TAC 21.06.3595 — H-1430 | [CS Overgate City, Kellao]

  Naturally, the last day of school was chaotic.

  Draven, as usual, ignored everything and instead studied his Board in solitude. While eighth grade hadn't done much to improve his social circle, it had given him excellent perspective on what really mattered. Which, as he scrolled through Feeds, was far more interesting than whatever nonsense his classmates were chittering about.

  The only downside was his classroom's strict ban on earbuds, along with accessing anything outside written articles.

  "Alright, settle down," chirped their homeroom teacher, Mrs. Perkins. "That's enough. Rody, sit down. I'm serious."

  Draven, engrossed, missed the telling shift of Perkins checking her desk, then the ensuing sigh. He frowned as his screen froze, followed by a flashing 'ACCESS REVOKED' message. Confused, he looked up and found himself the subject of a castigating scowl.

  "I'm sure the latest updates from—" Perkins checked her Board, "—The Scribe can wait. Draven, this isn't healthy. It's over. Olo won."

  There were many, many things wrong with what Perkins had just said, but Draven elected to just explain, "Yeah, so offseason. Exhibitions, low-tier knockouts, and most importantly, acquisitions. In fact, Olo's in his contract year, so they're pressing for extension."

  Perkins did not look impressed. "And what does this have to do with you?"

  Draven shrugged. "Not much, but his team are apparently shopping around for coaching talent. Olo's crazy enough as is, but if they get, say, Paulson and his staff, the League is good as well done. There are genuinely solid odds of him ending the regular season undefeated, and with a plus forty k-rate, which essentially makes him the closest thing we will ever see to God. Capital G."

  Perkins sighed. "Draven, while I'm sure that's all very exciting, it's class time. You need to focus."

  He looked down at his barred Board, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Right. My bad."

  She examined him resignedly before facing the other students. "Oh, why not? The Testing is in half an hour, anyway. How about a quick refresher?"

  The boys cheered. Draven, curious, waited for her to elaborate. Scions were one of the few topics he was one hundred percent certain he knew more about than his teacher, but she'd probably received some level of mandatory education.

  Very mandatory, based on her expression.

  "In 3157," she began, "a Terran relief frigate received a distress signal from a downed alien craft, which they detoured to assist. Said aliens, notable for being entirely composed of organic metal, introduced themselves as Xenoli. They were being pursued by a warring species called Yorga—"

  Everyone, save Draven, booed. Perkins' expression darkened as she pointed emphatically at a 'Racism = Rezzhead' poster pinned to the wall over her desk. "You all know better than that."

  They quieted down, though Draven still caught a few jeering hoots.

  "Now, to fight them off, they introduced us to a technology called Xeno, which, after careful integration with a genetically compatible Terran body, massively increased physical ability, armed them with powerful, nigh-indestructible weapons, and gradually coated their body in equally resilient armour."

  Draven absorbed her speech in silence. Perkins, with a bit of a wry grin, teased, "Oh, now you all want to be quiet?" She beat the opening mouths to interject, "That was not an invitation!"

  Bashful laughs. Most of the girls had checked out to scroll through their Glasses, but Perkins seemed content to leave them be, so long as they stayed quiet. Draven swallowed the injustice with a high head.

  So they can screw around on Flip, but when I want to read the news, now I'm breaking rules?

  "We named the resulting warriors Scions, and for years, they have worked alongside our military to ensure the Terran Republic remains safe and protected from dangers near and beyond. Now, even over four hundred years later, we continue to collaborate with our Xenoli allies, as do the Scions." Perkins looked meaningfully at Draven. "A little too well, in my opinion."

  "Now," she addressed the class, "can someone tell me the different classes?"

  Such questions were laughably trivial and beneath Draven, so instead, he watched the window, where Overgate City's skyscraping outline stretched out behind it. Hundreds of towers, intercity bridges and rails crowded the horizon, constantly serving the ninety-seven million residents of the gigantic sector.

