Panya stared at the glowing text, a frown barely forming on her face before the sheer effort of it made her eyelids droop. Candidate 774. Acquired. Another thing to ignore. Probably some overzealous marketing from the game developers, given her sudden notoriety. A dark, quiet corner sounded heavenly. “Pan! Are you even listening?” Tarek’s voice, sharp and grating, sliced through the quiet hum of the datapad. He stood over her, arms crossed, muscles taut beneath the sleek team jersey. “I said, the gym floor. Now. I need to observe your… technique.” Panya merely yawned again, a delicate flutter of her lashes. “Later. I need a nap. Where’s my room?” Zaidu, ever the peacemaker, stepped between them. “Tarek, give Pan a break. He just got here. You can’t just drag him straight into heavy-G drills.” “This isn’t about a break, Zaidu. This is about competence,” Tarek bit back, his gaze fixed on Panya. “And Vance Senior is visiting. He expects to see us drilling, not… napping.” “Your dad?” Zaidu’s calm façade wavered slightly. “The elder Vance is here? Why didn’t you say anything?” Panya tuned them out, already drifting, her mind constructing an ideal nap scenario: weighted blanket, blackout curtains, the gentle hum of a white noise machine. She pictured the team’s massive, intimidating mansion. Surely, somewhere in this techno-labyrinth, there was a forgotten broom closet perfect for a quick, undisturbed forty winks. “Fine,” Tarek snapped, grabbing Panya’s arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Then you can observe *my* technique, Pan. Maybe you’ll learn something.” He began hauling her towards a section of the house she hadn’t yet explored, a corridor that hummed with a low, rhythmic thrum. Zaidu sighed, a long-suffering sound, and followed. “Tarek, be nice. The old man has high expectations.” “Which is precisely why I need to show him I’m not slacking off,” Tarek muttered, throwing open a heavy blast-door. The air inside hit Panya like a physical wall—dense, thick, and surprisingly cold. This wasn’t just an exercise hall; it was a combat vault, complete with a massive, spherical arena at its center. The walls pulsed with intricate energy patterns, and the floor shimmered with an unsettling gravity field. “The Centauri Dome,” Zaidu explained, his voice low. “It replicates high-G combat environments. It’s brutal.” Lying down was all she craved. Brutal was fine, as long as horizontal rest was involved. The locker room connected to the vault was sleek, all brushed metal and glowing interfaces. Tarek tossed an exercise kit at Panya—a form-fitting, dark grey compression suit. “Get changed. Don’t dawdle.” He peeled off his own jersey, revealing a lean, sculpted torso, then walked over to a locker, his back to her. “I’ll be on the main platform.” The compression suit clung tighter than her usual attire, and the chest wrap beneath her casual clothes was already digging into her ribs. She couldn’t risk Tarek turning around while she adjusted it. She slipped into a vacant changing stall, pulling the heavy magnetic door shut. The chest wrap was suffocating. She fumbled with the clasps, sweat tracing a path down her temple. Just a little looser. Just enough to draw air. The weave clung, unforgiving. She tugged, trying to shift the strap, a quiet grunt escaping her lips. Then, a sudden clatter outside her stall. The magnetic lock on her door hissed. “Pan? You taking a nap in there?” Tarek’s voice. Close. Too close. Panya froze, her hands still fumbling with the cloth hooks. Chill prickled her neck. He couldn’t see. He absolutely could not see. Just as the door began to slide open, a hand, swift and firm, slammed against it from the outside, stopping it inches from revealing Panya. “Tarek! What are you doing?” Zaidu’s voice, usually so mild, was laced with an unfamiliar edge of fury. “Give Pan some privacy! You can’t just barge in on someone changing!” “He’s taking forever! The commander is waiting!” Tarek protested, but his voice sounded distant, muffled by the door. Panya heard a brief, strained scuffle, then Zaidu’s low, intense murmur. “Don’t you dare. Give him a moment.” The tension in the stall slowly bled out of Panya. She