The medical briefing happened three hours after Valoris's summoning, when adrenaline had faded and exhaustion settled into her body like lead.

  She sat in the recovery area with a thermal blanket wrapped around shoulders that wouldn't stop shaking. Through reinforced windows, Paragon stood motionless at the pool's edge. Forty-two feet of cobalt and silver perfection. Her mech. Her soul made physical. The entity she'd pulled from dimensional space through sheer stubborn will.

  The entity she couldn't pilot yet.

  Around her, Chimera Squad occupied similar states of collapse. Zee leaned against the wall with eyes closed, everything about her posture suggesting she'd fight gravity itself if necessary. Saren sat with rigid posture despite obvious fatigue, spine straight, hands folded. Quinn stared at their tablet without seeing it, pupils still dilated from dimensional contact. Milo slumped in a chair muttering technical specifications to himself.

  They'd all summoned. Pulled forth mechs from liquid metal and survived.

  And now came the part that Valoris had known about intellectually but never fully processed as something that would happen to her body in two days.

  Dr. Valen entered the recovery area with brisk efficiency. Mid-forties, short gray hair, dimensional exposure scarring along her jawline. Her white coat carried medical authority, but her eyes held the wary assessment of someone who'd seen exactly how many ways human bodies could fail when exposed to things they weren't designed to process.

  "Congratulations on successful summoning," she said. "You've crossed the first threshold. The second begins in forty-eight hours."

  She pulled up holographic displays showing anatomical diagrams of human nervous systems overlaid with mechanical components. Twelve distinct points highlighted on each diagram: base of skull, cervical spine, thoracic spine, both wrists, several others Valoris recognized from family medical records but had never seen displayed on a diagram meant for her.

  "Neural interface port installation," Valen continued. "Scheduled for 07:00, day after tomorrow. Eight-hour surgical procedure. Twelve ports total."

  Valoris felt her stomach tighten. She'd known this was coming. Had seen her grandmother's ports, silver circles embedded in pale skin. Had read surgical documentation in the family archives. Had understood intellectually that summoning meant surgery.

  But knowing theoretically and watching the surgical locations highlight on a diagram meant for her specific body were different experiences.

  "You all received orientation documentation about neural interface requirements," Valen said. Valoris remembered: third week of first year, a dense medical packet she'd read with clinical detachment because it seemed distant and theoretical. "But now it's immediate. So we'll review specifics."

  She gestured to the hologram.

  "Base of skull: primary neural interface. Major port, primary connection pathway. Enables direct consciousness synchronization between your brain and your mech's dimensional awareness. Cervical spine: three ports for motor control. Thoracic spine: two ports for structural feedback. Bilateral wrist ports for fine manipulation. Additional ports along major nerve pathways to create complete synchronization."

  The diagram rotated, showing each surgical site in detail.

  "Each port is drilled directly into bone at precise locations, then integrated with surrounding neural tissue through microscopic dimensional threading," Valen continued. "The ports are dimensionally matched to your specific mech's resonance signature. We cannot install them before summoning. Installing ports without proper dimensional matching risks rejection, catastrophic feedback, or permanent neural damage."

  Quinn's hands had gone white-knuckled on their tablet. Saren's breathing had gone very controlled. Milo looked like he might be sick. Zee stared at the diagram with something between determination and dread.

  Valoris touched the back of her skull unconsciously, trying to imagine metal embedded there. Technology fusing with biology in ways that would mark her permanently as modified.

  "You knew this was coming," Valen said, and something in her tone suggested she'd seen this reaction countless times. "It was in your orientation materials. In every briefing about the piloting process. You've seen ports on active pilots and instructors. But knowing theoretically and facing immediate surgical reality are different experiences."

  Yes, Valoris thought. Very different.

  "Surgery occurs in forty-eight hours," Valen continued. "Following surgery, you'll require four weeks recovery before attempting mech connection. During that time, the ports will integrate with your nervous system and you'll learn to manage the various complications that arise during healing."

  "What complications?" Saren's voice carried careful control.

  "Nerve integration is traumatic. Expect intense pain for the first week as your nervous system adjusts. Phantom sensations are common. The ports will weep constantly during early healing, which is normal but unsettling. Some candidates report sensing their mech even without active connection, as though the entity is reaching toward them through incompletely formed neural pathways."

  She paused, surveying them.

  "You'll be bedridden for the first seventy-two hours post-surgery. Minimal movement to prevent disrupting port integration. Pain medication will be provided, though it won't eliminate discomfort entirely. After the first week, you'll begin physical therapy. Week three, supervised connection tests. Week four, if healing progresses normally, you'll be cleared for actual piloting training."

  The weight of that timeline settled over the recovery area.

  "The ports are permanent," Valen added. "Completely integrated with bone and nervous system. Removing them would require extensive surgery with a high probability of permanent nerve damage. Once you undergo this procedure, you are modified for life. You will have metal embedded in your nervous system until you die."

  Silence.

