The additional training sessions started the next morning.

Bright had posted a schedule in their quarters—detailed, color-coded, optimized for maximum skill development per hour invested.

Every squad member had specific focus areas identified, weaknesses to address, techniques to refine.

Mara's section included seventeen bullet points.

She read it twice, feeling something twist in her chest. This wasn't coaching. It was dissection. Clinical. Precise. Like she was a malfunctioning piece of equipment that needed repair.

Engagement timing: commits 0.4 seconds too early on average. Creates exploitable windows.

Footwork: favors left pivot, predictable pattern against observant opponents.

Blade transitions: clean but telegraphed. Requires misdirection training.

On and on. Every flaw catalogued. Every weakness exposed.

No acknowledgment of her strengths. No encouragement. Just cold analysis.

Duncan found her staring at the schedule, her hands trembling slightly.

"It's thorough," he offered carefully.

"It's insane." Mara's voice was tight. "He wants us training fourteen hours a day. That's not sustainable. People need rest, need—"

"Need to be human," Duncan finished. "I know."

"Do you?" Mara turned to him. "Because you're going along with it. You showed up for his pre-dawn drilling yesterday. You're enabling him."

Duncan sighed, settling onto the bench beside her. The quarters were empty—the rest of Sunshine Squad already at breakfast or preparing for the day's commitments. Privacy was rare in military housing, worth taking advantage of.

"I'm picking my battles," Duncan said. "Right now, he's functional. Cold, yes. Tactical to the point of inhumanity, absolutely. But functional. If I push too hard, too fast, he'll shut down completely. Or worse—he'll isolate himself from the squad entirely."

"So we just… let him be a machine?"

"No. We be patient. We be human around him until he remembers how. And we wait for the right moment to really push." Duncan's jaw tightened. "But I'm worried too. More than I'm letting on."

Mara studied his face. Duncan was usually steady—the rock their squad could lean on. Seeing uncertainty in his expression was unsettling.

"How worried?"

"Worried enough that I think we need to bring someone else in. Someone he might actually listen to."

"Who? Adam?"

"Already knows something's wrong. Can't tell why he hasn't said anything yet though." Duncan shook his head. "No, I was thinking Tyven. He worked with Hailen too, years ago. And Bright respects him."

"Will Tyven care? I mean, the man has a whole squad to take care of."

Duncan stood, decision made. "I'll talk to him today. Carefully. See if he can provide perspective."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, we follow the schedule. We train. But we also make time to be human in front of him. Small things. Conversations that aren't cold. Moments of humor or frustration or anything that reminds him we're people."

Duncan met her eyes. "And you need to find a way to talk to him. Really talk. About what happened."

Mara's stomach clenched. "I tried. He won't listen."

"Then try differently. Not in the training yard, not in front of others. Private. Vulnerable."

Duncan's voice softened. "I know it's hard. I know you're carrying guilt. But that guilt is eating you both—him because he's buried it, you because you're drowning in it. Only way through is a honest conversation."

"What if he doesn't want to hear it?"

"Then you say it anyway. Because some things need to be said whether they're welcome or not." Duncan headed for the door, then paused. "We all stumble, Mara. Every single one of us does things we regret, makes mistakes we can't undo. The question isn't whether you stumbled—it's whether you help him up or run away."

He left her sitting alone with Bright's schedule and her own thoughts.

Help him up or run away.

The choice should have been obvious. But nothing felt obvious anymore. Training that day was brutal.

Bright pushed them through combat drills, endurance exercises, tactical scenarios. He rotated partners constantly, forcing them to adapt to different fighting styles, different threat patterns. Every mistake was noted, catalogued, added to his growing database of squad weaknesses.

Mara fought opposite Rolf, their practice weapons clashing in rapid exchanges. Sweat soaked her training clothes within the first hour. By the second hour, her muscles screamed. By the third, she could barely lift her blades.

"Again," Bright called from his observation position.

