Meditation training happened daily at 17:00. Two hours in the chambers, learning to reach toward the dimensional boundary with increasing depth and duration.

  The meditation wing was the oldest part of the academy, carved directly into the rift scar's wall. Reality felt thinner here, the presence of that vast other space pressing against consciousness even when not actively meditating.

  "Touch the Boundary, Become the Weapon" read the inscription above the meditation chamber entrance. Valoris walked past it twice daily without seeing it anymore.

  Three months in, and everyone had developed their own approach.

  Valoris sat in her assigned chamber, lights dimmed, breathing steady, reaching for the meditation state that had become almost comfortable through repetition. The boundary waited where it always waited; vast, cold, pressing against reality from impossible angles. She touched it with practiced ease, felt it orient toward her attention, held contact while counting seconds.

  Thirty minutes sustained contact now. Up from forty-seven seconds during intake. Progress measured in consciousness stability.

  But the boundary felt... different lately. More present, as though extended contact was creating familiarity. The entity on the other side, the vast consciousness that had touched her during summoning evaluation, seemed closer now. Watching with interest rather than indifference.

  You're still here, it seemed to observe.

  Valoris didn't know if the communication was real or her mind interpreting alien attention through familiar frameworks. The academy said extended meditation created deeper dimensional sensitivity. They didn't mention whether that meant actually communicating with entities or just becoming more aware of their presence.

  She held contact for thirty minutes, then carefully withdrew. The boundary released her without resistance. Thirty minutes break, then thirty more minutes contact.

  In the next chamber, Quinn was probably still meditating. They'd stay connected for the full two hours if instructors let them, seeking something in that vast cold space that they couldn't find in baseline reality. The academy monitored their meditation time closely now, forced disconnection after thirty minutes because longer contact showed concerning psychological effects.

  But Quinn always pushed right to the limit. Thirty minutes exactly every session, like they were measuring how long they could exist outside themselves.

  Down the hall, Zee's meditation approach was purely practical: reach the boundary, maintain contact for required duration, disconnect efficiently. No seeking, no exploration, a simple execution of training requirements. She'd improved steadily through consistent practice, treating meditation like physical conditioning. Something to be endured and mastered through repetition.

  Saren meditated with mechanical precision; controlled breathing, perfect posture, systematic approach to consciousness expansion. She'd documented her entire meditation progression in exhaustive detail, tracking improvements, identifying plateaus, optimizing her practice. Her organized mind had difficulty with the otherness of the boundary, struggled with more than surface contact.

  And Milo... meditation was perhaps the only thing Milo was bad at. His scattered genius brain fought against the focused stillness required. He'd fidget, start counting something, get distracted by wondering how the meditation chambers' dimensional dampening worked. His sustained contact time had improved from thirty seconds to maybe ninety seconds on good days. But it clearly frustrated him that his mind worked differently than meditation required.

  "I can feel it," he'd said during a group discussion about meditation challenges. "The boundary. I know it's there. But my brain just... goes other places. Starts designing things or calculating patterns or wondering about architectural features. And then I've lost the connection."

  "Have you tried not thinking about irrelevant things?" Saren had asked with her characteristic lack of sympathy.

  "If I could not think about things, I wouldn't need to try not thinking about them."

  Valoris had intervened before they could start arguing. "Everyone's meditation approach is different. You're improving, Milo. That's what matters."

  It was true. His improvement trajectory was slower than others', but present. Adequate. That word defined so much of their existence.

  Individual challenges developed alongside squad training.

  Zee dealt with class discrimination, subtle and overt in turns. Legacy students who questioned why "charity cases" received the same training resources. Comments in the mess hall about scholarship students taking spots from "deserving" candidates. Instructors who assumed financial background correlated with capability.

  The mess hall featured more motivational messaging: "United in Service" across the main wall, "All Pilots Equal in Defense" above the food distribution line. Pretty words that contradicted lived reality for students like Zee who faced constant reminders that some pilots were considered more equal than others.

