The simulation room doors slid open, revealing the cold grey corridor and a panel of judges.

  I stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from my nose onto the polished floor. My uniform was torn at the shoulder, and blood—real blood—was trickling down my arm.

  Three officers sat behind a glass partition. They wore pristine black uniforms, their eyes hidden behind dark tactical glasses. They didn't look like people; they looked like statues carved from judgment.

  "Candidate 07#AB12," the center officer said. His voice was mechanically amplified, stripping it of any humanity.

  "Yes, sir," I managed to rasp, straightening my spine despite the pain in my ribs.

  "Target neutralized in four minutes, thirty-two seconds. Efficiency rating: Acceptable."

  Acceptable. I had just killed a cyber-wolf the size of a tank, and all I got was "acceptable."

  "Damage sustained: Moderate," he continued, making a note on his datapad. "You hesitated at the start. Hesitation is death. Do not let it happen again."

  "No, sir."

  "You passed," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Proceed to Med-Bay for decontamination and repair. Next."

  I didn't wait for him to change his mind. I turned and walked out, my legs trembling with the adrenaline crash. I had passed. I was going to the stars. I wasn't sure if I should celebrate or vomit.

  The Med-Bay was a hive of activity. Medical drones buzzed through the air like oversized mosquitoes, stitching wounds and dispensing painkillers. The smell of antiseptic was strong enough to water my eyes.

  I sat on the edge of a bio-bed, wincing as a drone began to clean the claw marks on my arm.

  "Hey, Killer."

  I looked over. Becca was lying on the bed next to mine. Her left arm was in a sling, and a synth-skin patch covered her eye. She looked like she’d gone ten rounds with a blender, but she was grinning.

  "You look terrible," I said, relaxing for the first time in hours.

  "You should see the other guy," she said. "Giant eagle. Or maybe a pterodactyl. It tried to drop me from the virtual ceiling. I introduced it to my axe."

  "Did you pass?"

  "Obviously." She leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Though the judges didn't like my 'attitude.' Said I was 'reckless.'"

  "Imagine that."

  The doors hissed open again, and a gurney was wheeled in. I sat up straighter.

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  It was Katherine.

  She looked small on the bed. Her face was pale, and she was staring blankly at the wall. A medic bot hovered near her leg, which was wrapped in a pressure bandage.

  "Kat?" I called out.

  She blinked, slowly focusing on me. "Cass?"

  "Did you..." I trailed off, afraid to ask.

  "I made it," she whispered. Her voice was hollow. "It... it kept coming at me. I just kept swinging until it stopped moving."

  Becca sat up, her smirk fading into something softer. "Good job, Kat. Seriously. Most of the guys from Block C didn't walk out of there."

  Katherine managed a weak, trembling smile. "I don't want to do it again."

  "None of us do," I said. "But we're alive."

  "For now," Becca muttered, lying back down.

  An hour later, I was discharged. The drone slapped a waterproof bandage on my shoulder, gave me a red pill for the pain, and told me to report to my quarters.

  I walked slowly down the corridor. The rush of the test had faded, leaving a hollow exhaustion in my bones. The hallway was empty, the lights dimmed for the evening shift.

  As I approached a junction, I heard voices. Low, urgent, and angry.

  I stopped. Eavesdropping was a Class B infraction, punishable by isolation. But something about the tone made me freeze.

  I pressed myself against the wall, peering around the corner. Two senior officers stood in the shadows. One was rubbing his temples; the other was pacing.

  "...demands are getting ridiculous," the pacing officer hissed. "Does he think we can just conjure these results out of thin air?"

  "Keep your voice down," the other snapped. "If the High Command hears you questioning the Director..."

  "The Director isn't the one sending people into a meat grinder," the first officer spat. “The Northern Nation has already suffered a lot in the plague. If this mission fails, we don't have the resources for a second attempt. We’re throwing everything at this."

  "It won't fail. The AI has run the numbers ."

  "The AI doesn't care about human life. It only cares about the objective. 'Retrieval at all costs.' Do you know what the survival projection is for this team?"

  "I don't want to know."

  "Twenty percent," the officer whispered. "Twenty. And that's optimistic."

  My breath hitched. I stepped back, my boot squeaking against the floor.

  Both officers stopped talking.

  "Who's there?" the pacing officer barked, his hand dropping to his sidearm.

  I didn't wait. I turned and walked as fast as I could without running, keeping my head down, heart hammering against my ribs.

  Twenty percent.

  That meant out of ten of us, only two were coming back.

  I made it to my room before anyone saw me. Becca and Alicia were already there. Alicia was polishing her boots, looking unharmed. Becca was throwing a rubber ball against the wall with her good arm.

  "You look like you've seen a ghost," Becca said, catching the ball without looking.

  I locked the door and leaned against it. "I heard something."

  Alicia looked up, frowning. "Cass, don't start with the rumors again."

  "It's not a rumor," I said, keeping my voice low. "I heard two seniors talking. They said the mission... they said the survival rate is twenty percent."

  Silence filled the room. Becca stopped throwing the ball. Alicia set down her boot.

  "Twenty percent?" Katherine whispered from her bunk.

  "That's suicide," Becca said, her voice flat. "That's not a mission. That's a sacrifice."

  "Maybe you misheard," Alicia said, though she looked pale. "Or maybe they were talking about a different squad."

  "They said 'this team,'" I insisted. "And they talked about the Southern plague. They said the South is collapsing."

  "We knew it was dangerous," Alicia said, her voice tightening. "That's why we trained. We are the elite."

  "We're fodder, Alicia," Becca snapped. "Don't you get it? We're just bodies to throw at the problem until it stops moving."

  "Stop it," Alicia said, standing up. "Both of you. If we start panicking now, we're dead before we even launch. We follow orders. We watch each other's backs. That's how we beat the odds."

  She looked at me, her green eyes hard. "Right, Cass?"

  I looked at the white streak in my hair in the mirror. I thought about the 20% statistic.

  "Right," I lied. "We beat the odds."

  But as I climbed into my bunk, I knew the truth. We weren't fighting for the nation anymore. We were fighting to be the twenty percent.