Machia slowed, then stopped. Her fingers traced the edge of her remote. She was frowning now, having shifted from focus to reflection. The pressures and pulls continued, but faded; her attention wasn't on it any more.

"You're doing it again," she said. "You start weak, gather strength, and then lose focus so close to the finish. It's like you don't want to win." She leaned back in her chair. Her fingers move mechanistically over the remote; no longer simulating the rise and flow of battle, but now going through the optimal counterforce motions to get you to spill your drink. 

"I wondered if it was a biological problem," she said, already talking about the situation in the past tense. "If your heart wasn't strong enough or you weren't pacing yourself correctly, but this test rules that out. All the physical factors are controlled for and performing excellently. The problem is mental. But is it an inhibition? Fear? Rewards insufficiently tempting? Combination of?" She wasn't expecting a response. Her attention had turned from your neck to your eyes as she contemplated how mere physical control was insufficient for her purposes. 

"I'm afraid this means your training is going to get weird," she said, pulling remotely on your bridle.