  Valoris watched it happening during their combat training session in week nine. An instructor had questioned Zee's execution of a tactical maneuver, suggesting her "unconventional approach" stemmed from "inadequate preparation." The implication was clear: scholarship student, making things up as she went.

  Zee had executed the maneuver perfectly. Her "unconventional approach" was actually more efficient than standard doctrine. She'd adapted to the situation using practical experience that academy training couldn't teach.

  But the instructor had dismissed her explanation, moving on to critique other students, leaving Zee standing there with professional neutrality barely concealing fury.

  Later, Valoris had found Zee in the training room after hours, working through combat drills with the kind of focused violence that suggested working through more than just physical conditioning.

  "You were right," Valoris had said. "About the tactical approach. Your execution was correct."

  "I know." Zee hit the training dummy hard enough to make it rock on its mount. "Doesn't matter. I'm a scholarship kid from the colonies. Whatever I do, it's either lucky improvisation or suspicious deviation from proper doctrine. I can't just be good at something."

  "The academy tracks actual performance metrics. Your scores speak for themselves."

  "Scores can be dismissed as statistical anomalies. Testing well on paper." Zee hit the dummy again. "I need to be so good that they can't ignore it. So exceptional that denying my capability becomes more embarrassing than acknowledging it."

  She'd paused, breathing hard, staring at the dummy.

  "I'm not here to be liked. I'm not here to be accepted. I'm here to survive four years, become a pilot, send money home, and get my family out of poverty. If that means being the scholarship kid who works twice as hard and gets half the credit, fine. I've been doing that my entire life."

  Valoris hadn't known what to say. Her own privilege felt heavy in that moment; the resources, the name that opened doors before she'd proven she deserved to walk through them.

  "Squad needs you functional," she'd said finally, echoing Zee's words from weeks ago. "And you're more than functional. You're exceptional. I know that. Eventually everyone else will too."

  Zee had looked at her with something complicated in her expression. Acknowledgment, maybe, or just exhausted resignation.

  "Thanks. I think." She'd returned to the training dummy. "Squad training tomorrow at 05:30. Don't be late."

  Valoris had left her there, working through violence and frustration, preparing to be exceptional enough that denial became impossible.

  Saren was working herself toward collapse.

  Valoris noticed it in week eight; Saren was spending eighteen-hour days on training and study, sleeping maybe four hours, subsisting on stimulants and protein bars, pushing past exhaustion into something brittle and dangerous.

  Every morning at 04:15, Saren was already awake, studying tactical materials. After required training, she'd attend optional supplementary sessions. After dinner, she'd be in the library until it closed at 23:00, then return to the barracks to study more. Her academic performance remained perfect. Her combat scores climbed steadily. Her tactical assessments were flawless.

  But her hands had started trembling. Small, almost invisible. But present.

  "You need to sleep," Valoris had said during week ten, finding Saren studying at 01:00 when everyone else was unconscious.

  "I'm fine."

  "You're exhausted."

  "Exhaustion is acceptable if performance remains optimal." Saren didn't look up from her tablet. "I'm maintaining all scores. My execution hasn't degraded."

  "Yet."

  That got Saren to look up, expression cold. "Are you questioning my capability?"

  "I'm questioning your sustainability. You can't maintain this pace for four years."

  "I can maintain it for as long as necessary." Saren's voice had gone flat, dangerous. "I worked three jobs while attending preparatory academy. I studied until my eyes bled. I earned my place here through merit when everyone told me I was too poor, too young, too damaged to succeed."

  She'd leaned forward slightly.

  "I will not fail because I wasn't working hard enough. I will not wash out because I decided rest was more important than perfection. If I have to work eighteen hours daily to maintain optimal performance, I'll work eighteen hours daily. If I have to study until I can recite doctrine in my sleep, I'll study until I can recite doctrine in my sleep. Whatever it takes."

  "What if 'whatever it takes' breaks you?"

  "Then I break achieving excellence instead of failing through inadequacy." Saren had returned to her tablet. "Your concern is noted. Now let me study."

  Valoris had retreated, knowing pushing harder would only make Saren more rigid. But the trembling hands worried her. The absolute unwillingness to acknowledge limits worried her more.

