Chương 6: DIEM

The knocking intensified while Lance rolled off the bed and onto the floor, still somewhere between sleep and waking. His rest had been remarkably undisturbed, none of the usual dreams pressing on him through the night.

"Mr. Klint." From beyond the door, at measured intervals, with matching knocks. He peeled himself off the floor, ran both hands through his completely disordered hair, and put on his glasses. He opened the door to Arte, who was holding his white key card at shoulder height.

"It was left in the lock." She said, offering it to him. Lance smiled, took the card, and slid it into his front pocket. He hadn't changed before bed; he'd sat down to study the texts Monica had left him alongside the food parcel, given them a cursory glance, and then spent the next two hours going through them cover to cover, taking notes on every piece of information he could extract on Frequency and the Hel.

The research collected there represented the Association's most productive findings from its earliest years, and Lance, who had a reasonable facility with calculations and formulas, had managed to follow most of it. He was beginning to understand how Frequency circulated, how Meta abilities actually functioned at a mechanical level, and perhaps how some of those principles could be worked into his training.

"Miss Jeanne has been waiting for you outside the door for approximately twenty-three minutes." Arte added, in the exact tone of someone making a factual observation. He looked up from his thoughts. The small girl with the white hair, gathered in a braid today, was watching him from the doorway with a patient smile.

"Sorry! Tell her I'll be right there." He moved toward the bathroom.

"At least tell me you know where you're being summoned." She said as his hand touched the bathroom door handle.

"Ehm... No..." He admitted, searching his memory. §"Wait! Does it have something to do with the armorer who came back yesterday?" Arte tilted her head once in silent confirmation, then walked off toward the opposite end of the corridor. Lance smiled and went to wash. His reaction turned out to be roughly identical to Jeanne's, since he hadn't been in a room like this before either. He stopped at the sink, carved from a block of white stone with gold reflections in the material.

The silver tap caught the soft artificial light from the ceiling. He turned the water on, took off his shirt, and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. His musculature was significantly beyond what one would expect from someone his age, but the more unsettling detail was the scars: numerous, thick, darker than the pale skin surrounding them. The largest ran from his sternum to his elbow, fading toward the forearm. They hadn't always been there, and he knew it.

He had been certain he hadn't seen them when using his Frequency, and equally certain none of the others had noticed them either. Those scars gradually grew with him." I don't think any illness could cause something like this, not that I recall ever getting so sick..." He gazed into the past, remembering the fright they gave him the first time he saw them. After washing with cold water, he touched his face without the glasses. He didn't like it that much.

There was something sinister in the lines of it, something he couldn't soften, and his sharp features weren't helping him revise that opinion.

"Nothing I can do about it..." He thought and left the bathroom. He took a shirt from the wardrobe and put his windbreaker on with a swiftness that was its own small pleasure. He picked up the black key card from his trouser pocket and stepped out into the corridor. Jeanne and Arte were waiting to his right.

"G-good morning." Jeanne said quietly. Lance raised a hand and shyly smiled back without speaking.

"The Armory is at the far right end of this corridor." Arte said, already moving in the opposite direction.

"Be careful around Maverick. He can be a little... Distracted." The two set off down the hall. Unlike the corridors he'd walked before, this one had windows at a lower level, the glass looking directly into Dielmon's forest. The black card tracked their route; small blue lights lit up on the floor as they passed, indicating which way to go.

"Slept w-well?" Jeanne asked beside him, swaying very slightly as she walked, the same easy rhythm as the night before.

"Poorly, by normal standards. I've been foreign to real sleep for years." He smiled.

"But don't worry! I will be good enough in about an hour!" Jeanne noticed his hair. He had done what he could with it, but it had won regardless, and somehow it still suited him.

"You?"

"Well.... I... Went down really fast. The blankets were significantly more comfortable than what I'm used to." She laughed, squinting slightly as she smiled. The corridor was ending. The black card displayed two options: an arrow to the right marked ARMORY, and one to the left marked TRAINING ROOM. A brief, uncomplicated joy lit Lance's face at the second sign. It had been days since he'd moved properly, and he'd felt it in every limb. He was already thinking about what to do there.