  His gaze drifted to examine the room. Chairs sat angled out of desks as his classmates chatted idly about anything but Perkins' lesson. The wide, wall-mounted Viewer perched over their teacher's desk showcasing graphs of Scion Screen components. The handful of digital paintings hanging between windows keyed to display repeating, cheesy slideshows of notable field trips and group projects. Perkins may not have been the most creative person on the planet, but she could make hell feel like home.

  Which, of course, came with the irritating habit of constantly trying to include Draven in conversations he clearly had no interest in being included in.

  His thoughts wandered as he tried distracting himself from the glaring elephant in the room.

  The Testing.

  After reaching fifteen years of age and completing middle school, teenagers were offered free 'Tests'; comprehensive bioscans designed to evaluate physiological aptitude for Xeno compatibility. And with his heritage, Draven's chances of greening were hundreds of times better than ninety-nine percent of the Terran race.

  Perkins interrupted his ponderings. "Mr. Carver."

  He snapped upright. "Yup?"

  "You have severe concentration issues," she chided, then gestured to another student. "Go ahead."

  Jarek, one of the stupider boys, confidently declared, "Sentinels are way stronger than Bulwarks. Marinord literally flattened Isca last month, so I dunno why Mrs. Perkins is so determined to be wrong."

  Draven made a so-so motion. "It depends."

  "It literally doesn't. Watch a Game, bro."

  "Believe me when I say I have. If they're level rank-wise, the Bulwark is going to be way stronger, at least physically. Sentinels, as hybrids, split their focals, whereas Bulwarks are pure [Force]. It wouldn't compete in a straight grapple."

  "You wanna be wrong too?" laughed Jarek. "Go for it. Thought you knew this stuff."

  Draven rolled his eyes and turned back to the window. "Whatever."

  Perkins then allowed the conversation to drift in and out of Scion-related matters, but Draven's mind was elsewhere. He'd spent years preparing with his uncle, aunt, and cousins for this day and outright refused to entertain failure, especially given his parentage.

  You're good. Relax. You're perfectly fine.

  The end-of-day bell shrilled. Eager students jumped to their feet, though many of the girls did so hesitantly. Clearly, the idea of being turned into superhuman killing machines gave some pause.

  Draven, on the other hand, remained composed. Truthfully, his nerves were probably more frayed than anyone on the planet. He put his Board in shutdown sequence while repeating affirmations.

  You'll get it. You'll green. You'll get it.

  They filed out in barely controlled chaos. Most of the boys couldn't stand still, and most of the girls looked ready to leave. Draven mutely trailed them through halls and into the gymnasium, where sure enough, chairs lay spread before a temporary podium.

  Atop it sat a lectern, Principal Caspian, and an Assessor. Digital banners showcasing military iconography dramatically framed the pair, immediately drawing eyes.

  "Whoa," Jarek whispered to one of his friends. "Sentinel. Hundred percent. Check his shoulders."

  Said Assessor stood clad in a military jacket, slacks and dark shoes. DeSummoned, Scions were indistinguishable from average Terrans, meaning Jarek had identified the man through the stylized X on his lapel.

  The Scion Corps insignia.

  The Assessor was not the first Scion Draven had met, and certainly would not be the last. So instead of joining his classmates in gawking, he quietly sat down to wait. They eventually settled around him, as did the rest of the school, including the exclusively spectatory seventh graders.

  Draven didn't care. His focus was intently on the reader.

  Do not screw me over.

  Eventually, the banners shifted to display Caspian as he addressed them through a hidden microphone. He introduced the Assessor as Sergeant Gavin Barker, Xeno designation Vhakores. A gasp escaped the audience, tugging a wry grin across the soldier's lips.

  Draven continued to stare.

  Caspian wrapped, allowing Barker to step forward and formally introduce himself. After outlining protocol, the sergeant dipped into comedy.

  "This is expensive equipment," he warned playfully. "Which makes all funny ideas off limits." Electricity flashed through his eyes. "Play nice."

  More idiotic coos, as if they hadn't seen that exact trick three hundred times on-Net.

  The focus shifted to process. Some, despite not wanting to, were required to test, though that was all. Further pursuits in Scionry were perfectly optional.

