Draven stepped into a plain grey office. A single square cutout bathed the room in flat white light, which reflected unpleasantly off an equally uniform, bland metal table. An Assessor, a Terran seated before a veiled Board, briefly appraised him through slanted grey eyes before nodding to the chair opposite her desk.
As he took a seat, she raked a strand of dark hair aside while examining him neutrally. "Good afternoon. My name is Valerie. I'll be handling your psychological assessment. Are you familiar with the process?"
Draven nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Good, then you know I am required to explain the following," she said in a practised, slightly bored tone. "First, know this is not a test you could, and therefore should've prepared for. This psychological interview is a professional analysis responsible for determining whether you possess the mental equanimity to be trusted with a Xeno. You are asked to do nothing but answer honestly."
She pointed to a circular clasp on her right.
"You will put your arm in that. In addition to heart rate, the hoop monitors specific bodily processes to measure your reaction to certain statements and questions. Finally, following the informational segment, you are allowed to refrain from answering any questions, however, be aware that this will reflect in the final evaluation. Additionally, by consenting to continue this Assessment, you agree not to share any information discussed. Failure to comply will result in prosecution from the SC, and that is not a case you will win. Any questions?"
"Am I allowed to lie?"
Valerie cocked her head. "I just asked—"
"Me to answer truthfully, yeah." He looked meaningfully at the hoop. "That makes your request a formality. I want to know if doing the opposite will negatively impact my evaluation."
Valerie eyed him momentarily, then allowed a ghost of a smile. She briefly updated her Board, then faced him anew. "You are discouraged from lying because dishonesty, as a trait, is incongruous with robust command structure. Preemptive disabuse solves many problems before they start."
"So I'm allowed?"
"You are discouraged."
Draven nodded. "Okay. That's all."
Valerie paused to again survey him, then announced, "Let's begin the informational segment. For the moment, I discourage lying."
"Understood."
She gestured to the clasp, which Draven slipped his arm into. It automatically tightened, hummed quietly, then blinked green. Valerie checked something on her Board, then quizzed him.
"What is your full name?"
"Draven Gideon Carver."
"Date of birth?"
"November ninth, thirty-five seventy-nine."
"Height, weight, blood type."
"Five foot five, one hundred and forty-six pounds, and uh..." It'd been a while since he'd checked his blood type. "Oh positive, I think."
"Place of birth?"
Ah, realized Draven. She's setting a baseline. "Overgate City, Kellao."
"Are you sexually active?"
Draven startled. "What?"
"Have you had sex with someone in the past 30—"
"No!" His face pinched. "Why do you need to know that?"
Valerie eyed him evenly and asked, "Have you undergone any major surgeries in the past five years?"
"No."
"Do you have any ongoing medical conditions?"
"No."
"Do you prefer large women or thin women?"
Draven again frowned. "What relevance—"
"Answer the question."
Draven opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "I haven't given the subject much thought."
"Consider this an opportunity."
Draven gestured exasperatedly. "Neither. It's not something I'm particularly driven to discover about myself."
"Understood." She punched out a few notes, then announced, "The informational segment has concluded. We will proceed to the evaluatory segment."
Draven's annoyance shifted to trepidation as Valerie folded her Board screen into the desk in favour of a smaller, tablet form Glass and white stylus.
The Assessor then allowed a moment of tension as she shuffled in her seat and examined him once more. Once satisfied, she consulted her device and began.
"Why do you want to become a Scion?"
"To live up to my parents' sacrifice."
"So you're doing this for someone else?"
"Most of what we do is for other people."
Valerie cocked her head. "Your parents were Scions?"
"Yes."
"When did they die?"
"Eighty-six."
"How?"
"Don't know. It's classified."
She nodded while jotting down notes. "They were powerful, then?"
"Yes."
"A-rank?" she guessed.
Draven shrugged. "Also classified."
"I'm a ranking officer," argued Valerie.
"Then you will have no problem accessing their file in your off time with official clearance and finding out yourself."
"Snappish." Valerie lounged back. "Do you speak about them often?"
"Not particularly."
"So you're adopted?"
"By my uncle, yeah."
"Who is?"
"Damien Knight."
Valerie paused, impressed. "Big name. No wonder you were able to get into the first rounds of Assessment."
He didn't reply, to which Valerie asked, "Nothing to say?"
"I wasn't asked anything."
"Do you know what the failure rate of this test is?"
"Fourteen point three percent."
She nodded. "To the decimal. How long have you known that?"
"Years."
"I'm starting to get a picture." Valerie waved her stylus at his head. "General uncle, familial vendetta. Clearly antisocial, clipped and brusque. You do your reading. Religiously."