  She's going to collapse, Valoris had thought. Not today, maybe not this month. But eventually.

  She'd mentioned it to Zee during their next training session.

  "I know," Zee had said. "Everyone knows. But Saren's not going to accept help until she's already broken. That's how perfectionists operate, they'd rather shatter than bend."

  "So we just... watch her work herself into medical extraction?"

  "We watch. We wait. We catch her when she falls." Zee had shrugged. "That's what squad does. She won't ask for help. But when she needs it, we'll be there."

  It wasn't satisfying. But it was realistic.

  Quinn's obsessive tendencies had become concerning enough that instructors requested formal psychological evaluation in week nine. Quinn had refused.

  "Evaluation is unnecessary," they'd told Dr. Meris during the attempted assessment. "My performance metrics are optimal. My meditation sensitivity is the highest in our year. My tactical analysis contributes significantly to squad success. There's no dysfunction to evaluate."

  "Your meditation duration concerns us," Dr. Meris had said gently. "You're pushing to contact limits every session. Your instructors report you seem... dissociated after extended meditation. Like you're struggling to fully return to baseline reality."

  "That's not a problem. That's just adjustment time."

  "Quinn, meditation is meant to enhance dimensional sensitivity, not replace baseline consciousness. If you're finding it difficult to re-engage with normal reality after contact, that suggests–"

  "It suggests I'm good at meditation." Quinn's tone had gone flat, defensive. "Better than most students. That should be celebrated, not pathologized."

  They'd walked out before Dr. Meris could continue.

  Later, Valoris had found Quinn in their bunk, staring at their tablet but not really seeing it. Just holding the device like an anchor to something.

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  "You okay?" Valoris had asked.

  "Fine. Dr. Meris wants to discuss my 'concerning patterns.' As though being exceptional at something is concerning." Quinn hadn't looked up. "Everyone else struggles with meditation. I'm good at it. That should be positive. Instead they're worried I'm too good."

  "Are you?" Valoris had sat on the edge of Quinn's bunk. "Too good? Pushing too hard?"

  Quinn had finally looked at her, expression unreadable. "Meditation is the only time I feel real. Actually real. Like I exist instead of just... going through motions of existing. They want me to do less of the thing that makes me feel like a person?"

  The admission was startling in its raw honesty.

  "What do you mean, 'feel real'?"

  "Most of the time I feel like..." Quinn had paused, searching for words. "Like there's supposed to be a person here but there's just... space. Where a person should be. Meditation fills that space. Makes me feel present instead of absent. The boundary is more real to me than baseline reality."

  "That's concerning, Quinn."

  "To you and Dr. Meris, and to everyone else who's never felt like they're not quite existing." Quinn had returned attention to their tablet. "To me, it's the only thing that makes sense."

  Valoris hadn't known how to respond to that. How do you tell someone that seeking reality in dimensional meditation instead of baseline consciousness is problematic when they've never felt real in baseline consciousness?

  "Just... be careful," she'd said finally. "The boundary isn't meant to replace being human. It's meant to complement it."

  "Maybe I'm not meant to be fully human." Quinn's voice had been soft, matter-of-fact, terrifying in its acceptance. "Maybe that's why I can touch it better than anyone else. Because I'm not holding on to baseline reality as tightly."

  They'd returned to their tablet, and Valoris had retreated, disturbed by the conversation and unsure how to help someone who didn't want to be helped.

  Milo got written up seventeen times over three months.

  Unauthorized equipment modification. Unauthorized system access. Unauthorized experimentation with training gear. Unauthorized optimization of barracks climate control. Unauthorized installation of efficiency improvements in the mess hall's food distribution system. Unauthorized, unauthorized, unauthorized.

  "I'm helping," he protested after his twelfth violation. "The climate control was fluctuating three degrees outside optimal range. I fixed it. That's good, right?"

  "You accessed systems you're not authorized to access," Valoris said, reading the disciplinary report with resignation. "Using tools you're not supposed to have. Making modifications without permission."

  "But it works better now."

  "That's not the point."

