On day two, Shanelle somehow beat him to CC. Again. That entailed both pros and cons.
"Why are you here?"
Shanelle sighed. "You don't always have to be mean, Draven."
"Non-answer." He brushed past her and a cluster of nascent cadets eager for a taste of the Zone. Professional trainers hovered nearby, implying the dozen or so newly Installed as descendant of influence. "Don't you have a war to fight?"
"No, that's Ward. I lie and spy."
Draven pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe this."
"Ready?" Shanelle already had a sadistic look in her eye.
Following Wardell's departure, Draven hadn't expected Shanelle to stick around, especially given the nature of her assignment. Deep cover sabbaticals were extraordinarily rare outside exceptional performance or—
"Uncle Damien," he groaned.
"Uncle Damien," agreed Shanelle, sauntering towards their reserved Zone. "Remember to stretch."
That day, Shanelle varied her tutelage. The goal, allegedly, was to 'sand his icky habits off' and turn him into a 'slaying Scion goddess'. Draven's protestations over her choice of titling were ignored, largely due to his cousin's preoccupation with beating him to a pulp.
Additionally, Shanelle also no longer seemed interested in forcing a Void Blight trigger. Instead, she zeroed in on fundamental [Fleet] weaponization. Draven's style, she critiqued, was too general. He flipped liberally between strength and speed presses, homogenizing his combative arsenal and erasing specialization; a death sentence for Scions. As that included transitive habits with his scythes, they also worked exercises to refine his decision-making when switching between their base and hatchet forms.
A few hours in, Shanelle perked up. "Oh, oh, names! You never said!"
Draven, folded over a bruised torso, wheezed, "Fyzz off."
"Come on. Don't be boring."
He, after a minute of floundering, struggled upright, hoisted his left scythe and declared, "Tooth." Right. "Claw."
"That is horrible." Shanelle levelled Draven with an incredibly disapproving expression. "Change it."
He did not, so she gave up. Speaking, that is. Fighting? Within twenty minutes, Draven had passed out twice and was struggling to stand. Twenty minutes after that, he took a hit and simply could not get up.
Thankfully, however, their labours bore fruit.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Threshold Breached.
Reconfiguring. Standby...
[...]
Anchored.
Rank — [F2 (12.1 —> 12.2)]
- [Force] — [F0 (7.1 —> 7.2)]
- [Fleet] — [F5 —> F6 (15.8 —> 16.0)]
- [Focus] — [F0 (9.2)]
- [Fort] — [F6 (16.3 —> 16.6)]
- [Form] — [S-Silver (94.3)]
*****
"Huh," he muttered.
Shanelle, sipping from a colourful water bottle, admonished, "Screen staring is rude."
"So is breaking nine of my ribs, but you don't see me complaining."
"You make a remarkably mobile cripple." Shanelle rolled her shoulders. "Squawk, Dray."
"Point one, two and three plus in [Force], [Fleet] and [Fort]." He scratched his chin. "Not bad."
Shanelle stared. "Already?"
Not only that, but Draven could feel an itching in his chest. Inspection revealed Magal pushing to trigger Void Blight. His Xeno, awake and purring, wanted to work every muscle.
So, despite reservations, he asked, "Can we practice my Ability?"
Shanelle snickered while twirling her knives. Only when she faced him did she realize he was serious.
"Mm? What changed?"
"I don't know how to use it, especially with all this new stuff we're doing. I don't want that to bite me down the line."
She examined him. "I see."
"So?" insisted Draven.
Shanelle smirked. "No. Your foundations are terrible, and Abb grinds will make things worse. Crawl before you run."
Magal shuddered, displeased.
Draven, despite mounting concern over Magal's increasingly apparent awareness, snapped, Yeah, yeah. Is she wrong, though?
There was no reply.
Thought so. Drama queen.
The following weeks rapidly elapsed. By close of July, Draven could comfortably compete and occasionally outwit an E-capped Shanelle, and eventually, even to the point of forcing a Summon.
"You're so annoying," she begrudgingly admitted as Valena swallowed her sub-Summons. "Nothing beats you twice."
Draven frowned. "Everyone has habits. I wouldn't be much of a Scion if I couldn't read them."
To that, Shanelle laughed. "You'd be surprised."
Eventually, she sanctioned Void Blight triggers, periodically pausing their Duels for form coaching against mannequins. Those reps were instrumental in demonstrating to Draven just how effectively the crackling sludge enhanced his striking power and corroded protection. In fact, as the clock ticked to September, he not only progressed in his understanding of Magal and their Ability, but also saw considerable Attribute growth.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Threshold Breached.
Reconfiguring. Standby...
[...]
Anchored.