"We need a break," Rolf panted. "We've been—"

"Again. Mara's footwork is still favoring the left pivot. Rolf, your fire manipulation is three seconds too slow to activate. These are exploitable weaknesses. Again."

They went again.

And again.

And again.

Across the training yard, Duncan worked with Baggen on defensive positioning. Adam drilled solo at Bright's insistence, practicing quick-draw speed with his rifle. Other squads trained nearby, their intensity matching or exceeding Sunshine Squad's.

The Academy announcement had transformed Vester's training yards into something approaching a war zone. Soldiers pushed past safe limits, desperation overriding caution. Injuries were climbing—the medical bay reported three broken bones yesterday, five the day before.

Everyone could feel it. The hunger. The need. Fifteen slots and hundreds of candidates made for dangerous mathematics.

Mara's blade slipped during a transition. Rolf's practice weapon caught her shoulder—not hard enough to injure seriously, but hard enough to send her stumbling.

"Break!" Duncan called, already moving toward them.

"No break," Bright countered. "She needs to drill that transition until—"

"She needs water and five minutes, Bright." Duncan's voice carried an edge. "Push too hard, we get injured. Injuries cost us matches. Matches cost us Academy slots. This is literally basic sense."

The logic was sound enough that Bright couldn't argue. He nodded curtly. "Five minutes. Hydrate. Then Duncan and Mara switch, Baggen and Rolf partner."

Mara collapsed onto a bench, gratefully accepting water from Duncan. Her shoulder throbbed where Rolf's practice blade had connected. Nothing serious, but it would bruise.

Bright remained standing, his own training weapon held loosely, his posture perfect despite hours of drilling. The Body Enhancement core gave him stamina normal soldiers couldn't match. He could train for days without rest if necessary.

And he probably would, given the choice.

Duncan sat beside Mara, keeping his voice low. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just tired."

"He's going to burn us out before the next match."

"I know." Mara watched Bright, saw the way he stood apart—observing, analyzing, separate. "He doesn't see it though. Doesn't see that we're not machines like him."

"He's not a machine. He's just pretending to be one." Duncan took a drink. "Question is how long he can keep pretending before something breaks."

"Duncan!" Bright called. "Time's up. Rotation."

Duncan rose, offering Mara a hand up. She took it, grateful for the steady support.

The training continued.

Hours blurred together—drill after drill after drill. By the time evening formation approached, Mara could barely stand. Baggen and Rolf looked equally demolished. Even Adam, whose baseline human physique meant he'd been given lighter exercises, moved with visible exhaustion.

Only Bright seemed fresh. Alert. Ready for more.

"Dismissed," he said as the evening bells rang. "Rest period until dawn formation. Review the tactical notes I'll post in quarters. Tomorrow we focus on combination attacks and squad coordination."

The others trudged toward the barracks, too tired for conversation.

Mara lingered.

Bright was gathering training equipment, his movements efficient and methodical. He didn't look at her, but she knew he was aware of her presence. His spatial foresight made it impossible to surprise him.

"Bright."

"If this is about the training intensity, I've already calculated optimal rest periods. Tomorrow's schedule accounts for—"

"It's not about the schedule." Mara forced herself to step closer, despite every instinct screaming to maintain distance. "I need to talk to you. Actually talk. Not some analysis. Not mission parameters. Just… us."

Bright set down the equipment. Turned to face her. His eyes were steady, empty, polite. "What about?"

"About what happened. Before the Crimson Fang match."

Something flickered across his expression—too fast to identify, immediately suppressed. "That's not relevant to current squad operations."

"It's relevant to us."

"There is no 'us.' There's the squad. The mission. The objectives." Bright's voice remained level, clinical. "Personal complications compromise effectiveness. I've sealed that incident away. I recommend you do the same."

"Sealed it away." Mara's voice shook. "You mean buried it. Pretended it never happened."

"Same practical result."

"No. It's not." She stepped closer, close enough to see the minute tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly on the training equipment. "Burying things doesn't make them go away. It just makes them rot inside you. I know we all sound like broken records at this point but how your are now, it's not healthy."