Draven had to consciously stop his foot from tapping. "I guess."
"Elaborate."
Draven scanned the Assessor for clues while composing an answer. "If there is publicly available, verified information relating to Scions, I've probably memorized it. Add the stuff I've learned from my family, and I'm confident that I could, at the very least, pass most theoretical first and second-year classes comfortably."
"How comfortably?"
"Very. Like, three point seven plus GPA very."
Valerie laughed. "There's a word for that. Delusion."
"Or competence. Ambition. Self-respect, even. Take your pick."
"Sure. Megalomania." Valerie scoffed. "You think you're the only brain signing up to this program?"
"I don't really think about other brains at all, to be honest."
Valerie shook her head disbelievingly, then insisted, "You are doing this for all the wrong reasons. You know that, right?"
"Is that a question?"
"Maybe. Your parents are dead for a reason, Draven. Scion life is miserable. You fight, kill and suffer for decades if you're lucky, then retire with an exhausted, broken body and flagging Xeno."
"Xenos don't flag," interjected Draven, irate. "Your body does. Higher ranks develop increased molecular adhesion and can stall degradation longer, but generally, biological material will lose cohesion with verdrite, dipping Charge capacity and efficiency, which consequently results in declining organ, muscular and skeletal integrity, and then you die."
"I stand corrected," Valerie replied smugly, and Draven realized he'd been baited. "But those are the lucky ones. There are a thousand ways you can die, and many are horrifically painful. Feeds do not equal reality. They are, at best, a minuscule, meticulously manipulated fraction of it. Millions of Scions will conduct their duty in insipid, inglorious conditions that no one will hear about and praise them for. The chances of you becoming Olo, Quetus, or anything close basically do not exist."
Draven said nothing.
Valerie's eyes glinted predatorily. "So you don't want to be Olo?"
"I don't care if I'm Olo. He has nothing to do with my goals."
"Which are?"
"Reaching S-rank."
Valerie barked with laughter. "There are two hundred and fifty S-ranks out of three million. How exactly do you plan to manage that?"
"The same way they all did."
"Who all did? Ninety-nine percent of the Corps?" She nodded at the door. "There's one right outside. Tens of thousands on this planet alone. You think you're better than all of them?"
Draven rolled his eyes. "Rank doesn't determine worth, just power."
"Which, of course, is famously worthless." Her brow arched. "Surely your parents let you in on that one before… eighty-six, was it?"
He managed not to bristle. "Is that an actual question?"
"Absolutely. You think you're the first green with ghosts? Oh, let me guess. Justice! You need to find the skynning Yorgan and rip his head off."
"Their deaths were classified," Draven responded slowly. "I do not know what killed them."
"Rezzes, Carver, I thought you were pretending to be smart!" She chuckled derisively. "Who else could, or more importantly, would've done it?"
"I don't know. It's classified."
"Like their ranks? Why else would you need S-rank insurance? World-breaking power is generally best for one thing, Carver, and it's not reading. Hell, we've already shattered one of their moons. What's one more?"
Draven's curled knuckles whitened over their armrests. "I do not know who killed my parents, Valerie, and won't unilaterally dispense violence on many for the choices of few."
"But you're better, Carver," sneered Valerie. "You don't play by mortal rules. Why confine yourself and your parents' legacy to their feeble, impotent precepts?"
Draven's control finally slipped. "Because luckily for us both, I don't see the world through your edgy, third-grade lens."
Instead of replying, Valerie's twisted expression dissolved to neutrality as she turned to scribble notes onto her Glass. Draven, thrown, shook frustration from his spirit and waited for her to finish.
Three minutes later, Valerie declared, "The evaluatory segment has concluded. Thank you for your time. Two reminders. First, none of our conversation is to be shared, regardless of station, relation or position. Second, as none of my statements were personal or necessarily bearing merit, avoid dwelling on them. Questions?"
"Did I pass?"
"That is not for me to determine. You may leave. A drone will lead you to the waiting area."
Draven nodded as the clasp snapped open. He mumbled thanks to the Assessor, who again regarded him strangely, then hurried out into the hall.
The sitting area struck him as eerily similar to Valerie's office, just bigger, and filled with greens. Nobody paid Draven any heed as he plunked into an open chair and began furiously reviewing his psychological. Valerie had clearly been digging for a reaction, but why? What were her markers? And why did she fixate on certain triggers?
She kept circling back to my parents. Is that a good or bad thing? Crap, do they think I'm compromised? His mind spun. Or maybe I should've been? Do I need to be driven? Rezzes.
He picked out the other greens' peripheral chatter heatedly debating each other's performances. While no one was risking court by divulging details, he heard similar overall concerns to his own.
