Rollers, as it turned out, were superhuman treadmills. They became instruments of anguish and persecution after Nellie linked them to her Glass and forced the cadets to sprint at full tilt for minutes on end. In fact, though Draven's performance was obviously unrivalled, even he was wheezing by the lunch bell.
This, shockingly, did not ingratiate him with his focal colleagues. The class, thankfully, however, ended before Odell could return and coerce anyone into further 'spars'. Draven, having established zero relational inroads with one of his most important Instructors and a little under a hundred new enemies, left in an exhausted, foul mood.
Fantastic.
Fourth period, break time, was an hour and twenty minutes. Draven, after exiting Delta, fumed all the way down Kestrell. His face, a vision of depleted frustration, startled several transiting cadets enough to stumble from his path.
He ordered a sandwich on his way to Brown, then stormed into Around the Crock to pick it up. After brief consideration, he then swung back down to Carrick Park to study in some sunshine, given both his distracting vexation and the imminent arrival of winter.
Draven, slightly mollified, settled on a bench and got to work. His new objective, inspired by the strange girl at the library, had shifted from acquisition to invention. His mood steadily improved while filtering through lists of appropriately resonant options, then, because of course, his Glass rang.
Grumbling, he checked the ID, then punched accept.
"What?"
"Dray! Where've you gotten to, mate?"
"Out. What's up?"
"It's lunch? We left you a seat." Fox paused. "You good?"
Draven rubbed his eyes. Always. There is always something.
"Yeah, don't worry about it. On my way."
Fox pinged his location as the Hamilton Food Hall. It was one of the two looming, square complexes occupying the plot east of Kestrell Avenue, which cut vertically through Bennett. It was also almost always crammed to the gills, and therefore, Draven avoided it like the plague.
Which, of course, was where Fox came in.
After shuffling through suffocating traffic, Draven located the trio near a window, laughing over plates of meat and pasta. For a moment, he considered secretly leaving, but Fox, for whatever reason, finally saw fit to leverage his focal [Focus].
The Lancer somehow caught him through a clustered mass of cadets and enthusiastically waved. Once within earshot, Fox asked, "About time. You find us okay?"
Draven nodded and took the free spot. Fox's friends, Trey and Cash, nodded in silent greeting.
"You look scorched," began Trey invitingly, offering Draven a conversational in. "The hell are you taking?"
"So far? Breezes, not gonna lie. History's whatever, CR's nap time, and CT was… fine." Draven began unwrapping his food. "You?"
"Same deal. Lightwork." Trey cocked his head. "You been on Flip?"
"Nah. Why?"
"Good question," said Cash, producing a tableted Glass.
Draven studied it. Someone, apparently, had managed to sneak a Glass into his combat class. The recording, while short, had caught the tail end of his spar with Huertas, including Draven's Void Blight knockout, then cut sharply once Odell started talking.
Draven massaged his temples. "I see."
"Dude, you are everywhere. Everyone's talking, and no one knows what you did. I've heard Fiyero shouts, but you're F-rank, so that's impossible. Like, even Q's blanking." Trey hungrily licked his lips. "You have to tell us."
Draven arched his brow. Qotal Sprite was one of the many, many influencers who'd made a killing off SCS content, which meant he'd really blown up in all of… forty minutes?
He forced his molars apart. I hate everyone.
"I'm good." He rummaged for his fork, then, as an afterthought, added, "Sorry."
"Carver!" moaned Trey. "Don't be like that. Literally like… five minutes ago, Leshia scribed a Unique theory that Q liked! Do you have any idea how cracked that is?!"
"Yeah." Draven left it at that, now thoroughly convinced he'd been mistaken to leave his bench. He used Scribe even less than Flip, which directly correlated to how little he cared for either.
"Mate, come on. Don't be like that." Fox had the temerity to look sad. "You can't pretend already having an Ability isn't insane."
"Okay. It's insane. And it was my insane business until a lunatic got the bright idea to try and literally stab me in the back." He huffed frustratedly. "Remember what I told you, Felix? About Attributes and privacy? Believe it or not, I wasn't screwing around."
