The void wrapped Tarek tight, a heavy darkness closing in, nothing like the wild rush of the Proving Grounds. Inside the pod, it was just him—no enemies to swing at, no turf to defend, there was only the echo of his own pulse and the anticipation of pain. He tensed as the pod's sensors buzzed against his scalp. He'd walk in with his usual armor: the scowl, the cocky tilt of his chin, eyes daring anyone to try him. Even his teammates—Mira with her steel backbone, Kairo's haunted stare, Lira's sharp tongue, Orren's quiet weight—couldn't break through his walls. Not really. They called themselves a team, but in his heart, the word "friend" was an old, dangerous dream he'd locked away…Yet maybe this time, in the quiet corners of his mind, they're becoming something more than just necessary colleges of the trials, but admitting that would feel like cracking open a wound.
The pod's hum faded, and a nightmare kicked in. Light flickered, not the chamber's cool cyan but a sickly yellow, like a bulb about to die. Tarek blinked into a cramped hallway, its walls flaking gray paint, smeared with dirt and damp streaks. The air reeked of mold and old sweat, the kind that stuck to you. A lone bulb dangled above, swinging, throwing sharp shadows over a creaky wooden floor scattered with cigarette stubs and glass shards. This was the orphanage in Korath's gritty industrial sprawl, the place that haunted him. He was ten, lean but tough, in a patched jacket and oversized boots, a knife at his hip, its weight his only comfort. It's the day they kicked him out, tossed him away like garbage, leaving him to face the world solo. The memory hit like a fist, raw and heavy, dragging up his mom's suicide two years before, her grief over his dad's death in battle, and the deeper scar—his own worthlessness, the fear he'd always be alone.
"Tarek!" Matron Krell's voice cracked like a whip. She stood in his way, arms crossed, her glare locking him in place. "You're done here. Pack your stuff and get tf out."
He wanted to lash out, spit his anger, fight her words with everything he had. But his throat locked up. "I didn't do anything," he mumbled, voice wobbling. It didn't matter—the orphanage didn't care about fair. He was trouble, easy to ditch. Krell's stare was ice-cold. "You're a liability," she snapped. "We don't keep strays who won't behave, especially freaks with Etheron like yours." From every doorway, blurry faces stared—kids he'd scrapped with, kids he'd nabbed food from, kids who called him "orphan trash." Their empty looks hurt worse than punches. The bulb above flickered, shadows twisting. A door loomed at the hall's end, rain hissing beyond it, promising freedom. He stepped toward it, each step dragging like lead. Cold rain hit his face, boots slipping in mud. Neon signs bled color into the night, his reflection in puddles—small, broken, fading. His pack felt too light. His dad's knife, a keepsake, weighed more than it should. Krell's voice followed him: "You're nothing, Tarek. A nobody." The scene blurred, then reset—he was back in the hallway, Krell blocking him, her voice biting: "Get out. You're done here."
The loop kept coming, over and over, each one carving him down, sharper, smaller. He fought it—ran for the door, slammed the walls, screamed until his throat burned. Nothing worked. The pain sank deeper. He lost track—twenty loops, thirty? enough to kill hope. His knees gave out. Pride crumbled, worn down by years of being alone. "I'm not nothing," he whispered, but the illusion tightened, Krell's face warping into something monstrous, her eyes glowing with judgment. The kids taunts grew louder: "You're alone. Nobody wants you." Rain poured through, soaking him in salt and shadow. The bulb popped, plunging everything into black.
Tarek sank to the floor, sobs shaking his chest, tears burning eyes that never cried. The illusion pressed harder, despair like a fever. He wasn't a fighter now, just a scared kid, stuck in a loop of being unwanted. "I can't…" His voice cracked, raw. "I can't do this." He shut his eyes, almost begging, reaching for something—someone—even if hope felt fake. Then, a name broke through: Kairo. Mira, Lira, Orren—their faces flashed in his mind. Not just teammates. Not strangers. Something real. His hands shook, admitting he needed them, letting go of his walls. "Please… someone… help me… I don't want to be alone…" His plea rang out, louder than the rain, a broken, desperate cry. In the dark, something stirred.
Kairo stood in the void, steam curling off his skin, rain dripping from his brow, his mother's words "You're enough" steadying him, the Codex's hum a calm beat after breaking his second illusion. He was ready for the Fracture phase, the final test, but the void didn't shift. Instead, the Codex's sharp, urgent voice cut through, the grid sparking around him:
[CΩDΣX: ALLY DISTRESS DETECTED]
[SUBJECT SEVENTEEN: CRITICAL PSYCHIC IMMERSION. LUCIDITY THRESHOLD AT 8%.]
