The easy camaraderie of translated conversation lasted for another hour. Remy, fueled by an endless supply of energy and jokes, held court, prying stories out of them. Mateo spoke of the fierce, tactical discipline of Italian football. Kenji listened more than he spoke, his observations sharp and economical when he did contribute. Lex talked about Brackley, about playing in the rain for three thousand people who knew your name, and it felt both a million miles away and like the only real thing in this sterile mountain.
Eventually, the lights in the room dimmed automatically.
"Right, beauty sleep," Remy declared, hopping into a top bunk, over Mateo's. "Gotta keep the fans happy."
"Buonanotte," Mateo rumbled, lying on his lower bunk with a sound like a settling rock.
"Rest is a data-gathering period for the body," Kenji stated calmly, already lying perfectly still in his own bed, under Lex. "Goodnight."
"Night," Lex said, sliding into his blanket. The excitement of the day crashed into him, and he was asleep almost instantly.
The wake-up call was not gentle. At precisely 7:30 AM, the same synthesized female voice blared from the speaker, accompanied by lights that brightened to a painful, sunlit intensity.
"Candidates. Rise and prepare. Training Block Alpha commences in thirty minutes."
Lex groaned, burying his head under his thin pillow. It felt like he had only just closed his eyes. He heard the quiet, efficient sounds of his roommates already moving. The soft thud of Mateo's feet on the floor, the rustle of Kenji's bedsheets, the inevitable hum of Remy already bouncing on his heels.
By the time Lex finally pried himself upright, blurry-eyed and feeling like a mess, the other three were already dressed in their black training kits, looking immaculate and alert.
"Rough night, Chip Guy?" Remy asked, grinning.
"Shut up," Lex mumbled, fumbling for his own kit.
"Your training schedule is on the door terminal," Kenji informed him, already heading out. "We have different sectors today. Efficiency."
Mateo gave another of his slow nods and followed Kenji out.
"See you later, mate. Don't go doing crazy stuff today as well, hehe." Remy winked, walking out.
Lex was alone, scrambling to get ready. He checked the screen on the wall by the door. His schedule was brutal: agility diagnostics, cognitive reaction tests, individual technical drills. No scrimmages. No team exercises. They were still being measured, sorted, and filed.
The next few days fell into a tiring rhythm. Lex would drag himself out of bed, always last, and spend his days in isolated training pods being put through hell by unblinking AI instructors. He didn't see his roommates except for late at night, where exhausted, translated "goodnights" were all they could muster before collapsing into sleep.
During a particularly exhausting session on a reaction treadmill, the facility's speaker system chimed.
"Announcement. Candidates 197 and 198 have joined the project."
A holographic display flickered to life at the end of the training pod, showing the main entrance of The Crucible. Two figures walked in, side-by-side. Even through the hologram, they carried a devastating aura of cool, unnerving confidence. They moved like they owned the very place they were in.
One was a tall, black girl, powerful striker with a fierce gaze, a veil tied around her head to cover her hair. The other was slighter, but her posture was pure royalty. Her eyes scanned the facility with a critical, analytical coldness, as if looking for its flaws. A flicker of recognition came across Lex's mind. He'd seen her face in football documentaries. The sharp features, the piercing intelligence in her eyes. She was the spitting image of her grandfather's youth.
The system displayed their names and nationalities below their images.
{Candidate 197: Zara, Nigeria.}
{Candidate 198: Elara Cruyff, Netherlands.}
A whisper seemed to travel through the facility's very walls: She's a Cruyff. Johan's granddaughter.
The message was clear. The stakes had just been raised again.
The days bled into one another. The constant pressure was a forge, and Lex could feel himself changing, his Brackley-honed skills being sharpened, broken down, and rebuilt under the relentless demands of the AI. The humiliation of his early performances began to fuel him, the memory of Kael's smirk a constant spark.
Then, one morning, after the two hundredth candidate—a lightning-fast winger from Argentina—had been processed, the AI voice echoed through the entire Crucible, from the dorms to the deepest training pit.
"Announcement. The roster is complete. Two hundred candidates are assembled."
A pause. The air itself seemed to hum with anticipation.
"Project RedLine is now officially commenced. The winnowing begins tomorrow. Prepare."
The word hung in the air, cold and final. Winnowing.
The friendly introductions were over. The individual assessments were done. They were all here. Now, the real battle for a spot on the team of twenty was about to begin. Lex felt a chill on his skin, followed by a surge of that same vicious joy. It was time to stop being measured and start being measured up.
He closed his eyes, took a breath in and exhaled deeply. Opening them with a glint of determination. "Time to Fly"