TAC 05.09.3595 — H-0800 | [CS Nell, Aretis]

  Classes started on a Tuesday. Draven was up by six-thirty and, like any day he hadn't scheduled training, took the opportunity to go out for a run.

  Once showered and clad in a pristine school uniform, Draven finally addressed something he should've weeks prior: finances. The latest deposit credited to his account had been on September 1st at nine AM sharp, suggesting an automatic transfer. It'd been accompanied by the note, 'Draven, your tuition is paid. You'll receive your allowance in monthly installments to prevent overspending. This goes without saying, but focus on your studies, and good luck.'

  He then scrolled and almost dropped his Glass. "Three thousand? Why would he…?"

  He'd never owned so much money in his life. Draven spent several minutes bewildered, then reflexively found himself Glassing the one contact he'd grown to look to for advice.

  "Dray!" cooed Shanelle. "How are you?"

  "I'm good," replied Draven while banding his Glass. "How's Woeria?"

  "Nice try," grumbled Shanelle. "Stop guessing. I'm boring. What about you? Ou, did my training hold up? Have you Duelled anyone yet?!?"

  "No, just drones." Draven detoured onto Valewood to try Fox's preferred coffee shop, Bean Me Up. "Random question. Do you remember your academy allowance?"

  "Hmm. Monthly, right? A thousand, maybe? One point five? Something like that."

  That sounds wrong.

  "Why? How much did you get?"

  "Same," he lied. "Just seemed like a lot, so I wanted to ask."

  "Hmph. Okay. Now tell me how you like Scion school!"

  He humoured her until the barista finished his order, then said he had to get to class. After she hung up, Draven spent a moment confirming his first class would indeed take place at Landry Hall, in room 141.

  After arriving, he killed his spare half hour folded in a foyer couch, sipping his beverage while revising a general list of defensive Abilities. Fifteen minutes later, a tall blonde woman in stiletto heels clopped down the hallway and unlocked the pass pad with willowy, manicured fingers.

  Draven glanced up and leapt to his feet. She watched him trash his paper cup, eyeing him curiously before asking, "Yes?"

  "Draven Carver, ma'am."

  "Can I help you?"

  "Cumulative Macro-Systems History?" he asked.

  She nodded, then motioned him in. "You're early. Good job. Grab a chair."

  Lights blinked awake above them. Draven quickly scanned the amphitheatre-shaped arrangement bowling out towards a high wall before choosing a central position midway up the incline. Like the library, the seats had been configured with Boards and collapsible stands paired with complementary styluses for Glass attachment.

  "Excited?" asked his Instructor. Draven paused to recall her name as Zoe Desjardins, a local, non-Scion university graduate.

  He shook his head. "Not really. Just don't like being late."

  Desjardins snorted while organizing her things behind the lectern. "Fair enough."

  The rest of the class arrived a few minutes later. Draven recognized no one, then Desjardins began her lecture. Though Draven wouldn't say she was outright boring, history unrelated to Magal's progression wasn't interesting to him. That being said, he remained respectfully alert throughout and left the class with a good first impression.

  His following class, Civic Relations and Ethics, was a certified snooze. Natural discipline saved him from what very well could've been eternal slumber, but by the ten-fifty bell, it was on its last legs.

  Fortuitously, then, his next class was Combat Training.

  Masters Mobile ordered Draven not to head to any of the facilities on Bennett, but rather, a gym in the Fields. [Fleet]-[Fort] focality erased the distance, and he arrived, barely out of breath, with five minutes to spare.

  The facility, named Delta Red, sat opposite the original, universal complex Draven visited on his first day. Outside a slightly shorter stature and unique symbols, Red looked identical to Field Delta.

  Inside, navigation arrows led him to the massive Palaestra Twelve; a sprawling, cavernous room packed with training apparatuses, advanced assessment implements, recovery stations, and Zones, the largest of which fanned out near the back wall.

  Hovering in the centre of it all stood a gaggle of older cadets in faculty uniforms surrounding a bald, hulking Instructor with dark eyes flattened in a cryptic expression.

  They drifted to slide over Draven, considering his approach.

  "Year-One CT Fundamentals?"

  "Affirmative. Sir."

  "Throw on some subs and join the others. There should be extras near the showers if you don't have any."