[INTERVENTION PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. TRANSFER TO MINDSCAPE?]
Kairo's breath hitched, eyes widening. "Tarek," he said, the name heavy. He pictured Tarek's scowl in the pod, his guarded looks, the way he fought in the Proving Ground—fierce, unstoppable, but always distant. Kairo knew Tarek's front, his pride, but also the loyalty buried underneath. The Codex waited. Kairo's jaw set, decision made. "Take me to him," he said, voice solid. The void broke open, a rush of cold and noise, dropping Kairo into Tarek's nightmare. Rain stung his face, mud and neon blurring around orphanage walls. Krell's voice boomed, cruel laughter echoing from kids just as scared. In the center, Tarek knelt, soaked, shaking, hands covering his face, tears falling, his knife lying useless in the mud.
"Kairo!" Tarek's cry was raw, a kid's desperate shout, not the fighter's snarl. Kairo's chest tightened, the sight hitting hard. He pushed forward, rain soaking his trial suit, boots splashing. "Tarek!" he called, voice clear, slicing through the illusion's chaos. Tarek looked up, eyes red, stunned, his face torn between pain and hope. "Kairo?" he choked out. "You… you're here?" The shock stung worse than the rain. "I'm here," Kairo said, dropping to one knee, his hand resting on Tarek's shoulder, steady and real. The rain seemed to pause, Krell's voice fading, the kids' faces blurring. Kairo saw the hallway, the door, Tarek's pain, and got it—the loneliness, the rejection, the kid who fought to be something. "You called for us," Kairo said, calm but sure. "We're not leaving you. You're not alone—not anymore." Tarek's breath caught, hands trembling, voice barely there. "They threw me out. My dad… he died before I even knew him. My mom… she killed herself in front of me. The orphanage… they called me nothing. A stray. I've been alone forever, Kairo. I can't… I can't keep going like this." His words poured out, no walls left, showing the kid behind the anger, the blades, the mask.
Kairo's grip held firm, his eyes burning, carrying his own pain—his dad's absence, his mom's fear. "You're not a stray, Tarek. You're not nothing. You're with us. Mira, Lira, Orren—they've got your back, too. You don't have to do this alone." His voice was a lifeline, pulling Tarek up. "Look at me. You're tough. You survived Korath, the Proving Ground. You're still standing. And you're not fighting solo anymore." Tarek's tears eased, his eyes locked on Kairo's, the illusion wavering, the hallway splitting, violet light seeping through. "I pushed everyone away," he said, voice quiet, guilty. "I thought… if I was strong enough, I didn't need anyone. But I'm tired, Kairo. So damn tired of being alone."
"Then let us in, Tarek. Let me in. We'll fight this together." Kairo held out his hand, rain pooling in his palm. Tarek stared at it, the storm raging, but Kairo's words were louder, real. Slowly, Tarek reached out, his grip shaky, clasping Kairo's hand—two fighters, no longer alone. The illusion shook. Walls split, Krell's voice broke, the rain burned into blue-white light. A bridge formed, not a wall.
"Well, now would be the perfect time for that cocky Tarek we know" Kairo grinned, his voice a spark in the haze. "Let's tear this place apart!" Dark-blue Etheron flared around them, pulsing with new fire. Together, they charged—Tarek a whirlwind of blades, Kairo a bolt of raw power, tearing through the illusion like a storm. The orphanage cracked, then burst into fading shards, dissolving into the void. Breathless, they stood side by side, Etheron sparking on their skin. Tarek swiped a sleeve across his eyes, silent. Kairo's grin was wide, real, easing the weight. "Thanks man," Tarek muttered, voice rough but steady, new. Kairo's smile softened. "Guess we're homies now," he teased. Tarek glared, his scowl creeping back. "Fine. Just don't tell the others about this," he grumbled. "And don't expect me to start acting different, freak." Kairo laughed, unfazed, as the illusion's last traces faded.
[TRAUMATIC PATTERN RESISTED. PSYCHIC RESILIENCE RESTORED.]
[SUBJECT SEVENTEEN: +1 Points: Emotional Resilience | +3 Points: Identity Integrity]
[SUBJECT THIRTY-SEVEN: +3 Points: Team Contribution]
[TOTAL SCORES: Subject Seventeen: :39 | Subject Thirty-Seven: 51]
Lira pushed through the dark, her shadow a stubborn spark, braids swinging softly, her breath even but her eyes burning with a strength she'd clawed her way to. The void buzzed, a wide space speckled with violet flickers, like the trial's energy held her fights, raw and bold, carrying the story of two tests that hit her heart hard. The first was a cruel trap, a lab with cold white lights glaring down, steel walls crammed with humming machines, glowing Etheron vials, and screens spitting data. The air stung with antiseptic and a sharp buzz. She was eleven, small, in a thin gown, arms marked with needle scars, feet numb on icy tiles. A glass chamber waited, its door wide, ready to trap her. This was C.E.L.E.N.'s research enclave, where her childhood got ripped away, her scientist parents treating her like a "lab rat" for their tests. The memory burned, a shame that drove her fire in the Trials, tucked behind her tough act.