quickly adjusted the elastic layers, pulling the compression suit over them, ribs pulsing with adrenaline. She smoothed down the fabric, checking her reflection in the polished metal of the door. Nothing. She looked exactly like ‘Pan’, the newest, laziest member of the Sunfire Stags. When she emerged, Zaidu stood guard by her stall, his face a mask of controlled irritation. Tarek was already halfway to the Centauri Dome, grumbling under his breath. Zaidu caught Panya’s eye, a flicker of something unreadable there—concern? Relief? His gaze lingered for a moment, then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Ready, Pan?” A dark supply closet sounded paradise by comparison. She trudged after them. The Centauri Dome was already occupied. A tall, imposing figure in a crisp, dark uniform stood by the main control console, silver hair neatly combed back from an angular face. Arthur Vance. His presence crackled with an energy that made the already dense air feel even heavier. His eyes, keen and obsidian, swept over the room, settling on Panya for a moment with an unnerving intensity before flicking to his son. “Sir,” Tarek said, his voice unusually deferential, almost eager. “I was just about to run a high-G mock battle for you. Pan, would you mind observing from the pod?” “Excellent,” Arthur Vance rumbled, his gaze already drifting back to Panya. “Though I’d prefer to see a demonstration of your newest acquisition, Tarek. I hear his reflexes are… unique.” Zaidu shifted uncomfortably. Tarek’s face fell, a shadow of disappointment crossing his features. “But… I was going to showcase the new ‘Sky Serpent’ maneuvers, Father.” Arthur Vance merely raised a brow. “I’ve seen your Sky Serpent maneuvers, son. Show me what this ‘Pan’ can do.” His dark gaze fixed on Panya, who longed to sink through the floor grates. She sighed, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. Fine. If she had to play, she’d play. Maybe she could nap in the VR pod. The chair looked comfortable enough. She climbed into the designated pod, the seamless shell closing around her with a soft hiss. The VR helmet lowered, settling over her head, the world dissolving into a familiar, hyper-realistic combat arena. The hyper-gravity kicked in, pressing against her, making every movement an effort. Her avatar, a sleek, agile ‘Storm Strider’ unit, materialized before her. “Commence evasive run, Pan,” Zaidu’s voice came through the comms, a hint of worry in his tone. “Avoid the drones. High-G stress test.” Panya didn’t bother with the joystick or the haptic controls. Her fingers, long and nimble, danced across the holographic interface, a blur of motion. It was all muscle memory, a subconscious ballet of input and command. Her Storm Strider wove through the digital storm of incoming fire, dodging, feinting, a spectral blur against the neon landscape. She wasn’t trying; she was just… existing. Her eyes were half-closed, a soft snore threatening to escape her lips. Outside the pod, Vance watched, a thin smile spreading across his face. He ignored Tarek’s increasingly frantic attempts to point out his own performance on the secondary monitors. The officer's eyes stayed locked on Panya’s avatar, on the impossible fluidity of its movements, the casual perfection of its evasions. He tapped a finger on the console. “Disengage safety protocols on Pod 3. Maximize pain feedback. Target: Central Nervous System.” Zaidu gasped. “Sir, no! That’s for military recruits! It’s lethal!” “He’s a candidate, isn’t he?” Arthur Vance’s voice was icy, his eyes still fixed on Panya’s pod. “Let’s see what he’s really made of.” Inside the pod, Panya’s half-asleep state was shattered. A searing white agony tore through her spine. The world of Synapse Clash, usually a distant game, suddenly felt terrifyingly real. Her avatar stumbled, a tremor running through its digital frame. The pain feedback, a dull ache seconds ago, spiked, sharp and agonizing, a thousand needles tearing at her nerves. The pod’s internal diagnostic system flashed a warning: [WARNING: SAFETY OVERRIDE ACTIVE. PAIN-FEEDBACK: LETHAL THRESHOLD] [EMERGENCY PROTOCOL: DEACTIVATED] [POD LOCKDOWN: ENGAGED]

Sweating Bullets