Week two began with Valoris counting steps like currency.

  Two. That was her average by the end of the first week. Two steps before Paragon's balance gave way to gravity, before thirty-seven tons of mech crashed into the training ground with an impact that reverberated through every sensor in her connection.

  Two steps. Fifteen years of human locomotion reduced to toddler capability at forty-foot scale.

  "Again," Instructor Davis said. His voice carried the particular flatness of someone who'd watched thousands of pilots learn this same lesson through the same humiliating repetition. "You have six more weeks of basic locomotion training before we introduce weapons systems. Six weeks to master walking, running, jumping before we determine if you can fight."

  Valoris pushed Paragon upright. The mech's arms coordinated to lever the massive frame back to standing, a maneuver she'd practiced so many times it was becoming automatic. The fever-wrong sensation pulsed through her awareness with the movement.

  She ignored it. Tried to, anyway. The wrongness had been constant since first connection, background radiation that colored every moment spent synchronized with Paragon's dimensional substrate.

  Two steps. Three.

  She fell.

  Around her, Chimera Squad attempted the same exercise. Five mechs learning to coordinate consciousness stretched across forty feet of metal, five pilots discovering that instincts calibrated for human bodies became liabilities at mech scale.

  "Five," Zee announced through squad comm. Her voice carried satisfaction that Valoris tried very hard not to resent. "Maybe six. Hard to tell if that last one counted."

  Five steps. Zee had been managing five steps consistently since day three of week one while the rest of them struggled toward two.

  "Your balance point is different from ours," Saren said, and her tone walked the line between analytical observation and accusation. "Reaver's configuration is more intuitive. Lower center of gravity, more aggressive forward lean."

  "My balance point is irrelevant," Zee replied. "I'm adapting faster because I'm not thinking about it. You're calculating every shift in weight distribution. I'm moving."

  "Moving without calculation is how pilots die in combat."

  "Pilots who can't walk don't make it to combat."

  The exchange had become familiar. Every training session, some variation of the same argument. Zee's natural aptitude creating friction with Saren's analytical approach, both convinced their method was superior, both producing evidence to support their position.

  Valoris forced herself to focus on her own training rather than mediating squad conflicts.

  Three steps. Four. Five.

  She felt her success, felt the analysis kick in, felt her brain start examining what was working and why.

  Fell immediately.

  "Progress is measurable," Davis said through her headset. "Day one average: zero point three steps before fall. Current average: two point eight steps. Statistical improvement of eight hundred thirty-three percent."

  Eight hundred thirty-three percent improvement still meant falling constantly and couldn't even coordinate basic locomotion. She was still learning to walk at thirty-seven tons while eighteen-year-olds on their first deployment were expected to fight.

  "How much progress should we be making?" Quinn asked from Specter's position. Their mech stood motionless, Quinn apparently having given up on walking attempts in favor of data collection. "What's the expected curve?"

  "It varies by pilot," Davis said. "Average time to basic walking proficiency is three to four weeks. Running proficiency, five to six weeks. Combat-ready mobility takes eight to twelve weeks."

  Three to four weeks for walking. They were ending week two and still falling after two steps.

  "We're behind," Valoris said.

  "You're behind," Davis confirmed. "Most third-year squads achieve basic walking proficiency by mid-week two. You're approximately one week behind average progression."

  One week behind. In a training schedule measured in weeks, that felt catastrophic.

  "We'll catch up," Zee said with certainty that bordered on aggression. "More practice. Longer hours. Whatever it takes."

  "Additional practice beyond scheduled training is authorized," Davis said. "The simulation facilities are available during designated recreation periods. Many squads use them." He paused, consulting something on his tablet. "Apex Squad logged twelve additional practice hours last week."

  Twelve hours. On top of the forty scheduled training hours. That was what excellence required.

  Valoris looked at her squad, saw the same calculation happening in four other minds. Scheduled training plus additional practice plus required classes divided by available hours equaled something approaching every waking moment spent learning to walk.

  They'd chosen this. They'd fought for the privilege of being transformed into something capable of piloting dimensional war machines.

  They could fight to master what they'd become.

  Week three broke them against a wall.

  Valoris sat in Paragon's cockpit, connected for the thirty-seventh time, and realized she'd made no progress in four days.