What could the psychs possibly be testing for?
Stop stressing, he chided angrily. There's an eighty-five percent pass rate. You've got nothing to worry about.
Thirty minutes passed before Draven's band vibrated. He inflated the Glass to read a notification instructing him to follow a soldier in white. He and a handful of other students found the officer at the end of the room, holding a tablet.
The corporal called out a quick attendance, then they were off. A short, winding journey through sterile halls later, they entered a corridor of numbered rooms.
"Caspian, you're in five. Calliper, seven. Cosher, six."
Eventually, he reached Draven and assigned room two. Draven hesitantly stepped up to the door and flinched as it slid open to unveil a long gurney flanked by two new faces.
Faces that immediately stretched his face into an elated grin.
"Yes, yes," chuckled the surgeon, gesturing to the operating table. "You passed. Sit down."
Draven sprinted over and jumped onto the white bed.
"I'm Doctor Yingpei," explained the surgeon before motioning to the uniformed Scion in the corner of the room, "and this is Vasili. He makes sure nobody dies."
"No, he's going to make sure you don't die if I'm afflicted with post-Installation neuroxenogeratic hysteria." Draven smirked wryly. "He kills me."
"He incapacitates you," corrected Dr. Yingpei disapprovingly. "Who told you that?"
"The people other Vasilis killed."
Dr. Yingpei did not sound impressed. "Very talkative dead people."
"Fair." Draven took a breath. "What should I do?"
"Calm down. I know it's exciting, but you need to relax." He pointed to a glass cubicle in the corner. "That's a disinfectant shower. Take it, then use the briefs on that shelf. Leave your Glass there." He pointed to a hamper. "Your clothes go there. Ring the bell beside it when you're ready."
Draven nodded, allowing the two adults to retreat to a back room. He pulled off his uniform and turned to steam in the shower. The fluid quickly haloed him in a cloud, stinging his eyes. Once the shower screen determined his body as contaminant-free, Draven stepped out.
His uniform was gone. He pulled on the boxers and punched the bell.
"Excellent." Dr. Yingpei studied his Glass. "We'll do a final scan to rule out issues capable of impeding the Installation, then you'll be sedated. The surgery should take thirty minutes, give or take, then you'll sleep for the few hours it takes your Core to properly assimilate. Once complete, we'll wake you up and talk. Sound good?"
Draven nodded as he settled on the table. Holographic displays blinked to life around him as Dr. Yingpei wandered over to a faucet near the disinfectant shower and rinsed off. Vasili, on the other hand, watched Draven recline and counselled, "Take it easy. The doc knows what he's doing."
Draven tried for a smile. "Thanks." He cocked his head. "XD?"
Vasili glanced to Dr. Yingpei for permission, then responded, "Samaxtles."
"Nice," muttered Draven. "Alright. See you guys on the other side." He eyed the display monitoring his circular system. "Try and keep me in one piece, yeah?"
"Define 'one piece'," queried Dr. Yingpei, returning with gloves and a wry smirk. "I joke. Settle down. The scans say you're good to go, so it's time for the fun bit. Deep breaths. You'll be up before you know it."
He was.
Dr. Yingpei pressed some kind of pad against his shoulder, and less than two seconds later, Draven was out cold. He had some vague notion of time passing, then suddenly light hit his cornea, and his senses snapped violently to attention.
Confusion overrode everything as Draven struggled to situate himself, twitching disconcertedly.
Terra. The Hall. Psychological. Surgery. His eyes snapped down, where a thin line tracked down his sternum. Yes! I did it!
"Mr. Carver?" inquired a gruff voice on his right.
He glanced over to see Vasili monitoring him, looking severe. "Good afternoon. How are you doing?"
"Pretty good. Wanna arm wrestle? Ten chips says I slant [Force]."
Vasili smirked. "Later. Doc needs to test you."
Said doctor materialized from a side door, again displaying a kindly smile. "Welcome back. How do you feel?"
"Fine. Chest is a little sore."
"It'll get worse when the painkillers wear off. For now, hold still and follow the light."
Draven did, tracking the blinking pen in his surgeon's hand. Next was hearing, smelling, taste, touch, movement and mental acuity. Dr. Yingpei asked an array of questions, riddles and equations, none of which were particularly difficult, just at a rapid pace. Once done, his Glass was returned, though they offered Draven sub-Summons instead of his uniform. The skintight, padded jumpsuit was dark, reflective, and designed to facilitate a comfortable fit beneath an externalized Xeno. He tapped the Corps logo disbelievingly as Vasili shot him a thumbs-up.
"Looks good," assured Dr. Yingpei, nodding approvingly. "See the block band on your wrist? It prevents you from accidentally Summoning before reaching the containment ring. It will feel uncomfortable, but it won't be for long, and once you Xeno initializes, can't be used again. Understood?"