Without distraction, he turned right into a narrow black corridor lit by blue strips. After a short walk, a glass door appeared, the card reader beside it unmistakably familiar. Both Jeanne and Lance managed to create a small diplomatic impasse at the entrance, each insisting that the other go first, and both ended up tangled in front of the lock simultaneously.

"I-I'll go first." Lance said, surrendering his chivalrous instinct to Jeanne's considerably more functional good manners. She accepted with a few quiet, rapid nods. Lance approached the entrance. The door opened, and a violent gust of air hit Lance squarely, sending him across the corridor like a rag doll. He lay on the floor. Trembling slightly. Drooling a little. Doing his absolute best to give Jeanne a thumbs-up to reassure her.

Jeanne was too bewildered to respond, her head moving slowly between Lance on the ground and the figure that had emerged from the armory through the smoke, hands pressed together in prayer, apologizing at full speed.

"I was testing an engine, and I heard the door! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... Are you all right?!!" The man in white alternated between a panicked whisper and a shout, trying to verify that Lance had not been structurally compromised. He got up and gave the thumbs-up again. The thin line of blood running from the corner of his mouth was, objectively, not reassuring. After the "small" incident was addressed, the figure waved them inside.

The armory walls were a mix of black and blue, the two colors blending into asymmetric lines across the surfaces. The floor was the standard white Lance had learned to associate with NOIR's interiors. The room was enormous, with shelves and cabinets running along every wall. At its center, a machine of ropes, pulleys, and cables held a large turbine firmly in place within a solid iron housing, which was connected to a fuel line. Lance correctly surmised, was the engine.

"You must be the recruits! Lance and Jeanne, if I'm not wrong." The man said, leafing through two folders simultaneously while shedding pages in every direction.

"How rude of me, I haven't introduced myself yet! I'm the director of NOIR's engineering division, Maverick Haia." He turned to face them. He was young, close to Maliard's age, but with sharper features: thin lips, cutting eyes, and a gaze that was considerably more mature than his current behavior would suggest. He wore a long white coat with one sleeve torn, presumably by the engine's output. Beneath it, the dull glint of black armor surfaced whenever the coat shifted.

His forearms were remarkably heavily developed, laced with scars. The whole setup looked tremendously heavy, but Maverick appeared entirely unbothered by it.

"You're here for your equipment, correct?" He turned back to a shelf, holding a measuring tape and one glove.

"My pieces aren't mere equipment! They're designed to respond to the individual agent's specific needs. To that end..." Maverick disappeared. Jeanne yelped as the cold press of a measuring tape circled her shoulders, then moved rapidly to her arm and her waist. Lance found himself seized by the shoulder before he could speak and subjected to a thorough hands-on assessment through the material of Maverick's glove. He leaned back, satisfied, having nearly given both of them cardiac events.

"As I was saying, I conduct a personal assessment of each agent to provide the best possible equipment for their situation." He grinned and threw his measuring tools casually across the room in two different directions.

"I'd already read your files, but seeing you in person gives me a much clearer picture." He moved to a panel on one of the walls.

"Sadly, I was occupied researching a Singularity in the Outskirts of Sector II, but the inspiration arrived all the same." The walls began to move. They retracted inward in unison, revealing an enormous array of weapons mounted on the newly exposed white surfaces, the same geometric diamond motifs in faded green running across them. Pistols, rifles, grenades, blades of every description, lances, and what appeared to be at least one powered saw.

"You see, here in NOIR, all the personnel are entrusted with a tool for defense. The melee is usually reserved for on-field agents, while ranged is given to all the Non-Meta working here."

"Miss Jeanne..." Maverick said, pulling a large matte-black velvet pouch from a high shelf with the assistance of a precarious stool. Lance bit his lip and watched the stool, silently pleading with the universe. Maverick dismounted with a clean, athletic jump that vindicated nothing but his own agility and presented the pouch to Jeanne.