  The first batch of students moved forward. Draven, with a 'C' surname, went twenty-fourth. His fellows, somewhat familiar with his background, quieted as he stepped up and faced Barker.

  The Assessor glanced down at his Glass and cocked his head curiously. "Carver. Hmm." He glanced up. "Oh. General Knight's kid?"

  "Yes."

  "No kidding?" Barker shook his head wryly. "Small system. I'm guessing you know how this works?"

  "Perfectly." He'd known since he was seven.

  Barker nodded, and waved him forward. "Go ahead, then."

  Draven stepped onto the disc as Barker punched controls into his Glass, sparking the connected console as the sergeant's orders came through.

  Draven's breath caught. Please. Please, please. Come on.

  There was a strange, breezy sensation that rolled through his body. Electricity seemed to crackle in his brain, then it all drained down into the circle at his feet.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  His eyes snapped left, where the console was whirring, still yellow.

  Come on. Come on. Come on.

  It flashed. For a terrifying second, he thought it'd go red.

  Instead, it pinged bright, beautiful green.

  He exhaled. Thank goodness.

  The gym erupted.

  Scions, of the hundred billion-plus natives of the Terran Republic, barely cleared three million. Against the tens of millions composing the greater Fleet, it was tiny. It also meant that the average person's chance of greening was less than a ten-thousandth of a percent.

  Unless, of course, you enjoyed the privilege of immediate Scion ancestry. Then your chances skyrocketed to fifty.

  Or, in Draven's case, seventy-five.

  First step done.

  The clamour was deafening. Caspian, though clearly excited himself, struggled to quell the roaring frenzy of physically seeing a green. Barker, conversely, broke down his options as required. Draven, if he sought to further explore options and become a fully fledged Scion, would need to rail to Terra for a psychological, then undergo the Installation surgery.

  The rest of the day was a blur, and not of the Xeno variety.

  Draven packed up the last of his things, bade a few familiar faces goodbye, then hurried for the bus. Perkins intercepted him first and warned that she expected him to work hard and become an S-rank powerhouse. He didn't remember his reply.

  Home was as expected. Quiet and isolated. As the autopilot kicked in and his ride receded into the distance, Draven tucked his earphones away and let out a tired sigh.

  He palmed the passpad to split the electrified gate, then walked down the driveway, stepped through the front door, and shimmied out of his shoes.

  "Lights, 40."

  Warm lamps hummed on and bathed the hall in soft, wafting light. Draven glanced around and called, "Uncle Damien?"

  No answer.

  He sighed and lumbered into the kitchen, where he dumped his empty food cases into the scrubber. Two seconds later, it popped open with sparkling dishes.

  Draven was in the process of slotting them into cupboards when a voice from behind offered, "You look like you need this."

  Draven nearly jumped out of his socks while whirling to face Shanelle's grin.

  "Rezzes," he hissed, scowling mightily, before glancing over her shoulder to notice Wardell leaning against the wall, studying him. "Why do you do that?"

  "You do the funnies." Shanelle nodded pointedly to the cup in her outstretched hand.

  Draven reluctantly accepted it and took a sip. She'd made an effort to flavour it with powder, so he forgave her.

  "Aren't you two supposed to be..."

  "At war?" supplied Wardell, stepping into the kitchen.

  Draven shrugged. "Something like that."

  Shanelle smiled wider. "Dray, be serious. We'd never miss your Testing."

  His features flattened. "In case things don't work out, right?"

  "Not necessarily," Wardell replied, slowly adopting a worried countenance. "You're through middle school. That's something to be proud of."

  "Yeah." Draven drained his drink and dropped the glass in the scrubber. "Thanks."

  Shanelle lost her smile. "Oh, no. Draven, I'm so sorry."

  "It's done now," he replied, still despondently watching the sink. His hand hovered over the wash button as he muttered, "Don't worry about it."

  "Nah." Wardell was suddenly at his side, looping an arm over his shoulder. "The console could've malfunctioned. Wouldn't be the first false flag. We can always try again, Dray. And even if it didn't, there's tons to do outside the SC. Hell, even in it."

  Draven finally cracked, and a mischievous grin stole across his lips.