  Draven looked left, where a group of cadets stood near the edge of the Zone, staring into space. He also noticed none wearing bands, suggesting that this particular Instructor, Dane Odell, from the calendar tag on MM, firmly opposed distraction.

  Draven did as instructed and quickly joined the cadets. Few noticed, as cliques already seemed to have been established, while others skimmed him with nonplussed, glancing looks.

  Three minutes after eleven, Odell brought his team over to the group.

  "Welcome to Combat Training. My colleagues may not like that I say this, but understand that alongside Scion Development, this is the most important class of the year. Goof off at your peril. At other schools, even Scion ones, teachers will sometimes nurse and coddle students to their maximum potential. I won't. Commitment and consistency at Masters are the barest of minimums, and therefore, your responsibility to cultivate. Currently, you are all presumed expenses. My time and resources are reserved exclusively for prospects who demonstrate their value as potential assets and, therefore, a return on investment. None of you have done that yet. The next few semesters will demand pain, pride and perseverance. If those are prices you find yourselves incapable of paying, failure will follow. Understood?"

  The class grunted in assent. Draven sensed trepidation suffusing the cadets around him and ignored it. Shanelle, while helpful, lacked formal certification. She taught solely from personal experience and instinct. With any luck, Odell's professional background could help accelerate his development.

  Draven was more excited than he'd been all week.

  "Alright." Odell gestured behind him. "These are my teaching assistants. They'll get us started with some basics. For now and in future, we'll occasionally break into class groups, like today, to work Attribute-specific drills. As fledgling focals demand unique challenges no homogenized lesson could properly address, I have entrusted your growth to these Year-Fours. Address them with the same respect you would me. Otherwise… well, let's not go there. Questions?"

  Draven, like his peers, said nothing, as none of them were stupid enough to talk. Of almost seventy present, not so much as a word was whispered.

  "Excellent." Odell glanced down at his Glass and added, "Before we begin, it has come to my attention that a Deviant is present. Cadet Carver, step forward."

  Draven stepped through a parting crowd of cadets before coming to parade rest before the Instructor. "Sir."

  Odell appraised him. "How much do you know about Deviants?"

  "[Fleet]-[Fort] focals, five-six split. I use short-range scythes that double as hatchets."

  Odell nodded approvingly. "Very good, cadet." His eyes then narrowed enigmatically as he tilted his head and ordered, "Dismissed."

  Draven jogged back to his spot.

  Odell straightened. "Listen up! Rank progress will be monitored throughout your academic tenure to ensure productive decision-making, which starts here. Now, I don't currently have said ranks on hand, but that is by design." He turned to his assistants. "I want every F0 to go stand near Melody, which should be most."

  A girl with cropped, raven hair split from the teaching group to stand over to the left.

  "F1s go to Mark, and any F2s stay where you are, with Devon." A stringy Fourth-Year went right as his dark-skinned colleague stepped forward, then the Scions began to divide.

  Draven grimaced, torn, before moving towards Odell.

  "Instructor?"

  "If you have something to ask, cadet, speak clearly. This is our first class, and therefore, there are no bad questions. Hoarded knowledge teaches no one."

  Seriously? "Understood, sir, but I'm not... uh, any of those. Ranks, I mean."

  Odell's head tilted. "Oh? Already? Always nice to see an F3 so—"

  "Five."

  "Come again?"

  "F5."

  Odell now looked a touch irate. "Find your group, Carver. Now."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Draven offered his hand. "I'm willing to Screen-share."

  Odell's mouth clapped shut as he turned to regard Draven, eyes twinkling. "You wouldn't happen to be lying to me, Cadet Carver, would you? Because that would be an extraordinarily bad idea."

  Draven glared right back, indignant at having his labours reduced to a fib. "I'm sure it would be, were it possible to lie on a Share, which I just offered."

  Odell stared, then his mouth twisted into a cruel grin. "Well, well, well. Eyes front!"

  Fyzz, cursed Draven as Odell dragged him over to the platformed Zone, in clear view of the entire class.

  "We here have an elite. Carver embodies what you should all be striving to achieve. Excellence. Why, you ask? He's already reached F5. I do not know how he accomplished this, but if any of you dream of prosperous, illustrious careers, follow his example."