Rank — [F4 —> F5 (14.9 —> 15.1)]
- [Force] — [F0 (10.2)]
- [Fleet] — [F8 (18.1 —> 18.2)]
- [Focus] — [F2 (12.3 —> 12.5)]
- [Fort] — [F9 (19.3)]
- [Form] — [S-Silver (94.3)]
*****
"Eureka," he huffed, straining to catch his breath. Prolonged exposure to Kyle and Kyla had pockmarked his armour with chips and gouges. Tooth and Claw weren't much better off, sporting unsightly splits along the snaths, hooks and maces. He'd long since given up counting the cuts and bruises. Yet, somehow, a grin stole across Draven's lips.
Why is this fun? Everywhere hurts. Everything's blurry, and sound has taste. He shook his head. It's amazing.
Shanelle, conspicuously unruffled, cocked her head. "What?"
"F5."
"Oh, fyzz off." She stared. "Seriously?"
"Apparently, you're a better trainer than I thought. I owe you an apology."
Shanelle frowned. "It's been two months. That's… that's really weird, Dray."
"Possibly." Draven, now thoroughly desensitized to exhaustion, straightened. "Had we not trained every fyzzing day." He tried for a smile, but his skull was still ringing from a notably spirited elbow. "Guess you're a better trainer than you thought."
"Nice try," snickered Shanelle. "You're not getting out of this one, Magal. Lemme hear that [Form] roar."
Draven soured and waved his scythes. "Rawr."
"Attagirl," sniggered his cousin, digging into a crouch before blitzing forward.
Shanelle, by that point, had beaten soreness out of Draven's body. The pain, whether by [Form] or conditioning, had simply stopped registering after about a month. That being said, she'd never gone beyond bruising and shallow cuts treatable overnight with SolSalve or Spray. Those solutions, developed by the military medical conglomerate SolCorp, were fast-acting stimulants designed to accelerate internal Charge circulation and regenerative reactions within a problem area. Scions could continually apply either without consequence, but only up to a certain level of affliction. Infection, compromised bones or specific kinds of muscular failings were beyond them. Additionally, once the body acclimatized to the 'kick', effectiveness nosedived. Fancy bandages, really.
Fancy bandages Draven shamelessly abused.
Six hours later, Knight found him collapsed on his mattress, facedown and flirting with unconsciousness. The general, following a brief appraisal of his nephew's mandatorily upkept room, declared, "General on deck!"
Draven groggily shifted to sit, made no mystery of his exhausted annoyance and slapped himself in the head.
Knight snorted at the failed salute. "You look scorched."
"No, it is not nice to see you too," snapped Draven.
"I'm your only friend." Knight eased himself into a desk chair. "Report."
"We fought. A lot. I lost. A lot." Draven slumped back onto his sheets. "F0, 8, 2 and 9."
Knight tapped his new armrest pensively. "All in, then. Weaver arch, no blinking?"
"It's what we agreed."
"We?" repeated Knight.
Draven shuffled to get a pillow under his neck and explained, "I get these nudges. Usually, everything's vague and random, but sometimes there's context. I'm not always sure what they mean, but I'm guessing it's part of the… you know."
Knight regarded his nephew contemplatively. "That is very, very interesting. You speak as if it's a sentient being."
"Honestly? Wouldn't be surprised. Sometimes, the guy doesn't shut up." An affronted vibration rolled through his ribcage. Draven ignored it.
"Hmm. What does it want now?"
"It— we disagree on Shan pushing [Focus] over [Fort]. We're a Weaver, through and through. I mean, Void Blight's built for this build. No point going against the grain."
"Understood," chuckled his uncle. "Just remember, there's no 'we' on Aretis. Even if she's a knockout."
Draven perked up. "I don't speak to girls. Everything's ready?"
Knight nodded. "You jet Sunday morning."
"You move fast. Rezzes." Draven winced. "Can we get the weekend? Shan's still got road to cover."
"No. You're already scheduled." Knight cocked his head. "It's what you signed up for, kid."
Draven waved him off. "Yeah, yeah."
"Either way, she's done too. Your coach's connection on Phaetheon rails Tuesday."
Draven nodded. It was unsettling to admit, but he'd grown to appreciate his cousin's mentorship. She'd taught him loads on momentum weaponization, risk management and [Fort] maximization, even without expertise in the Atrribute herself. He'd also been scolded to no end for possessing 'freakish' adaptability, especially given how many times her focal [Focus], while constrained, failed against his nigh computational processing speed and ample creativity.
"And your [Form]?"
Draven wasn't sure when, but he and his uncle had reached a silent agreement to never articulate his aberrant rank aloud.
"Same," replied Draven. "Not even a point."
"That's within expectation." Knight nodded approvingly. "Alert me otherwise."
"Aff."