"As I could observe, you're highly agile and athletic, and your ability gives you tremendous versatility at all ranges. So what better than a 'multi-purpose utility instrument,' lightly modified?" He smiled and gestured for her to open it. She untied the knot. Inside: the unmistakable shape of a picture frame. Fully gilded, white wings carved on the upper edge. Both of them stared at the "weapon" with expressions of polite uncertainty.

Jeanne was clearly captivated, though her response was to her artist's eye rather than to any recognition of the thing as an armament.

"I know the shape is unusual," Maverick said, "but knowing you were an artist, I thought you'd appreciate it, plus it's easy to conceal." He ran his hands along his creation with evident affection. Click The frame rotated on one of its corner pivots, folding in on itself and extending one edge into a sleek, tapered form, sharp on one side, ornamental on the other. A blade. A genuinely beautiful one.

"Oh!" They said, together.

"Just channel your Frequency into it and choose a configuration! It can take the form of a sword, lance, schyte, whip, shield, a pair of daggers, or a hammer, though I suspect the hammer doesn't quite suit your style." Maverick spoke with the enthusiasm of someone presenting a masterwork.

"Its name is Kroonlijst, but feel free to rename it." He was already turning back toward the shelves.

"I watched your duel, you know." He said to Lance, producing a second pouch, this one in shades closer to grey.

"Exceptional close-quarters instinct." He handed it over, and the boy took it. It was heavy, not enough to make the grip difficult, but substantial. He drew out the contents carefully. In his hand: the wooden grip of a heavy revolver, platinum white, the black wood inlaid with a delicate golden circle where it met the metal body. The fluted barrel was traced with an irregular pattern of dark threading, folding downward as well to lock the black eight-chambered cylinder firmly in place.

"I named it Supplicium. Slightly macabre, I know, but for something so beautiful and so dangerous, I thought it rather accurate." Maverick cleared his throat.

"The revolver generates rounds passively inside the cylinder. They use special ammunition, produced by condensing the user's Frequency with the energy transmitted through the Lambdite-infused black wood of the grip. Only eight chambers, but a single round is more than sufficient to take apart a heavily armored tank." He was practically glowing.

"The rate of fire is low, and the recoil is severe, but for someone like you, I'm confident you'll get the most out of it." He dropped into his chair with the bonelessness of someone who had been awake for many hours.

"But I... Have never shot a gun before! Well, maybe once, but not something like this!" He moved his forearm around, trying to avoid its collapse.

"It basically weighs like a boulder!"

"Don't worry, you are strong enough to wield it." Maverick shrugged it off, pointing a finger at the boy.

"But I do appreciate the fact that you admit to not being able to shoot a gun. All the people brag about it, and then they have no confidence in pulling the trigger." Maverick's voice had a silvery tinge to it, like he was talking to somebody else. Puzzled, Lance tried to move his attention away. As if under hypnosis, he was lured to a specific corner of the workshop"And that?" He indicated an old wooden door at the far wall. The gilded handle was worn dark with age, visibly dented.

"That's the Relic Vault..." Maverick said, with a slight hesitation.

"Items recovered from Hel?" Jeanne had been absorbed in Kroonlijst and was absolutely paying no mind to the conversation until the word "Relic" was uttered.

"I see you've been studying!" Maverick said, somewhat impressed.

"Artifacts are considerably more dangerous than conventional weapons and require a specific affinity to use." He stood.

"Do I have to tell him that I just happened to guess?"

"Monica hasn't forbidden me from showing you the Collection, though." He grabbed a massive key and turned it in the old lock. It opened with a pronounced groan. The enormous room beyond was deep red with gold lines tracing the contours of the padded walls, which gave the impression of something between a vault and a reliquary. Along one continuous wall: display cases and glass-fronted cabinets, each holding its contents under precise illumination.

Fingers, clothing fragments, pieces of broken blades, and even shards of bullets reflected under the light.

"Many have been classified as inert, and they've lost their original characteristics and are currently used for research pur—" Maverick stopped. One of the cases at the far end of the room was emitting a violet glow.