  Eight steps was her current limit. Eight steps before the accumulated wrongness of lag and scale and fever-wrong feedback combined to collapse her coordination. She'd achieved eight steps on day three of week three, and she'd achieved eight steps every day since.

  The wall was invisible and absolute. No matter how hard she pushed, no matter how many hours she logged in additional practice, no matter how carefully she analyzed her failures, eight steps remained her ceiling.

  "Plateau," Davis said during morning assessment. "It’s a ommon phenomenon. Neural adaptation follows a logarithmic curve rather than linear progression. Initial rapid improvement, followed by extended periods of minimal advancement, followed by sudden capability increases. You're in the minimal advancement phase."

  "How long does it last?" Saren asked. Her frustration was evident despite her controlled tone. Meridian stood at the edge of the training ground, having achieved a similar plateau at twelve steps, frozen at that limit for three consecutive days.

  "Varies. Days. Weeks. Some pilots plateau for entire training phases before breakthrough occurs."

  "We don't have weeks," Valoris said. "We're already behind schedule."

  "Then you'll need to work through the plateau faster than average." Davis's voice held no sympathy. "Or you'll remain behind schedule. Reality doesn't adjust to accommodate frustration."

  Zee pushed past the training ground barrier while the rest of them struggled against their walls. Her plateau had hit at twenty-five steps, higher than any of them, and she'd broken through it on day two while everyone else stalled.

  Thirty steps. Thirty-five. Forty.

  By the end of week three, Zee was managing fifty consecutive steps while the rest of Chimera Squad remained frozen between eight and fifteen.

  "I don't understand why you're having trouble," she said during evening practice, and Valoris could hear the genuine confusion in her voice. "It's walking. You think about moving, you move. The lag compensates itself once you stop fighting it."

  "Easy for you to say," Saren replied. Her words came out sharper than usual, frustration bleeding through professional composure. "You're not fighting anything. You're coasting on natural ability while the rest of us struggle against limitations you don't experience."

  "That's not–"

  "You hit fifty steps today. Fifty. I'm stuck at fifteen and haven't improved in four days. Quinn is at twelve. Milo is at ten. Valoris is at eight. Eight steps, Zee. She's our commander and she can barely manage eight steps."

  The words landed like physical blows. Valoris felt them in her biological body despite being connected to Paragon, felt the sharp sting of hearing her inadequacy enumerated in precise detail.

  Saren wasn't wrong. That was the worst part. Everything she'd said was accurate.

  "Maybe if you stopped calculating every movement–" Zee started.

  "Maybe if you had any understanding of what it's like to not have everything come naturally–"

  "Enough." Quinn's voice cut through the brewing argument with flat finality. "Statistical probability of continued conflict improving anyone's step count: approximately zero. Recommend we return to individual practice until emotional equilibrium is restored."

  They separated. Five mechs spreading across the training ground to practice alone, squad cohesion fracturing under the weight of asymmetric progress.

  Valoris watched Zee's fifty steps through Paragon's sensors and tried to identify what was different about her approach. The way Reaver moved with aggressive confidence, accepting lag rather than fighting it, trusting momentum to carry through uncertainty.

  She couldn't replicate it. Every time she tried to stop analyzing, her brain analyzed her attempt to stop analyzing. When she tried to trust the connection, she questioned whether she was trusting correctly. If she tried to move without thinking, she thought about how to move without thinking.

  Eight steps. Fall.

  Eight steps. Fall.

  Eight steps. Fall.

  The plateau held.

  Breakthrough happened on day four of week three, at 23:47 during unauthorized additional practice when Valoris was too exhausted to think.

  She'd logged sixteen hours of walking attempts that day. Scheduled training plus every recreation period plus hours stolen from sleep. Her biological body was approaching collapse, consciousness stretched thin between human exhaustion and mech connection, awareness so scattered she could barely remember which body was which.

  Paragon stood motionless at the center of the empty training ground. Valoris floated somewhere between pilot and mech, too tired to maintain clear boundaries, too drained to analyze or calculate or doubt.

  She moved.

  Step. Step. Step. Step.

  Not counting. Not analyzing. Not thinking about thinking or calculating weight distribution or anticipating lag.

  Just moving.

  Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

  Her consciousness existed as movement rather than observer of movement. She wasn't directing Paragon to walk; she was walking, the way she'd walked since age two, the way her body had always known how to move without instruction.

  Step. Step. Step.