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Draven nodded.
"Excellent. Your clothes and pocketed valuables are with your family. Mr. Carver, this is where we part. You're now off to the stage for presentation and incipient Summon. Congratulations, cadet."
"Thank you, sir." Draven patted his stomach uncertainly. "It's there?"
"Sitting right under your ribcage, yes. But don't take my word for it. Head outside and Summon."
Draven didn't need to be told twice. Vasili escorted him through another long series of hallways, sometimes slowing so Draven could process the niggling of the Charge block, before finally reaching an entrance protected by two Scions.
"All done?" one asked, inspecting Draven.
"Aff," confirmed Vasili, squeezing Draven's shoulder. "In you go."
Draven thanked him for his help and walked past the guards. A staircase awaited, serving as the stage's back entrance. He stepped out to observe hundreds of milling bodies crowding the floor below, yet somehow, the auditorium wasn't anywhere near full. The same proved true onstage, as only a handful of the two hundred available chairs were occupied. Draven consulted his Glass and found his seat at 10-C.
He was the only one in his row. Behind him, however, dwelled a notable, unsurprising character. Douglas Temple, looking just as unruffled as hours prior, met his gaze blankly before panning away. Had he not been sitting onstage in sub-Summons, Draven wouldn't have been able to tell he'd just walked out of an Installation.
He failed to recognize the remaining cadets, save one. Hae Jung-Hwa, whom he remembered from a Feed interview aired weeks back, lounged in a row between them, scrolling idly through his Glass. His presence mildly surprised Draven, as he assumed the kid would've been done by now. His father owned one of the Sci's major streaming partners, a business worth hundreds of millions of chips.
He turned before his staring became obvious. Glancing at the massive screen above him belatedly revealed hidden cameras cycling through closeups of the seated cadets, many of whom had begun to filter back in.
Rezz, he swore, quickly schooling his features and finding a random article to mindlessly scroll through. Hae's strategy was solid. Draven, after itching his wrist for the dozenth time, decided to check out the Olo situation. Unsurprisingly, news hadn't changed much in the few hours he'd been out. Alpite still wanted the moon, and Galarza had no interest in giving it.
Someone is going to regret this, he thought to himself, flipping through transfer tickers. No one meaningful was making any noise, so Draven ended up on a highlight reel of a second-tier Hat league. And like most things from Hathor, they were mediocre. Draven didn't much care. As long as he could keep ignoring the cameras, he was happy.
The remaining newly Installed quickly filtered in. Draven's seclusion came to an abrupt halt when a pair dropped into the chairs beside him and initiated buoyant conversation.
"I wanna be a Blur," the first, a girl introduced as Laria proclaimed. "I've always been the fastest, anyway."
Draven could've nitpicked on how pre-Installation physiology was as relevant to class selection as War Game tactics to Baltan fashion trends, or the fact that Blurs were a prime class, and therefore devoid of real ascension threat.
Instead, he told her, "That'd be pretty cool."
"What about you?" That was the other, a boy named Kondo.
"I stay away from expectations," Draven replied evenly. "That way, I keep from disappointment and can focus on improving."
"Huh. Smart." Kondo paused, thoughtful.
Draven, on the other hand, did his best to look uninterested so they'd be quiet. Twenty minutes later, the lieutenant colonel marched back onstage. Though the audience had mostly retaken their seats by then, Bouchard first addressed the newly Installed.
"We'll be underway soon, but first, you all need to pay attention." He pointed to the small, circular platform behind him. "That's the containment ring. When I call your name, you will step into it, then place your hand against the key," he gestured to a curved sheet of metal, "to unlock your block. You will then Summon and access your Screens. Remember, it is navigated with intent, but if you have any difficulties, vocalizing the order is a perfectly viable alternative. Any questions?"
Nobody spoke. Bouchard nodded crisply and turned to the audience, tapping his Glass to activate a spatial microphone.
"Welcome back," he boomed over a rapidly hushing crowd. "Thank you for finding your seats. As you can see, the cadets have returned. That makes two hundred and six Installations." He turned back to Draven and his fellow teenagers. "Welcome, Scions."
The audience applauded raucously. Draven's eyes flicked up to the Viewers, which he noticed repeatedly jumping between Temple and Hae's faces.
The media already had their targets.
"We'll now begin initial Summons," announced Bouchard. "They will be carried out in order of stage arrival, so the people who arrived first are allowed to leave first."
That puts me at what, twenty-five? Twenty? Draven was too high-strung to realize it didn't really matter.