"Lose the snark. Leniency is seldom a currency peddled among Fleet command."
Draven rolled his eyes. "Thank the stars for your magnanimity, then."
Knight pushed to his feet and made a helpless gesture. "I did my best."
"Mhm." Draven watched the general turn for the door, then added, "Uncle Damien?"
"Yep?"
"Thanks."
Knight smirked. "There it is. Sleep tight."
Departure was a low-key affair. With fifty percent of his family redeployed, Draven's seeing-off party consisted of Shanelle and Knight, the former of whom actually looked ready to cry.
"You're so big," she blubbered. "Look at you! Draven, you are growing a beard!"
"Please be quiet, they can hear you."
He was referring to the crowd clustered behind the window of the station's observation deck. Apparently, Caspian had declared his Installation as sufficiently remarkable to warrant the entire student body seeing him off with posters and ribbons. Draven, for the life of him, couldn't understand why, but Shanelle warned not to say anything rude.
"They're supporting their local boy," she admonished. "Be nice."
Draven, out of appreciation for her help, gave them a wave.
Knight then offered notes on duty, discipline and drive. He cautioned that Masters, while incredibly prestigious and patently elite, was nothing more than a tool. One Draven, if he so willed, would have to seize with both hands and fight furiously to truly leverage.
Draven extended reciprocal assurances, then the ship buzzed his Glass, requesting he expedite embarkation.
"Stay out of trouble!" Shanelle ordered as he hiked up the steps. "And call me!"
"No!" Draven shouted back.
He knew full well he would do both, and the latter likely within a week.
Draven shuffled through aisles before finally settling in his window seat. Thanks to Knight's clout, he had space and a mesmerizing view to immediately ignore in favour of tableting his Glass and resuming Weaver research.
Draven barely remembered liftoff. He had some vague recollection of the windows flaring orange as Kellao shrank behind them, then a jolt as they blasted into warp.
He did not leave his seat, even as other passengers stretched out around him. His eyes were locked on his screen, while his mind ruminated over the riddle of Tamos.
Skanda Nagpal, better known by her Xeno designation, had grown up poor and invisible on Knealla. She attended school when possible, and when not, stole to feed her aged, bedridden grandmother. Providentially, however, on what was supposed to be a pickpocketing day, Nagpal decided to go to school and watch a Testing. She hadn't originally intended to participate, especially given the severely patriarchal nature of her village, but the present Assessor had no interest in local politics and demanded every eligible child take part. Seven years later, Nagpal was tearing up the Sci; breaching blocks, nicking caps and sowing absolute chaos.
She, in Draven's opinion, was the most powerful A-rank Weaver in the Fleet.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
That we know of, he chided himself. They could be hiding their goods in a Yorgan jungle dozens of warp days away.
Tamos was quick, but more importantly, smart. Moeri, but with composure and experience. While the rookie's frenetic and almost spastic movement made him volatile, unpredictable, and a headache to pin down, Tamos flowed with a smooth, lethal gait that not only made her equally untouchable but offensively formidable.
Draven took a moment to review her stat page and shook his head disbelievingly.
"A five-two-three ODL over pro twenty air time?" he muttered, referencing Tamos' aggressive movement. "Literally suicidal. I mean, her AI's gotta be exospheric." He did a quick search and whistled. "Seven point three? Scorching stars. STC's obviously through the roof, no surprise there. And she's landing her shots. Career pro thirty touch rate over nineteen SSTR. Quality sigs, too; twelve drops per game. As a non-[Force] harrier. Rezzes. And she's all oil! Aggregate pro ninety slips, because why not, I guess. What a monster." He sighed longingly. "I gotta meet her."
Unfortunately, being in a ship and not the Osiris System meant Draven was unlikely to get that opportunity, so he instead contented himself with highlight and interview analysis. They painted a paradoxical picture.
Nagpal struck him as a kind, reserved, soft-spoken woman. Tamos? Mauve death made lightning and verdrite.
A perfect template.
Aretis, as a neighbouring resident of the Horus System, took seven hours to reach. Most of that passed in a blur for Draven as he gorged on report after training documentary after talk show.
Eventually, however, his incessant reading, watching and notetaking got the better of him, and Draven slumped off to sleep. A PA announcement from the pilot team startled him awake, alerting them to imminent warp exit. A Viewer hanging over the aisle then began to flash insistently, reminding everyone to buckle up, and to do so with haste.
Passengers quickly filed back into their seats, then jerked as they dropped out of folded space. Glancing out the window, Draven caught sight of dozens of orbital docking stations surrounding the impressive hub world of just over five billion. Thousands of ships flitted across the surface of the colossal cobalt marble, either docking, diving or drilling through mesopheric resistance before rocketing into warp.