"A resonance connection?!" He crossed the room at a run. The black bracelet, resting on its red cushion, was straining against the interior of the case, pressing toward someone in the room with small, frantic movements. Lance began walking toward it, moved by a strange sense of familiarity. With every step, the vibration of the glass grew louder. The bracelet was in a frenzy now, practically bouncing within the narrow confines of the display." Lachesi is responding to the boy?" Maverick thought, deeply unsettled.

"Of all of them, her? And especially now?"

"Why did the air get so o-ominous?" Jeanne was trying to drift her gaze away from the light, but something tried to pull her deeper into obsession." Lachesi is what we call a true Relic, transported through our world from Hel's deepest places. I am not sure, but maybe that thing truly has a will of its own, and it's able to choose the people that can wield it." He distracted himself with the sermon, failing to realize that Lance was already captivated by the light.

"DON'T TOUCH IT, LANCE!" Maverick lost his cool with the scream, nearly jumping to grab the boy's shoulder, but Lance didn't stop. Lance's fingers made contact with the case. The bracelet shattered the glass and attached itself to his wrist in one motion, its binding tight and immediate. The inscriptions on its black surface began rotating at an indescribable speed. Among them, he managed to read: Lance, Damian, Jack, Bluette, and then Chris-. Finally, they settled, leaving only the names.

A cold current moved through his vertebrae from base to crown. The room disappeared. He was in the fog again, the same fog as in the clearing. A soft breath touched his ear, followed by a whisper barely above silence.

"Use it well this time." A gust struck him hard, throwing him deep into the white. He jolted. His eyes were open. Only minutes had passed, but the vision had felt like hours. Maverick grabbed his shoulders, shaking him and running his hands over him quickly, checking for damage. He took the arm, examined it without touching the slim black bracelet now settled on his right wrist.

"Everything seems fine... I can't believe it."He said quietly, releasing him. Jeanne moved to help Lance up, but he stood on his own, straight, abrupt, like a spring releasing.

"I'm contacting Monica. This is the first time Lachesi has ever responded to anyone."

"Who was the last bondholder?" The question came without preamble, simple and direct. Maverick stopped in the doorway with his wrist device already sending its signal: a multifunctional watch worn by all NOIR members, capable of long-distance communication and alerts. He turned slowly back toward Lance.

"The last holder was Commander Bluette Oudin. We recovered the Relic after her confrontation with the Unnamed... Still attached to her arm." A pause.

"Along with many others." His voice was cold and particular." Was it really such a massacre?" Lance went still. Jeanne was listening with her head low, one hand half covering her mouth.

"Lance..." Maverick moved toward him, slowly, his tone shifting into something more serious than it had been at any point in the conversation.

"Listen to me carefully. Lachesi is not simply a weapon. It is a direct extension of your body. Misusing it will have severe consequences." He grabbed his shoulders, crushing them with his unnatural grip.

"Unlike Supplicium, which generates rounds independently, Lachesi uses no ammunition. It synchronizes your Frequency directly with the barrel to function, and that's only scratching the surface of what this thing can do! The recoil under normal use is already destructive. If you overextend it... If you force the connection by pouring more energy than the bond can handle, you might put at stake something more than your arm."

He had taken Lance by both shoulders, and he was looking at him with direct, unambiguous severity. The distracted, boyish engineer from five minutes ago had vanished completely. His eyes made it clear, without rhetoric, that he would do whatever it took to stop Lance from abusing that thing. He said nothing. He glanced at the bracelet on his wrist. He could have sworn a faint, sinister light moved around that absurd piece of black iron.

At a gesture of his fingers, the bracelet seemed to melt, flowing down his hand like water. The liquid mass pooled in his palm and solidified: a heavy block of black metal with a vague gun-like shape. The barrel was wide and square, longer than Supplicium's by a significant margin, approximately forty centimeters. The grip was split into two curving sections to accommodate his hand. Fissures across the barrel and housing leaked a slow, dark vapor alongside a grim violet luminescence.

The weapon radiated with something malefic, enough to make the air in the room drop." Is it moving?" Monica came through the armory door at a run. She took in the scene in front of her: Lance, the boy she had found, surrounded by the bodies of supernatural creatures, holding her sister's weapon. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Her expression held no anger. It held no grief. It was a mixture of teary eyes and a painful grimace.