Bouchard called out the first name. A Kneallan girl, from her rich brown skin. She hit the key to pop her block, which remained magnetically suspended before whizzing into a hidden compartment at her feet.
Bouchard checked the Glass in his lectern and ordered, "Summon."
Draven inclined anticipatorily. Verdrite plating rippled onto her forearms and shins, common for F-ranks. Stretch and shore fabric extended further up her limbs, swallowing them in elastic, durable material. Clustered metal twisted into her hand, resolving in an impressive, six foot fauchard.
Draven examined the polearm pensively. Lovely range, but without a natural shield, CQCs will eat her alive.
The crowd's applause was emphatic. Mostly because she was the first.
Bouchard waited for it to still, then asked, "Xeno designation?"
"Lahtlia," she muttered, eyes wide as her Screen configured for the first time. Since it projected exclusively over her iris, no one else could see it unless physical contact was initiated and maintained with another consenting Scion.
"Class?" asked Bouchard.
Lancer, thought Draven.
"Lancer," said the girl.
Bouchard nodded. "Rank?"
"F1," she told him.
Meh. Better than F0, I guess.
"Excellent. Dismiss your weapon."
The girl concentrated, and with an electric crackle, liquified and reabsorbed her spear.
"Now deSummon."
The armour receded, prompting another applause.
Bouchard gestured to a staircase on his right. "Congratulations. Make your way down and please speak to an attendant for further instruction."
Draven spotted her relieved family scampering towards the stage. His trepidation, on the other hand, only grew.
The audience had just cheered her through his worst nightmare. A prime class and low rank. With any luck, or rather, lack thereof, her [Form] would bust too.
He shuddered. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.
"Rodrick Abaster," called Bouchard.
So began a tedious pattern. The first seven saw Draven detached and uninterested. Eight actually hit F2, the highest so far. His boredom marginally waned before snapping back to shape. He tried and failed to locate his folks in a seemingly infinite audience, then his weariness fully disintegrated at cadet seventeen.
"Douglas Temple."
The crowd, formerly chatting at a low thrum, instantly shut up. Temple eased to his feet, glided through cadet seats and stepped into the containment ring without a flicker of emotion.
"Engage the key," ordered Bouchard.
He did, and his block vanished into the stage.
"Summon."
Shell manifested along Temple's shoulders, shins and underarms. Dense, inked with strange, swirling designs and menacing as all hell. Stretch and shore reached to coat most of his torso and arms, caressing his mass like a red blanket.
His weapon, though, really caught everyone's attention. Verdrite pulsed and stretched from his open palm to solidify in a serrated, five-foot Zweih?nder longsword. Its blade glinted in bright, hungry gold, while the handle matched the armour's crimson hue. While already intimidating, the sawing teeth and parrying hooks made Temple's weapon fascinatingly unique.
Jealousy roared through Draven's ears. Damn. Bookies were right.
"Designation?"
Temple's eyes narrowed as his Screen composed. "Tyrax."
Low murmurs washed through the audience. Not quite disbelief, but impressed curiosity. Temple ignored them, instead studying his Screen with a thoughtful, speculative head tilt.
Bouchard worked his Glass. "Class?"
"Duellist."
That did not surprise Draven, though he was interested to learn how the supposed prodigy would adapt. Heavy weapons weren't necessarily foreign to the class, but balanced loadouts generally performed better.
He'll need a catcher and accelerant. Temple better pray for [Form]. Draven snorted at his wordplay, then tapped his knee while absently grading potential Abilities.
"Rank?"
Temple, inflated across dozens of Viewers, smirked. "F4."
Astonished gasps tore through the crowd. Draven himself felt his jaw drop and the jealousy furiously reignite.
WHAT?
He could list several A-rank SCS legends that'd Installed lower and reached astonishing heights. With Temple already halfway through F, there was a concrete chance he'd end up among them. Not only that, but most Scions unlocked their first Ability at F5.
Assuming his reported training regimes were real, Temple would clear that in weeks.
Draven rolled his eyes. What did I expect? Stars. Watch Hae be worse.
Two turns later, Draven wished he'd kept his mouth shut.
"Designation?"
"Amson," replied the Ranian.
Bouchard noted it on his Glass. "Class?"
"Phantom." Whispers in the audience.
Draven cringed as Bouchard asked, "Rank?"
"F5."
Temple, on the auditorium floor alongside his folks, watched impassively. He'd stuck around to assess the competition, and once done, turned to leave. The aghast spectators stared, incredulous. Two freak ranks in one day were sure to make almost every rookie watch channel on the Net.
Draven was struggling himself. The pair could reach E-rank in months. Hell, with Hae's resources, he could realistically evolve before the school year. Not to mention Abilities. Exerting Amson in any capacity was liable to unlock one.