My new home. Lovely.
The commercial rail took a slow, scenic route over a city sector identified by the window HUD as Nell, giving the passengers a panoramic view of its checkered industrial landscape before veering off to the landing station. Draven, naturally, spent that time buried in Tamos' trigger patterns, uninterested.
His priorities were set and sealed.
Soon, however, it was time to leave. He joined the vacating line of civilians and stepped out into Aretis' brisk outdoors. After reclaiming his luggage, Draven hustled out onto the street, where a cab was waiting. After loading up, Draven proceeded to spend the trip trying to identify landmarks and develop a sense of the sector. An instinct for what went where, why, and the quickest ways to get around.
He failed miserably, and upon arrival an hour later, was more than ready to get the hell out.
Masters' campus was pretty much what he'd seen on-Net. Sprawling, red and very professional. The buildings walked an impressive tightrope of maintaining the school's crimson-gold motif without being blinding or pukeworthy. All were branded with numbers, banners and logos, complemented by traffic signs and projections both welcoming and guiding cadets.
Following a slow, absorbing pan, Draven collected himself and followed both his Glass and public directions to the Office of the Registrar. There, a small redheaded attendant offered a rehearsed welcome before having him press his band against a flat, rectangular reader.
A second later, it vibrated to confirm the app had successfully downloaded.
Masters' Mobile's first order of business was his dorm. Draven thanked the woman before following an interactive map across raucous, bright streets to Graham Residence. His room, number twenty-three on the fifth floor, was near the end of the east hall. MM had him press his Glass against the passpad, then code his handprint in. Once anchored, the door clicked open, and Draven took in his new apartment.
Unsurprisingly spartan was his first impression. He spotted a freezer, stove, and Viewer doubling as a long window. The couch in front of it sat between the doors of two rooms, the rightmost of which his Glass claimed as his. Draven briefly acquainted himself with the appliances, then offloaded personal effects on his new bed.
Once finished, he had a quick rinse in the shower and stepped out to forage for dinner.
Instead, he almost ran into a lanky, freckled kid. Mousey red hair dark enough to be misinterpreted as brown spilled over large, round ears, framing the pair of wide green eyes boring into Draven.
"Hey!" exclaimed the invader. "Why are you in my shower?!"
Draven's brain caught up to common sense. "Wood?"
The cadet hesitated. "Fox, yeah."
Draven consulted his Glass. "It says Felix."
"No one calls me that." Fox cocked his head. "Draven?"
"Dray, same deal." Draven offered his hand. "Pleasure."
"Likewise," Fox replied eagerly, pumping it. He glanced around, shaking his head disbelievingly. "I keep having to pinch myself. This is insane."
Draven finally placed the foreign, lilting accent. "Proteus?"
"Yep." Fox faced him with an upturned eyebrow. "You sound local."
"Close. Kellao." Draven crossed his arms. "Politics, military or business?"
"What?"
"Year-Ones rarely have enough time to gain admission through merit, so your folks are either in government, the Fleet, or a decent corp." Draven gave him a once-over. "Wrinkled clothes mean no military, and Prodigy boots are never something people with Masters money would be caught dead wearing. Hmm. Your… Mom is a… mayor?"
Fox flushed, glancing impishly at his sneakers. "Dad. Governor."
"Mm. General. Uncle." Draven scanned the cupboards, then asked, "You know where to buy food?"
"Oh, there's a store. Flash ID and you get in no problem."
Draven fiddled with his MM app until he found the ID tab. "Great. Where is it?"
Fox grinned. "I got you."
Draven's sneaking suspicion turned out right. Instead of locating the grocery store, he joined his new roommate on an impromptu tour around campus.
"Alright," explained Fox, stepping out onto the sidewalk with Draven in reluctant tow, "we're currently on Belanger Block. That's the residences and whatever. I'm not sure how, uh, loaded generals are, but if your uncle stuck you in Graham, he... well, he doesn't hate you, I suppose."
Draven arched his brow. "Middle of the road?"
"Dead centre," confirmed Fox. "You should see some of the tubs they have at Lefebvre or Herbert. Those things have jets where no jet should go."
"Noted." Draven pointed to a random building. "Is that us?"
Fox laughed. "What, you got one of those speedy, burnout Scions? Relax, man!" Fox made a wide, sweeping gesture. "Enjoy the view! Take it in."
Draven worriedly studied Fox for a long moment. "Do I have one of those speedy, burnout whats?"
"Look around, Dray!" Fox made a face. "Nah, that's rank. Draven, Dray... nothing there." They crossed an intersection as he announced, "Carv! That's it. You're Carv. Much better. Anyways, we're headed to your spot, so oil your knickers a pinch and get yourself nice and untwisted, yeah?"