  Twelve steps. Past her plateau.

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  Fifteen. Past Saren's limit.

  Twenty. Approaching Zee's territory.

  Twenty-five.

  She became aware of what was happening and immediately felt the analysis kick in, felt the observer emerge from the movement.

  Twenty-eight.

  Twenty-nine.

  Thirty.

  She fell.

  But thirty steps. Thirty consecutive steps when exhaustion had stripped away everything but intent.

  She lay in Paragon's fallen form, consciousness spread across forty feet of dimensional substrate, and started laughing. The sound came out broken and slightly hysterical, but she couldn't stop. Thirty steps. She'd managed thirty steps.

  Progress wasn't linear. Davis had said that. Plateau and breakthrough, minimal advancement followed by sudden capability increase.

  She'd found the capability. Now she needed to find it again.

  Week four brought consistency.

  The breakthrough hadn't been permanent, but it had cracked something open. Valoris could feel the difference in her connection, could access that state of non-analytical movement when she stopped trying to access it. The paradox was maddening: the harder she pursued the capability, the more it retreated. The more she let go, the more it emerged.

  Ten steps became reliable. Twelve. Fifteen.

  Around her, Chimera Squad experienced similar breakthroughs at staggered intervals. Saren achieved twenty steps on day two of week four, her analytical mind finally learning to trust without verifying. Quinn hit eighteen on day three, though they seemed more interested in the stealth phasing capabilities they'd discovered than in walking coordination. Milo reached twenty-two on day four, accompanied by detailed notes about how Jinx's asymmetric configuration created unexpected advantages in certain movement patterns.

  Zee continued pulling ahead. Sixty steps. Seventy. By mid-week four, she could walk for entire training sessions without falling, her coordination so natural it made the rest of them look like first-week beginners.

  The resentment faded. Not entirely, but enough. Watching Zee achieve mastery stopped feeling like personal criticism and started feeling like proof of what was possible.

  If she could do it, they could do it. Eventually.

  "Adequate progress," Davis announced during weekly assessment. His tone suggested adequate was barely acceptable. "Squad average: twenty-three consecutive steps before fall. Individual range: fifteen to seventy. You've closed the gap with average progression but remain approximately four days behind optimal schedule."

  Four days behind. Better than seven. Progress measured in reduced deficit rather than achievement.

  "Running introduction begins week five," Davis continued. "Walking proficiency is a prerequisite. Current assessment suggests three squad members meet the minimum threshold, two do not." He paused, consulting his tablet. "Kade. Sterling. Your walking consistency remains below running prerequisite standards."

  Valoris felt the familiar weight of inadequacy settle across her shoulders. Below prerequisite standards. Falling behind while the others pulled ahead.

  "Additional practice is recommended," Davis said. "Prerequisite assessment occurs on day one of week five. Squad members failing assessment continue walking training while others advance to running. Advancement is not guaranteed."

  Not guaranteed. The possibility of being left behind while her squad moved forward, of remaining stuck at walking while Zee learned to run.

  She logged twenty additional practice hours before week five assessment.

  Week five opened with Valoris managing twenty-eight consecutive steps in prerequisite testing.

  She passed. Barely. Minimum threshold for running prerequisite was twenty-five steps without fall.

  Quinn passed at twenty-five, also barely.

  The squad advanced together. That mattered more than the individual margins.

  Running was harder than walking.

  Valoris discovered this approximately three seconds into her first attempt, when Paragon's legs accelerated beyond walking pace and her consciousness completely failed to process the increased speed. The mech face-planted into the training ground with force that rattled her teeth in her biological body and sent the fever-wrong sensation spiking through every neural pathway.

  "Running requires faster compensation for lag," Davis explained while she struggled to rise. "Walking pace allows time for adjustment between steps. Running pace does not. You must predict corrections before they're needed, trust your connection to execute adjustments you've already committed to rather than adjustments you're currently making."

  Predict corrections before they're needed. Simple concept. Impossible execution.

  She fell constantly for the first two days. Four steps running before collapse, maybe five if she didn't think about it too hard. The plateau from week three returned with vengeance, trapping her at five running steps while Zee accelerated toward ten, fifteen, twenty.

  But something was different this time. She'd broken through one plateau. She knew it was possible.

  On day three of week five, she achieved eight running steps.

  On day four, twelve.