She crossed to him and took his hand. Lachesi collapsed back into a bracelet.

"Lance... Promise me you won't use that weapon." Her voice came close to aggressive, but the aggression was obviously the shape that terror had taken.

"Promise me!" Lance took her by the shoulders and nodded clearly, without hesitation.

"Yes, I know..." Monica nodded and sighed altogether.

"Don't tell Maliard about the bond with Lachesi." She said as the three of them walked down the corridor back toward the dormitory" I guess we don't need more problems..." Lance tapped on his temple, glancing at Lachesi.

"But why me? How can I be fit for this thing?" He moved his arm, swinging it around like he was trying to gauge the weight of that weapon. It didn't even feel like he was wearing something, like a phantasmal jewel stuck to his arm. Monica shook her head and retrieved the translucent necklace that was concealed in her chest.

"I was declared worthy to wield one, too, but I still can't understand the reason myself." She saw the multitude of refractions moving inside the crystal chain.

"This one is called Cloto. It was found together with Lachesi, but it's far more docile." Lance nodded, still casually gazing upon the black inscriptions. So a heavy atmosphere fell on them.

"Relics are a... Complicated matter here at NOIR. We know that there are some differences between True Relics and artificials, born from singularities or experiments, but we fail to understand why." Lance nodded, licking his lip. His heavy gaze was fixed on the pavement, following his shoes at every step." Is there any reason for this to trigger my visions?"

"So then," she said, in a pitch shift from grave to impish that she appeared to execute effortlessly.

"How was dinner last night?" Both Lance and Jeanne reddened simultaneously, remembering the previous evening, the conversation over food, that confession, and the ease of solitude.

"By your faces, I'd call it a success!" Monica said, half-hidden behind one hand, suppressing laughter with minimal success. That woman could, for reasons that defied explanation, alternate between complete idiocy and genuine mature elegance within the same sentence.

"You'll make excellent partners." She added, looking at them both in turn. Lance went pale, while Jeanne instinctively attempted to use Kroonlijst as a shield, belatedly registering that the frame was empty, but she was too flustered to revise the impulse.

"At work..." Monica specified, almost gloating over her timing. Lance granted her a sequence of unimpressed looks that lasted until they arrived at the apartment. Standing in the corridor outside the door was an unexpected figure, with a long black-and-red coat. A generous tangle of long blond-red hair, not covered today by the familiar hat. A black sweater that coordinated neatly with the rest of the ensemble, and brought out the natural red of his eyes.

"Rossy, what are you doing here?" Monica approached him like a cat.

"Monica..." Stern.

"I've told you before not to call me that." He snapped his pocket watch shut and put it away." I take it back... Monica's mental age is twelve!" Lance thought, remembering what she'd called Jeanne in that note.

"Of course! You were waiting for Jeannette and Lancy." Before Monica could return to her argument with Edvard, Lance took the back of her neck in a light grip.

"Say that again."

"Lancy and Jeannette."

"Say it again..."

"Lancy and Jeannette." The exchange continued for several minutes as Lance attempted, through sheer repetition, to communicate that her habit was profoundly embarrassing. Monica was entirely unable to understand what the problem was, or would not pretend otherwise.

"I like it, actually..." Said Jeanne, very quietly.

"Jeann... -ette."

"Please!" He said, surrendering to the cheerful obliviousness of the two women behind him.

"At least you..." Edvard watched the scene with amusement while Monica raised her chin in absolute triumph.

"What does NOIR's contracts director want with us two?" Lance asked Edvard, turning his back deliberately on the scene.

"I have an assignment for you both." He smiled and produced a grey plastic card from inside his coat.

"You'll be going to the Capital to monitor some suspicious movements. Everything is on the card." He handed it over.

"Departure tomorrow at ten forty-five from Port I. Estimated arrival at the Capital: twelve ten." He was already walking away.

"Good luck." While watching back, he saw the bracelet resting on Lance's shoulder." So Lachesi already chose her successor?" He chewed his teeth like he had a cigar in his mouth. Without looking back, he continued to wave his hand.

