Saren lost control during a simulation.

  The loss wasn’t dramatic or catastrophic. Just three seconds during routine combat exercise where Meridian’s primary railgun fired without conscious command, targeting solution appearing in Saren’s awareness fully formed, trigger pulled by neural impulse she hadn’t initiated.

  The shot hit perfectly. Eliminated the simulated entity with precision that suggested extensive calculation and flawless execution. Exactly the kind of shot Saren would have taken if she’d been controlling Meridian consciously.

  Except she hadn’t been controlling Meridian. Meridian had fired independently. Or Saren’s subconscious had fired. Or the neural bond had blurred sufficiently that distinguishing between Saren’s conscious control and Meridian’s autonomous function was no longer possible.

  “CEASE FIRE, MADDOX,” the simulation instructor ordered, confusion evident in her voice.

  “I–” Saren’s voice came through squad comm, carrying bewilderment. “I didn’t fire. I was assessing targeting options. Meridian fired without command authorization”

  “Mechs don’t fire without command authorization.”

  “Meridian just did.”

  Silence answered that statement. Uncomfortable, concerning, acknowledging something that shouldn’t be possible but had clearly occurred.

  They completed the simulation. Returned to the bays and disconnected from their mechs. Medical pulled Saren for immediate evaluation while the rest of Chimera waited in tense silence.

  Saren emerged ninety minutes later looking exhausted. She sat down heavily in their common area, hands shaking visibly. The tremor had become constant lately, neural pathways degraded or optimized for mech control instead of human fine motor function. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Valoris’s mother or grandmother, not yet, but Valoris felt a sinking feeling every time she saw it.

  “What did they say?” Valoris asked carefully.

  “Neural bleed.” Saren’s voice was flat. “That’s what they’re calling it. My neural pathways have optimized so thoroughly for mech control that my brain processes firing solutions automatically, continuously, constantly calculating optimal tactical responses. Sometimes those calculations reach Meridian through our bond and Meridian executes them even though I didn’t consciously command execution.”

  “Leave it to Saren to over-optimize,” Zee cracked, but there was real concern in her voice.

  “That sounds concerning,” Milo said.

  “It is concerning. Medical says it’s an advanced integration symptom. Happens sometimes with precision-focused pilots who’ve bonded extensively. They’re increasing monitoring. Adjusting my connection protocols.” She paused. “But they’re not disconnecting me. Not stopping me from piloting. Just documenting that my consciousness is bleeding into Meridian.”

  Saren looked at her shaking hands, holding them up for observation, watching the constant fine tremor, calculating something behind her eyes. "Have you seen my handwriting lately? There's a visible wobble in every letter now. I used to have perfect penmanship. Now it looks like I'm writing during an earthquake." She lowered her hands. "My nervous system has reorganized itself for piloting. I'm becoming more effective as a pilot but less functional as a human."

  “Your hands were always shaking a little,” Quinn offered. “Stress response. Performance anxiety. I noticed in first year.”

  “This is different. This is neural optimization making my human body worse at human functions because my brain prioritized mech functions instead. I’m trading human capability for pilot capability.” Saren paused, and something like fear crossed her expression. “And I don’t know if that trade is reversible. I don’t know if I can ever be fully human again.”

  She flexed her fingers, watching the tremor, and Valoris saw her lips moving silently.

  She was calculating. Running firing solutions on nothing, on air, on invisible targets only she could perceive.

  “I still calculate firing solutions on people now,” Saren said quietly. “I can’t turn it off.”

  “That’s deeply concerning,” Zee said.

  “It is. But Medical says it’s normal for my pilot classification. Precision-focused pilots develop automatic targeting assessments. It’s enhancement, not degradation. It makes me better at my job.” Saren’s voice carried something that might have been bitterness. “Even if it makes me worse at being a person who doesn’t automatically calculate how to kill everyone I encounter.

  Valoris's nightmares were getting worse.

  The frequency hadn't changed; she'd had nightmares since summoning, since that moment of touching vast consciousness that reached back and left its mark on her awareness. But the intensity had escalated. They were more like memories than dreams.

  She dreamed about the entity from her summoning, that vast presence that had touched her consciousness and asked something she couldn't understand. Dreamed about awareness so large that her human perception couldn't contain it, trying to compress into forms she could process and failing catastrophically.

  In the dreams, the entity was trying to tell her something. Reaching for her across dimensional boundaries, seeking communication, desperate for understanding.

  Why do you hurt us? the entity asked.

  Valoris woke gasping, awareness flooding back into biology that felt inadequate, consciousness compressing into a single point after experiencing far-flung distribution that made human existence feel like imprisonment.

  She touched her arms in the darkness, fingers tracing paths where she felt fractures that weren't there.

