The rest of Shae Carter’s day went, for a brief and suspiciously peaceful stretch of time, almost well.
She attended briefings.
She reviewed tactical reports.
She endured precisely two separate reminders from medical staff that she was not, under any circumstances, to “test the structural integrity of her stitches.” She nodded politely both times.
Ignored them immediately afterward.
And by mid-afternoon, she found herself doing the one thing Cassandra had not explicitly forbidden.
Watching combat training.
The training deck was loud in the way only controlled violence could be.
Mats, sparring rings, weapons racks.
The sharp rhythm of instruction being corrected in real time.
Today’s module was knife engagement—specifically defensive disarms and close-quarters takedowns against bladed threats.
Shae stood off to the side of the observation rail.
Arms crossed.
Expression carefully neutral.
Which, unfortunately, did not stop her from visibly reacting every time someone executed something incorrectly.
Which was… often.
“Too slow,” she muttered once.
The instructor shot her a look.
She smiled innocently.
Five demonstrations later, the instructor was visibly reconsidering his career choices.
Five wrong entries.
Five failed disarms.
Five near misses that would have been catastrophic in real combat.
Shae’s fingers tightened on the railing.
She was trying.
Genuinely.
She was respecting the consequences.
She really was.
But watching this level of inefficiency in real time was starting to feel physically painful.
The instructor finally stopped.
He turned toward the observation side of the deck.
His gaze landed directly on Shae.
A pause.
Then— “Major Carter.” A collective shift went through the room.
Shae blinked.
“Sir?” The instructor nodded toward the training mat.
“Demonstrate.” Several heads turned.
A few crew members immediately looked concerned.
Someone whispered, “Isn’t she restricted?” Because yes.
She was.
Technically.
Shae hesitated.
This was, objectively, a bad idea.
Cassandra’s voice from earlier that day echoed somewhere in the back of her mind.
No combat training.
No physical strain.
No exceptions.
Shae sighed.
Then raised a finger.
“I can only demonstrate at half speed.” The instructor frowned.
“Half speed?” “Medical restrictions,” she said quickly.
Which was technically true.
Just not in the way anyone thought.
The instructor studied her for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Half speed.
Fine.” Shae stepped onto the mat.
The moment she moved, the entire room changed energy.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
But enough that everyone noticed.
Her posture shifted from relaxed observer to controlled precision.
The training partner opposite her raised the simulated knife.
Standard stance.
Predictable.
Shae exhaled.
“Alright,” she said calmly.
“Entry angle matters here—if you come in straight on, you’re—” She moved.
Clean.
Controlled.
Perfect timing.
She redirected the arm, stepped inside the guard, and executed the disarm exactly as instructed.
The knife dropped.
Her partner was on the mat before he fully registered what had happened.
A murmur ran through the room.
“Again,” the instructor said immediately.
Shae reset.
Again.
Perfect.
Again.
Perfect.
Each movement was economical.
Precise.
Efficient.
Every flaw she had just watched for the past thirty minutes corrected in real time.
By the fourth demonstration, even the instructor looked mildly unsettled.
Because she wasn’t just performing the technique.
She was refining it as she went.
“Stop there,” Shae said suddenly mid-sequence.
She raised a hand.
Her partner paused.
Shae turned slightly toward the observing crew.
“This is where people usually overextend.” She stepped forward to demonstrate the correction.
Her partner, slightly too eager to keep up pace, moved a fraction sooner than he should have.
The knife simulation came up.
Wrong angle.
Wrong timing.
Wrong everything.
Shae’s eyes flicked down.
She started to pivot— Not fast enough.
The blade drove into her thigh.
A sharp, controlled training strike.
But still a strike.
The room went dead silent.
Shae froze.
Looked down.
Slowly.
The training knife was embedded in her leg just above the knee.
A beat of silence stretched.
Then she exhaled.
Long.
Deep.
Resigned.
“…I’m so dead.” She did not fall.
Did not panic.
Did not even flinch dramatically.
Just stood there.
Staring at it.
Like she was already calculating exactly how much trouble this was going to be.
Within minutes, the report had traveled through the ship.
From training deck.
To command channel.
To medical.
And finally— To Cassandra Blackwell.
The doors to her office had barely closed behind the messenger before Cassandra spoke.
“Who was injured?” The messenger hesitated.
“Ma’am… during combat training—” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Who.” A pause.
“…Major Carter.” Silence.
The datapad in Cassandra’s hand stopped moving.
Very slowly, she set it down.
Then stood.
Without another word.
And walked out muttering, “I thought I specifically told her not to get stabbed today.” Because of course she did.