"Is this thing so hated?" He murmured, chewing on his lips. Monica launched herself onto Lance's back and clung there, swinging him like a swing.

"YOUR FIRST MISSION! AREN'T YOU BOTH EXCITED?!"

"I'm not sure why I should be excited about risking my life!" Lance replied and detached her from his back with reasonable efficiency, depositing her in the corridor.

"I doubt Edvard would assign a difficult mission to newcomers." She said, standing up from the floor as though she'd merely sat down.

"Hey Monica... His surname is Ross, wouldn't that make him a hotshot in the capital?" She nodded, pointing a finger at her chin as she tried to recall.

"Edvard Ross comes from the Andimican upper bourgeoisie before NOIR recruited him. He developed his abilities later in life, but even before, he was the embodiment of rhetoric and strategic persuasion. If there's anyone I trust to handle information well, it's him. I wouldn't tell him a secret, though." She dropped her voice on the last part, which had the effect of making it sound considerably more ominous than everything preceding it.

"S-So we need to get ready?" Jeanne asked, reading the card he had passed to her.

"Correct!" Monica was already walking away, bouncing lightly with each step.

"See you tomorrow!" She vanished around the corner and was gone.

"Well then." Lance opened the apartment door.

"Let's get ready. It says here that the mission will last a few days." The grey card was clear on the specifics:"Departure: 10: 45 from Port I, Dielmon — estimated arrival 12: 10, Sector IV — operational base located on the V Boulevard, Apartment 593, Room 2 — additional information contained in the second black stone of the fireplace." Lance read it several times in his room, eating dried meat and turning pages.

"Am I really good enough to take on an operation? I'm not doubting Jeanne, but I guess both of us are the same." He worked through everything Lucas and Monica had lent him. While he read, he practiced, channeling the sensation into his fingers in small bursts, testing it. The results were surprising. Something close to raw energy ran through his arms, passing through muscle and bone, sharpening his eyes. He opened various books, even more at once, speeding through them.

"Incredible! I feel like I'm reading at superspeed!" Within two hours, he had worked through nearly all of it. At the bottom of the pile, there was a small, badly worn notebook filled with handwriting and diagrams. He leafed through it and recognized, with a slight jolt, that it belonged to Lucas.

"Meta abilities operate through the manipulation of the Frequency of the user's own body or the surrounding environment, producing phenomena unique to each individual... What kind of pompous writing is this?!" He read every word, devouring the notations in that untidy handwriting." If Maliard was that strong... What kind of ability do Monica and Jeanne have?" He thought, remembering how those flames pierced through him.

"A Meta's abilities are like any other skill or physical capacity; they can be refined and developed, but overuse results in serious damage. This is the primary motivation behind the ongoing development of pharmaceutical interventions to prevent Meta overload." He read that part aloud, feeling the same aches he'd been suffering from.

"I guess we can't abuse our powers... I felt like a rag after all the fighting."" Based on substantial testimonial evidence, I am increasingly confident that Meta abilities originate in the Amygdala, specifically from a ramification of Meta Organs, and are directly correlated with the possessor's emotional and psychological state."

"So I now have another pair of organs in my body?!" He started to touch himself in all different places, scratching the back of his neck and groping his chest anxiously. Once Lance decided it was enough, he breathed in relief and kept on reading. The pages after this section were damaged: torn edges, old water stains, and entire sections faded to illegibility.

The notebook was clearly old, but the density of ink blotches and stressed marks told him that whatever had been written here had cost Lucas something to put down." Following my experiments with August, I have arrived at proof that Meta abilities are a reflection of a person's traumas and formative experiences — corruptions of the mind that embed themselves in the subconscious. In some cases, they appear to have a direct relationship with specific psychological disorders.

Ironically and frequently, a Meta will know the name of their ability almost by instinct, even on first use — without having been told it."

"Who the hell is this August guy?" He didn't linger much on the question, since more pressing doubts decided to attack him.

"I remember all those categories from before, but I didn't ever read about something like Maliard described."