"It's an Ability, Draven! You can't hide an exploding punch!"
"That's… right." Draven pursed his lips and shoved upright. "I need air. Catch you boys later."
He ignored their apologies while violently repacking his lunch and stalked off. The day had not been kind. First Odell, then the publicity, now Fox's idiotic group. And to add insult to the injury of everything irritating him, Draven had yet to make significant headway on a defensive Ability.
I am going to knock the skynning teeth off that stupid man's face.
Draven, wrapped up in visions of retribution, rapidly rounded a tight corner and bounced off a wide, unyielding torso. Focal [Fleet] kept him standing, but he now really needed to hit something.
"Can y—" he started, then looked up.
Douglas Temple, looming over narrowed eyes, examined him dryly. Draven, laughing disbelievingly, snorted, "Of course. Of fyzzing course."
"Seriously?" The sneering voice came from his left, and it reminded Draven of a cicada. "Is it stupid or blind?"
Draven faced the chattering moron rearing to push him before Temple interrupted.
"I wouldn't."
The cicada hesitated. "What?"
Temple crossed his arms. "What's your Zone time, Carver?"
"Haven't checked. What's it to you?"
Temple jabbed a thumb in Draven's direction while facing the sycophant. "There are probably only five or six people in our year that hit Zones as much as I do, and Carver's at the top of that list." He cocked his head. "What's your rank?"
"F3," chuffed the cicada, preening arrogantly.
Draven met Temple's expectant look with crossed arms of his own.
"An F2 Installation rank means, at minimum, Carver's hit four, not to mention the technical gap his military upbringing creates." Temple brushed past Draven, rolling his eyes. "Go ahead, swing. See where that takes you."
"So?" spat the cicada, doubt beginning to fester. "Last I checked, seven beats four."
Draven, despite himself, felt his eyes widen. F7? Seriously?
Temple slowly rounded on the sycophant. "You are missing the point, Celio. Why would I fight him?"
Celio blinked. "He bumped into you."
Temple sighed. "Stupid and blind, was it?"
Draven snorted, then paused thoughtfully. "Question."
"Yeah?"
"Did you get Buckler?"
The Duellist's eye twitched. Draven smothered his smirk. Knew it.
"What makes you think that?"
"What makes me think a shieldless Duellist needs defence? Gosh, I'll have to get back to you." He snorted absently while thinking aloud. "Your comp loses bite without strong ram game, which consequently demands robust perimetric screening. You're too smart to wait, and F-rank doesn't really spoil for choice. So, yeah, it was that or… I dunno, Skimmist, which, come on. Fifty-ton pauldrons, slipping? I highly doubt you're dumb enough to self-cripple this early, even by accident." Draven then looked up and shrugged dismissively. "Ignore me, I'm rambling. Sorry for clipping you."
"Your Ability," Temple called, interrupting Draven's departure. "What is it?"
"Wanna tell me about Buckler?"
Temple didn't respond. Draven nodded. "Take care."
This time, he headed straight across the street and into the lecture hall. Draven chose not to head back to his dorm and rest, as the sight of a bed would erase his will to move. With any luck, political science would be as boring as it sounded.
The Instructor for that class, Hayden Adams, was everything he dreamed of and more. Dreary, monosyllabic and devastatingly sleep-inducing. Draven almost wept in relief when the final bell rang and his first day of school finally drew to a close.
Naturally, that relief was short-lived. Droning lectures had cleared his mind of Odell-induced rage, unveiling the true extent of his newfound infamy. The clusters of chatting, distracted cadets sneaking stupid looks were immediately obvious and very annoying. Whispers, nudges and expressions of disbelief followed him down the hall, into the Landry foyer and out onto Kestrell Avenue.
Useless again, seethed Draven. Bans every Glass but the one that turns me into a skynning circus act. Who keeps this idiot in a job?
The following morning, he left early for a drone session. Furtive glances quickly found and tracked his trek across campus, but Draven was tired of anger. That and the fact that Combat Training was his first class.
Best enjoy things while things remained enjoyable.
Afterwards, Draven chose the noble path. Despite fiery reservations, he arrived early. That meant changing, securing his bag in a print-protected locker, and stepping into the gym with twenty minutes to spare.