  "That should absolutely be the point," Milo said, cleaning his glasses with the edge of his shirt. They were immediately smudged again. "If something's broken or inefficient, and I can fix it, why wouldn't I fix it?"

  "Because the academy has protocols. Systems. Proper channels for reporting problems."

  "Those channels take weeks. I can fix things in hours."

  Zee had intervened at that point, grabbing the back of Milo's collar with professional efficiency. "You're brilliant. We know. You know. The academy knows. But your genius doesn't give you permission to modify everything you think needs improving."

  "But–"

  "No buts. We're ranked forty-seventh. That's bottom third. Your disciplinary violations affect squad metrics. Every time you get written up, our collective evaluation score drops." Zee's voice had been flat but firm. "I need top-fifteen ranking minimum to maximize my pilot pay when we graduate. Your compulsive tinkering is costing my family money four years from now."

  That had gotten through. Milo had gone very still.

  "I didn't think about it that way."

  "Start thinking about it that way." Zee had released his collar. "You want to help? Help by not sabotaging our collective performance metrics. Save your genius for after graduation when you're authorized to actually build things."

  Milo had been better after that. Still got written up occasionally, but he'd started asking permission first. Mostly. And when his modifications were approved, rare but possible for genuinely useful improvements, he was insufferably pleased with himself.

  Valoris struggled with constant comparison to family legends.

  Every tactical assessment, every simulation, every academic evaluation… somewhere in her mind lived the awareness that five generations of Kades had done this before her. And most of them had been exceptional. Top-ranked. Legendary. The standard against which she measured herself and found herself wanting.

  Squad Kade-07 was ranked forty-seventh by week twelve. Not catastrophic. Not embarrassing. But not exceptional either. Just... adequate.

  Her grandmother had been ranked third in her year by week twelve. Her mother had been ranked second. Valoris was... adequate.

  "You're doing fine," her grandmother had said during their monthly communication call in week ten. The screen showed her sitting in the hall of mechs, Aegis visible behind her. The trembling in her hands was worse than three months ago. "Better than fine. You're improving steadily, your squad is functional, you haven't washed out. That's success."

  "I'm ranked forty-seventh," Valoris had said quietly.

  "So?"

  "So you were ranked third. Mother was ranked fifth. I'm bottom third of my year."

  Her grandmother had been silent for a moment, silver eye reflecting the screen's light. "Valoris. Listen to me. You're comparing your squad to individual rankings. Squad metrics are different. You're coordinating four other people with different capabilities, different backgrounds, different preparation levels. That's harder than being individually excellent."

  "But–"

  "But nothing. Your tactical assessments are top five percent individually. Your academic performance is excellent. Your combat capability has improved from bottom quartile to middle tier. You're doing exactly what you need to do; surviving and learning." She'd leaned forward slightly. "Rankings are just numbers. What matters is whether you're becoming the pilot you need to be. Are you?"

  Valoris had thought about it. About Zee's improving combat integration. About Saren's mechanical precision. About Quinn's exceptional meditation. About Milo's creative solutions. About herself learning to coordinate all of it into something functional.

  "Maybe," she'd admitted. "We're better than we were."

  "Then stop comparing yourself to legends and start being your own kind of pilot." Her grandmother's voice had been firm. "You're not me. You're not your mother. You're Valoris. That's enough."

  The conversation had helped. Somewhat.

  But the comparisons lingered every time she saw rankings posted, every time instructors mentioned the Kade family's legacy.

  Adequate.

  It was better than failure, yet it didn't feel like enough.

  Despite tensions and individual struggles, small moments of connection emerged.

  Late-night study sessions became routine in week eight. The barracks lights dimmed at 23:00, but all five of them often stayed awake longer; Saren studying obsessively, Quinn analyzing performance data, Milo sketching equipment modifications, Zee reviewing combat footage, Valoris working through tactical scenarios.

  Sometimes they'd study together at the common table, exhaustion lowering their guards enough for actual conversation instead of professional distance.

  "I don't understand this substrate composition theorem," Zee had admitted during one session, voice frustrated. "I've read it six times and it's still gibberish."