What does that even mean?
"Sure thing." Draven checked his Glass, trying to deduce just how much time this kid was wasting them.
"Ah!" Fox pointed west. "Bennett Block. Lecture halls and such. We'll be in Poulin and Landry, but I wouldn't stress over names. MM literally has everything." His eyes twinkled. "Have you checked the calendar? You can actually mod the timing and intensity of alarms based on lateness and or distance from class."
"Nah, really?" Draven replied dryly.
Fox grinned and gestured south. "That's the crunch quarter, aka Cloutier. Think library, a park and Zones."
Draven's attention snapped southward. "Really?"
"About time," snorted Fox, nodding. "The Arena, too. Can't imagine ever fighting there, though." He shuddered. "It's got sixty-five thousand seats. Hell no."
"That's it?" asked Draven with a frown. "Sci standard is close to eighty, so Hol average drops to, what… seventy-five? Meh, guess that's top level. Not bad."
Fox looked confused. "Sci? Oh, wait, are you talking about the Scion League?"
Aw, hell. "Yeah. You know it?"
"Not well. Greening threw me for a huge loop." Fox's clueless expression only further dismayed Draven. "I mean, I've been trying to learn the classes and, uh, forces, I think? There's just no end to this stuff."
"Totally, yeah." I need to move rooms. "Is the store in Cloutier?"
Fox snorted. "Brakes, Carver, brakes. What'd I say about oil?" He led them further east. "Welcome to Brown Block. Commercial. Stores, shops, restaurants, all for the taking. And, get this big guy, groceries."
"Wonderful." Draven tipped an invisible hat. "Appreciate it."
He'd considered vetoing the tour and just mapping the location on his Glass, but figured Shanelle would've demanded the 'polite' choice.
Besides, scorned neighbours weren't exactly conducive to restful nights.
Draven identified the grocer, Around the Crock, and made a few passes to case their goods. Once his order was placed, the pair found his next target, Say Cheese, the local fast-food fix. They splurged, then wolfed down burgers while looping back around to explore lecture halls. Fox, of course, finished his food and immediately went back to blabbing.
"So, I'm a Lancer," he told Draven, who offered a silent prayer of sympathy. "What's all this about focals and forms? It's all… rezz. I don't know how people do this." Fox adopted a pathetic expression. "I'm here 'cause of my Dad, like you said, and he's really proud. I mean, us? Scions? He's been more excited about me over the past few months than, well, ever, but I don't know, Dray. I'm worried. There's so much I feel like I'm supposed to know. I just… I don't know, man. I don't wanna let him down, you know?"
"Sure," Draven assured as they passed the second-year Fournier Hall. He spoke absently while studying its asymmetrical blockwork. "You're mixing terms, though. F-fours plus one. Repeat that 'til you start saying it in your sleep."
Fox blinked. "Huh?"
How big are the amphitheatres? "It's the Att jingle." He noticed Fox's expression. "Attributes, sorry. On your Screen, there's a box that pops up showing your designation and Condition and stuff. The list of letter-number combinations are your Atts. [Force] represents strength and durability. [Fleet] aggregates speed, flexibility and agility. [Focus] covers your senses, dexterity and precision. [Fort] is your physical and mental endurance, not to be confused with the ability to resist damage. That's [Force]. [Fort] determines how long you can keep going after taking a hit. In other words, [Force] obstructs, [Fort] preserves."
Draven tried peering through windows, but couldn't see past the tint.
"[Form] is your connection to your Xeno; the plus one. How efficiently you use Charge, the fuel for triggering Abbs— uh, Abilities, and how efficient, contextually potent and precise those Abilities are." He eyed Fox. "Your focals are just whichever Attributes are higher than the others. For Lancers, [Focus] doubles its counterparts. F0?"
Fox frowned. "What? No, my [Focus] is—"
"Not my business," Draven hurriedly interjected. "Word of advice, keep those to yourself. Att data, though it might not look it, can decide a Duel, especially in the hands of an opponent." He sighed. "I meant your Xeno rank. The big, bold number up top."
"Isn't… isn't that just my average?" pointed out Fox.
Skynning hell. "Yes, but specifics vary from Scion to Scion. Are you F0?"
"Yeah."
"The average F0 focal is F6. Key word: average. You could be swinging sixteen point seven while I languish at one. Now imagine you told everyone, and since everyone includes me, you lose your advantage as I steer clear of compromising decisions."
"Oh," murmured Fox. "I didn't… huh."
"Don't sweat it. So, yeah, keep to vague averages. Xeno rank? Fine. Atts? Zip."
Fox nodded. "You know a lot about this stuff, huh?"
"A bit."
"You're a Duellist, aren't you?"
Draven gave Fox a look. "Do you know what that word means?"
