Voices.
Numbers.
Darkness.
This sucks...
So much I wanted to see as a kid.
But now it's all weapons this, and strategist that.
I've heard that the outside world is vastly different from the AshFjord.
I hear women are supposed to be soft and weak. And wear dresses.
And cook.
I hate cooking.
"CADET WEBER! YOUR GRADES DON'T GIVE YOU A PASS TO DOZE OFF DURING MY LECTURES?!" A heavy male voice yells at me, reverberating off the metal walls.
Sigh.
I snap up, at attention. The floorboards creak under my boots.
"SORRY SIR, IT WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN, SIR!" I yell back.
"At ease cadet, be seated... Actually. Remain standing." He shifts, leather boots squeaking faintly.
"COMMANDER, WE'VE DEPLOYED ALL OF OUR HEAVY ARTILLERY AND TANK UNITS. THEY'VE ALL BEEN WIPED OUT! THE ENEMY: A PLATOON OF DIS-TANKS, ALONG WITH A SMALL COMPANY OF MEGA DISRUPTORS EXO TYPES. WHAT DO WE DO?... What's your move, COMMANDER?"
Oh, goodie. I love pop quiz scenarios that end in my physical demise if I fail.
"Redirect front battery to grid four. Auxiliary flamers sweep the lower corridors. Deploy counter-charge to intercept the EXO units' advance vector. Rotate turrets to stagger fire patterns. Timing three-point-four seconds."
The metallic tang of the AshFjord drifts faintly through the vents as I speak.
The lecturer stares at me, almost glaring. His brown eyes bore into mine.
"See me after class, cadet. Be seated till then."
The rest of the class looks at me. Some of the peanut gallery linger longer than others, whispering.
I take my seat. Someone taps my shoulder from behind.
I turn slightly. What stares back is definitely something.
A tall boy. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Clad in our uniforms, the faint scent of sweat and leather clinging to him.
"What do you need, Edward?" I ask.
I hear women love big, strong men. Does that mean Edward will die alone? Too bad for him. A nice guy on a battleship is useless.
…Oh God. I'm thinking like one of those old bags.
"Hello? You listening?" He whispers, breaking my train of thought.
"Huh? Oh… yes?" I say, confused. What did I just agree to?
"Really, thanks Ryn. You're the best!" His voice jumps with excitement, light and sharp in the quiet classroom.
That is, of course, before I step aside, and a piece of literature slams into his face. Ink dust curls in the air.
…Well.
"CADETS! IS YOUR CONVERSATION MORE IMPORTANT THAN MY LECTURE?!" the man up front yells, voice cracking the tension like a whip.
Edward and I snap to attention.
"NO, SIR!" we yell in unison.
"At ease. Take your seats."
The lecture continues, rattling through war history. The British. Their steam power. All things I've already heard. The faint clatter of boots and chairs against the metal floor mixes with the low hum of the AshFjord's engines beneath us.
The AshFjord is a mobile city. Built to prevent the depletion of soldiers on the battlefield. People live here as normal… just knowing their offspring will be taken to make war machines. Hooray, us offspring.
The lecture ends. I start to gather my things, but the lecturer points at me.
"Not you. Remember. Wait till they leave."
I do as told.
As the class clears, a girl passes me.
"You shouldn't be opening your legs for grades," she whispers. Her perfume, sweet and sharp, cuts through the metallic air. She and her posse giggle as they walk away.
Abigail… damn that girl.
I want to drop her from the top of the AshFjord, but no one is allowed up there without permission.
Finally, the room empties. The lecturer sits at his desk, scribbling for a while, the scratch of pen against paper loud in the quiet, and motioning me over.
My mind scrambles for reasons he could have called me. None come. The faint hum of machinery and the smell of burnt oil press in.
"Ryn Weber…" he says.
"Why are you still here? A letter is sent to your orphanage every month. Do you not get them? If not, understandable. But if you do, why haven't you gone yet?"
I see now. Those damned letters of recommendation. Front or Middle Ranks of any Company of my choice.
Can't I join logistics? Propaganda? Strategy? Anything other than actual war?
"I like it here…" I say, the first thing that comes to mind.
He doesn't take the bait.
"Do you take me, Martin Roker, for a fool?" he glares.
"You don't seem like one to fear the battlefield. So why? That is the reason you were born. To help us win the war," Martin says.
I don't flinch. I've been stared down before. I've been told I'm nothing more than an asset, a tool, a soldier before I could even walk straight.
"I… understand," I say, my voice flat. Not defiant. Not scared. Just… understood.
Martin leans back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing, studying me. Every second he doesn't speak feels heavier than the last.
"You're not like the others," he says finally, almost a growl. "Most of them are older than you by at least three years, you're only 13, but you made it this far at your age."
I shrug. "Doesn't matter if I choose it or not. The war won't wait for me to feel ready."
I had to say something on the nose that he would like, to stay in the good book.
A twitch of something passes across his face. Respect? Surprise? Hard to tell with Martin.