Odell, posture perfect, beckoned him over to the centre of the Palaestra. "Punctual. Good initiative, cadet."
Draven cordially replied, "Affirmative."
Olive branch, Odell. Do not fyzzing burn it.
The Instructor examined him. "I get it. Believe me, I've been there. You, like everyone else, have dreams. However, unlike everyone else, you've got the stones to see them through." He fell out of parade rest to stroll about while counting off fingers. "Precocity, pluck, and privilege? You should be speeding down the freeway of success. I mean, that's what should happen, right? It's only fair, isn't it, cadet?"
Draven remained mute and motionless. Odell wasn't exactly one to bundle rhetorical questions in subtlety.
"The problem with fairness, Carver, is that it's fair. That, and the fact that it doesn't exist. It suggests everyone gets the same shot. The right juice from their squeeze. Please. No one gets the same shot, so no one wins fair. We certainly didn't, as the Yorgans know all too well. You don't bully extrasystemic empires into conformity with 'fairness'. No, that not only requires the biggest stick, but a willingness to burn forests to ash. And that, Carver, is unfair."
Odell's circular promenade finally left him next to Draven, where he considered the cadet over crossed arms.
"You resent me."
Draven remained silent.
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"That was a question, cadet. Answer it."
"Negative, sir."
"Come again?"
"I do not resent you, Instructor Odell. Your continued posting within this institution cements both your knowledge and experience, certifying any method of training you feel best equip—"
"Carver, I am legally authorized to beat the blood out of you. Lie to me ever again and sanitation'll be scraping you off my Zone with a spade."
Draven's body clenched in frustration. "Fine. With all due respect, sir, antagonizing Cadet Huertas was a sweeping stroke of stupid, pointless toxicity. Isolated envy isn't the end of the world, but an entire class? I'm burned for the rest of the fyzzing year! Everyone knows the drone utility curve, and at my rate, bar sponsors, I'll need partners before summer. The skill gap already complicates things, but now that they hate me?" Electric Charge involuntarily flashed through his eyes. "I'd be lucky to get laughed out of a room."
"Exactly." Odell snorted sardonically before patronizingly cooing, "What, Dwabin waan mo puendz? Grow up. Anything with eyes can see that you're stronger, faster and almost comically smarter than everyone else in my class. I mean, even Nellie's thrown, and she's actually seen people explode in front of her." Odell looked genuinely puzzled. "Why, in my right mind, would I want you anywhere near… them?"
Draven's face twisted furiously. "That's your plan? Seriously? Quarantining me from, what, mediocrity?"
Odell sighed. "Mm. Maybe you're not as smart as I thought. We'll see."
Draven's fists curled. "You don't know anything about me. You don't even seem to know anything about your skynning job. You're supposed to be teaching us how to fight Republic enemies, not each other!"
Odell looked skyward and considered Draven's tirade. Eventually, he asked, "And what, exactly, do you think I'm trying to teach you, Carver?"
"I literally just—"
"Yes, yes. But you said 'us', not 'me'. We're the only people in this room." Odell crouched to stand level with his student. "And as I've already established, you aren't them. So what am I trying to teach you, Carver?"
Draven scowled back. "I don't know, or care. I'm here for Combat Training, Instructor. Training for combat. Nothing else has anything to do with you."
"Wrong," replied Odell, pausing to notice Nellie enter the Palaestra. He offered a friendly nod, then reached to squeeze Draven's shoulder. "And until you're not, I'm so grateful to have your example pushing the group to greater heights."
Draven watched Odell turn and stride off towards Nellie, boiling impotently. He remained there, smouldering uselessly as the rest of his yearmates, bunched in friend and class groups, groggily filtered in.
I was civil! Why? Draven almost wanted to cry. What did I do to him?
Once everyone was present, Odell addressed the class. "Morning, everyone. Arrange yourselves according to rank."
Draven, isolated again, killed time pondering ways to assassinate his Instructor. Reliably inflicting permanent damage would require Attributal scores massively beyond his current ceiling. Additionally, considering Odell was a Sentinel, Draven would need dramatic developmental Void Blight gains to meaningfully nullify [Fort] resilience and bypass [Force] durability.
