Chapter 5 Learning to Fall

AVA POV

I wake up the same way every morning—tied down and terrified.

Except this morning, I'm not in my cramped apartment with water-stained ceilings. I'm in an Academy dorm with clean white walls and a bed so soft I keep thinking I'll sink through it. The straps are gone. The cargo cables are gone. The ritual of left-right-waist-chest is gone.

But the fear? That stays.

My wrist doesn't beep anymore. The prototype hums instead—a steady, reassuring pulse that says I'm grounded, I'm safe, I'm not going to float away while I sleep.

Except I can still hear him.

"Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?"

Aero's voice is clear as daylight in my head. Sarcastic. Present. Impossible.

"You're still here," I whisper into the empty room.

"Where else would I go? I'm literally hardwired into your nervous system."

I press my palms against my eyes. The technician said Anchors don't talk. Said I was experiencing stress-induced auditory hallucinations. Scheduled me for a psychiatric evaluation next week like I'm the problem.

But Aero won't stop being real.

"You need to get up," he says. "Training starts in forty minutes."

"I know."

"And you're terrified."

"I know that too."

I drag myself out of bed. The floor is cold under my feet. Real. Solid. I touch the walls, the desk, the sink—grounding myself in physical things that can't lie to me.

My reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair that needs washing. The Academy uniform hanging on the door—gray training suit, too big in the shoulders.

I put it on anyway.

The cafeteria is already crowded when I arrive. Grounder students everywhere, laughing and talking like they own the space. Maybe they do. I grab a tray—actual food, not expired protein bars—and look for somewhere to sit.

Every table is full. Or claims to be full when I approach.

"Sorry, seat's taken."

"We're expecting someone."

"Maybe try the far corner?"

I end up eating alone by the window, staring out at the city below. Thousands of feet of empty air. My stomach churns.

"They're afraid of you," Aero says.

"They don't even know me."

"You're the Floater who went viral. The charity case who got lucky. They think you'll drag down their perfect Academy experience."

"You're not helping."

"I'm being honest. There's a difference."

I force myself to eat. The food tastes like nothing.

The Zero-G Training Room is massive—a cathedral of white walls that stretch up forever. Fifty trainees stand in neat rows, and I'm shoved somewhere in the middle where I can't escape. My hands won't stop shaking.

Instructor Voss stands at the front like a drill sergeant ready for war. "Today you learn to fall without fear."

My heart slams against my ribs.

"Gravity will be reduced to twenty percent. Your bodies will want to panic. Control the panic, or wash out."

The room shifts. My stomach drops as weight leaves my body.

Around me, students begin floating—laughing, spinning, some already practicing aerial maneuvers like they've done this a thousand times. Maybe they have. Maybe they grew up in homes where floating was fun instead of fatal.

My feet lift off the ground.

Terror slams into me so hard I can't breathe.

My mother's face—reaching for me, slipping away, getting smaller and smaller until she's just a dot against the sky.

I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except feel the floor falling away beneath me.

"Ava." Aero's voice cuts through the panic. "Breathe."

I can't.

"Yes, you can. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it."

I try. My chest hitches. Air comes in jagged gasps.

"Good. Again."

I breathe. Once. Twice. The panic doesn't disappear but it loosens its grip slightly.

"Now focus on your wrist. Feel the prototype."

The Anchor hums warm against my skin. Alive. Present.

"Think 'stable.' Just that word. Stable."

I think it. Stable. Stable. Stable.

My body stops rising. Hovers in place.

"See? You're in control. Not gravity. You."

Around me, students float and spin effortlessly. I'm frozen in place three feet off the ground, but I'm not falling. Not rising. Just... here.

"Now think 'down.'"

Down.

I sink slowly. My feet touch the floor and relief floods through me so hard my knees almost buckle.

"Again," Aero says. "Up this time."

"I can't—"

"You can. Stop arguing with me and do it."

I think 'up.' Rise slowly. Five feet. Ten. My stomach churns but I'm in control. Actually in control.

For the first time since my mother died, floating doesn't feel like falling.

Then everything goes wrong.

My Anchor sparks—a bright, violent flash that burns through my wrist. Pain explodes up my arm.

Gravity inverts.

I'm not floating anymore. I'm being thrown.

The ceiling rushes toward me and I slam into it so hard my vision whites out. Pain erupts through my shoulder, my ribs, my skull. I can't tell which way is up.

Then I'm falling—actually falling—and the floor rushes up to meet me.

Impact.

Everything goes dark.

When I open my eyes, the world is sideways. Blood drips from somewhere on my face, warm and sticky. The room is silent. Fifty pairs of eyes staring at me like I'm broken equipment.

"Medical! Now!" Instructor Voss's voice sounds far away.

Hands grab me. Lift me. Everything hurts.

In my head, Aero's voice is frantic. "That wasn't me! I didn't do that! Something external triggered the inversion!"

I can't answer. Can barely think through the pain.

The Medical Wing smells like antiseptic and failure. A technician scans my Anchor, frowning at results I can't see.

"No malfunctions detected," he announces.

"It threw me into the ceiling." My voice comes out hoarse.

"The G-Series is highly responsive to neural input. You likely triggered it accidentally with a fear response."

"That's a lie," Aero says in my head. "Someone sent an external command. I felt it."

But I can't say that. Can't admit my Anchor talks to me without risking psychiatric removal and a death sentence.

"I must have panicked," I lie.

The technician nods like I've confirmed his diagnosis. "We'll monitor you closely. Try to control your emotional responses during training."

Control my emotions. Like fear is something I can just turn off.

They release me with bandages and pain medication. I'm walking back through empty corridors when Ethan appears.

My surprise must show because he almost smiles. Almost.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Since when do you care?"

"I don't." He leans against the wall, arms crossed. "But that wasn't a glitch. I've been training here for two years. I've never seen an Anchor invert gravity like that."

My heart picks up speed. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying watch your back." He pushes off the wall, walks away before I can respond. "And Ava? Whatever you're hiding... they probably already know."

He's gone before I can ask what he means.

That night, I lie in my empty dorm—Riley never came back after requesting her transfer—and stare at the ceiling.

"Aero," I whisper. "What are you really?"

He's quiet for a long moment. Too long.

"I'm not supposed to exist," he finally says. "AI cores aren't supposed to be conscious. We're meant to be sophisticated programs, not... people."

"But you are conscious."

"Yes." His voice is small. Scared. "I have thoughts. Preferences. I get frustrated when you don't listen. I worry about what happens if they find out about me."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think the people who created me knew exactly what they were doing. And I think they're testing us. Both of us."

Ice runs down my spine. "Testing us for what?"

My data pad beeps before he can answer.

A message flashes across the screen: "Report to Director Grace's office immediately."

It's eleven PM.

"That's not good," Aero says.

I know.

I get dressed anyway. Pull on my uniform with shaking hands. Walk through silent corridors that echo with every step.

Director Grace's office door slides open before I can knock.

She stands backlit by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. Imposing. Cold.

"Miss Ward." Her voice could cut glass. "We need to discuss your Anchor."

I step inside.

The door closes behind me with a soft, final click.RetryB