  Realization slowly dawned on his cousin. Charge flashed through Wardell's eyes. "I'm gonna snap your neck."

  Shanelle turned on her brother. "Hey! What is... no." She scowled at Draven. "Seriously?"

  "Next time, don't jump me." He snorted, exhibiting copious amounts of confidence he absolutely had not felt on the platform. "Red? As if."

  Wardell punched him in the stomach. It wasn't anywhere near the Scion's full strength, as Draven's upper body did not explode to mist, but he still doubled over coughing.

  "Ward," scolded Shanelle, though even she was grinning at the look on her brother's face. "Don't do that."

  "You're a tool, Dray." Wardell shook his head disbelievingly. "And I, for whatever stupid reason, am still nice to you."

  Draven sorely rubbed his stomach, wheezing. "Hey, you started it. Prick Prime."

  "Prime means copy, idiot." Wardell crossed his arms, fighting a treacherous grin. "But for real. You're good?"

  "Well, I'm not sure when last you checked protocol," Draven replied, "but I do have to head to Terra for a psych—"

  "Yeah, yeah. You're not in yet, cork. Still gotta pass the head check." Shanelle shot Wardell another scathing look, to which he shrugged indifferently.

  "My mind is a temple. Pristine, flawless, and impregnable." Draven popped open one of their cupboards and produced chip bags to toss at his relatives.

  Wardell wrinkled his nose. "Filled with strippers and League stats, no doubt."

  Draven spun, horrified. "Do not leave out military policy. It's like... the second most important one!"

  They laughed, and for some time. Their shared relief was palpable. Once recovered, the three snacked in companionable silence until Wardell asked, "What do you think you'll get?"

  "Not thinking, so I won't expect and therefore be disappointed." Draven glanced up and shrugged. "My current physiology probably leans [Fleet]-[Focus], though, but I'm not holding anything."

  Shanelle beamed. "You wanna be like me and Mom?"

  "How are you a deaf [Focus] focal?" He arched a judgmental brow in her direction. "I just said I don't want to be anything. I will work with what I'm given."

  "Draven the little Phantom," she cooed. "I could see it. You're shifty. I'd train you."

  "No," Wardell interjected peremptorily, "you will do no such thing. You have no patience and would just use the opportunity to blitz-bully him."

  Shanelle crossed her arms. "And you wouldn't? He'd pass out on you."

  "I'd pass out on either of you," snorted Draven, making for the stairs. "I'll be in my room."

  "You most certainly will not," snapped Shanelle. "We didn't rail all the way home for you to hole up in your stupid cave."

  Draven blinked. "It's... upstairs. How is that a—"

  Wardell held up his Glass band and gestured pointedly. "I have fights."

  "So do Feeds," Draven replied skeptically.

  Wardell's smirk stretched. "Are they classified?"

  "Damn," grumbled Draven, already hurrying back to the kitchen.

  They watched several hours' worth of Duels before Draven's uncle arrived. Strangely, he was accompanied by a second set of footfalls.

  For a worrying moment, Draven thought his uncle had mistakenly brought a mistress home.

  Then his aunt's head poked around the corner, grinning.

  "Aunt Eliza!" he exclaimed, astonished. "What are you doing here?"

  "Wow. So nice to see you too, dear."

  Draven grimaced sheepishly as Knight stepped around his wife with a snort and made a beeline for his study. Shanelle fluidly vaulted the couch and pranced into her mother's arms, preening.

  "He did it!"

  Eliza studied Draven curiously. "So I hear. How does it feel?"

  "The exact same. Just a Testing."

  "Yes, but soon you'll get your Core and be like me!"

  He rolled his eyes. "There is almost a one hundred percent chance I will not."

  "None of that nonsense. I haven't come all this way to drown in negativity."

  "Ah, S-ranks," chuckled Wardell, hugging her in turn. "Fulfill any sufficiently absurd delusion and everything becomes possible."

  Eliza gave him a motherly squeeze. "Be quiet. Bumni, come greet your aunty."

  She then sucked her nephew into an embrace, wiggled him a little, then stepped back to study his face. "Is that a beard?"