  On day five, eighteen consecutive running steps before falling, and when she fell, she tucked into recovery position automatically and rolled Paragon back to standing without needing to think about the coordination.

  Progress. Visible, measurable progress.

  "Formation running," Davis announced on day six. "Five mechs maintaining coordinated movement at running pace. Falling pilots are a liability to formation integrity. Maintain position or be removed for additional individual practice."

  The threat was clear. Fall behind, get left behind.

  They ran formation. Valoris focused on Paragon's position relative to Reaver on her left and Meridian on her right, trusted her connection to maintain coordination, refused to analyze her success until after she was successful.

  Twelve steps in formation. Fifteen. Twenty.

  The formation held. Five mechs running together, consciousness stretched across dimensional space coordinating not just individual movement but relative positioning, spatial awareness expanded to encompass squad-level coordination.

  Twenty-five steps.

  Thirty.

  Forty.

  Fifty.

  The hour ended without a single fall.

  They stood at the end of the training ground, five mechs that had just completed an entire hour of formation running without catastrophic failure, and Valoris felt something she hadn't experienced since summoning: pride in capability rather than fear of inadequacy.

  "First session without squad fall," Davis said. "Week five, day six. Behind schedule by approximately two days. But adequate progress." He paused, and something almost like approval flickered across his features. "Barely."

  Adequate progress. Barely.

  Valoris would take it.

  The wrongness became background noise somewhere during week four.

  She couldn't identify the exact moment. One day, the fever-wrong sensation was a constant intrusion, demanding attention with every moment of connection. The next, it had faded to ambient awareness, present but no longer overwhelming.

  It hadn't disappeared. She still felt it, that pervasive ache suggesting her existence in dimensional substrate introduced fundamental wrongness to reality. But she'd adapted. Her consciousness had learned to process the sensation without assigning it priority, the way her biological body had learned to ignore the pressure of clothing against skin or the background hum of ventilation systems.

  The wrongness was still there. She'd just stopped noticing it constantly.

  The others reported similar adaptation. Saren described it as "recalibrating baseline," her analytical mind characterizing the shift in clinical terms. Quinn said nothing had changed because nothing had been wrong in the first place, which was probably denial but nobody challenged them on it. Milo documented the adaptation process in his notebooks, fascinated by the neurological implications. Zee shrugged and said she'd stopped caring about the wrongness weeks ago.

  They were all changed. The summoning had transformed them fundamentally, the training was transforming them further, and each day spent connected made them slightly less the people they'd been before.

  Valoris wondered sometimes if that should frighten her more than it did. The gradual erosion of her purely human self, the incremental replacement of biological awareness with consciousness capable of existing across dimensional space.

  But the wondering never lasted. There was always another training session, another skill to master, another metric to improve. The philosophical implications of their transformation got lost in the practical demands of becoming functional pilots.

  Maybe that was the point. Keep them too busy to think about what they were becoming.

  Or maybe she was overthinking it. Again.

  The thirty-step milestone arrived during individual assessment on day two of week five.

  Valoris stood at the starting position, connected to Paragon with the familiar stretch of consciousness that had become routine, and Davis activated the monitoring systems that would track her performance.

  "Individual walking assessment," he announced. "Consecutive steps without fall. Begin on signal."

  Signal.

  She moved.

  Step. Step. Step. Step.

  Not counting consciously, but aware of the rhythm, of the way her connection had learned to anticipate lag and compensate automatically. Her analytical mind observed without interfering, cataloging success without disrupting the process that created it.

  Step. Step. Step.

  Ten steps. Twelve. Fifteen.

  The training ground stretched before her, endless space for movement, no obstacles or formations to maintain. Just her and Paragon and the simple act of walking.

  Twenty steps. Twenty-two. Twenty-five.

  She felt the plateau approaching, felt her mind start to analyze, start to question whether she could push past her previous limits.

  Let go. Trust the connection.

  Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.

  Thirty.

  She stopped.

  "Thirty consecutive steps," Davis announced. "New personal record. Assessment complete."

  Thirty steps. The number she'd achieved once before during her exhaustion-induced breakthrough. Now achieved deliberately.

  Progress.

  The squad gathered after individual assessments, comparing results with the barely-concealed competitiveness that defined academy life.

  "Seventy-three," Zee announced. She didn't gloat, but the satisfaction in her voice was evident.