"Lira, step into the chamber," her mother's voice barked, sharp and cold from a console. Lira turned, chest squeezing, to see Dr. Sarah, her mom, in a lab coat, glued to a screen. Her dad, Dr. Caleb, messed with a syringe, face blank. "We need to measure your Etheron threshold," he said, flat, like a command. The chamber's hum got louder, glass shining, promising hurt. Lira's hands shook, her voice a whisper. "I don't want to." Her mom's eyes snapped up, freezing. "Shutup and stop resisting." Lira's feet dragged forward, pulled by memory, into the chamber, the door sealing with a hiss. Etheron flooded her, scorching her veins, her scream stuck, body trembling as monitors beeped, her parents stone-cold. This illusion tore open her fear of being helpless, years as a test subject, the dread she was just numbers. The chamber blurred, then came back, her mom's voice again: "Lira, step into the chamber." The illusion kept hitting, each round forcing her to feel the pain, the betrayal.
The rounds stacked high, too many to track, each one grinding her down. But Lira felt a shift—she was done letting her rough past chain her. She wanted to rise, be more than those scars. "I'm not your experiment," she said, standing tall, fists clenched, voice clear and fierce. "I'm stronger than your cages. I choose who I am." The illusion pushed back, the lab flashing bright, her parents' faces twisting grim, but Lira's Etheron surged, a glitchy gray shield sparking wide, smashing the lab apart. The chambers burst in a flood of light, her parents' fake forms crumbling like dust, her strength ringing out, bold and unstoppable.
Then came the Cognitive test, a softer trick that tested her fight. It spun a cozy home, warm with golden light, where parents loved her, not tested her, where laughter built a childhood she never had. The air smelled of bread and flowers, wooden walls draped with bright quilts, a fireplace glowing soft. She was eleven, in a comfy tunic, arms scar-free, feet snug on a woven rug. A kitchen table shone, mugs steaming, a place of warmth, not cages. This was a fake, a dream her real parents—Dr. Sarah and Dr. Caleb—never gave, easing her lab-rat pain but tugging at her shame, her fear of losing her strength.
"Lira, come set the table," her mom's voice called, gentle, not a scientist's snap. Lira turned, heart jumping, to see a woman—not Dr. Sarah, but a softer face, hair loose, smiling. Her dad, not Dr. Caleb, sliced bread, chuckling. "You're our helper today," he said, passing a plate, eyes warm. The home's light hugged her, offering love, no pain, no needles. Lira set plates, her giggle shy. "Can we play after?" The woman nodded, smile too perfect. "Of course cutie." Each day in this fake world felt perfect—baking, stories, hugs too real. The days piled up, tempting her to stay, to drop her fight, her team, her truth.
Those fake days blurred, pulling at her heart, whispering she could be this kid, not a fighter. But Lira's gut knotted—she wasn't this soft, scarless girl. Her rough past made her tough, not easy to fool, no matter how much she craved this life. "I don't belong here," she muttered, dropping a mug, its crash jarring. The illusion tightened, her mom's voice begging, "Stay, Lira, don't leave us." "I'm not your kid," she shot back, stepping away, voice sharp. The illusion flared, the home's light spiking, her parents faces fading into shadows, but it was too late—Lira saw the truth. She stood, heart steady, and walked through the front door, leaving the fake world to dissolve behind her. In the void, Lira stood taller, changed, stronger than ever.
{PHASE ONE & TWO: CONCLUDED}
{CLARITY OF MIND—4 POINTS.}
{IDENTITY INTEGRITY—3 POINTS}
{RESISTANCE TO MANIPULATION—5 POINTS.}
{TOTAL SCORE: 44}
On the other hand, Orren just stumbled out of the void, his figure like a spark in the dark, one arm wrapped tight, his eyes bright with a strength he'd battled hard to find, telling the story of two tests that hit him right in the heart. The first (Personal phase) was a mean trick, a military compound lit up by harsh floodlights, the concrete yard scratched up from blasts, air heavy with dust and a sharp metal sting. Training drones buzzed, their red eyes locked on him. He was ten, skinny, in a stiff cadet uniform, clutching a control rod, gravity twisting around him—his power, shaky. This was the day he messed up big time, when his dad died because of him. That memory hurt like a punch, a guilt that made him hide behind logic in the Trials, acting all calm.