"He felt like I was stealing something from him. Maybe it's the same as two waves colliding. They both cease to exist, and only the ripples remain." He remained absorbed in his mind, often lowering his eyes toward his hands." Come to think of it... The voice gave me the name of my ability. Vergehen. That is a word that I have never heard and never spoken." His discoveries at least gave him a foundation, somewhere to begin understanding the new world he'd landed in. Before he slept, he looked at the desk. No drafts.

No photographs. No notebooks marked with lines and curves.

"Jude..." He whispered, and the sleep took him. Jeanne had just woken up. The clouds were blocking the light, leaving the room in a partial dimness. The gilded frame glowed faintly from inside its velvet case. She fell trying to get out of bed since she'd wrapped herself in the sheets without realizing, the way one does when the blankets are too comfortable, and sleep runs deeper than expected.

She rolled, held her knee, and then held it again when it found the corner of something for the second time in as many minutes. She got up. Opened the wardrobe. Checked the time. Nine forty. Just under an hour before departure." I should wake him..." She thought, finding herself briefly smiling at the thought of Lance, who, as she had worked out from observation, was a comprehensively unresponsive organism in the first part of every morning.

She dressed in a shirt and wide black trousers, then knocked on his door at regular intervals. Not even the sound of breathing came through." I don't want to just open it, but if I don't, he'll be late. Maybe I should..." While she was debating the moral geometry of the situation, her body went rigid.

"KYAHHHH!" A sound resembling a startled bird left her at full volume as she spun to face Arte, who had appeared from the immediate vicinity with no audible warning whatsoever.

"Mr. Klint went to the training room approximately two hours ago. He asked me not to wake you." Arte was straightening the sofa cushions as she said this." W-where did she come from?!"

"If you're wondering where I came from, I was here before you arrived, but you didn't look in my direction." Jeanne went pale. She smiled anyway, picked up Kroonlijst, and stepped out of the room. A girl with blonde hair and a sweater embroidered with a stylized flower pattern was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall.

"Good morning, Jeanette. Your teammate is awake too." Heavy emphasis on the last part, delivered with a firm handshake.

"Lance is-is in the training room. I was going to call him so we could get ready." Jeanne managed to navigate around the word teammate entirely.

"Let's go get him then." Monica took her hand and pulled her toward the training hall. The corridor leading there was considerably brighter than the one toward the armory, with windows running along the wall, looking directly into Dielmon's forest. As they neared the wide hall doors, the sounds from inside filtered through: shouts and impacts, reverberating through the structure." Come on, he's just training. What can that boy possibly be doing?" Monica's jaw appeared to be detaching from her skull.

Jeanne's expression matched that of everyone else in the hall, the soldiers, the staff, there to train or discharge stress; not one person in the room had their mouth closed. Lance was holding two columns in a clean-grip stance, spine slightly bent, eyes fixed forward. He was so focused that he hadn't noticed that every person in the room had stopped and was watching him. The fabric of his black vest was doing its best with the situation, stretching taut, releasing with each contraction.

He had the chains above his center of gravity, arms fully extended. He kept the same stance, staring down at the clock. Once the minute hand completed its ninth revolution, he exhaled, trembling, and allowed them to slam on the ground with a smile. He rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms.

"Ahhh... That's better." Applause rose from the gathered crowd. A group of men clapped him on the back, returning him to reality and letting him know, for the first time, how many people had been watching. Lance startled and nearly fell off the platform, but another boy caught him by the arm.

"Thanks, Hoku." Lance smiled, steadying himself.

"You're more extraordinary than you look." He said, genuinely impressed.

"I've never seen anyone train with that kind of discipline, let alone sustain it for almost two hours." He laughed. He was tall and muscular, wearing a close-fitting green thermal, his face sharp and quiet, with large, softly downturned eyes and thin lips. Slightly shorter than Lance, and like him, wearing glasses. Square frames. His skin was a bit paler than that of the other people in the room.

"Thank you. You're strong too," Lance said, shaking his hand.

"I don't know, you might be stronger! You're among the first people to not pass out on the columns trial." He matched the grip.

"Hoku! Have you already met Lance?!" Monica arrived at their side.