  "Forty-one," Saren said. "Twelve-step improvement over the previous assessment."

  "Thirty-eight," Quinn reported. "Consistent with projected progression curve."

  "Forty-four," Milo added. "Though I think Buddy is doing something weird with the balance calculations that the assessment system isn't detecting."

  "Thirty," Valoris said.

  The squad went quiet. Thirty was her number. Thirty was her best. And thirty was the lowest in the squad by eight steps.

  "That's good progress," Zee said carefully.

  "It's below squad average," Valoris replied. "Again."

  "Squad average isn't individual assessment. You improved by four steps since the last assessment. That's significant."

  "You improved by fifteen."

  "I started from a higher baseline. Percentage improvement matters more than absolute numbers."

  It was a generous interpretation. Valoris appreciated the attempt even though the mathematics didn't quite support it.

  "We should celebrate," Milo said. "Thirty consecutive steps. Personal record. That's worth acknowledging."

  "Is it?" Valoris asked.

  "Yes." Quinn's flat tone carried unexpected emphasis. "Progress is progress. Achievement is achievement. Statistical analysis suggests celebrating incremental victories improves long-term motivation and performance. We should celebrate."

  So they celebrated. Gathered in the common area after evening meal, shared congratulations on personal records achieved during assessment, pretended the celebration wasn't hollow because they were still behind schedule, still trailing other squads, still struggling to achieve what others managed naturally.

  Valoris accepted their praise and felt the inadequacy underneath it. Thirty steps was progress, a real achievement. It was also barely minimum competency at week five, with three more weeks of training before they needed to demonstrate running and jumping and basic combat mobility.

  But she smiled anyway. Thanked them for the recognition. Let herself feel the small victory even though larger victories remained distant.

  Progress was progress. Even when it felt hollow.

  Rankings updated at the end of week five.

  Chimera Squad: #12 overall (up from #15, basic mobility metrics improving, still behind optimal progression)

  Apex Squad: #1 (maintained position, all squad members demonstrating advanced mobility capability)

  Valoris studied the rankings on her tablet during what should have been sleep hours. Twelfth place. They'd climbed three positions through sheer determination and additional practice hours, pushing past squads that had better starting metrics but less drive.

  But twelfth still wasn't top ten. Twelfth still meant resource allocation disadvantages and less desirable training assignments.

  And the rankings would shift again once they started weapons training.

  She scrolled through the detailed metrics. Walking proficiency: squad average 47.2 steps, ranked 14th. Running proficiency: squad average 31.8 steps, ranked 11th. Formation coordination: 78%, ranked 9th.

  Formation coordination was their strength. Five individuals who'd learned to function as a unit, who'd developed the ability to anticipate each other's movements and compensate for individual weaknesses. They might be behind in individual metrics, but together they performed better than their component parts suggested.

  Chimera Squad. Fractured pieces forming something whole.

  The semester schedule showed what was coming. Weeks six through eight: advanced mobility training. Running, jumping, rapid directional changes. The movements that combat required.

  Week nine: weapons integration. Learning what their mechs could do beyond simply moving.

  Week ten and beyond: combined operations training. Squad-level combat exercises, simulated engagements, practical application of everything they'd learned.

  And at the end of the semester: the tournament. All third-year squads competing in elimination brackets, demonstrating capability through simulated combat against other squads. Real pilots in real mechs with training weapons that registered hits without inflicting actual damage, the closest approximation to combat the academy could provide outside actual deployment.

  PvP matches. The instructors called them "adversarial training scenarios," but everyone knew what they really were. Combat practice against other pilots, opponents who could think, adapt, react in real time. Because simulation targets followed patterns, predictable behaviors that could be analyzed and exploited. But entities didn't follow patterns. Entities tried to kill you while you tried to kill them.

  The tournament would test everything they'd learned. Mobility, weapons proficiency, squad coordination, tactical execution under pressure. Win and advance. Lose and face the consequences of inadequacy demonstrated publicly.

  Valoris felt the familiar tightness in her chest. The weight of expectations, her own and others', pressing down with every ranking update and assessment score.

  But underneath the anxiety, something else. Anticipation, maybe. The desire to prove that thirty steps could become fifty, that twelfth place could become top ten, that Chimera Squad could compete with the best pilots in their year.

  They'd chosen this. Fought for it. Bled for it.

  Now they needed to earn it.