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“SOMEONE GET THIS A CHAIR,” he sneered, mocking my prosthetic legs in front of his entire class. “The last thing we need is her breaking a hip.” He thought I was a broken-down contractor, a “liability.” He didn’t know he was talking to ‘Nyx’. He didn’t know I was about to set a new facility record. His. The hum was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t a sound. It was a vibration, a low, steady thrum of power that traveled up from the polished concrete floor and into the sensitive receptors of my prosthetics. I wasn’t just standing on the observation deck; I was interfaced with it. I could feel the thrum of the “Crucible” below us, the massive combat simulation facility, sleeping and waiting for its next meal. The air smelled of industrial disinfectant, ozone from the holographic displays, and something else… a faint, coppery tang of nervous sweat. It was coming from the cadets, a nervous assembly of the academy’s best, all standing in a rigid, uncomfortable semi-circle. They were the future. And they were terrified. Not of the test. Of him. “Someone get this a chair.” The words landed like a wet slap in the quiet room. “The last thing we need is her breaking a hip trying to teach real soldiers how to fight.” That was Sergeant First Class Evans. Barrel-chested, booming-voiced, and smelling faintly of cheap aftershave and an over-inflated ego. He was the gatekeeper, the very picture of institutional arrogance, a man who believed the volume of his voice directly correlated to the value of his opinion. The cadets rippled with that awful, nervous laughter. The kind that seeks permission. The kind that begs to be included in the circle of power, even when the circle is drawn with casual cruelty. He was talking about me. I didn’t turn. I didn’t flinch. My fingers kept moving across the holographic interface, a liquid economy of motion. I was calibrating the opposing force (OpFor) protocols. To him, I was a broken contractor, a “liability.” My legs—the matte black carbon fiber that started just below my knees—were, in his eyes, a mark of failure. Proof that I “couldn’t hack it.” He saw a broken woman. He saw a data analyst. He saw a diversity hire. He didn’t see the weapon. I kept my gaze fixed on the diagnostic screen. He was just noise. A predictable variable in a complex system. But the noise was persistent. “I mean, look at her,” he continued, pacing behind me, a predator marking his territory for his cubs. “With all due respect… ma’am…” He spat the word “ma’am” like it was an insult, a thing he was forced to say. “This is the sharp end. We are training war fighters here. They need to learn from men who’ve been there, done that. Not from someone who… well…” He let the silence hang, and it was thick with his meaning. Not from someone who got broken and sent home. The cadets shifted. They were young. They believed in muscle and shouting. Evans was their god. I was an anomaly. A ghost in the machine. In the shadowed corner of the room, another man stood. Colonel Davies. He was the real power, but he was silent. He wasn’t watching Evans. He was watching me. I felt his gaze. It wasn’t the judging, dismissive look of the sergeant. It was analytical. He wasn’t looking at my legs; he was looking at my stance. He saw the perfect, unconscious distribution of weight. He saw the stillness in my hands. Davies saw what Evans couldn’t. He saw a weapon that hadn’t been broken, but had been reforged. He had read my file. Or at least, the parts they hadn’t blacked out. He knew. A soft chime from the console. The system was calibrated. I tapped a final sequence, my movements precise, economical. This absolute lack of engagement—my refusal to even look at him—was, I knew, infuriating. It was a statement of confidence so profound it needed no words. It told him, and his cadets, that his opinion was an irrelevant variable. He took it as a challenge. “You see, cadets,” he announced, his voice bouncing off the thick observation glass. “Combat is a physical reality. It’s about muscle memory! Endurance! The ability to push your body past its limits! It’s about carrying your brother on your back when he’s hit!” With every sentence, he glanced at me. At my legs. He was painting a picture of a warrior and deliberately, meticulously, drawing me out of it. The cadets nodded. This, they understood. “The OpFor… the simulated enemy…” Evans continued, “is usually run by a junior instructor. A simple task.” He waved a dismissive hand at my console. “We’ll let our guest contractor run the targets from here. Should be simple enough for you to handle, ma’am.” He smirked at the cadets. “Just try not to trip over any cables.” The snickering returned. I simply slid a cooling sleeve over the primary actuator on my left prosthetic…. Read full in below 👇

· 10/11/2025 · Comments off

{“aigc_info”:{“aigc_label_type”:0,”source_info”:”dreamina”},”data”:{“os”:”web”,”product”:”dreamina”,”exportType”:”generation”,”pictureId”:”0″},”trace_info”:{“originItemId”:”7568515780455697672″}} The hum was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t a sound. It was a vibration, a low, steady thrum of power that traveled up from…

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