"I'm functional. That's sufficient."

"Sufficient for what? For turning yourself into something cold and empty?" Mara's frustration boiled over. "I did something selfish. I used you when you were vulnerable. I need you to know that I know that, and I'm sorry, and I'm trying to—"

"Your guilt is noted," Bright interrupted. "I don't hold it against you. It was a moment of mutual weakness. We've both moved past it. Subject closed."

"I haven't moved past it! And neither have you—you've just shoved it down with everything else!"

"Because that's what soldiers do." Bright's voice finally carried emotion—not warmth, but cold conviction. "We compartmentalize. We function despite trauma. We complete the mission regardless of personal cost. The dead instructor taught me that."

"I'm sure this instructor you speak so highly off taught you to survive trauma, not to become dead inside!"

"I'm not dead. I'm efficient, how many would I have to say it."

Mara wanted to scream. Wanted to grab him and shake him until something human surfaced. Instead, she took a breath, forced herself to calm.

"Do you remember what Hailen said?" she asked quietly. "About strength?"

"He said many things about strength."

"He said real strength isn't about never feeling pain. It's about feeling it and continuing anyway. Carrying the weight without letting it crush you." Mara met his empty eyes. "You're not carrying the weight. You're pretending it doesn't exist. And that's going to destroy you."

Bright was silent for a long moment. The training yard had emptied—just the two of them and the flickering soul-force lamps pushing back the eternal night.

"You're wrong," he said finally. "I'm carrying exactly as much as I can handle. Anything more would compromise the squad effectiveness."

"And what about your effectiveness? What happens when you bury so much that you can't function at all?"

"That won't happen."

"How do you know?"

"Because I won't let it." Bright picked up the equipment, turned away. "This conversation is over. We have formation in six hours. You should rest."

He walked away—steady and controlled.

Mara stood alone in the empty training yard, her hands shaking with frustration and grief.

She'd tried. She'd been honest, vulnerable, open.

And he'd sealed it away just like everything else.

We all stumble, Duncan had said. Question is whether you help him up or run away.

Mara looked at Bright's retreating form, saw the rigid control in his shoulders, the careful distance he maintained from everything human.

I'm not running, she decided. Not yet. Not ever.

Even if reaching him felt impossible.

Even if he pushed her away a thousand times.

She would keep trying—well, up to a point. If he crossed the line into being a liability, he'd be cut loose.

Duncan found Sergeant Tyven in the officers' mess, reviewing patrol reports over what passed for coffee in Vester—bitter, thin, but caffeinated enough to matter.

Tyven looked up as Duncan approached, his earth-scarred features unreadable. "Duncan. Something I can help you with?"

"Permission to speak privately, Sergeant?"

Tyven studied him for a moment, then gestured to the empty chair across from him. "Sit. Talk."

Duncan sat, organizing his thoughts. Tyven was direct—preferred efficiency over social dancing. Best to match that approach.

"It's about Private Morgan."

"That kid." Tyven set down his coffee. "What about him?"

"He's not… right. Since Hailen died, he's been different. Cold. Tactical. Training the squad fourteen hours a day, it's a bit unnerving because he wasn't usually like this."

"Grief affects people differently."

"This isn't grief. Or if it is, it's becoming toxic." Duncan leaned forward. "You fought alongside Hailen. You knew him. I don't see his loss changing you that much."

Tyven's expression darkened. "It did prick, just a little. But I'm a veteran in the emotional field. Once you've lost enough, killed enough, boy—you learn to hold lives more loosely."

"If you're here to get me to talk to Morgan, don't bother," Tyven said. "He'll have to learn to live with the pain—same as the rest of us."

Duncan sighed as he walked away, wondering when all the sappy emotional shit had crept into the story they were writing.

Elsewhere in Vester, Bright Morgan was waiting too—waiting for permission to feel again, to be human again, to carry his stones without pretending they weren't there.

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