"You'll leave the AshFjord soon," he continues. "And when you do… the world outside will try to shape you. Break you. Bend you to what it wants. But inside AshFjord, you've already survived all you need to, time to move on to the next step."
I nod once, sharply. "I know. I've dreaded it all my life."
He studies me a moment longer, then finally scribbles something on a piece of paper and pushes it across the desk.
"Take this to the Command Office. You're officially recommended for advanced tactical training. Use it wisely… or don't. But know this. The best opportunity isn't given twice."
I pick up the paper, cold fingers brushing the ink. No excitement. No relief. Just the weight of what it means. The war won't stop, and neither can I.
I stand. "Understood, sir."
"Dismissed," he says.
I turn, walking past the empty desks, past the echoes of the lecture, past the whispers and the shadows. AshFjord moves outside, grinding, roaring, relentless. And so will I.
As I exit the class, the metallic clang of the AshFjord beneath my boots reminds me of a grave mistake.
I've got Sergeant Roker right now. Physical Training.
And I'm late.
Ohhhh crap.
I spin back toward the classroom, but freeze just short of the door.
He might try to make me go to the Command Office now.
CRAP. What do I do?
In the end…
I was late, and I had to do everything, twice as hard as everyone else.
The burn in my arms and legs, the sting of sweat in my eyes, every muscle screaming… and thanks to my tardiness, everyone got punished the second someone slipped up. Courtesy of Sergeant Dean.
After that torture, the second best part of the day finally arrived: noon meal, in the Mess Hall.
The smell hits first, grease, hot metal, the faint tang of burnt rations. Cadets and seniors alike sit around, eating, talking, metal trays clattering against the tables.
Me. I sit alone… with Edward.
"Ughhh, I can't raise my arms," I complain, dropping my tray on the table. The plastic scrapes against the steel surface.
I must've said something funny, because Edward starts giggling.
"It's your own fault. Why were you late? What did Lieutenant Roker need you for?" Edward asks, nudging a piece of bread toward me. The crust is dry against my fingers.
But
Someone had to interject. "I know why, Little tramp can't keep her legs closed. She just 'LOVES' bumping it with the Lieutenant."
A disgustingly smooth voice slides across the hall. Abigail. Perfume sharp, sweet, and obnoxious, cutting through the air like acid.
"Are you mad? Since I'm succeeding, you can't coast on your 'sucking' skills to pass class anymore?" I shoot back, leaning on the edge of the table. My voice is flat, but the words carry all the venom I feel.
Abigail's smirk widens. She knows that I struck a nerve. Her little pack of friends snicker behind her, all perfume and polished boots. I can smell their fake confidence from here, far too clean for anyone who's ever trained in the rain.
Edward stiffens beside me. He's not built for this kind of heat. He glances between us like he's waiting for someone to shout an order, but this isn't that kind of battlefield.
Abigail steps closer, tray in hand. The metal clatters against the table. "You think you're better than us because you can scream tactics faster than anyone else? You're just a charity case in a soldier's jacket."
The words hang for a second. The whole section of the mess hall goes quiet, that rare, electric silence before something ugly happens.
I stand. Slowly. The chair's legs drag against the floor with a high-pitched screech. My muscles still burn from drills, but I don't care.
"Say that again."
Her eyes flicker. Not fear. Just arrogance. "I said—"
The sound that cuts her off isn't me talking. It's my hand. Crashing into her tray. The slop on it flies up, splattering across her face, staining her perfect uniform with gray stew and synthetic grease.
A few cadets gasp. One laughs.
Abigail freezes. Her jaw tightens. Then she lunges.
I meet her halfway. It's not graceful. It's messy, hands, fists, elbows, and adrenaline. The taste of iron fills my mouth when she clips my lip. Her hair catches in my glove. Someone shouts for a superior. Boots stomp. Trays hit the floor.
Then a whistle cuts through the chaos like a blade.
Sergeant Rivas.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN MY MESS HALL?"
We both stop. Abigail's breathing hard, her face streaked with food and fury. I stand there, calm, eyes locked forward.
Rivas's face is unreadable for a moment. Then she points at both of us.
"You two. Training yard. Now. If you've got that much energy, I'll make damn sure it's used."
Abigail glares at me, breathing through her teeth. "You're dead, Weber."
"Screw that," I mutter.
Edward just sighs as we're marched out. "Why do you always do this to yourself?"
I'll become General, and send this harlot to die. I won't let anyone think they own me. My parents are at war.
Outside, the air is colder. The engines of the AshFjord hum beneath the metal flooring, the whole city alive with that deep, constant vibration. Rivas's voice booms behind us.
"Drop and hold. You move before I say so, you'll wish you hadn't been born."
Abigail drops, fists clenched. I follow, metal biting through the fabric of my uniform. Sweat drips into my eyes again.
I don't look at her. I don't say anything. I just breathe.
Because if I open my mouth, I might start laughing.