"No, but Olo's one, and so are all the Zone zels."
Draven snorted. "Zone zels, huh? I'm a Deviant."
"Oh." Fox assumed a blank look. "Is that good?"
I really need a new room. "It's just different. I have really high [Form], which, in addition to the Ability thing, impresses stronger developmental intent."
"What? That's way better than mine!"
"Not necessarily. If I mess up, it's fully on me. Your Xeno, with its stronger instinctual guidelines, will follow an archetype and avoid build inefficacy. I, on the other hand, could end up crippled by a single mistake."
"Damn. Never mind."
Fox had them stop at Poulin Hall, which he claimed also hosted Year-One lectures. Draven considered it. "Nice building."
"Meh," scoffed Fox. "Seen better. Ever been in a Zone?"
"Yeah. Fought in one, too."
"Fyzz off!" exclaimed Fox. "Seriously? Like, in front of people?"
"No, just for training." Draven glanced down the street, tracking a gaggle of sophomores tripping over each other while hooting with laughter. "Nothing to write home about, honestly. Just… buzzy, I guess. Like swimming in static."
"Oh, yeah! To freeze people."
Draven, impressively, actually stifled his sigh. "Yes."
"Damn. So what's your rank?" asked Fox, then quickly added, "The good one. Not, uh, you know. The focuses?"
Draven briefly mulled over options before deciding against early cloak and daggers. Fox, neurotic tendencies notwithstanding, was still his roommate. "Focals. I'm F5."
"No fyzzing way!"
Draven, already walking south, ignored the baffled look on his fellow cadet's face.
"Say swears," exclaimed Fox, catching up.
Draven squinted into the distance. "Which way to the Zones, again?"
"Dude, F5? How? When did you get Installed?"
"End of June."
"What? I got mine mid-June!"
Draven shrugged. "I had a good trainer."
"No kidding. The hell was he feeding you?"
"Training, Fox." Draven nodded pointedly towards Cloutier Square. "Same as everyone else. You want ranks? Grind." Draven crossed his arms. " Zones?"
Fox paused, then explained, "They're in the Fields. They've got a ton, man. It's, like, ten acres of pure combat."
Draven nodded. "How many?"
Fox referred to his Glass. "Uh, five buildings per year, each with... damn. Thirty Zones per."
"A hundred and fifty Zones," Draven muttered, tapping his chin, "and how many slots? Three, maybe? So twenty-one."
Fox again blinked cluelessly. "Slow down. Twenty-one?"
"Three time slots a day, probably, so twenty-one per week. Leaves you with three thousand slots per week. Damn. That's not gonna go over well."
"Not necessarily," countered Fox. "Group bookings exist."
True, if I had worthwhile competition, thought Draven. Shan really spoiled me. Audibly, he responded, "You got one?"
"Couple guys from our year, nothing crazy. I'll introduce you."
"I am almost certain that sentence has been successfully used to pitch a cult," joked Draven.
Fox fell in behind him to let a group of girls drift past. "Nice," he muttered. Then to Draven, "Cults can be cool. Apparently, one on Tairan had barbecues every week. Rituals aside, I honestly fancy joining one."
"Knock yourself out," Draven encouraged, "or someone will beat you to it."
"Ha!"
They reached the Year-One section of the Fields. Its central building somehow managed a dysfunctional marriage between a blocky, brutalist base and thin, curtain-wall pannelling while actually respecting Masters' burning gold motif.
Entering, however, demonstrated a starkly contrasting interior composed entirely of stylish, parametric siding bent and twisted into fantastical, astonishing shapes.
The pair, after drinking it all in, slowed respectfully before a receptionist's desk.
"Welcome to Field Delta," she greeted. "Year-One?"
Draven nodded, presenting his ID. Seemed like the safe move. "Just seeing the sights. Is this off limits?"
"Not at all. In fact, you can book a session through MM."
Draven was taken aback. "Now?"
"Sure. We're open year-round."
Draven immediately fired up his Glass. Fox, eyes darting uncertainly between him and the curious woman, asked, "You serious?"
Draven shrugged. "Why not? You don't have to come."
His belief in Fox's ability to take a hint proved presumptuous. "Meh. Never seen a live Duel. Or been in one, really. I wanna see the difference your five makes."
It was the receptionist's turn to pause disbelievingly. "F5?"
"I know, right?" Fox shook his head. "Finally! An appropriate reaction."
Draven shook his head. "Believe me, I'm just the tip of the iceberg. I'll bet Douglas Temple is already in throwing distance of E-rank."
"That's a high standard." The receptionist considered him with renewed interest. "Carver, was it?"
"Dray," he clarified, fussing over his Glass. It chimed, causing him to squint and ask, "Says here we have Delta 3?
