Chapter 8
There are more than just Darklings defined as Halflings. One of the only Halfling breeds that seems to be respected, even revered, are the Brightlings. The dynamic opposite to Darklings, Brightlings are half-angelic, notably marked by their lineage with a pair of wings sprouting from their back, a complexion that sometimes literally glows, and luminous irises. Brightling wings do not allow for flight but do let them glide from heights, made possible by the race’s hollow bone structure, like that of a bird.
Day 1, Igniday
The alarm blared with a wailing horn call. At that moment, it was the most horrific sound imaginable. The handbook called it The Rising and mentioned something about its history, but I didn’t give a griffin’s ass what it meant. I just wanted it to stop.
I shot up from my fitful sleep in a panic, fast enough to slam my head against the bed’s overhang. My ears rang, my skull throbbed, and I’d probably just concussed myself. I rolled out of bed and straight onto the floor, the sheets and Sasha coming with me in a tangle. I struck the cold tile with a slapping thump. The noise that escaped my mouth sounded akin to some bastardized mashup of a zombie and a mating hippocampi.
I had half a mind to crawl back into bed and pull the sheets over my head to block out the light that had activated with the blaring hell-noise. It was then that I heard the shouting.
“Get your worthless asses out of bed, you sorry sacks of shit!” a furious male voice roared from down the hall. I did not like the sound of that. Then I heard a door open, a male scream of panic, followed by a loud thump. I liked that sound even less.
I untangled my naked self from the sheets in a frantic rush, throwing open the locker door and dressing in a blur of cursing, hopping, and stumbling. The uniform was almost solid black, made of pressed pants, combat boots, and a dark grey T-shirt under a double-breasted dress coat that buttoned down the left side. Every scrap of it was made from some strange material that felt tough yet elastic. On the shoulders of the shirts and jackets was a symbol that looked like a number eight made of straight lines, the top half open, ending in two prongs like a bident, all done in a deep purple.
I had just laced up my second boot, still shirtless, when my door slid open. The figure that stepped through made me go pale. It was no man; it was a beast that looked vaguely human. Clearly an Orc by his grey-green skin, thick body hair, and blunt tusks, he was so large he had to crouch and sidestep to fit through my doorway. His eyes were a flat slate grey under a brow so heavy you could have hung your jacket on it. He was dressed in a uniform similar to my own, only his was trimmed in copper, and his shoulders displayed what looked like four bidents merged into a compass rose. The uniform would have looked nice if it weren’t stretched so tight over his behemoth frame that the buttons and seams strained with every motion.
I’m pretty sure I let out a squeak when he loomed over me like a mountain of muscle and wordless threat. He uttered only two words, “Dress. Now.” It sounded like a thunderstorm and a rockslide had a baby. My previous panic escalated into sheer terror.
I threw on the undershirt and reached for the jacket, only to freeze when the mass of muscle growled. He raised a single massive paw and pointed to my belt line.
“Tuck,” was all he said.
I tucked in my shirt and slipped into the coat so fast I rumpled it. He emitted another growl, and I froze, not daring to breathe. He stepped further into the room, his steps strangely quiet. He lifted his hand toward me, and I stepped back in reflex. This drew another rumble from him that forced me to lock in place. He pressed a single finger against my left lapel, his touch gentle but heavy.
“Pin,” the monster rumbled.
It took me a moment to remember the enamel pin of a grimmalk. I scrambled to the workbench, but in my rush, I only managed to slap it to the floor. As the pin bounced across the tile, I threw myself in hot pursuit, scampering like a gecko to snatch it up at his feet. He reached down with a massive hand and lifted me from the floor by the back of my collar. He took the pin, pinched off the backing between his lips with shocking dexterity, slipped the pin through my lapel, and snapped the backing on before I even knew what was happening.
The large Orc turned and half-tossed me into the hall. He stepped out behind me and pointed to the stairs. I needed no more command. I clambered to my feet and bolted, weaving through the crowd of new students heading outside.