  "No." Draven tried and failed to dislodge her. He would have had an easier time flipping the bus that took him home. "Ward, what was that about delusion?"

  "But you look so grown up," she muttered melancholically. "Adira would've ripped off those braids to beat me to death with, though."

  His throat got tight. He coughed the lump away. "Sure. I thought they had you deep in Baltan space?"

  "They did, and will. For now, it's Dray day! What would you like to eat?"

  "Under a hundred chips!" barked Knight from his office, briefly glancing around the corner to beam a warning look. "Not a note more."

  Draven saluted. "Affirmative."

  His cousins snorted as Knight examined his posture and decreed, "Not bad. Parallel feet, though."

  He disappeared around the corner. Draven rolled his eyes and asked, "Cravings, anyone?"

  Dinner, with the whole family present, was louder than usual. Wardell recounted his efforts on Correus, the Metaran capital. Command had dispatched his platoon to assist local peacekeepers in quelling unrest, something they'd taken well to. Apparently, his Marauder class granted patience in addition to incredible stamina, as most of his days were spent in armour, or Summoned, by the official term, overseeing prisoner transports and trying to keep rebels from overrunning law enforcement.

  "Officially," he explained, "we're doing the Mets a favour. We scratch their back, and sometime down the line, pro quo. How? Officially, nobody knows. We're just such good buddies."

  "Is that not classified?" warned Knight, who, as a general, took certain things with a bit more than a pinch of salt.

  Wardell glanced at his father. "Probably. So?"

  Knight sighed. "How are you two good at everything but being quiet?"

  "Self reflect," suggested Shanelle, scoffing. "We didn't exactly order genes."

  Eliza chewed as she said, "Continue, Ward."

  "Right. So, later down the line, we get a solid, yeah? Nah." He smirked conspiratorially. "HQ wants their new alloy for next gen engines, and they want them now." Wardell shrugged nonchalantly. "We're very specific on how we like our backs scratched."

  "Business of bolters indeed," muttered Shanelle, quoting one of Knight's favoured sayings.

  Eliza faced her daughter. "Speaking of, how is your mission going?"

  "That's classified."

  Eliza gave her a look, which Shanelle responded to with an impish grin. "Well, kind of." She sat back. "We know some things. The problem with that stupid planet is that they can hide anything anywhere. For all we know, they're using the geothermal radiation to screen our sensors and split everything out through a back door."

  "How's your network?"

  "Meh." Shanelle deflated. "We try. Usually fail. Most missions are night work. I'm sneaky and all, but the target's grip is tight. No one's got the brass to crack."

  "If only you had Ward's patience."

  Shanelle scowled at her father. "I don't want Ward's patience. It's boring."

  "Allow me to rest your case, Dad," laughed Wardell.

  "Draven," intoned Knight, eyeing him pointedly. "I notice a distinct lack of contribution."

  "Nothing to contribute," he offered dryly. "What about you, Aunty?"

  "Oh, just the usual." She groaned wearily. "When you get where I am, sweetheart, it's all posturing. What's the expression? 'Yesterday's strengths are tomorrow's undoings'. We're glorified nukes strategically 'deployed' to and fro to scare things off. You know how it is. I laboured to godhood, and as a reward, they made me a mascot. Currently, that's on Sandia. There's talk of atomic revolution, so they threw some of us at the planet to slow it while others root the naysayers out."

  "That sounds way better than Shan's thing," he teased.

  Shanelle made a pouting face. "I'm the only one who's nice to you. Why would you say that?"

  Knight swallowed his mouthful. "Class preferences, Draven?"

  "Not in the slightest. I will harbour zero expectations and therefore experience zero disappointments."

  "Then there are potential disappointments," argued Eliza.

  "Absolutely. If I create expectations." He shook his head emphatically. "I will not."

  "At all?" prodded his aunt.

  Draven paused, then admitted, "Hybrid."

  "Hey!" exclaimed Wardell. "What's with this anti-prime agenda? There's nothing wrong with one focal."

  "Of course not," giggled Eliza, then to Draven, "So I'll be seeing you at S, then."

