by Elle Park
He waves me over with a lazy swing of his fork, too busy shoving food down his throat to pay me much attention. "Sit, eat. I got us breakfast," he mumbles through his teeth, trying to keep whatever is in his mouth from flying every which way—though, whether it's because he cares for basic hygiene or because he's possessive over every last granule of his meal, is a whole other issue.
I'd bet on the latter.
"I can see that," I say, eyeing the impressive spread as I take the seat across from him.
While he powers through his meal, I end up picking apart a single blueberry muffin. Just as I expected, it really doesn't take long for him to lick the plates clean, after which he leans his back against the wall, brings his legs atop the bench, and pats the newly formed swell of his belly with a deep, satisfied sigh.
As if remembering something important, he abruptly opens his eyes and points his index finger toward the ceiling. Jumping to his feet, he heads straight to the back of the room, making a beeline for the blood dispenser. In less than a minute, he's already back at the table, but instead of reclaiming his still-warm seat, he parks himself right next to me.
"Sorry, Sweets, I had my hands full earlier. But look, I remembered," he says, holding out a glass of red. "Here. Drink up. You need to stay in peak condition if you want to make it through training." When I do as he says, the cold liquid makes me realize just how thirsty I am. "That's it," he grins, "grease those joints, lubricate those bones—"
Placing the empty cup on the table, I cut him off before he can say something that will make me want to vomit. Once I indicate that I'm finished, he, instead of walking up to her like a normal person, decides to have a brief conversation with Nancy that consists of each shouting for the other to speak up—I doubt they can get any louder—and both refusing to budge from their spots. Ignoring the annoyed glares with shameless ease, he walks us out of the cafeteria and into the room I wouldn't mind never stepping into again.
Lacey gives us a brief nod, but doesn't say anything until the rest of the trainees show up.
"I heard of last night's events," she begins, inspecting her nails with an air of nonchalance. "You know, I specifically remember ordering you all to behave. Am I mistaken?" No one dares to answer, though I doubt she was expecting one. Finally gracing us with her sharp gaze, she stays silent until someone loudly coughs with fear. She rolls her eyes. "I hate wasting time, and I hate repeating myself even more. So, from now on, for everyone's sake, no word that comes out of my mouth will go unheard or forgotten. You will keep your ears clean and wide open, because when I say something, there is a reason. When I say you are bombs waiting to explode, there is a reason. You do one session in the training pods, and you think you've got it all under control?" She scoffs. "If the mess you made in the cafeteria were to happen anywhere outside of The Academy, getting sent to bed would be the least of your worries—actually, hiding under the covers is exactly where you would be begging to be. You will consider yourselves lucky that the situation was contained, and I will consider the experience of you losing your minds as time served. But our world is not a forgiving one. Wet the bed, and you'll be thrown out with the sheets—and I cannot guarantee where you'll end up." Her voice is dark and soft, but the warning rings loud and clear. "Now, get inside a pod if you ever plan on ditching the diapers."
Everyone scatters with their tails tucked between their legs, and within seconds, I'm back in the bubble that keeps me both restrained and relaxed. It's nice to not have anything to ignore or tune out. A blanket of silence swaddles me comfortably and securely, and like a baby held against its mother's chest, the sound of my own heartbeat lulls me to a dream-like state.
I must have dozed off at some point, because I practically gasp at the robotic voice. I would have flinched, too, but the mold around my body keeps me locked in place.
As soon as I step out of the capsule, I notice how drastically the room has expanded—but that's not the only thing that has changed.
Although the sturdy mats and running tunnels are still in place, significant additions have been made to the training grounds, including a full-blown obstacle course made entirely of smooth, wooden beams and thick, braided rope. The intimidating structure is comprised of a wide variety of ladders, swings, bridges, nets and fences. I haven't even touched it yet, but I can already feel my body screaming in protest.
More audible complaints are heard when the rest of the group gathers, but the presence of Lacey and our trainers effectively shuts their mouths.