Welp, there goes my big moment.
Hae sauntered offstage, intending to leave when Jerry stopped and shot Draven a curious look. Douglas, also on his way out, faced his father questioningly, then rolled his eyes at the explanation.
A woman bearing striking similarities to Hae was on a similar wavelength and slowed for his turn, earning a scowl from the new Phantom, who clearly believed the day as won.
Draven smothered a groan. And now they watch me bomb. Rezzes. Hope this doesn't tank Uncle Damien's political capital or whatever.
Three turns later, "Draven Carver."
He pushed to his feet and let out a slow breath. Though he couldn't see his family, Draven set his doubts aside to stand tall.
Now was his moment of truth.
The day he'd been waiting for since his uncle pulled him from math class in a wrinkled uniform and haggard expression to say something very important that was going to make Draven very sad.
"Engage the key," he heard Bouchard order.
Draven swallowed and pressed his wrist against the hoop. A cool buzz washed through his arm, then the bracelet snapped off and vanished. Immediately, energy blasted through his body. Charge, he knew, spreading to saturate his tissue and enhance his cells.
But it was too strong.
He noticed immediately. His research had forewarned him of the sensation, but most accounts described it as a pinprick. Barely noticeable, like faint static.
This was something else. He could feel the sphere in his stomach, throbbing frenetically. Pumping searing heat and crackling fluid through his veins, blurring his vision and filling his mouth with the taste of corroded metal. Shrieking blared in his ears. The lights, suddenly blinding, forced tears from their ducts. Every muscle simultaneously seized to the point of actually straining his bones.
Draven remembered collapsing to all fours. He felt the surge worm through his throat, sear into his temples, then with an angry pop, everything receded.
His vision cleared slowly, and as it did, floating letters scrolled to life.
*****
INITIALIZING XENO
STANDBY
*****
Draven tried shaking out the pulsing behind his eyes. Doing so shifted him upright, revealing Bouchard's firm grip on his shoulder.
"Carver, you alright?"
He frowned, then turned to see the audience frozen in fascinated, rapt attention.
Staring at him.
"Affirmative," he heard himself stammer.
Bouchard's eyebrow went up. "Bit early for that, son. Find your feet and take a breath."
The icebreaker worked, and the audience chuckled, albeit uneasily. Draven didn't, instead focused on the loading text. Bouchard, after dismissing a nearing medical team with a gesture, returned to his post and refreshed his Glass.
"Can you see your Screen?"
Draven nodded. "Yes sir. It's, uh... loading."
Bouchard's eyes narrowed. "Loading?"
"Yeah. It says 'initializing Xeno, standby'. I... ah, okay. Got it."
"Good." Bouchard cocked his head. "Designation?"
Draven squinted.
*****
Initialization complete.
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
Standby...
***
*****
"Magal," he articulated, trying the word out in his mouth.
The crowd considered it.
Magal, thought Draven. What does that mean?
"Class?" asked Bouchard.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
Standby...
Class — Deviant
Concentration: F-rank, 9% (52% stretch, 28% shore, 20% shell)
***
*****
Draven's jaw dropped. His brain was on the verge of short-circuiting. I'm a Deviant? What the hell? How? There's no pos— WHAT? NINE percent? HOW???
Xeno metal, verdrite, developed alongside its Scion, and concentration graded both the quality and quantity stored. Generally, F-ranks capped at twelve percent, and only at the cusp of evolution. Additionally, as a strange, alien substance, verdrite manifested in three distinct states: stretch, shore and shell. Stretch mimicked spandex: flexible, breathable and thin. Shore was, like its name suggested, a middle ground. It resembled harder, composite material with a capacity to bend, while retaining a respectable level of impact absorption. New-gen Kevlar was the Republic's closest comparative.
Shell, of course, was the strongest. Titanium-like, only tougher. Direct penetration was often an exercise in futility, as against higher ranks boasting eighty percent or higher, even cruiser bolts shattered. However, lowly F-ranks normally split sixty-thirty-ten, with fortunates hitting a global Installation percentage of four. Average two.
Magal's shell doubled them. Total nine percent. At Installation.
I'm a Deviant, recalled Draven, slowly adjusting. My stuff is obviously going to be insane. Right? His thoughts sounded crazy. But NINE? Rezzes.
"Mr. Carver?" a tired voice asked.
Draven dragged himself from Magal's Screen and realized the audience was laughing. "Huh?"
"I said if you can see your Screen, Summon."
"Right. Sorry."