Not to mention the hands. Damn. That's a scary, heavy profile. Unless… I just tank through? He's got experience, yeah, but so does Shan. I could wing it, but if he's drifted through Game spheres, he'll call my bluff over a skynning loudspeaker. Hell, with my luck, the guy's probably caught numbers in the Sci. Rezzes. How strong do I have to get to jump the diff—
Odell cut Draven's ponderings off with a loud clap. "Eyes up, cadets! Yesterday, we covered the general CQC, class and decision-making fundamentals. Today, the ante ups. As stated earlier, I do not suffer coasters. You must prove you deserve the chance to earn success." He gestured to Draven. "Don't worry, I see the frowns already. 'But, Instructor Odell, you favoured Cadet Carver, even when he hasn't earned anything! How is that fair?' Great question. Carver landed on Aretis on August twentieth and holds the highest rank among you. Who's second?"
A familiar, limping figure stepped forward.
"Huertas. Good to see you on your feet. I trust, going forward, you'll be keeping your shaft safely tucked away?"
The Delalian went beet red as the class snickered. Draven once again found a wall and locked on.
"Huertas, state your current Zone-hours count, discounting my class," ordered Odell through a derisive smirk.
The Weaver, grimacing painfully, replied, "Nine."
"When did you arrive on campus?"
"Seventeenth."
Several cadets startled, impressed. Draven once again became the subject of contemptuous sneers, headed by none other than Huertas himself.
"I see. Anyone else got better?"
"I did seven!" yelled a girl, somewhere near the back of the F1 cluster.
Draven recognized neither the voice nor the matching face twisted into a scornful sneer when he turned to pick it out.
"Who taught you to count?" Their Instructor did not look impressed.
Her scorn shrivelled as Odell tiredly addressed the rest of the class. "So, seven and nine. Does anyone else have a smaller number? Perhaps four?"
No one responded. Odell motioned for one of his assistants, the Marauder, to hand him a tablet Glass.
"Wanna hear something interesting? To prevent reservation delinquency, our systems automatically record and archive extracurricular Zone bookings and fulfillments. Now, I'm a busy man, so none of that meant much until I realized that I, as an Instructor, had access to those archives! So, how many hours do you kids think Cadet Carver, who, I repeat, arrived on the twentieth, has voluntarily booked and fulfilled to date?"
"Zero?" snorted Huertas, earning a round of laughs.
Odell's retort was flat. "Incorrect."
"Ten minutes?" volunteered someone else.
Odell scrolled through his Glass. "If anyone but Carver guesses correctly, they will pass with a perfect score on the final exam."
The class froze, then began barking random numbers over each other. Draven remained locked on his wall point, silently fast-tracking his murder plot.
After a few seconds, Odell raised his hand for quiet. "All wrong. I'm going to choose three of you, at random, for a last chance." After brief consideration, the Instructor pointed to a girl with pink pigtails in the F1 group, then an Ixion boy, then a dark-skinned Threpdan.
"Eight!"
"Thirteen!"
"Twenty!"
"And there goes your easy grade." Odell hoisted his tablet, as if to further project his voice. "Carver, excluding his session this morning, had reserved fourteen sessions. Which, to the mathematically challenged among us," he looked meaningfully at the seven-hour girl, "means he has personally logged forty-three hours of preemptive, optional Zone time, with ninety-one percent of those bookings being morning slots."
Odell flicked the Glass over his shoulder as the cadets wheeled to gawk at Draven with expressions of thorough disbelief.
"Do you understand now? He outclasses you not just physically, but mentally. While you were running around, frolicking and partying your way through welcome week or whatever it is you idiots do, Carver went to work. There is no accident. He does not coincidentally occupy the highest rank in this class." Odell's disgusted expression fell on Huertas. "Do you want to beat him, Rodrigo? Do you truly want more than a snowflake's chance in hell of catching anything other than his hook to your pathetic, flapping chin?"
Odell's eyes got fiery.
"Then get off your ass."