The moment I stepped out, I found a Ceangar dressed the same as the Orc, pointing and shouting at students to get into formation. The Ceangar was short even for his race, standing at around three-foot-two. His desert-sand-colored skin was laced with raised pale scars across his face and neck. His eyes were the ice-blue of northern wastes, and his gaze seemed to have a bladed edge. His amber hair was slicked back with a copious amount of gel.
Like all the other new students, I was completely lost.
“Move your pale asses, you cocklickers!” the Ceangar barked. “Newbies, rank and file over here!” He pointed to an open patch of ground. “I want five even columns and as many rows as needed to fit all you dimwits!”
I moved with the mass of bodies, finding a spot in the rightmost column, about six people back. The two instructors began walking around the formation, the Ceangar with his hands folded behind his back, the Orc with his arms folded over his massive chest.
They had made it only two rows deep before they both stopped. The shorter one stared at a student’s feet. Before anyone could respond, there was a blur of motion, a sharp crack, and a shout of pain. The angry instructor was suddenly holding a blunt, long knife. The student beside him was on the ground, coddling his left shin.
“When I tell you to stand in formation, I want it PERFECT! Arm’s length distance between you and the student in front, and in line with the student to your left. Now SHAPE UP!”
We all started making adjustments. Once we stopped shifting, he spoke again. “That’s better. Now, if you are shorter than the person in front of you, tap them on the shoulder. If tapped, half-step left and step back. Keep going until you are taller than the trainee in front of you.”
I was tapped three times. I looked around and noted everyone near me was either a Human or an Elf. They gave me fleeting glances, only to look away when I made eye contact. In the formation's front were the shorter species—Ceangars, a single Gnome, and a few Dwarves. At the rear were most of the Orcs and Dracose.
“Great,” the instructor said, slapping the flat of his blade against his palm. “You’ve proven you can follow the simplest instructions when properly motivated. Now, for some basic footwork.”
There was another loud thwap of metal striking flesh and another wail of pain. “Stand still, you damned greenhorns. If I catch you so much as twitching, I WILL break something. Whether it’s my tool or your bones is up to you. Now, look to your feet!”
We all looked down. “They should be in a V with heels touching. When I say RIGHT FACE, you will push with the toe of your left boot and pivot on your right heel. Quick and clean.”
We did as instructed. He had us do the shoulder-tap thing again, then pivot left. By the end, the tallest in the formation, a male Dracose, was in the back-left corner. I was in the third column, five people back.
“Great. Now that we have the cattle all pretty in their rows, it’s time for introductions. I am Mystagogue Kellennar, my meat-slab partner here is Mystagogue Thrasher, and your names, as of right now, are worthless. You have no name. Today is the first day of your life as a Slate. Your name is based on your location. Starting from my right, you will count off.” He pointed to the shortest person, a tiny female Gnome with fluffy orange hair. “You are Slate One, or S1. Now count off, loud and clear, before I make sure you need new teeth.”
One after another, each student shouted their identifier until it was my turn to squeak out, “S23!” It was barely loud enough. When Kellennar glared at me, I visibly withered. The count went on until it ended at fifty.
“I suppose that was… tolerable. Now memorize the faces to your left and right and the back of the skull ahead of you. This will be your position for the year. Your number is your name as far as I am concerned. We are your physical conditioning and combat training instructors. When any Mystagogue speaks to you, you will respond with either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ followed by ‘sir,’ ‘ma’am,’ or ‘Mystagogue’.”
The response was a chaotic mix of “yes, sir” and “yes, Mystagogue.” A long moment of silence stretched on. I noticed the rising pressure coming from Kellennar, then the engorged vein throbbing at his neck.