CHAPTER TEN
THE REST OF the week passes by on a strict schedule that, so far, we have yet to deviate from. It begins with the invisible alarm—our equivalent to a wild rooster with a stick up its ass—and moves on to the first of our three meals of the day, with our sessions in the gym and training pods held in-between. The only thing that ever changes is the contents of the gym and our drills—both of which are never the same two days in a row.
Today, we're back to doing the same routine from our first time here—or so I thought. I do run a few miles, followed by a program of basic stretches and exercises to warm up, but after doing my best to beat up the heavy punching bag, I realize the padded mitts that abraded my knuckles are nowhere to be seen. Instead, my trainer, whose name I only recently learned is Leon—not because he told us, but because Nolan somehow found out on his own—is standing in nothing but his simple black uniform.
Linking his bare hands together at the tail of his spine, he instructs me to attack him; kick, punch, slap, bite—I’m told to do whatever I want, however I want. He even provides an incentive by promising the rest of the day off if I manage to touch any part of his body. Sounds easy enough.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
Apparently, every being that Lacey mentioned—daemons, maevons, velmons and voraks—all possess some sort of orb but different capabilities. Unlike daemons, maevons do not have the power to manipulate the mind, but they do have incredible strength and speed. In this way, they are physically superior. However, they can be fatally wounded by the same things that harm regular humans, whether it be a polished bullet or a dinner fork.
Needless to say, I don't get the day off.
And the already long, exhausting days only become more demanding and more strenuous as we move on to hand-to-hand combat.
According to Lacey, if we do not know how to defend ourselves without the help of a weapon, then we are not qualified to use weapons at all. Naturally, the logic of her statement is questioned by some wise-guys—a select few who never tire of sharing unsolicited opinions—but she doesn't even bother replying because, as per usual, a single arch of her well-groomed brow is all it takes to gain their silent compliance.
In the beginning, our sessions are spent learning the basics of fighting, which includes executing proper form, as well as knowing which moves to use and when. And while going up against a maevon is, for obvious reasons, a daunting task, they at least employ a generous level of restraint—a term that, as I come to realize in the following weeks, does not apply to my fellow trainees.
There are no rules such as boys against boys, girls against girls. There is no lightweight, heavyweight. We do not have gloves, helmets or any protective gear. We are not afforded any advantages here that we wouldn't get out in the streets of the real world. Our bodies are our only weapon, our only shield.
It's all teeth bared and claws out in our bare-knuckled fights. Whether it's out of self-preservation or self-promotion, they don't hold back—and that's putting it mildly. Cracked ribs, fractured cheekbones, broken noses and fingers—we literally feel it to the bone.
Fortunately, our injuries heal practically on impact, so bruises clear before they can ripen, and lacerations close before too much blood is spilled. Unfortunately, this means that bed rest is not an option available to us. The closest thing I get to a break is when we're in the pods—which, after hours of entertaining myself with nothing but my own thoughts, is now sadly over for today.
One might wonder why we bother with all of this training when, in fact, we are virtually invincible.
Half the class is certainly curious.
To be fair, their questions aren't entirely unwarranted, as we could get jumped in an alley and shot in a robbery—consecutively, even—and we'd still walk away without the slightest limp. A psychopathic serial killer could puncture every last organ in our bodies, and the only real damage that would do is soil our clothes and maybe—probably—make some shrinks happy.
When Lacey shoots us her signature brow-raise, I assume that's our cue to shut up and move on—that's how it usually works, anyway. But after a few minutes of staring at us in contemplative silence, she seems to have reached an internal decision, nodding to herself as she looks at nothing in particular.
"Infants," she starts, the word leaving her mouth in a loud bark. "Ignorant, accident-prone, useless little infants—that's what you were. Now, as potty-trained toddlers who know better than to make a mess," she gives us the look, the warning evident in her hardened tone, "I'm going to assume you're not so incompetent as to choke on the first toy you can get your hands on."