  REZZ! Draven fought hard to smother the urge to punch his Instructor.

  "Official rank documentation won't happen for a while, so for now, take a good look around. At your competition. Your rivals." He squeezed Draven's shoulder with almost fatherly pride. "And your ideals."

  Oh, I'm gonna kill this guy.

  A handful of boys from the F2 cluster snickered a bit too loudly to be ignored. The Instructor faced them with an upturned brow. "Something to share, cadets?"

  "Huertas, sir. Weaver, Delalian delegation. My father owns a few teams in the Hot." The speaker was reasonably tall, strikingly redheaded and blessed with the bronzed, olive complexion of a supermodel.

  "Congratulations. I hope you'll next explain the bit I'm supposed to care about."

  Huertas shrugged as he straightened and linked hands behind his back in a smug facsimile of parade rest. "I just disagree." He coughed. "Sir."

  Odell looked genuinely baffled. "That's the bit I'm supposed to care about?"

  "At this stage, subrank doesn't mean squat. He could've had a lucky Installation, or, as a Deviant, screwy digits. None of those are skill markers. You can have all the ranks in the galaxy, but if you swing like a cripple, well..."

  His friends sneered, and Odell nodded approvingly. "Very astute. Unfortunately, you're you."

  Huertas hesitated. "Meaning?"

  "You swing like a cripple, Rodrigo. You, like every other Year-One in this room, swing like a cripple on their last legs. That's why I don't care about you. You're a sycomphant trainer dependent F2 with zero notable accomplishments. Carefully consider your betters, young man. Did you know Carver's uncle is a general? Of our parent Corps? Did he waltz into my gym, blathering gibberish about teams and political affiliation? No. He's provided nothing but his own merit, and for that reason, he has earned the benefit of the doubt." Odell smiled kindly. "You will now shut up. In the unlikely circumstance we require the input of an imbecile, I will promptly defer to your expert opinion. Understood?"

  Huertas looked ready to explode. Draven, from almost thirty feet away, could trace the pronounced vein worming across the Weaver's temple. His fists were shaking, and thanks to the astonished silence blanketing their classmates, Draven could almost hear the boy's molars grinding. He had to consciously fight the urge to Summon and ram Tooth through Odell's spinal cord and instead forced his eyes to a neutral point in the wall.

  Odell, satisfied, declared, "Alright, step to! Carver, join the Weavers. Double-time, people! We're on a clock!"

  Glares and scoffs chased Draven's despondent trudge to level ground. He ignored them all, helplessly frustrated. And, adding to his irritation, quickly solved Odell's game. Pressure made diamonds, and by putting him under extraordinary amounts, he'd either shine or shatter. The class would also find fire from envy and push themselves to improve, leaving the Instructor a net positive.

  Rezzhead. It wasn't a complex play, and Odell had executed it too smoothly for it to be his first time.

  Just focus, he reminded himself. None of this matters. Focus.

  "Alright, welcome," announced their supervising assistant once they'd relocated to a private area. "I'm Nellie, and am, as I'm sure you're all now aware, a Year-Four Weaver. I've completed twelve sorties, four of which were outside Republic lines, won three varsity medals and had a handful of Hot and Tot appearances. So… yeah. I'm not, uh, exactly a 'martial paragon' or anything, but you're in good hands."

  The cadets nodded obediently. Draven stared on, expressionless.

  "Weaver prosperity revolves around speed and endurance. We wear opponents down while mitigating reciprocal deterioration at all costs. And, you know, this goes without saying, but it's much easier said than done. Physical conditioning is important, sure. In fact, you'll even have a class for that soon, but your most persistent muscle always, always has to be up top." She tapped her temple. "Do you strategize to leverage your tenacity? What tactics do you employ to pronounce advantages? And can you maintain that decision-making consistency throughout prolonged battles?"

  Nellie Summoned rondel daggers made of sinuous, pale verdrite. "Unless we massively outrank an opponent, in which case tactics are redundant, our goal should never be to win with a single, decisive blow, but to connect twenty in places that steadily force incapacitation. Which, of course, begs the question: how?" She gestured to a nearby cutout of flooring covered in shock-absorbent crash mats. "Most of you can't fight, at least not like Scions, and those who can don't have enough experience. So let's start simple: unarmed hand-to-hand. Footwork fundamentals and movement philosophy, then we'll dive off the deep end."

