Chapter 11
I reported for Basics bright and early—or as bright as Saturn ever was, really—waking up all by myself this time.
I couldn’t say if my roommate ever came back to the room last night.
I hadn’t seen him even long past curfew, but if he had, come back at all, he was already long gone, and I appreciated not getting thrown from bed and starting my day covered in fresh bruises.
“I’ll be dividing everyone into groups, headed by our highest ranking students to assure you remain on task and get up to speed more quickly.
Any issues can be reported directly to me, but otherwise I’ll be counting on our third years to manage their teams. This is a great opportunity to become a cohesive unit and hone leadership skills going forward.
” Major Blume paced the rows upon rows of us.
“Grouping will be balanced based upon evaluation results. I expect everyone to attempt to better their station over the next several months.”
He started calling names, starting with the third year student who would head each group, followed by the men who would be trained beneath them.
I wondered where Breaker ranked. Or my roommate for that matter.
I already knew where Sebastian Takeyama fell into the rankings, because everyone knew that, but the rest was a mystery.
Though the ranking system was ultimately competitive, there was no public list available.
It prevented targeting and sabotage, or something.
It all sounded ridiculous to me, but I wasn’t running a war camp, so what did I know?
Major Blume continued on, my name conspicuously absent from the next list or the next or the next.
He kept counting down and distributing the first, second, and lower ranking third years among them, and I didn’t know why I wasn’t up there yet.
I tensed every time I was passed over again and again.
I didn’t know if it was a good or a bad sign that almost all of the units had been filled, and I was still standing on the sidelines.
It felt a bit like elementary school, waiting to get picked for someone’s team, always afraid you were going to be last.
I’d never been picked last before, but ironically, Vann had.
When I was seven and he was eight, I was obsessed with sports, while he lived his whole life in the pages of books.
I’d been proud to be the strong one back then.
A lot changed once we both hit puberty, but if not for the shift to Mictlanian culture and mandated training sessions for boys, we might still be pretty close in athleticism.
I guess in a weird way, getting picked last now might be the most accurate way this could play out in this double life of mine.
The roll call and assignment continued, soldier after soldier, still not including me.
“Elio Marx, third year, Rank 2,” Major Blume continued, and I watched as the fiery-eyed man who shared my room stepped into formation.
He still wore all of his piercings, and he stood stiffly in place, his hands folded over each other in front of him, his stance firm and guarded, poised and professional despite himself.
He stood out in appearance, but he looked more intimidating and confident than anyone thus far by his general aura.
I caught his eye for only the briefest second, and the near undetectable micro shift in his expression was one of clear irritation.
At least I knew his name finally, even if he hadn’t been the one to give it to me.
He seemed like the type to hold that against me somehow.
I hadn’t realized he was ranked second in the entire school though.
I glanced over at Breaker, who was still among the remainder, though he was completely relaxed about it.
My mentor hadn’t ranked at all in these top hundred.
I was shocked that my roommate would be ranked so high, conversely.
Yeah, he looked strong, and he was probably really good at things, but why was I bunked with the second highest ranking student at Astaroth Academy?
It made more sense now that he was so taken aback by my placement in his room.
I shifted quietly on my feet, hoping I wouldn’t be assigned as a part of his legion, but also knowing that if I wasn’t, there would only be one legion left. I doubted I’d qualify to work under rank one.
The Major called names as usual, one at a time, and the men filtered in behind him.
Elio remained face forward. Despite wearing comfortable athletic clothes, he looked so much more official standing there in this context, opposed to the context of sitting around in grey sweatpants with novelty headphones and perfect abs and pierced nipples on display in my dorm room.
Though his messy red and black hair was still in its usual state, only partially covering the studs above his eyebrows, and he still stood out tremendously in his non-regulation flare.
It seemed that the rules relaxed the higher the rank.
Like they were okay with someone being a bit more individualistic and rogue once they’d proven themselves loyal and capable.