"Oh, goody," Nolan chirps, rubbing his hands together in glee. "You know what this means?"
I shake my head, my sense of dread rising to match his level of excitement.
"Time for some real fun."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMMEDIATELY, THE PODS are sucked back into the hidden depths of the walls, leaving the gray surface vacant for mere seconds before they are broken through once again. This time, shelves appear from floor to ceiling, each row tall, airy and nothing short of an arsenal. Weapons of every kind are proudly on display, with guns and knives being the most normal of the bunch. Jaws are dropping and necks are twisting, everyone doing their best to absorb the unexpected sight before them.
"Sweet," Nolan coos, holding a palmful of what looks like marbles and inspecting each as if they're fine diamonds.
"Each of these weapons are made with toxins extracted from voraks—toxins that are capable of killing not just them, but us, too. Once a weapon is drawn from the display, a testing board will appear in its place. Shoot, stab, throw—think of this as a free trial. But you only get one registered weapon, so choose wisely. When returning a weapon, simply press it against the board. You have twenty minutes to make your choice." At our lack of response, she tilts her head with impatience, a hand coming to rest on her jutted hip. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go play," she orders, shooing us away with a lazy flick of her finger.
With the verbal reminder of a running clock, bodies abruptly jump into motion, their hasty movements fueled by the fear and uncertainty of what awaits at the end of the countdown. Muttered apologies and frustrated outbursts pop like bubbles in the air as people duck and fall, elbows blocking and torsos swerving, doing what they can to avoid getting nicked by a bullet or slashed by a sword.
"What will it be, dear madam?" Nolan asks in another one of his botched accents, standing in front of me with a set of ninja stars in his palms. "The D220? It can take a while to truly master, but it's quite fun when you get the hang of it." At my blank expression, he rubs his chin thoughtfully, eyes roaming the impressive lineup of arms. "Something bigger? How about a Z3X? No vorak stands a chance against one of these babies," he says, effortlessly hauling what resembles a mini canon over his shoulder.
Ignoring his endless list of recommendations, I direct my attention back to the shelves. I instantly dismiss the many blades, tubes, poles and questionable items, instead examining the row of handguns.
One catches my eye and I pick it up without much thought. All things considered, it's fairly inconspicuous. Sleek, black, relatively compact and comfortably light. It doesn't seem too different from the Glock that my uncle used to own.
Gripping it with surprising ease, I notice that, other than the trigger, it is practically one solid bulk. There is no safety, no removable or adjustable parts that one might find in a run-of-the-mill gun—which I assume makes this weapon as dangerous as it is convenient.
The white testing board looks almost exactly like the mysterious bedding found inside the training pods, and considering it’s only a few inches away from the muzzle, I doubt my aim will be an issue.
With my arms stretched out, my muscles are tense as I prepare to shoot. I expect my shoulders to pop and jerk and for a loud bang to deafen my ears, but the second I pull the trigger, I experience the absence of both. There is hardly any recoil, and the sound is a muted ping that instantly drowns in the noise of the room.
Shooting five more rounds, I watch as the ebony bullets hit the board. I assumed they would break through the surface, but it's clear to see that they're actually just embedded in the material. Then, in a matter of seconds, they crumble and bleed and dissolve into the board.
"This one," I say, interrupting Nolan's enthusiastic review of weapons I have zero interest in.
"Oh, an X370," he says blandly, eyeing it with obvious disappointment. "A little boring for me," he sniffs, "but I can see why you would go for it."
I don't take any offense from his comment.
"Time's up," Lacey announces, her voice booming over the excited buzz in the room. "With your weapon of choice, walk through any of the doors. A velmon will be waiting to get it registered and activated."
Having served its purpose, the armory is sucked back into the hidden depths of the walls, leaving a familiar trail of doors in its wake. Gliding open and shut, they swallow each kid with an ominous click. As I make my way to one of the rooms, I notice that, as usual, Nolan has taken it upon himself to escort me.