  "Which theorem?" Saren had asked without looking up from her own materials.

  "Quantum superposition stability relative to dimensional boundary fluctuation."

  "Oh. That one." Saren had finally looked up, expression thoughtful rather than contemptuous for once. "It's easier if you think about it as... okay, imagine a coin spinning in the air. Not heads or tails yet, both possibilities existing simultaneously. The substrate is like that, existing in multiple dimensional states at once until consciousness forces it to choose a configuration during summoning."

  "That actually makes sense," Zee had said, surprised.

  "I can explain more if–"

  "Please."

  And Saren had. Patiently, thoroughly, and without her usual dismissive contempt, just two people sharing understanding because they both needed to pass the same exam.

  Later that same night, Milo had gotten frustrated trying to calculate thermal distribution for a theoretical mech modification. "The numbers don't work. Heat output exceeds dissipation capacity by seventeen percent and I can't figure out why."

  Quinn had glanced at his calculations for approximately four seconds. "Your baseline assumption about reactor efficiency is wrong. Academy specs list ninety-two percent efficiency but actual performance is eighty-seven percent because of dimensional bleed-through. Recalculate with correct efficiency and the thermal numbers balance."

  "How did you know that?"

  "I read the actual performance data instead of the advertised specifications. It's in the technical appendices that no one bothers reading."

  "Those appendices are six thousand pages," Milo had said, awed.

  "I had time." Quinn had returned to their own work, matter-of-fact. "You're welcome."

  Small moments, brief exchanges. Not friendship, exactly, but cooperation. Helping each other succeed because squad success affected everyone's metrics.

  Week eleven brought their first moment of genuine squad cohesion during an off-hours training session.

  Zee had been helping Valoris with combat training, grudgingly at first, then with increasing patience as Valoris actually improved. They'd been sparring for ninety minutes when Valoris finally managed to counter one of Zee's throws successfully.

  Not perfectly, but she'd read the weight shift, adapted her positioning, and redirected Zee's momentum instead of being thrown to the mat.

  Zee had ended up on the floor instead.

  Brief stunned silence. Then–

  "Holy shit," Milo had said from where he was supposedly studying but actually watching their training. "Did you just throw Zee?"

  "I didn't throw her," Valoris said quickly. "I just... redirected."

  "You countered my throw," Zee said from the floor, something that might have been pride in her voice. "First time you've done that successfully. Took you eleven weeks but you did it."

  She'd stood, brushed herself off, reset to starting position. "Again. Let's see if it was luck or actual learning."

  They'd gone again. Valoris had countered successfully twice more before her body gave out from exhaustion.

  "Better," Zee had said, and this time it was definitely approval. "Squad needs you functional. You're getting there."

  "Squad needs all of us functional," Saren had said from across the training room. She'd been working on her own conditioning, but apparently paying attention. "Kade's improving in combat. Renn's disciplinary violations are decreasing. Sterling's meditation scores remain exceptional despite concerning patterns. Zavaretti's tactical integration has improved significantly."

  It was the most positive thing Saren had ever said about any of them.

  "And you?" Valoris had asked. "How are you doing?"

  Saren's expression had gone carefully neutral. "Fine."

  Lie. Her hands were trembling again. But she wouldn't admit weakness, so Valoris let it pass.

  "We're ranked thirty-eighth now," Quinn had said, checking their tablet. "Up from forty-seventh three weeks ago. Improvement trajectory is positive. If we maintain our current rate of progress, we'll reach top-twenty by end of year."

  "Top-fifteen would be better," Zee had said.

  "Top-ten would be optimal," Saren had added.

  "Top-five would be fun," Milo had contributed enthusiastically.

  "Let's focus on not dropping back to bottom-fifteen," Valoris had said. "But yes. Higher ranking would be good."

  They'd trained for another hour, all five of them, working on individual weaknesses and helping each other improve, existing together in the training room like an actual squad instead of five individuals forced into proximity.

  It wasn't friendship. Wasn't trust, really. It wasn't even particularly warm, but it was functional, and functional was better than what they'd started with.

