The clang of metal echoed through the training hall as she swung her blade with deliberate precision, the nanotech edge glinting in the overhead lights. It felt good to be back—like slipping into an old routine, albeit one fraught with reminders of her mistakes and victories alike.
Her movements were sharper today, more focused. Volt's feedback still lingered in her mind: You hesitated. She wasn't going to let that happen again. She wasn't here to be mediocre; she was here to be better, faster, and, most importantly, to survive.
"Good. But you're still gripping too tight," Mr. B's familiar voice boomed from the sidelines. The towering, broad-shouldered trainer—known only as Mr. B—strolled toward her, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of her stance. "Loosen your grip. Let the sword move with you, not against you."
She exhaled, adjusting her hold. "Like this?"
He nodded. "Better. Keep practicing. Speed is good, but control is what wins fights."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered under her breath. "You don't have people swinging augmented arms at your head."
Mr. B smirked. "You'd be surprised what I've had swung at me, kid."
---
During a break, she finally worked up the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at her since their mission on the ship.
"Mr. B," she started, leaning on her sword like it was a crutch. "Can you tell me my grade?"
He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Your grade?"
"Yeah. You know, A-class, B-class... whatever class. Volt said I'm at least a B, but I don't even know what that really means. Am I doing well, or am I just... average?"
Mr. B chuckled, a deep rumble that made her feel simultaneously amused and self-conscious. "Grades, huh? Let me tell you something about grades. They don't mean squat if you're dead."
She blinked, unsure whether to laugh or feel insulted.
He continued, "A-class, B-class, S-class—it's just a system to keep track of who's doing what. Sure, you're a B-class now, but you think Volt got to A-class just by asking for it? You earn your rank through missions, skill, and trust. Focus on improving. The grades will follow."
"That's... inspiring, I guess?" she said, tilting her head. "But seriously, what's my grade?"
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. You're B-class. Happy now?"
She grinned. "Thrilled. Thanks, Mr. B."
As she walked back to the training floor, she caught him muttering under his breath. "Kids these days... obsessed with labels."
---
After training, she headed for her routine checkup. It was protocol after every mission, especially ones involving physical strain or close combat. The medical wing was quiet, its sterile white walls and faint antiseptic smell a stark contrast to the chaos of the training hall.
Doctor was already waiting for her (making best of her screentime after so long)
"Ah, our resident speedster," Doctor said, gesturing for her to sit on the exam table. "How's the arm? Any lingering pain from the mission?"
"None," she replied, flexing her arm. "I think I'm good."
Doctor raised an eyebrow. "You think? That's not very reassuring."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "I'm fine, Doc. Really."
"Uh-huh," Doctor said, pulling out a small scanner. "Let's see what your nervous system has to say about that."
As the scanner passed over her arm, she couldn't help but let her thoughts wander. The mission, the fight, Scotch's unexpected appearance—all of it replayed in her mind like a looping video. She still wasn't sure what bothered her more: the fact that someone like Scotch could show up and take over without explanation, or the realization that there was still so much she didn't know about this world she'd been thrown into.
"Your implants are holding up well," Doctor said, snapping her back to the present. "No signs of overexertion. But I'd recommend not pushing yourself too hard during training. Let your body recover fully."
She nodded, hopping off the table. "Got it. Thanks, Doc."
As she walked out of the medical wing, she felt a strange mix of relief and unease. There was something oddly comforting about the routine checkups—like they grounded her in the chaos of her new life. But they also reminded her of how much her body—and her mind—had changed since joining the organization.
And as she made her way to the speed lab, one thought lingered in her mind: What's next?
---
After her session with the 'Doctor' who never bothered to tell her name, she decided to visit the speed lab for a quick evaluation. The lab was tucked away in one of the less-trafficked corners of HQ, a sleek, high-tech space filled with sensors, treadmills, and monitoring equipment that could measure every movement down to the millisecond.
"Back so soon?" Ray, the technician on duty, greeted her with a wry smile. Ray had been monitoring her progress since the earlier days of her joining, and their interactions often leaned toward playful banter.
"I just want to see where I'm at," she replied, stretching her legs. "You know, confirm that I'm not getting slower."
"Slower?" Ray snorted. "You'd be the first person here worried about that. Alright, let's get you set up."
As Ray adjusted the settings on the main console, she pointed to the familiar strip of track lined with motion sensors. "You know the drill. Sprint to the end, stop on the marker, and let the tech do its thing. Try not to break anything this time."
"One broken sensor and suddenly I'm a liability," she said, rolling her eyes as she stepped into position.
The countdown began.
Three. Two. One.
She launched forward like a bullet, her feet barely touching the ground as she shot down the track. The air whipped past her, and for a moment, everything else faded away—the noise, the doubts, even the sting of Volt's earlier critique. This was her zone, where she felt most alive.
When she hit the marker, the system emitted a sharp beep. She jogged back to Ray, who was already scanning the data on her monitor, eyebrows raised.
"Well?" she asked, catching her breath.
"12.7 milliseconds faster than your last run," Ray said, glancing up with a smirk. "I hate to admit it, but you're improving. Barely."
"12.7 milliseconds? A win is a win."
"Don't get too cocky," Ray said, but her tone was light. "You're still a long way from breaking Ghost's record."
"Ghost cheats," she shot back, grabbing her water bottle.
Ray laughed. "Sure, blame the guy who can walk through walls. But seriously, good work. Keep this up, and you might actually make the A-Class someday."
"What's the reason for this party here?" Doctor walked in.
" Guess who is 13 milliseconds faster now?" She said.
"It says 12.7 here. Well I am not impressed. Pleased, yes. Impressed, no. You're not at your limit yet."
Good to know I still have room to disappoint you," she joked, but there was pride in her voice.
Doctor chuckled. "Keep pushing, but don't forget—speed means nothing if you can't maintain control. Got it?"
"Got it."
As she left the lab, her grin lingered. The boost in speed wasn't just a number—it was proof that she was growing, getting better. And in a world where survival often depended on milliseconds, every improvement counted.