The class, mute, watched their Instructor stomp over to the Palaestra's Zone and Summon a gigantic spiked sledgehammer.
"Zone, active!"
"Zone active," said Zone Lady.
Odell thrust his weapon towards Draven. "Carver's provided his proof. He is the only one. And until that changes, we will be working privately."
Draven smiled. He tried not to, but the thought of publicly brutalizing Odell was too enticing to scowl at. For a second, he completely forgot the colossal Attributal disparity and instead considered the catharsis of cleaving the Sentinel's kneecap from its joint.
He was almost shaking with excitement. That was a mistake.
Draven took up a starting position in the Zone's fourth quadrant, feeling the hum of Zero energy bubbling beneath his boots. Magal, already pulsing hungrily, surged to shape as Tooth and Claw snapped into his armoured hands.
Tense, rapt silence blanketed the Palaestra as Odell absently couched his weapon on a shoulder while beckoning Draven forward.
He did not Summon armour.
"Like any folk," began the Instructor, "[Fort] can both bolster and hamper. For you personally, that means increased opening vulnerability, however, introducing a [Fleet] synergy—"
Draven caught both clenches in Odell's throat and forearm and dove past a sweeping horizontal. The whiff forced the Instructor to momentarily recalibrate, allowing Draven to race in and control Odell's range.
"—can expand your offensive opportunities," continued the Sentinel, herding Draven along with lazy swings. "The extent of your advances, however, will have to be weighed against oppositional Abb sheets, assumed skill difference and Att disparity. Information versus safety. That's the tradeoff."
Force a root, schemed Draven, arcing Tooth towards Odell's nose. The Instructor displayed zero discomfort leaning clear of the feint. Draven, successfully having manoeuvred his opponent into planting a stabilizing leg, shifted to punch Claw through the outside of the Sentinel's forward knee. Unfortunately, the Instructor's fist was faster, catching his chest and blowing him off his feet.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Condition — 89%
Charge (F-rank) — [100%] — +0.16/s
*****
"Inventive," commended Odell, spinning his weapon like it weighed no more than ten pounds, "but like I said, Att gaps cannot be disregarded."
He's levelling our [Fleet], realized Draven. Wants to make this a mind game. Fine. Let's see what happens when something finally forces you to dig through the head fat and fire up your brain.
Draven let Odell advance, then rolled clear of his bombing sledgehammer. He came up to see Odell's streaking fist, shifted midswing, cranking the hammer's grip lever-style. Draven spun past the prod and countered through Claw screaming for the Sentinel's ear, only to be intercepted at the forearm by the Instructor's whip-quick left hand.
Idiot, sneered Draven, corking to bury Tooth in Odell's right eye.
A slight widening in said eye suggested mild surprise, then it ballooned alongside an astonished yelp as the scythe abruptly veered to stab into Odell's armed wrist.
Draven punished the disorientation by twirling Claw to rake across the inside of the Instructor's wrist, weakening its hold before breaking it completely against a rising knee. Odell, again grimacing disconcertedly, failed to stop Draven from collapsing Claw and punching, crescent knife style, right back into the open wound.
A-rank [Force] minimized the actual damage, but Odell still hissed and flinched backwards. Draven cocked back as if to retry, then spun and instead smashed Claw into Tooth's heel, burying it deeper in Odell's pinned wrist. The Instructor huffed another angry grunt, then lurched to seize Draven's arm.
Gotcha.
Claw instantly snapped back to scythe, and Draven hurled a backhand at Odell's rapidly approaching temple. This time, there was no controlled reaction. Odell moved far faster than E or even D-rank [Fleet] should've permitted to block Draven at the wrist, knocking Claw airborne. Cursing, the Deviant was subsequently forced to discard Tooth and dance past Odell's reaching left arm.
Though disarmed, Draven still recovered and twisted to assail the Sentinel's unprotected flank, only for Magal to shriek premonitorily as Odell unleashed a violent backhand that crunched bodily into the Deviant's forearms.
Everything instantly went white. Even through layers of armour and a firm, defensive stance, Draven's body seemed to collapse as he pinwheeled through the Zone. He barely even processed movement before hitting something hard and blacking out again. Draven then remembered waking in a heap, wheezing blood and struggling to remember which limbs went where.