  By week twelve, Squad Kade-07 had settled into a routine.

  Morning runs (still brutal, slightly less catastrophic). Combat drills (improving steadily). Academic classes (varied performance, collective adequacy). Simulations (ranked thirty-second average, up from sixty-first). Meditation (everyone advancing at their own pace). Evening training (supplementary, voluntary, but they all showed up).

  The academy's constant messaging had become invisible through exposure; posters about service and sacrifice, inscriptions reminding them why they were here and what they were becoming. Valoris walked past dozens of them daily without conscious registration. They'd become part of the environment, shaping behavior and expectations without requiring attention.

  This is normal, she'd think occasionally, struck by how quickly the extraordinary had become routine. This is just how things are. This is what we do. Rankings climbed: forty-seventh → forty-second → thirty-eighth → thirty-fourth.

  Not spectacular. Not legendary.

  Adequate.

  But adequate was enough to survive.

  Squad Thorne-03 maintained first place ranking. Squad Volkova-55 held second. Squad Adeyemi-32 had fallen to fifth after a catastrophic simulation failure. New squads were climbing rankings through exceptional performance. Others were falling through dysfunction.

  The academy tracked everything, measured everything, ranked everything. Two hundred and sixty-three students remained from the original five hundred and twenty-three. Several had washed out over three months for inadequate performance, psychological unsuitability, medical disqualification, voluntary withdrawal. More would follow.

  Squad Kade-07 would not be among them.

  They'd improved through grinding effort, learned to coordinate because failure meant washing out and none of them were willing to accept that outcome.

  They were still fractured and they still didn’t quite fit together properly, but they were squad.

  And that would have to be enough.

  "Rankings posted," Quinn announced one evening in week thirteen, tablet showing the updated list. "We're thirty-second overall. Highest we've been."

  "Progress," Zee said from her bunk. She was reviewing combat footage from their last simulation. "Not fast enough, but progress."

  "Incremental improvement is sufficient if it’s sustained," Saren added. She was studying at the common table, surrounded by materials, looking exhausted but functional. "If we maintain our current trajectory we'll reach the top twenty-five before year end."

  "We're getting better," Milo said cheerfully. He was cleaning his glasses again, perpetually smudged no matter how often he tried. "Not as fast as I'd like, but better. We made it through three months without anyone washing out. That's something."

  "That's adequate," Valoris said quietly.

  They all looked at her.

  "What?" Zee asked.

  "We're adequate. Functional. Not great, not terrible. Just... good enough to survive." Valoris looked at each of them. "Is that what we want? To just be adequate forever?"

  "Better than being bottom-ranked," Saren pointed out.

  "But we could be more," Valoris said. The thought had been building for weeks, crystallizing now into something she could articulate. "We're all capable. Individually exceptional in different ways. But we're settling for adequacy because it's easier than pushing for excellence."

  "Excellence requires effort we're already expending," Saren said.

  "Then we find more effort. Work harder. Train smarter. Stop accepting adequate as our ceiling."

  Zee sat up, expression thoughtful. "What are you proposing?"

  "We aim higher. Top-twenty by end of first year. Top-fifteen by summoning. Prove we're not just adequate, we're capable."

  "Ambitious," Quinn said.

  "Impossible," Saren added.

  "Probably," Valoris admitted. "But if we can climb from sixty-first to thirty-second in three months, we can climb higher."

  Silence. They were considering it.

  Finally, Milo broke the quiet. "I'm in. Let's be ambitious and probably fail spectacularly. Sounds fun."

  "Not about fun," Zee said. "About capability. If we can actually achieve top-fifteen, that affects deployment assignments, pilot pay, everything. I'm in."

  "Statistically difficult but not impossible," Quinn calculated. "It would require sustained improvement across multiple metrics simultaneously. I'll develop optimized training protocols."

  Saren was last to respond. She looked at Valoris with her characteristic cold assessment, then nodded once. "Fine. Top-twenty by year end. I'll hold you to that target."

  "Holding myself to it too," Valoris said.

  They returned to their evening routines, but something had shifted. They had a goal now, something beyond just surviving.