Draven exhaled and reached for the instinct. Immediately, something responded and sent fluid gushing out of his incision. Verdrite enveloped his forearms, extending to cover the back of his hands. Shore extended to cocoon his biceps, then again hardened to shell atop his shoulders. The neckpiece, shaped like a medieval gorget, thinned to stretch against his throat before arranging flashy shell scales along the underside of his jaw. The shore segment, on the other hand, lined his collarbone to provide some protection along the upper chest. Dark metal coagulated over his shins, plating them in shell. Outside of shore soles and cuisses, his legs were otherwise wrapped in stretch.
Draven's mounting uncertainty somehow drowned out the crowd's gasps of astonishment. Deviants were known to deviate, and Magal had yet to reveal his equipment. There was literally no guessing, especially without knowing any of his Attributes.
Verdrite swelled in his palms, causing Draven to instinctively seize the grip of a forming... scythe?
He immediately noticed it was tiny. Like someone had begun forming a snath, given up three feet in and paired it with a similarly diminutive blade, then fastened a baseball-sized mace head to the opposite end for no particular reason.
Draven's gaze proceeded to pan and reveal its twin in his left hand.
A dual wield?
He wanted to cry in confusion. The stupid Xeno had cast all his years of research and preparation into the great fires of uselessness in all of seven seconds.
Magal vibrated its scythes, and with a bit too much personality for Draven's liking. It hiked the intensity just enough to get his undivided attention, then sent a stream of purple energy through the hooked blades.
There was no doubt in Draven's mind that his Xeno had just communicated.
And it wanted him to try something.
This is terrifying. It shouldn't be able to do that. He swallowed. What is going on?
Bouchard gaped in silent confusion. "What is—"
Draven flicked his wrists, and with a satisfying snap, the ring joints popped, collapsing the blade against the snath and transforming his scythes into small hatchets.
Silence blanketed the Hall. Bouchard was the first and seemingly only one to break it.
"Class?" he requested, speaking everyone's mind.
Draven returned to his Screen. "Deviant."
Animated chatter exploded across the floor. Deviants were the rarest class by a large, large margin. In fact, Scions were pretty evenly split between classes at just under ten percent each. Deviants occupied less than one.
No one was sure why, but theorists speculated the cause as the class' particular quirk.
Which meant Draven's prayers had been answered.
Kind of.
Of the five Attributal categories devised to grade Scion power, [Form] stood alone. As while its colleagues' effects were physiology-based, it… deviated.
[Form] was nebulous. Official sources defined it as the Attribute of 'customization'. The inane connection to one's Xeno. The Scion's ability to control their destiny. Deviants, by an overwhelming majority, invented the most Abilities, since they had the power to somehow will them into existence.
For non-Deviants, [Form] was still vital to all invested in ascension, as it offered increased control over Attribute and Ability development. Romus, one of the Republic's only three S-rank Golds, was rumoured to have a [Form] rank of A4, which only rang strange to those unaware that [Form] was also the only Attribute incapable of being deliberately improved. In fact, the third highest rank, Silvers, rarely reached A at all. Bronzes averaged a pair of subranks lower, followed by Titaniums, then Chromes, and finally Irons. The only unknowns were Platinums, as no one had reached the pinnacle rank in over two hundred years.
Unlike the other four Attributes, what Scions got at Installation was likely what they'd have for the rest of their lives.
They could get faster. They could get stronger. They could get sharper and train endurance, but Scions would, at most, gain a pair of [Form] subranks. In fact, the largest recorded improvement was surprise, surprise, from a Deviant, who'd jumped from A2 to 6. Rhyther, an A7 athlete and one of the strongest Deviants in the Republic, had gone on record quoting her [Form] as A9, while Draven was fairly certain the only S-ranked Deviant, Varutus, was somewhere in the low Ss. Low Chrome, high Iron territory.
Which begged a single question.
What's mine?
His Screen expanded.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
Class — Deviant
Concentration: F-rank, 9% (52% stretch, 28% shore, 20% shell)
***
Standby...
Condition — 100%
Charge (F-rank) — [100%] — + 0.15/s
*****
Another shock which, at that point, was no longer much of a shock. My regen triples the average? Who could've guessed?
Draven's stupefaction had burned out and oxidized to sarcastic resignation.
"Mr. Carver, rank?" asked Bouchard, in a similar state of recovery.
He squinted. "Coming up..."
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
Class — Deviant
Concentration: F-rank, 9% (52% stretch, 28% shore, 20% shell)
***
Condition — 100%
Charge (F-rank) — [100%] — + 0.15/s
Standby...
Rank — [F2 (12.1)]
- [Force] — [F0 (7.1)]
- [Fleet] — [F5 (15.8)]
- [Focus] — [F0 (9.2)]
- [Fort] — [F6 (16.3)]
Standby...
- [Form] — [...]
