droid adjusted, learning his movement pattern. It lunged again—lower this time.
Jones reacted.
He redirected the strike with his forearm and followed with a short, controlled blow to the droid's shoulder joint. Not full power. Just enough.
The impact staggered the unit.
Jones felt it—the temptation to push harder, to finish it in one overwhelming strike.
He held back.
The droid recovered quickly and swung again, faster now.
Jones ducked, pivoted, and delivered a clean strike to the torso. The force was precise, calculated. The droid skidded backward, feet grinding against the platform.
Derick watched closely.
The exchange continued—strike, evade, counter. Jones' movements were no longer hesitant, but they weren't reckless either. His body moved as one, system and mind aligned.
A sudden misstep.
The droid clipped Jones' side, sending him stumbling back a step.
Warnings flared.
Jones silenced them.
He reset his stance, breathing steady.
*I decide,* he thought. *Not the machine.*
When the droid charged again, Jones met it head-on.
He stepped inside the strike, twisted, and drove a controlled blow into the unit's core. The impact resonated sharply.
The droid froze.
Then powered down.
Silence returned to the room.
Jones stood still, fists unclenched, systems cooling. He didn't feel the rush of rage he expected. No hunger for destruction.
Just clarity.
Derick approached, stopping a short distance away.
"You didn't overextend," Derick said. "You didn't lose control."
Jones looked at the inactive droid. "I could've hit harder."
"Yes," Derick replied. "And you didn't."
Derick turned toward the exit. "That's the difference between a weapon that breaks everything around it… and one that survives long enough to matter."
Jones followed him with his eyes.
For the first time, striking didn't feel like revenge.
It felt like purpose.