  Valoris had known this. Had seen her grandmother's ports, had touched them curiously as a child. Her grandmother had answered honestly when asked if it hurt: Like being touched by fire for the first month. Like part of you that's wrong for the first year. Like normalcy eventually, but you never forget they're there.

  "Most candidates experience anxiety when facing imminent surgery," Valen said, tone gentling slightly. "This is normal. You've just undergone dimensional contact. Now you're facing voluntary body modification. The psychological weight is significant."

  "Does it hurt?" Milo's voice was very small.

  "Extensively. Particularly during the first two weeks. But the pain is temporary. The capability is permanent."

  "Rejection rate?" Quinn asked flatly.

  "Approximately three percent experience complications requiring port removal. Less than one percent suffer permanent nerve damage. The surgery is generally safe when performed correctly by experienced medical staff."

  Generally safe, Valoris thought. The same qualifier her grandmother had used: Generally safe. Usually fine. Occasionally catastrophic.

  "You have forty-eight hours to prepare," Valen said. "Use that time to rest, to process what you experienced during summoning, to prepare yourselves for the next transformation. Surgery occurs day after tomorrow at 07:00. Questions or concerns should be directed to medical staff immediately."

  She departed with the same brisk efficiency, leaving Chimera Squad staring at anatomical diagrams showing exactly where metal would be embedded in their bodies.

  For a long moment, nobody spoke.

  Then Zee laughed, sharp and humorless. "I knew about the surgery. Read all the documentation. Saw the ports on instructors. But knowing and this..." She gestured vaguely at the diagram. "Two days. Then someone's drilling holes in my skull."

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  "We all knew," Saren said tightly. "It was in the orientation materials. We understood intellectually that summoning meant surgery."

  "Understanding intellectually and facing immediate reality are different," Quinn said, echoing Valen's words. "Statistical knowledge doesn't prepare consciousness for voluntary trauma."

  "I don't want to do this," Milo said suddenly. "I mean, I do. I want to pilot. I want to connect with Jinx. But I don't want surgery. I don't want metal drilled into my spine. I want piloting without the cost."

  "That's not an option," Valoris said quietly. "We knew that when we chose this path. When we applied to the academy. When we underwent summoning. Connection requires ports. Ports require surgery."

  She looked through the window at Paragon standing motionless in the reservoir chamber. Her mech. Her responsibility. Her burden.

  Worth twelve pieces of metal embedded in her nervous system. It had to be worth it.

  "My grandmother has twelve ports," Valoris continued, still staring at her mech. "I've seen them my entire life. Touched them when I was young, asked what they felt like. She told me honestly: pain, wrongness, eventually normalcy. She warned me. Told me exactly what I was volunteering for. And I chose it anyway."

  She turned to face her squad.

  "We all chose it. Knowing the cost. Knowing surgery was required. We understood intellectually. Now it's real. Now it's immediate. Now it's in forty-eight hours instead of someday eventually."

  "Does understanding make it easier?" Zee asked.

  "No. But it means we're not surprised. We're just facing what we always knew was coming."

  Saren nodded slowly. "Foreknowledge doesn't eliminate fear. But it provides context. We knew. Now we proceed."

  "Proceed to voluntary surgery that will permanently alter our nervous systems," Milo said weakly.

  "Yes," Valoris confirmed. "Because the alternative is standing beside our mechs forever unable to connect. Unable to pilot."

  Quinn looked up from their tablet. "The decision was made when we summoned. Surgery is just the next required step. We proceed because stopping isn't acceptable."

  "We proceed because we're squad," Zee said firmly. "Because we do this together. All of us or none of us."

  The weight of that commitment settled into the recovery area.

  They'd known surgery was coming. Had read documentation, seen ports on instructors, processed information with clinical detachment. But knowing theoretically and watching countdown tick toward immediate surgical reality were entirely different experiences.

  Two days.

  Forty-eight hours.

  Then transformation from baseline human to permanently modified pilot would become irreversible.

  The next forty-eight hours existed in strange suspended anticipation.

  Valoris moved through recovery routines on autopilot: medical evaluations, dimensional resonance monitoring, basic physical therapy. But her mind kept returning to the holographic diagram. Twelve highlighted points. Twelve locations where metal would be embedded.

  She spent hours staring at Paragon through the reinforced windows, trying to convince herself the mech was worth voluntary surgery. Worth permanent transformation.

  Her grandmother's voice echoed through memory: The surgery changes you. Not just physically. Psychologically. You become aware that part of you is artificial. That your nervous system includes technology. Some pilots adjust easily. Others struggle with that awareness for years.

  Which would Valoris be?

  She didn't know.

  Chimera Squad processed the countdown differently.

  Zee trained anyway, despite medical staff advising rest. Push-ups, running, combat drills performed with aggressive determination. "If I'm going to be bedridden for three days post-surgery, I'm using every moment before that productively. Plus if I'm physically exhausted maybe I won't have time to be terrified."

  Saren researched the procedure obsessively, reviewing surgical protocols she'd already read during first year, calculating success rates she'd already calculated. "I need to know exactly what will happen. Which instruments they'll use. Understanding reduces variables."