  Nellie paired them up. Of course, Draven ending up opposite Huertas was practically a foregone conclusion.

  He turned to track Odell meandering nonchalantly through class groups. I really, really have to find a way to kill that idiot, and quickly, before he derails my entire year.

  "I am going to enjoy this," promised Huertas, seething in barely contained apoplexy.

  Draven stared straight ahead, grinding his teeth. "Happy to hear that."

  The surrounding crowd scoffed. Their antagonism, though unsurprising, was still immensely frustrating. His aggravation only grew with Nellie's discreet glances across the floor, towards a certain Instructor wandering aimlessly around the gym.

  Draven bristled. Is she in on this, too? What is wrong with everyone?!?

  Both Odell's enragement of Huertas at Draven's expense and the instigation of their ensuing spar were obviously calculated decisions.

  Why, though? The diamond-fire theory only works if I'm alive, and this moron now wants to kill me.

  Nellie let tension fester by postponing their fight. She ordered active sparring partners to Summon for corporeal protection, then battle weaponless to stave off meaningful injury. The Year-Four also offered constructive technical suggestions throughout, notably focused on guiding her charges towards instinctive hit-and-run mentalities.

  When their fateful turn finally arrived, Odell conveniently wandered over to the Weaver group. Draven was positively itching to sock him right in the throat, but also knew the man was a potentially [Force]-slanted B-rank and wouldn't feel anything.

  What a stupid, stupid teacher, he snarled silently, stalking over to their assigned mat.

  Odell, being evil incarnate, whistled for gym-wide attention. "Everyone, gather 'round. Carver is now going to fight… whoever the other one is, and I want you all to pay attention to how he wins, and well enough to answer questions afterwards."

  There is absolutely no way that's allowed. Draven gaped in abject disbelief. What the hell is his problem?

  It took almost ten full seconds for him to tear his eyes off Odell, get low and Summon. Hurertas hesitated at the sight of Magal, then reverted his features to hysterical rage. Jealousy, Draven wagered. Huertas' comparative protection was pitifully bare, limited to dull blue bracers, flat greaves and blocky pauldrons slapped over a film of stretch.

  "Alright, fighters ready?" asked Nellie, who at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.

  Draven exhaled. "Yeah."

  "Definitely," growled Huertas, shivering with wrath.

  "Spar!" ordered Nellie, trying far too late to emphasize the nonlethal nature of their Duel.

  Huertas charged. Draven, though angry, had fought both Shanelle and far too many drones to reactively reciprocate. He scanned the impending attack and, from the pace, judged the Weaver's charge as a feint.

  Definitely a trap, he concluded warily, subconsciously documenting Huertas' slow speed. Slip punish setup, then? Which way? Draven squinted speculatively. No tells. Damn. Gotta watch for the flip.

  He rolled on the balls of his feet and sidestepped Huertas' flying knee, arms braced for a follow-up. None came. His adversary, not actually expecting to miss, tripped and was forced to roll out his botched landing.

  Draven, on the other hand, paused to blink incredulously.

  That… that wasn't a feint? That was his opener??

  "Huh."

  Somewhere in the background, Odell laughed.

  "Fyzz off!" roared Huertas, blitzing forward.

  Draven again skipped clear of the lunge, then connected a glancing snap kick. Huertas folded around his shin with a yelp, then crumpled in a gasping heap.

  "What just happened?" barked Odell before scowling at the hands shooting up to answer. "That was rhetorical. Shut up and pay attention." He gestured to the sparring pair. "Clearly, Carver is the superior fighter, but what I need is an explanation as to why. What specifically differentiates him from everyone else? It can't be pure Attributes. He's ahead, but not by enough to be this comfortable. Besides, his opponent can clearly throw a punch, yet none of them will ever land. Each of you need to diagnose why."

  Draven started to do some shaking of his own. SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

  Huertas, huffing resentfully, shook the hit off, crawled to his feet and adopted an uncertain, wary stance. He'd clearly realized that Odell had turned him into the scapegoat of a strange, cruel lesson, and the only way to stop it would be to somehow win the fight.