The room is about the size of a standard classroom, and the few pieces of equipment make it look almost identical to the security area of an airport—not that I would know from first-hand experience. There is a conveyor belt that leads to what would normally be an x-ray machine, and beside it is a sizable computer. The leather chair behind it is empty, though. Pacing in front of a full-body scanner that is not unlike the one from the big, white sorting room, is a round, flushed, familiar face.
"Finally, you're here," Milo says, breathing a sigh of relief. Scrambling over to the computer, he waves his hand. "We don't have much time. Your text was seriously last-minute, man." He tries to glare at Nolan, but we all know there's not much heat to it.
"I didn't know Lace was going to bring out the guns today—I don't think she knew, either. Besides, I had faith in you," Nolan insists, chuckling when his friend tries to fight off a smile. "How did you do it, anyway?"
"Found one of the new ones and told him that Mr. Wellington was looking for him."
"Who's Mr. Wellington?"
"He doesn't exist, but the kid doesn't know that," Milo says, grinning proudly. "Said it was urgent, too, and that Mr. Wellington is not a man that takes kindly to tardiness." The boys take a moment to laugh at the person who's apparently out on a wild goose chase, but it ends abruptly when Milo remembers why it is we're here in the first place. "Right, like I said, not much time."
Following his instructions, I set my gun on the conveyor belt and step into the body-scanner. The sight of him doing his thing hits me with a sense of deja vu, but I'm quickly brought back to the present when he motions me forward and out of the makeshift cubicle.
"Are you right or left-handed?" he asks, standing from his seat so that we're face to face.
"Right," I say, my reply coming out more like a question.
Nodding, he places the weapon in my dominant hand, but doesn't relinquish his own grip. Instead, he holds it there, applying a slight pressure as if he's trying to press it into my palm.
To my complete and utter shock, that's exactly what he does.
It's happening right before my eyes, yet I can hardly believe what I'm seeing is real.
The same gun that I remember as being solid and durable, is now being absorbed by my own flesh. My eyes narrow as I try to make sense of the bizarre spectacle, but all too soon, the sleek, black object fades from my v
iew entirely.
"What the hell was that?" I say to no one in particular, staring at my empty palm in both wonder and horror.
"That, my friend, was the magic of a velmon," Nolan says. "They're able to manipulate particles, energy, whatever you want to call it, but Milo here is too good of a tech to be assigned a standard velmon job. Isn't that right, buddy?"
Milo, like me, isn't paying much attention to what Nolan is saying. "Try making a fist and then release," he says to me, appearing more than a little distracted. "Imagine you're bringing the gun to the surface." It takes a couple of tries, but I eventually manage to to do just that. "Now hold it tight, and picture it going back in." Again, it disappears. "It takes some getting used to, but you'll get the hang of it," he assures me. "Okay, now we have to leave before the newbie finds out there's no Mr. Wellington—or worse, before he actually finds one."
It's when we step out onto the training grounds that I realize how much of a rush Milo was in. We're the first ones back, and even Lacey shoots us a curious look. Then everyone rushes in seemingly all at once.
Unsurprisingly, the room does not look the same as it did five minutes ago. Instead of punching bags, heavy tires, braided ropes and wooden beams, there are rows of evenly spaced, clear glass cubes. They are all identical, each the size of a regular janitor's closet.
"We will be moving on from group training," Lacey says, immediately gaining our attention. "You've learned the basics—it's time to personalize your sessions. From now on, all physical training will be held inside the cubes. Your trainers will customize them as they see fit, so that you may improve and develop your skills to the best of your ability."
The moment she finishes speaking, each trainer appears in front of a cube, waiting for us to join them. The recruits disperse, and I easily spot Leon standing in the middle row directly in front of me. The glass wall behind him slides down to create a doorway, and without a word, he leads us inside.