“What did you just call me?” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. “DID YOU JUST CALL ME MA’AM!?” his murmur rose to a barking yell. “DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING MA’AM TO YOU!?” He stormed past the first few rows to stop in front of a Human boy one row ahead and to my right. The Ceangar literally climbed the guy’s uniform until he was nose-to-nose with him. “DO I HAVE A FUCKING PAIR OF TITS!? DO I LOOK LIKE A PIECE OF FUCKABLE MEAT?!”
“N-no, sir,” the poor student stammered.
Kellennar snarled, reared his head back, and slammed it into the student’s lips. He kicked off the student as he fell to the ground, bleeding, several of his teeth chipped. As the student fell, the one behind him managed to step aside, jostling me.
Kellennar turned to the student who had just moved. “Did I say you could move?”
“N-no, Mystagogue. Sorry, Mystagogue,” whimpered the High Elf as he shuffled back into place.
“That’s better.” Kellennar strolled back out of the formation. He spun to face us. “Today, instead of a fattening breakfast followed by a swift beating, I am to escort you to the medical center for physicals, immunizations, and the installation of your R.A.T. Tails, therra-node mounts, and B.I.Cs. To get there, you slug-cocks need to learn how to march.”
He started pacing. “Marching is simple. When I say ‘left,’ you step forward with your left foot. When I say ‘right,’ you step with your right. An even step. For you shorter maggots, that means a step large enough not to get stuck on the boot of the whore-face behind you. For you giants in the back, if I catch you stepping on anyone, I will climb that mountain to the top and leave my mark at the summit, and it will be a welt. Am I clear?”
The response was a semi-uniform “Yes, sir!”
“Good. You will follow my instructions: left, left, right, left. That means step to the beat. I swear to the goddess’s tits, if you try to take two left steps in a row, I will beat you senseless and have you running drills for the next week. Am I clear?”
Another resounding “Yes, sir!”
After that, he taught us how to turn while marching, half-turn, and about-face. I fumbled with each command, lacking dexterity, which drew snickers from the surrounding students—mostly from the Brightling directly behind me. When we did an about-face, that same Brightling slapped me in the face with his dove-white wings.
As we began marching to Kellennar’s beat, he would circle the formation—what he called a ‘breaker’—smacking anyone who didn’t march to his liking. He hit me three times in the fifteen-minute march for falling out of step. Two of those times were because the Brightling behind me stepped on my tail. The first time I could excuse as an accident, but after that, I knew the half-angel was being malicious.
When the breaker formation came to a stop in front of a three-story grey building, my tail was throbbing. I hated how sensitive the damned limb was. I coddled my bruised tail in my hands as we stopped.
The building before us was a single piece of synthcrete, with textured windows and automatic glass doors bearing the universal symbol for medical facilities. We were sent in one column at a time. When it was my column’s turn, I could feel my anxiety spike. I had never had implant surgery, and my father had only vaccinated me twice.
I followed behind S18, a broad, bald Human, as close as I dared. We passed down a hall and were waved right by another nurse into a long room lined with mechanized arms hanging from the ceiling. A nurse at the entryway instructed us to remove our jackets and T-shirts. One by one, we stepped into a scanning chamber that must have measured our race, gender, height, weight, and BMI.
I was about to step into the chamber when I was shoved from behind. Stumbling, I barely caught my balance. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him: the Brightling, smiling politely, his yellow-gold eyes gleaming with the predatory mirth of an oversized cat. I turned back and took a deep breath. I couldn’t let the asshole get to me.
After the scan, I stepped out and onto a slightly raised platform. The moment my weight pressed down, the perimeter lights switched from orange to blue. The mechanical arms on either side of me shifted, each arm ending in an injector gun. They inverted to socket three vials apiece, each filled with liquids of varying colors. The devices flipped and rotated to face me. In quick, fluid motions, they jabbed both my shoulders and pushed the cocktail of gods-knew-what into me. I winced with each sting. As the arms retracted, holographic arrows directed me to the next platform. The process repeated six more times. By the end, my shoulders were raw and bleeding, tears welling in my eyes.