The receptionist consulted her Board. "Correct. To mitigate overruns, all sessions are arranged in fixed time blocks. Yours ends in… forty-three minutes. Have fun!"
The pair offered thanks before following wall-mounted indicators to their reserved space. They glided past flat red walls and bright academy memorabilia before reaching a set of thick, transparent sliding doors stamped with a big, blocky number three.
The Zone itself was structurally identical to its CC counterparts on Kellao, just slicker and shinier. The quadrant lines looked sharper than Draven was used to, the walls bore fewer gashes and dents, and the lighting felt softer.
"Whoa," muttered Felix, completing a slow circuit of the floor. "This is class."
Draven's eyebrow arched. "It's a box with lines." He zeroed in on a wall-embedded console and briefly fiddled with its UI to find the combat drone interface. It took him another few seconds, but eventually, a tall, grey droid marched out of a pressurized opening in the wall. It, bearing a short sword and thick, convex shield, stepped into the Zone and joined Fox in the centre circle.
"You can do that?" exclaimed the Lancer.
Draven ignored him. He spent a few more seconds rereading order commands, then joined the duo in the middle.
"Zone, active." A comely female voice confirmed his order as acknowledged.
Fox whirled, backpedalling quickly. "Now? Hold on, don't you have to… stretch?"
"I'm good," replied Draven as Magal encased him in verdrite, then reignited his muscle memory with a few scythe spins while analyzing his opponent.
Fox stared. "Damn."
"Things shouldn't leave the circle, but in case we do," Draven warned, pointing to a small, elevated divot in the back wall, "just chill over there. Or, you know. You can leave."
"Cool, yeah." Fox retreated exactly seven steps, then whipped out his Glass.
"No." Draven's refusal was immediate.
Fox made a face. "You're F5. I could literally break a hundred K in, like, twenty minutes."
Draven rolled his eyes. Arguing with Fox felt like mopping a flood. "F4 Duellist drone, active." Light flashed in the droid's eyes, then the nice woman, this time from a speaker in the drone, echoed his order.
He inhaled slowly, then commanded, "Engage."
The droid blitzed forward, shield thrust and sword high. Draven's [Fleet], more than a match, slipped into a disguised counter, successfully slashing Tooth across the drone's left thigh.
The robot spun, lashing its shield out for a retaliatory clip. Draven twisted clear, then closed to punish. His adversary answered with retreat, but left limbs open in an effort to safeguard its central mass. Claw consequently bit through its shield-bearing wrist, deadening the limb and tool against its flank. The drone, flailing, targeted Draven's throat. It failed, as Tooth was faster.
Draven, uninterested in wrestling a Duellist, diverted the blade over his head, then dragged Claw across its torso. The drone staggered as Draven disengaged on its right. Its countering backhand was then immediately exploited, as the cadet punched Claw's mace into the inside of its wrist, knocking the weapon airborne.
As the sword spun off somewhere in the distance, Draven folded the droid with a hack to the leg, then hammered Claw's point at its forehead.
A familiar chime rang out of hidden speakers as Draven's body was frozen. A gravity well then dragged him to the other end of the centre circle.
"Killshot knockout confirmed. Victor, Magal," proclaimed the Zone lady.
The Zero hold dropped, and Draven inspected the defeated Duellist curiously.
"Huh."
"WHOA!" shrieked Fox. "Do that again!"
Draven had forgotten about his roommate. Remembering was immediately upsetting. "That drone… was F4? Huh."
"Yeah, 'cause you shredded it! That thing you did to its shield was awesome!"
Draven scowled. Why was it so easy? Its decision-making was so... basic. And predictable.
"Was it?" He scratched his chin. "I mean, I had the rank edge, but this... hmm. Weird."
"You gotta teach me," yammered Fox. "Seriously. I've never seen a Xeno like that!"
Draven warily watched Fox skip to the opposite end of the circle as the Zone magnetically hovered the drone back into its compartment for repair.
"You haven't seen many Xenos at all," Draven pointed out, cringing as Fox yelled 'Summon!' and a bare bones lance and extremely patchwork armour slowly twisted to shape.
Fox brandished his weapon. "Ready? Let's go!"
Draven stared. "You... ah. Do you know how to use that?"
"Nope!"
Claw almost poked Draven's eye out trying to massage his forehead. Magal preemptively intervened with a helpful pulse.
"Well, generally the idea is to stab people." Draven absorbed his scythes and walked over. "You should probably wait for the Instructors to—"
"Nah, let's do it now! Why not get a head start? You said I have to be ready to improve, right? Put 'em up, Carv!"