  The sensation had spread. She couldn't see anything wrong, and medical scans showed normal bone structure, but she could feel them; phantom cracks running through her skeleton, starting at her wrists, now extending past her elbows toward her shoulders. Like her bones were slowly shattering along lines that matched Paragon's armor fractures. No physical damage, nothing to match the constant awareness of breaking that existed only in her perception.

  It wasn’t real. Medical confirmed that repeatedly. But the sensation spread anyway, her body insisting on damage that didn't exist.

  She got up carefully, trying not to wake her squad, and went to the barracks bathroom. Looked at herself in the mirror by dim sleep cycle lighting.

  For just a moment, a brief flicker lasting maybe half a second, her reflection wasn't herself.

  Wasn't human.

  She was Paragon. Cobalt and silver elegance. Perfect proportions concealing fundamental flaws. Forty-two feet of dimensional entity staring back through a mirror that shouldn't reflect anything except flesh.

  Then the image snapped back to normal and she was just Valoris again. Just a human pilot with ports embedded in her skull and exhaustion visible in every line of her expression and phantom fractures she could feel but that didn't actually exist.

  She pressed her hands against the sink, breathing carefully, trying to stabilize awareness that felt increasingly unstable.

  We are adequate together, Paragon offered through their bond. It was a constant presence now, a constant reminder that she was never truly alone in her own consciousness anymore.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  "Am I still me?" Valoris whispered to her reflection.

  Her reflection didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the answer was becoming increasingly ambiguous the longer she remained bonded to a dimensional entity that existed partially in her awareness every moment of every day.

  Medical called them in collectively three weeks into the semester. All five members of Chimera Squad summoned for joint evaluation. That suggested they'd noticed patterns requiring group assessment rather than individual monitoring.

  The medical officer was someone new, a Doctor Kiran with advanced corruption visible throughout her skin, silver deposits suggesting decades of dimensional exposure. She studied them with the kind of clinical assessment that made Valoris feel like a specimen.

  "Chimera Squad," Kiran said. "Top performers. Excellent summer deployment records. Exceptional coordination. Advanced integration metrics." She paused. "Also showing accelerated progression across all five members."

  Silence answered that statement.

  "Sterling: involuntary phase-shifting outside your mech. Dimensional coherence degrading. Your actual physical body sometimes exists in a probabilistic state rather than fixed materiality."

  Quinn's expression didn't change, their flat affect concealing whatever they felt about that clinical assessment.

  "Renn: reports continuous communication with bonded entity even during separation. Persistent auditory presence that cannot be silenced. Neural pathway growth exceeding normal parameters. Consciousness bleed extensive."

  Milo fidgeted but didn't respond.

  "Zavaretti: personality integration with bonded entity progressing rapidly."

  Zee's jaw tightened but she remained silent.

  "Maddox: neural optimization causing human body degradation. Fine motor control compromised. Autonomous targeting solutions appearing without conscious activation. Advanced bleed between pilot consciousness and mech systems."

  Saren's hands shook but she didn't try to hide the tremor.

  "Kade: reported phantom fracture sensations throughout extremities despite normal skeletal structure. Reported dreams suggesting continued entity contact. Observation of identity instability, occasional failure to recognize own reflection as separate from bonded entity."

  Valoris felt her squad's attention shift to her with surprise and concern as they realized that she'd been concealing symptoms just like they'd all been concealing their own progressive changes.

  "Collectively," Kiran continued, "Chimera Squad is showing high levels of adaptation. This is unusual."

  "Is it dangerous?" Valoris asked carefully.

  "All corruption is dangerous. All neural bonding has cumulative cost." Kiran paused. "But your progression is accelerated compared to normal pilot cohorts. The bond typically stabilizes after a year or so of active piloting, and most pilots live with reduced versions of what you're experiencing. The symptoms don't disappear, but they become manageable. Predictable." She glanced at Quinn. "Sterling's phase-shifting is my primary concern. We're increasing monitoring. Weekly evaluations for all members. Daily checkups for Sterling specifically until their dimensional coherence stabilizes. Mandatory reporting of any new symptoms, any involuntary changes, any experiences suggesting consciousness bleed or entity communication."

  "Are you disconnecting us?" Milo asked, voice carrying anxiety.

  "No. You're still combat-capable and functionally effective. You’re still completing mission parameters successfully." Kiran's expression was carefully neutral. "And frankly, what you're experiencing isn't abnormal. It's accelerated, yes, but every bonded pilot deals with some version of consciousness bleed, identity questions, physical changes. The integration process is difficult for everyone. Your bonds are still stabilizing. We just need to monitor the progression and ensure nothing develops beyond manageable parameters."

  "We’re stabilizing each other, too," Zee said.