*****
Draven wanted to tear his hair out. His panic had spiked to the point of overriding the discovery of his focals. On any other day, he'd have jumped for joy at the prospect of not being prime-shackled.
Instead, he lamented, What is taking so long?? What's my fyzzing [Form] rank?!?
While he may later have considered his reaction excessive, his [Form] would, quite literally, determine the future of his Scion career. Anything below A5 and S-rank would be gone forever.
He had never been so stressed in his life. Magal, likely sensing his desperation, relented.
*****
Anchored.
*****
Bouchard, conversely, composed himself. The audience, buzzing, wanted the final piece. Would this third prodigy have another mind-bending rank? F5? F6?
More?
The lieutenant colonel had had his fill. The circus-like Summoning had clearly overstayed its welcome, something a man of order did not appreciate. He raked the spectators with an irate expression, then faced Draven anew and demanded. "Alright, I think we've had enough fun for one day. Rank, Scion, then step—"
Draven's scythes clattering to the ground interrupted him. The crowd, glued to their Viewers, watched his legs fail as he collapsed to his rear, staring glassily into nothing.
Truthfully, of course, Draven was not staring into nothing. His [Form] rank, in strong purple characters against his Screen's dark background, held every bit of his attention. That, and what sat under it.
No skynning way.
No matter how hard he tried, Draven quite simply could not find it in himself to lift his jaw off the floor.
"Problem, cadet?" snapped Bouchard.
The lieutenant's chafed tone did the trick, and Draven bolted to his feet. "Nope. I'm good." He gave his Xeno a final once-over, then easily recalled it.
Bouchard examined him through an upturned brow. "Well done."
"F2, by the way." Draven swallowed. "Xeno rank F2, sir. Sorry for… everything, I guess."
Bouchard nodded, and Draven felt the audience slump disappointedly. He didn't care. Not one bit. Because if they'd seen what he had, they'd be screaming in disbelief.
"Understood. Please vacate the ring." He surveyed Draven skeptically. "Do you require assistance?"
"Negative. Sorry everyone." He practically dove offstage. The audience saw him off with a laugh, then applause, but Draven's head was a million miles away.
There is no way. That isn't possible. It's not possible. It can't be.
"Dray?" asked a familiar voice.
He perked up to see Wardell and Shanelle, over to the side, eyeing him with concern.
"That was dramatic," she continued. "You okay?"
He nodded mutely. "Yeah, I'm good."
NO I'M NOT! WHAT IS GOING ON?? WHY ME?!?!?
"Gave us quite the scare!"
Draven turned to face Jerry. Douglas, standing beside him, met his eyes skeptically. Draven swallowed, tasting acrylamide and ash. "Sorry. Guess my body wasn't quite ready for the Deviant stuff."
"No kidding." Jerry glanced over at Knight and Eliza approaching, their faces epitomizing concern. "Get some rest, yeah?"
"Yes sir."
Draven turned to his aunt and uncle.
"Can we go?" he asked, throat dry.
"What happened?" demanded Eliza, eyes flashing worriedly. "Are you hurt?"
"No, just tired. And my head kind of hurts." Draven threw a glance over his shoulder, spotting stares, even with another boy in the ring. "Can we?"
"If you're unwell, we should see—"
"Let's go," interrupted Knight, reading something on Draven's face. "If you deteriorate, we'll handle it."
Draven shot the general a grateful look. Their trek out of the Hall was accented by well-wishes, chirps of disbelief and more stares.
He absorbed nothing. Every step sucked energy from his body.
They couldn't get enough of him.
He couldn't care less.
In fact, by the time he sagged into the backseat, Draven's peace was made. Because regardless of what social media, or stars forbid, The Scribe said, his life had irrevocably changed. Completely and utterly.
Who am I kidding? This could change the entire skynning Corps. Aw, hell. I'm screwed.
"You sure you're okay?" asked Shanelle as their van accelerated.
Draven toggled his full Screen.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
FULL SCREEN
Class — Deviant
Concentration: F-rank, 9% (52% stretch, 28% shore, 20% shell)
***
Condition — 100%
Charge (F-rank) — [100%] — + 0.15/s
Rank — [F2 (12.1)]
- [Force] — [F0 (7.1)]
- [Fleet] — [F5 (15.8)]
- [Focus] — [F0 (9.2)]
- [Fort] — [F6 (16.3)]
- [Form] — [S-Silver (94.3)]
Abilities
- Void Blight [Unique, Offensive, Open] — Increases damage by 1.5 times and deals Blight (gradually erodes enemy protection while decreasing and disrupting Charge)
*****
Draven offered his cousin a weak, lying smile. "Yep. Everything's just great."