  "That will not happen, and I will not put expectations on myself for that to happen because it's statistically impossible."

  Knight smirked. "Whatever you say."

  Everyone, including Draven, knew he was lying. The instant he obtained his Core, he'd grind himself up before either smashing through A-rank or dying. No one paid as much attention to Scion related news, statistics, courses and interviews without goals of meteoric ascension.

  "He said he wants a Phantom build," Shanelle supplied.

  Draven glared at her. "I said I currently appear to have a [Fleet]-[Focus] focal. That is not even close to the same universe as wanting to be a Phantom."

  "Hey!" Eliza looked hurt. "That's mean."

  Draven threw up exasperated hands. "Why do you all pretend to be made of glass? This table literally has the ability to conquer a small planet."

  "Don't involve me," huffed Knight. "I'm—"

  "Retired," the four finished in unison. "We know."

  Knight chuckled. "Exactly."

  "That was never in doubt." Wardell lounged back in his chair. "Though now that you mention it, what would you do?"

  Draven glanced up into his cousin's curious expression. "Nothing. I've got a room and Rhyther highlights."

  Wardell's brow cocked. Draven immediately scowled and protested, "Summoned! You can't see her rack in armour!" He massaged the bridge of his nose. "How does an entire planet not produce a single competent suicide bomber?"

  "I cannot even begin to explain how incriminating you knowing where I was going is." Wardell triumphantly faced his plate, argument won.

  "It's the only thing anyone ever brings up instead of what actually matters, which are outrageously high assist metrics despite her league-leading AI. Rezzes, you piss me off."

  "What about me?" queried Shanelle, intrigued.

  Draven looked up. "What am I, the strategist? You three have had more military experience this week than I've had my whole life."

  "Exactly. You haven't been irreparably jaded by the minutiae and homogeneity of the SC."

  Draven stared. "Who taught you those words? Stop. He's bad for you."

  "Again!" Shanelle whined into her food. "Mean to me again!"

  "You'd sneak around and kill stuff, I guess," he eventually conceded after growing tired of her tantrum. "Aunty can kill them up front."

  Eliza smiled. "That sounds lovely. Thank you, dear."

  He shot her a thumbs-up. "You could also help box for Uncle to flank."

  Knight's eyebrows knit. "Retired people don't flank."

  "You are not retired," snapped Eliza. "Or did you find your four stars in an art class?"

  "I'm a retired Scion."

  "You're an inactive Scion."

  Knight snorted, spearing a leafy root vegetable. "Tell that to Jerry."

  After dinner, Draven was on his way to buy a rail pass to Terra when Knight informed him that was unnecessary, as he'd already handled transportation for the entire family.

  Draven, gaping, asked, "When?"

  "In the car." Knight crossed his arms and leaned against a newel.

  Draven shook his head. "Barker was your boy."

  "Dray," chortled his uncle, eyes twinkling, "they're all my boys."

  Draven nodded reverently. "Of course. Especially Aunty."

  "Now you shut your mouth!" hissed Knight, glancing furtively up the staircase. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

  Draven burst out laughing, and eventually, his uncle joined. When he eventually turned to retire upstairs, Knight stopped him with a hand and quietly said, "Draven, I know, well, nothing's been easy, but I want you to seriously think about things tonight. I know you've wanted this, but Installation isn't a reversible decision. A Xeno is forever, and even that might not be too long. I taught you the stories for a reason. You could die, and early. You could be captured and tortured. There are a million different things that could happen because of what, at first, feels like an incredible gift. You have to be sure it's worth it."

  "I know," he replied stoically.

  Knight sighed wistfully. "No, you don't. Still, think, okay? You don't owe them anything, and they never would've wanted you to feel otherwise. If this isn't what you want for you, there's absolutely no shame in stepping away, m'kay?."

  Draven nodded.

  "Alright," chuckled Knight, clapping his shoulder, "hit the hay. If you're still game in the morning, we jet at oh seven. Rail at eight."

  "Affirmative." Draven shot Knight a nod of reassurance. "I know what I'm doing, Uncle Damien. I promise."

  Knight examined him. "We'll see."