Condition, he silently demanded, trying to ignore mind-rending pain.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Condition — 37%
Charge (F-rank) — [100%] — +0.16/s
*****
Idiot, lamented Draven, trying and failing to prop himself on elbows. Such a skynning idiot. What kind of moron [Fleet] catches [Force] clips?!
He heard muted sounds while trying to pop the ringing in his ears, then slowly, as he crawled to his knees, saw shapes and sense return to the world around him.
"Draven?! Draven, can you hear me?"
He slowly turned to find Nellie kneeling worriedly beside him. He'd never seen her look so scared, but then again, he'd only known her for two days.
"Yeah," rasped Draven. "Did I bounce?"
She frowned in confusion. "What?"
"The Zone. Am I out of bounds?"
"Yes! He smacked you across the gym! How's your bar?"
"Thirty-seven," he coughed, and Nellie went white.
"INSTRUCTOR!" she shrieked. "YOU DEALT SIXTY!"
"Fifty," corrected Draven, slowly relearning balance. "That jab had bite."
Nellie whirled on him. "Shut up!"
Odell, fully healed and looking quite pleased with himself, tried for a sympathetic expression. "Apologies, Carver. You alright?"
"Yeah," coughed Draven. "Where's the Spray?"
"Absolutely not! You're going to the medbay!" It was now Draven's turn to be plucked like a suitcase and carted off, but not before Nellie got a final word in with her boss. "Or do you actually want to kill him this time?"
Odell, to his credit, looked genuinely sheepish. "No, go on. Good luck, cadet."
Draven ignored the Instructor and flopped bonelessly on the incensed Weaver's shoulder. An undetermined amount of time later, he felt himself slump into a bed. Things faded as he quickly passed out.
When he finally fully woke up, a disapproving nurse studying a Glass was present.
"You had four fractures, a break, countless internal bruises and borderline failure in two separate organs from the thoracic trauma."
Draven coughed and wished he hadn't. "You said had. Does that mean I'm in the clear?"
"We're good at what we do, so yes. For now. Do not get up. Don't even think about leaving until I say so."
Draven shook his head. "I've got class."
"Not anymore. They ended an hour ago."
Draven froze. "Rezzes! I've gotta make my slot or—"
"That has also been handled. Medical exemption overrules booking negligence."
"Oh." He sagged into the pillow. "Thanks."
She scowled. "What were you thinking? Duelling an Instructor?"
"He asked."
"And you listened. When Dane puts you in the ring, you smile, wave, and stay the hell away from his mallet! What possessed you to attack?"
"Flight is just a delayed loss," retorted Draven. "Doubly so against quicker opponents."
"So he was faster and stronger, and your solution was to..."
"Be smarter. Almost had him, too." Draven tsked irately. "Should've read that clip."
The nurse's expression flattened. "You sound like a smart kid, but you certainly don't look like one, so let me make something clear. Dane has been killing things longer than you've been alive. You didn't 'almost' have anything. You were humoured, then he got bored and tried to cut you in half. Confidence is fine, arrogance isn't."
Draven met her expression. "Thanks for the vote of, eh, confidence."
"You are not moving an inch until I've had a long, long conversation with Dane about his idiotic teaching system."
Draven snorted. "Good luck with that. Dude's more stubborn than a mule with a pole wedged—"
"Quiet!"
She stormed off. Draven, without his Glass or clothes, was left sprawled across the sterile mattress, staring wearily at five other empty cots.
He sighed. "Great."
They had no response for him. Luckily, Magal did.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Threshold Breached.
Reconfiguring. Standby.....
[...]
Anchored.
Rank — [F5 (15.2 —> 15.4)]
- [Force] — [F0 (10.3 —> 10.7)]
- [Fleet] — [F8 (18.4 —> 18.5)]
- [Focus] — [F2 (12.5)]
- [Fort] — [F9 —> E0 (19.7 —> 20.0)]
- [Form] — [S-Silver (94.3)]
*****
"Huh," muttered Draven, pensive. "Not bad."