  "Your squad cohesion is exceptional. Your coordination is remarkable and your inter-squad bond is psychologically healthy in most respects." Kiran paused. "But you're also reinforcing each other's symptoms. Supporting each other through changes that might be concerning if experienced individually. Normalizing symptoms that should trigger intervention. You've created an environment where transformation is accepted rather than questioned."

  "Is that wrong?" Valoris asked.

  "Wrong? No. Pilots need support systems, people who understand their experiences. They need a community that accepts their modifications without judgment." Kiran looked at each of them in turn. "But your mutual support might be enabling rapid progression that would be slowed by external intervention. You're enabling each other."

  Silence stretched through the medical office, uncomfortable and necessary, acknowledging truth they'd all sensed but hadn't articulated.

  They were becoming something together. Something beyond five individual pilots. Something that was stronger, more capable, more dangerous, but also less human, less individual, less them.

  "We're adequate," Valoris said firmly. "We're completing missions. We're supporting each other. Isn't that what pilots are supposed to do?"

  "Yes," Kiran agreed. "But adequate pilots usually survive longer than exceptional pilots. Excellence often correlates with accelerated corruption and shorter service periods. You're becoming excellent. That might kill you faster."

  She dismissed them with instructions to report any new symptoms immediately, to maintain daily logs of their experiences, to attend mandatory monitoring sessions without failure.

  They left Medical together, maintaining their formation, supporting each other through shared concern about assessment that had made explicit what they'd all been noticing privately.

  "So we're experiencing more symptoms than normal," Zee said once they were clear of medical personnel. "And they're concerned but not stopping us."

  "They're documenting us," Quinn corrected. "Observing progression. We're a case study now. Data points demonstrating accelerated integration in a high-performing squad environment."

  "That's unsettling," Saren said.

  "That's reality," Valoris countered. "We're changing. We've always been changing. Now it's just visible enough that they're paying attention."

  "Are we okay with that?" Milo asked. "With changing this fast? With losing parts of ourselves to our mechs?"

  Valoris looked at her squad, her found family, her chosen people, the fractured pieces that had learned to function as whole. They were different now than when they'd met in first year. Different than even last semester. Changed by their bonds, transformed by their service, corrupted by daily connection to dimensional entities that reshaped human consciousness through sustained contact.

  But they were still Chimera Squad. Still together. Still choosing each other despite everything.

  "We're adequate," she said firmly. "We're adequate together. That's what matters."

  Through neural pathways that connected her to Paragon, Valoris felt the entity's presence, a constant awareness that existed partially in her own mind every moment of every day.

  We are adequate together, Paragon confirmed.

  And Valoris chose to believe it. Chose to trust that their bond was partnership rather than consumption.

  Chose to hope that being adequate would be enough to survive what was coming.

  First official deployment of fourth year occurred three weeks later, and it was routine.

  Standard patrol, a low-risk zone with minimal entity activity. They deployed, fought, returned. Checked boxes on mission reports. Documented kills. Confirmed all pilots survived. Mission success.

  Routine.

  Second deployment came two weeks after that. Moderate zone, more entities. More combat. Still routine. Deploy, fight, return. More kills documented. More reports filed. More evidence that Chimera Squad was exceptional at its assigned function.

  Routine.

  Third deployment happened three weeks later. A deeper zone with higher risk. Extended patrol. Entities emerging in larger numbers, coordination more apparent, behavior increasingly incomprehensible.

  But killing them was still routine. Deploy, fight, return. Document. Report. Confirm survival.

  Routine.

  This was their life now. This was what they'd become. Deploy regularly. Kill entities. Return. Process trauma privately. Support each other through shared experience. Repeat.

  The killing was becoming normal. That was the scariest part.

  They'd understood that killing would be required since first year; choosing to become pilots meant choosing to become weapons. But the killing was becoming routine. Unremarkable. Just another task completed, another checkbox marked, another day of service performed adequately.

  They stopped thinking about entity behavior. Stopped questioning whether the beings they killed were intelligent. Stopped wondering if the war was justified or necessary or built on truth.

  They stopped thinking altogether and just performed. Because thinking led to doubt and doubt led to hesitation and hesitation got pilots killed.

  Better to be adequate weapons than questioning humans.

  Better to survive than understand.

  Better to accept than resist.

  This is fine, Valoris told herself after each deployment. We're fine. Everything's fine. We're just doing our jobs. We're adequate pilots performing adequately.

  This is fine.

  The lie tasted like copper and dimensional static and desperation, but she swallowed it anyway.

  Because the alternative was worse than any entity they'd ever faced. Acknowledging that nothing was fine, that they were changing catastrophically, that the war might be built on lies and their service might be enabling atrocity. That truth, whatever it was, might destroy them.

  So they chose the comfortable lie instead, chose routine over resistance.

  This is fine, she thought one more time.

  And almost believed it.