"Orren, lock in that gravity!" his dad's voice roared, tough but proud. Orren spun around, heart thumping, to see Elias Thal, a military officer, standing tall in crisp fatigues on a platform. Drones zipped around, shooting weak pulses. "Hold the field—now!" Elias barked, eyes burning with trust. Orren's hands shook, the rod wobbling, gravity going wild—his screw-up. "I'm trying!" he yelled, but the field slammed out, smashing a drone, the shockwave knocking Elias down. "Orren, stop!" his dad shouted, voice cracking. The ground split, gravity spiking, Elias crushed in a burst of red light, his scream gone. Later, his mom's voice cut through, full of hate: "You killed him." This illusion dug into his fear of messing up, his mom's anger, the weight of losing his dad. The compound came back, drones buzzing, Elias's voice: "Orren, lock in that gravity!" Every moment forced him to live it again, the pain, the blame.
The moments piled up, each one trying to break him. But Orren felt something click—he was done letting guilt hold him back. He wanted to be better than his mistakes. "I'm not just my screw-ups," he said, standing straight, dropping the rod, his voice rough but strong. "I loved you. I'm human." The illusion pushed back, the compound glowing hot, his dad's face twisting weird, but Orren's Etheron kicked in, a tight burst of clean energy, blasting the training ground apart. The drones melted in a spark of light, his dad's fake form fading. Then the Cognitive phase started, a sneaky trap that tested if he'd keep fighting. It made a perfect compound, shiny and bright, platforms smooth, air fresh like morning grass. Sunlight warmed the yard, no drones, no danger. He was ten, in a neat cadet uniform, rod steady, gravity flowing easy. This was a fake, a world where his dad was alive, no accident, no mom hating him. The dream softened his guilt but made him scared he'd lose his heart for control.
"Orren, that was solid," Elias's voice called, warm, not harsh. Orren turned, heart racing, to see his dad on the platform, grinning, not yelling. The gravity field was perfect, smooth. "You nailed it," Elias said, patting Orren's shoulder, firm. The compound's calm pulled him in, no death, no need for his team. Orren gripped the rod, mind clear. "Can we train again?" he asked, voice quiet. Elias smiled big. "Always, son." Every day in this fake world was awesome—drills, high-fives, no mistakes. The days rolled on, begging him to stay, to ditch his team for this peace.
Those perfect days blurred together, whispering he could be this kid, not the one who messed up. But Orren's gut twisted—he wasn't this flawless boy. His mistakes made him real, not a robot. "This isn't right," he said, letting the rod drop, its clunk loud. The illusion fought, Elias's voice pleading, "Stay, Orren, you're enough." "I have my team," he shot back, voice fierce, stepping away. The illusion flared, the compound's light jumping, his dad's face fading into shadows, but Orren saw the truth. He stood tall, mind sharp, and walk away as the fake world melting behind him.
{PHASE ONE & TWO: CONCLUDED.}
{CLARITY OF MIND—4 POINTS}
{IDENTITY INTEGRITY—5 POINTS}
{RESISTANCE TO MANIPULATION—4 POINTS.}
{TOTAL SCORE: 49}
The simulation chamber buzzed, neon lights throwing a chilly glow as Kairo's pod popped open, spitting blue vapor. He stumbled out, trial suit soaked, hair stuck to his face, eyes kinda wrecked but chill, like he'd just dodged a nightmare. The others spilled out next—Mira, standing tall but hands shaky; Tarek, smirking but wobbling; Lira, tossing her braids but fake-laughing; Orren, gripping his arm, staring off. The place stank of ozone and sweat, pods going quiet, just their uneven breathing bouncing around.
"Tch, I could do that again, easy," Tarek bragged, slouching against his pod, voice big but eyes twitchy, still stung from his orphanage hell. Lira snorted, flicking a braid. "Yeah, right, you were begging for a blanket in there." Her grin was all sass, but her fingers twisted, raw from lab memories. Mira folded her arms, chuckling. "Keep yapping, you two—I'm benching you both." She sounded cool, but her lips were tight, hiding her own pain. Orren gave a small grin. "I'd bet on that," he mumbled, voice low, but his fist stayed clenched, his dad's death weighing heavy. Kairo wiped his brow, laughing. "Man, who's getting me a burger after this?" His smile was easy, but his knees buckled a bit, carrying his own hurt. They trudged to the exit, tossing jokes like a shield, their laughs loud but brittle, covering the hurt eating at them. Their quick glances said it all—no words needed, they'd made it through together. The chamber's light faded, the void's hum gone, but the trials scars hung on, quiet, pulling them tighter as a team. And stronger individuals ready for Etherborn life.