I stepped off the final platform and was waved into a normal doctor’s examination room. An elderly female Wood Elf, Dr. Brooksheen, sat in a chair. She gave me a polite nod and began looking me up and down. She stood and made a circle around me before asking, “Please strip for me.”
I did as told, stripping to my underwear and trying to cover myself. She gave me a kind smile. “Boxer-briefs, my boy. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
I took another breath and stripped completely. She inspected every inch of me, no doubt scanning me with her therra-node. She grabbed my tail, running her hand down its length and flexing it in key spots, which drew a wince when she reached the bruise. She then grabbed my horns and directed my head left, right, up, and down. After what felt like an eternity, she had me put my underwear and pants back on but told me to leave my shirt off.
“What’s your Slate number, name, and SIN?” she asked.
“My number is S23. My name is Iver Kaser Maverick. I’m afraid I don’t know what a SIN is.”
“A Social Identification Number is unique to you, used by our nation of Ventic to keep track of you. If you don’t know yours, it’s not a problem. Where were you born, and what are your parents’ names?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know where I was born. I was raised in the town of Blackstone. I never knew my real parents, but I was raised by a Wild Elf named Fermose Maverick.”
The doctor began moving her hands, interacting with holograms only she could see. “Interesting. I found your medical records, but there is no record of your biological parents or a SIN. The spaces are labeled ‘N/A’. I will bring this up with the facility director and the Mysteriarch. For your implant surgery, I will just put down your number as 000-000-0001.”
“Um, I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but the surgeries…” I stammered.
She refocused on me. “Let me guess, you’ve never had implant surgery before.”
I gave a vigorous nod.
“No need to fret, child. I’ve checked you over, and there should be no complications. If you’re worried about pain, they will give you a sedative. You’ll go to sleep and wake up with a tender spot at your temple and the nape of your neck. If you have anything worse than a minor headache in the next week, come back for another full examination.” She directed me out of the room, to the left, and into a waiting room labeled WR3.
I entered the large room and chose a seat in the back corner. I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms and tail around my legs, and just watched.
The Brightling who had been giving me trouble was in a group with the male High Elf from the row beside me, an Orc, and a Dracose. They were chattering away cheerfully.
Everyone in the room seemed to have their own story. There were three that caught my eye, three loners like me, only they all looked tougher and meaner by miles.
There was a Wild Elf girl with fiery red hair braided down to her lower back, pink burn scar tissue lining her left forearm. What really caught my eye was her blue sclera—almost unheard of for Wild Elves.
Then there was S18. I could plainly tell he was a Halfling Dwarf, probably Dwarf-Human. He was the only bald student and had the start of a brown beard long enough for three braids. He was pretending to read a magazine; it was upside down.
There was an Elf boy aggressively tapping his foot. I couldn’t tell if he was a Wild or High Elf; he had traits of both. His uniform was a shambles, his disheveled, dirty-blond hair like a lion’s mane.
Lastly, and most striking, was a girl who was definitely Human at one time but was now cybernetic from her lower jaw down. Her platinum hair was a sharp contrast to the dark grey matte metal of her body. Purple scars crawled up her cheeks. Her lavender amethyst eyes almost seemed to glow. She kept busy tweaking the internals of her left arm with a tool kit on her lap. She must have survived something terrible.
My anxiety began to creep up as I thought about what these students must think of me. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing until I heard a male voice call out, “Maverick, S23!”
I shot to my feet and hurried to meet a Dwarven nurse. I was led into an operating room, dark save for an overhead light above the table. A tray of tools beside it made me pale. I audibly gulped as the nurse instructed me to lie face down.
“I-is this going to hurt?” I asked as I climbed onto the table, trembling.
I don’t remember her answer. The next thing I knew, a breather mask was mounted to my face. The gas tasted odd, with a bitter tang. That was the last thing I remember before blacking out to the sound of an electric saw.