  Unfortunately for the young Delalian, Draven was just about done with the whole charade.

  Huertas' eyes widened as he turtled behind thin bracers to catch a wild, flying punch. Draven consequently dropped the feint as he landed, corked and rammed his other fist into the unprotected meat of Huertas' abdomen. Red-flecked spit erupted from the boy's mouth and glided over Draven's shoulder, who then waited for the Weaver to fold forward, clutching his stomach to crunch an elbow into his chin. The cadet, dazed, frantically reeled for balance.

  Odell's sarcastic snort was the only sound in the entire gym.

  Draven took a beat to decide where next to attack, and Huertas desperately used the reprieve to hurl a straight. Draven smacked it aside, blasted the Weaver's untouched underarm with a hook, then lashed his shin into Huertas' side hard enough to launch the cadet face-first into the corner of the mat.

  He turned to glare at Odell. "You done?"

  "You need to get a handle on that adrenaline, Cadet Carver," warned Odell, almost jovially. "Well fought. Now, like I asked earlier, what makes him so much better? Impress me and I might dish out a bonus mark or two."

  A few hands went up. Odell chose a short, pale girl who offered, "He's way better trained."

  "Define 'trained'."

  She paused. "He's… better at fighting."

  "Terrible answer." The Instructor cheerily faced the rest of his class. "Anyone else?"

  Every hand dropped. Odell, unbothered, announced, "That's disappointing. Perhaps you're not getting enough blood upstairs. Drop and give me… hmm. We'll see."

  Groans of irritation echoed through the gym. Draven, trying his best to disappear, had moved off the mat to get started on his reps when Odell interrupted, "Not you, Carver. Go sit over by the side, you've earned it." Odell nodded to one of his TAs, Mark. "You still got those protein bars?"

  Draven whirled, furious. "What is your pr—"

  Magal roared to life, silently shrieking a warning that seemed to boil the very Core in his chest and send crackling pins and needles all over his body. Adrenaline screamed up to Draven's head as he dove sideways, frantically trying to locate the threat.

  It turned out to be bleeding, delirious and snarling with rage. Huertas' dagger cleaved through empty space, narrowly missing the back of Draven's shoulder.

  "STOP!" bellowed Odell, twisting to intercept the cadet.

  Huertas didn't care. He was far, far away, and only had eyes for one. Draven dropped into a crouch, slipped under the Weaver's slash and reached within.

  Void Blight.

  Purple energy cocooned his fist, cradling it in an electric cloud of liquid Charge. Draven torqued his entire body to power it directly into Huertas' midsection, straight into the right side of the Weaver's unarmoured ribcage.

  Immediately, he felt bones give beneath the sizzling crackle of light, then Huertas bounced off his knuckles and careened into a tailspin.

  The cadet crashed in a heap on the solid, unpadded floor, twitching as Draven's writhing black cloud spat paralyzing tyrian arcs while billowing out to melt the armour off his body. The class watched in mute astonishment as the Delalian was unrelentingly brutalized, then Draven felt his discharged energy fade as Huertas sagged into a spasming, weeping ball.

  Odell actually stuttered in his step as he stared at Huertas' quivering body. "What was that?"

  "Reflex." Draven forced his fists open. "Am I in trouble?"

  Odell shook his head. "No, he made his bed." The Instructor crossed his arms, actually looking a bit concerned. "The hell did you hit him with?"

  "A punch. Do I have to fight anyone else?"

  "Definitely not." Odell momentarily considered whether to press before shrugging and producing a Glass. "Alright, show's over. Everyone, back to your groups. Be right back."

  He then plucked Huertas off the floor like a briefcase and strode out of the gym.

  The assistants hurriedly got back to their segmented lessons. The Weavers, understandably wary, gave Draven a very wide berth, though the Deviant's thoughts were elsewhere.

  Magal? Was that you? How did you do that?

  His Xeno offered nothing outside of what Draven interpreted as a haughty buzz, then went dormant.

  What? What does that even mean?

  "Hey, eyes front!" Nellie scowled down at her charges. "We'll now cover Attribute development. You'll go further in Conditioning, but for now, let's start with [Fort]." She pointed to a stack of strange, tracked sheets. "Which is exactly why I brought rollers."