  Quinn barely spoke. They sat with their tablet, occasionally glancing toward the windows where Specter stood motionless. Their expression carried that flat distant focus that suggested consciousness already reaching toward connection despite its impossibility. "Two days until I become more real. Connecting with Specter will make me whole."

  Milo built things compulsively: small projects, equipment modifications, component repairs. His hands needed occupation, something to do besides shake with anticipatory terror. "I knew about surgery. Read all the documentation. But knowing and experiencing are different and I'm not ready except I am because I have to be because there's no alternative."

  The night before surgery, they sat together in their barracks after lights out, none of them sleeping.

  "Last night of being purely biological," Milo said quietly into the darkness. "Tomorrow we become something else. Like… cyborgs."

  "We already became something else when we summoned," Saren corrected. "Tomorrow just makes it physically visible."

  "Permanent," Quinn added. "Irreversible."

  "Worth it," Zee said firmly, though her voice carried an edge of desperation. "It has to be worth it. We didn't come this far to fail because we're scared of surgery we always knew was required."

  Valoris touched the back of her skull, trying to imagine the primary neural interface port that would be installed there in less than twelve hours. Her grandmother had touched that same spot decades ago, processing the same anticipatory dread. Five generations of Kades facing this moment.

  "Anyone want to back out?" she asked quietly. "Before it's too late?"

  Silence. Long enough that she thought maybe someone would take the option.

  Then Zee's voice in the darkness: "We're squad. We do this together. All of us or none of us."

  "All of us," Saren confirmed.

  "All of us," Quinn agreed.

  "All of us," Milo whispered.

  "All of us," Valoris said, and felt the weight of that commitment settle into her chest beside all the other burdens she carried.

  They were Chimera Squad.

  They'd summoned mechs from dimensional space and survived. Tomorrow they'd undergo surgery. And four weeks later, they'd finally learn to pilot.

  Together.

  Medical Services woke them at 05:30 with clinical efficiency that allowed no time for second thoughts.

  Pre-surgical preparation involved thorough physical examination, blood work, neural baseline assessment, dimensional resonance monitoring, and signing approximately forty documents acknowledging various risks: infection, nerve damage, rejection, chronic pain, dimensional feedback complications, consciousness disruption, catastrophic neural system failure.

  Valoris had read these forms during first year orientation. Had understood theoretically what she was agreeing to. Signing them now, with surgery in ninety minutes instead of someday eventually, made every word feel weighted with immediate consequence.

  I acknowledge that neural interface port installation is permanent and irreversible.

  I understand that complications may result in chronic pain, nerve damage, or death.

  I accept full responsibility for choosing voluntary body modification.

  She signed. They all signed. What choice did they have at this point?

  At 06:45, they changed into surgical gowns. Thin fabric that provided no comfort, no protection, no illusion of control.

  Chimera Squad stood together in the pre-surgical preparation area, all of them putting on a brave face they didn’t entirely feel.

  "See you on the other side," Zee said, attempting confidence that didn't quite reach her eyes.

  "Statistically, we'll all survive," Quinn said. "Ninety-seven percent success rate. We're prepared."

  "We're terrified," Milo corrected. "But we're doing it anyway because we always knew this was required."

  "That's called commitment," Saren said quietly.

  Valoris wasn't sure commitment was the right word. Inevitability, maybe. The natural result of choices made months ago when surgery seemed distant and theoretical.

  But if the others wanted to call it commitment, she wouldn't argue.

  Medical staff separated them. Surgical protocols required individual procedures, individual monitoring. Individualized intervention was provided if complications arose. Valoris watched her squad disappear into separate surgical suites, then followed a nurse toward her own designated operating room.

  The space was aggressively sterile. Too bright, too white. Dimensional monitoring equipment surrounded the surgical table. Dr. Valen waited with her surgical team, already scrubbed and masked, prepared to embed twelve pieces of metal into Valoris's nervous system.

  Just like she'd done for Valoris's grandmother. For her mother. For five generations of Kade pilots who'd undergone this exact procedure in this exact facility.

  Family tradition made physical through surgical modification.

  "Lie down," Valen instructed. "Face down initially. We'll begin with the spinal ports, then reposition you for thoracic and wrist installations."

  Valoris obeyed, settling onto the surgical table with trembling she couldn't suppress anymore. The surface was cold against her skin, comfort padding doing nothing to ease the terror settling into her chest.

  This is normal, she told herself. Expected. Required. You knew this was coming. Your grandmother did this. Your mother did this. Kiana Kade survived this. You're continuing family tradition.

  Somehow that thought wasn't as comforting as intended.

  "Anesthesia in thirty seconds," Valen said calmly. "Count backward from ten."

  A needle slid into Valoris's arm. She barely felt it. She was too focused on trying to memorize what baseline humanity felt like, what existing in a purely biological body meant, the sensation of a nervous system that would never again be entirely her own.

  "Ten," she said obediently. "Nine. Eight. Seven..."

  The world dissolved.