I couldn’t help but think that was about maintaining that “celebrity” vibe that Vann always complained about, more than anything.
Allowing the best pilots to look as unique and special as possible, letting them paint and modify their Shinkas to suit their personalities, all while setting a good example in their actions, made them iconic to the population.
Their uniqueness made them memorable and someone to aspire to and worship.
When you were a true elite, you could do whatever you wanted, so long as you continued to provide for the Territories.
That was what I needed to become. My sparring performance may have been lacking the other day, but I’d improve, and I’d improve quickly.
The forty-fifth name was called, and I exhaled, glad that I wasn’t in his unit.
Oddly, Elio Marx also appeared to relax, ever so slightly, like he was happy with his allotted men. We locked eyes again for one more fleeting moment before we both quickly redirected our gazes, and somehow I felt a bit targeted in that expression of relief.
I didn’t want him to hate me, but I doubted spending more time with him would help right now. Based on the visible proof of his fitness level, my inability to keep up with him would likely leave him even more annoyed with my existence.
Forty-five men now remained, awaiting assignment, including myself, and oddly still including Breaker. I’d assumed he was higher ranking but apparently he was also sitting in the picked last squad. Maybe this was a good thing.
“Sebastian Takeyama, third year, Rank 1,” Major Blume announced at last. Sebastian stood with his usual regal posture.
His gaze was distant, never faltering, and his stance was one of guarded impenetrability.
Though I knew he was the top ranking student, it still took me by surprise when I realized this was presumably where I’d be assigned.
“Breaker Delacorte, Third Year, Rank 101,” He called first, listing names as a technicality considering there was no other group left. Breaker took position behind Sebastian.
One-hundred-one, huh. So he’d just missed being a squad leader himself. Hopefully it was a good thing to have him in the same group I was going to be in. He seemed nice enough and like someone I might be able to lean on a little.
The list continued until I was the last one left.
Which was fine. Someone had to be last. It didn’t mean anything.
That’s what I told myself.
Major Blume paused for a moment, my name still not leaving his lips.
After an entirely too long wait, as he appeared to recount the entire list, Major Blume lifted his head from his device.
“Vann Callan, First Year, Rank 4208.” He said next, and I’d never been so relieved in my life. Sebastian remained stone faced, while Elio scrunched his nose as I walked past him to take my position behind Sebastian.
Breaker tossed me a welcoming grin, and I was too confused to react in a way that was socially normal, so I just stared at him for an extended second before returning my attention to the Major.
Each unit was given their orders and distributed amongst the different training facilities. Today, squad one-through-five would be warming up on a quarter mile track, while other squads were using equipment, weight rooms, or weapons.
Running wasn’t my worst sport by a long shot, but it also wasn’t my best sport by an even longer shot.
“Faster. Five seconds can be the difference between being disintegrated or surviving.” Major Blume, who was monitoring all of the groups on this first day, hollered at us as we ran lap after lap of a five mile run that never seemed to end.
They called it a warm up, but I was fairly certain I was going to die of a heart attack before I even got to the main event.
I wheezed my way to four miles, and I nearly got run over by the stampede of other cadets. I made an effort to hold my breath and appear less pathetic as Elio lapped me for the third time.
“If you can’t fight for shit, I’d at least expect you to know how to run away,” he made a point to tell me, shaking his head as he passed me by. It was clear we were never going to be friends.
I swear I wasn’t out of shape. I literally did strike training in my room with my training dummy every day, and I put down two miles on the treadmill at least three or four times a week.
I did push-ups FOR FUN, and I could pull off at least forty before my arms felt like gelatin.
I was flexible, and I occasionally even managed over a hundred floors on the stair stepper.
I’d performed well enough on the singular mile run in the evaluation, too.
I didn’t actually suck.
But apparently I couldn’t repeat that mile run performance five times in a row without a break in a weird planetary atmosphere.
Yeah, the atmosphere. That was what I was going to blame.