Draven exhaled very, very slowly. "It's not that simple. Every class needs to fight using specific styles, and—"
"I only need the basics, man." Fox hesitated. "Look, I get you've got your special training and military background, but I don't, alright? If showing you around campus and actually trying to be nice is such a skynning drag, you can just tell—"
"Felix, shut up." Draven, after failing to drill his knuckles through his temples and into his brain, sighed defeatedly. "Okay."
Fox perked up. "Really?"
Draven reSummoned his weapons. "Zone, active."
Zone Lady, "Zone, active."
Draven queued Magal's Screen.
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Condition — 100%
Charge (F-rank) — [100%] — +0.16/s
*****
Why do I do these things to myself? "Alright, try and hit me."
An eager glint flashed in Fox's eye, and he charged. Draven, conversely, could not believe what he was seeing.
What the hell is he doing with his feet?
Fox's charge was... unorthodox, to say the least. He roared and thundered forward in an all-out, blind sprint liable to get him impaled on his own weapon long before reaching an opponent, let alone actually attacking.
Draven collapsed his scythes to hatchet form. At this rate, he'll Zero himself.
He proceeded to wait for the Lancer to commit, then walked around the thrust. Their [Fleet] disparity then slowed Draven's perception of Fox's wheeling reposition, turning a whip-quick spin into a ponderous and ungainly revolution.
Fox, franticly clutching his weapon, heaved his lance like an axe. Draven, fighting the urge to retch, crouched a bit to let the spear shaft careen over his head.
Fox stumbled, and Draven poked Tooth into his side.
"That's minus ten. You've got ninety Condition left."
Fox reacted with shock, then steeled himself with another silly expression. Draven tapped the Lancer's following thrust wide, then tilted clear of his follow-up baseball swing.
Hmm, thought Draven as Fox struggled to kill the momentum of his wild strike, he can't get my head, so he's switched to my hips. Not very accurately, though. Not... He sighed. Not terrible, I suppose.
Despite a spirited showing, the skill gap was insurmountable. Draven knocked Fox's subsequent volley into the floor, then conked Claw's shaft into the Lancer's shoulder.
"Twenty. Seventy percent."
Fox glowered. "Ow! You're supposed to be teaching me!"
"I am." Draven jabbed him in the torso. "Sixty."
"Fyzz off!" snarled Fox, throwing a shove. Draven, however, had his distances on lock and seamlessly juked clear. Fox lost another ten to Draven's counter, then whiffed three more times before dropping to fifty. Eighteen seconds later, he hit zero, and Draven declared TKO.
Panting, Fox glared at his sparring partner. "You're a terrible trainer!"
"Appreciate that, thanks," replied Draven, juggling Claw. "Why'd you lose?"
"You're way faster! You've got the... uh, feet!"
"[Fleet]," corrected Draven. "And no. Kind of. You used the wrong strategy. Remember what I said about [Focus]? It's about precision and awareness. Lancers are a pain to fight at range because they can read all the tiny shifts and twists in posture, telegraph your move, then nail you with a simple, pinpoint shot. Back there, you were fighting with wild, unspecific barrages that were not hard for me, a faster opponent, to evade." Draven shrugged. "Play to your strengths. Crazy, sweeping attacks are not one of them."
"Oh." Fox stared pensively into the paint.
Draven watched Claw twist through the air. "Also, you have no defence."
"You think I don't know that? This stupid stick is useless!"
"That's not what I mean. A lot of Scions, like me, don't have defensive equipment, but you still have to protect yourself. 'Defence' isn't solely about 'blocking', but nullifying attacks. I defend by not getting hit. I'd suggest you find something similar, like maintaining range to keep opponents at the mercy of your longer weapon."
Fox again went quiet as he processed Draven's advice.
"Can we do this again next week?" he asked.
Draven blinked. "Uh, sure. Why next week?"
"I wanna be consistent, like you said. Grind my way up."
Draven stared. And that's... once a week? Rezzes. "Sure." Skepticism or not, he wasn't about to turn down six days of peace and quiet. "I'll book a date or something."
"Great!"
Fox, still a little unsteady on his feet, waited for Draven to deactivate the Zone, then joined him at the doors. Once they reached the exit, however, Draven paused to address the receptionist.
"Excuse me?"
She glanced up from her Board. "Oh! You two are out early. How was it?"
"Great, thanks." Draven glanced at Fox. "For me, at least."
She smirked. "What's up?"
"How many sessions can I book per week?"
"As many as you like," she replied. "But only up to ten days in advance. Unmotivated absences are punished by suspension, so don't be silly."
Draven stared. "Seriously?"
"Of course," she assured, smiling softly. "This is Masters, champ. We're here to win."
"Rezzes," he muttered. "Okay, thanks."
She smiled. "Anytime. See you around!"
Draven arched his brow. "Count on it."