"We ran into each other this morning around seven thirty, literally. I wasn't paying attention and walked straight into him coming out of the door. We started talking." Hoku released the handshake, smiling at Monica. This all happened while Jeanne was still asleep, and Monica, meanwhile, was clearly more interested in finding new material to tease them with than in doing her actual job.

"I'm mortified!" The man said, bowing to Lance, who was flat on the floor.

"It's nothing." He rubbed the back of his head. They had simply failed to see each other, both distracted by their morning purpose. Hoku had taken all the blame, despite Lance's attempts to distribute it. The boy reached down and pulled him to his feet." Hoku Sai, Advanced Agent." He smiled again.

"Lance Klint!" He stood and dusted off his trousers.

"Pleased to meet you."

"By the look of your clothes, are you heading to the training ground?"

"Yes, I haven't moved properly in a few days. It's good to warm up before a mission, I think... I am kinda new to this job."

"Don't be so upset about it!" He slapped him hard on the shoulder." Is this guy made out of rock or what?!" He let out a chuckle while ignoring the spreading tingle on his back.

"It was like that for me the first time I came here." Hoku started walking, and unconsciously, Lance followed him while rubbing the spot where he had been hit.

"New language, new people, new everything... I didn't know what to do at that time." They were now walking shoulder to shoulder, at the same pace.

"Did you say you were going to train?" Lance looked at him, smiled, and nodded"Great, then let's go together." Hoku picked up the pace, with Lance soon to follow.

"I'm honestly impressed," Sai said, looking at the thickness of Lance's arms, visible even through the sleeve of his sweater.

"Your build is... Significant."

"Thank you, Hoku, but it's just a consequence of my slaving around as a freelance courier..." Hoku looked at him more closely, almost analyzing his muscles.

"Well, it's the second time I've found a worthy rival in the gym. The first one was Noel!"

"Is he a friend of ours here at NOIR?" Hoku nodded, but before he could speak, he felt a strange sensation in his neck, like some eyes had just started to bury themselves in his skin. Monica and Jeanne were both staring at the two of them with identical expressions of baffled amusement. They smiled and joked, trading shoulder checks and chest-taps just a second before, and the matching glasses were not helping either of them look less like a specific type of illustrated comedy.

Lance and Hoku were both clearly intelligent, well-mannered young men who spoke almost in the same way. Jeanne had gone slightly pale when she looked closely at the dark columns.

"Hi, Commander! What brings you here?" Hoku smiled, kindly bowing to her.

"Why are you two here?" Lance asked, looking around for his sweater.

"It's nine fifty. You have less than an hour before boarding." Monica had recovered enough of her composure to produce normal speech.

"Right!" He slapped his neck with his eyes wide open.

"I'll go get ready! Sorry to interrupt." He scooped up his sweater from a nearby bench and was out the door. By ten twenty, he was ready: casual clothes, his windbreaker in its proper place, glasses on. He came out into the hall and moved toward the main foyer, the vehicle elevator.

"Well, here goes my breakfast..." He remembered the experience clearly, but his stomach remembered it with more specificity than he would have preferred. Jeanne, for her part, came through it entirely impassive, though her hair had converted itself into a vertical waterfall. The three-wheeler burst out of the structure, heading for the hangar.

"Here you are." Edvard smiled from the top of a stack of black containers. Behind him, against the back wall of the structure: a sleek, low shape in black iron.

"That's the Diem, the ultra-rapid transport craft." Monica said, gesturing for the recruits. Where the Pietas was broad and square, driven by four turbine-fed wings, the Diem was narrow and precise: a single folded pair of wings, inverted relative to conventional designs, with the engine mass at the rear. It was smaller but way faster and more nimble. This was immediately apparent. A series of white-and-violet zigzag lines ran the length of its black hull.

"One of Maverick's finer pieces. Its twin Lambda radiation reactors allow it to modulate the air currents around itself for thrust, significantly faster than anything the military has worked on recently." He descended from the containers, toying with his cane. Both Jeanne and Lance were openly transfixed by the aircraft. Edvard tapped the ground twice with his cane, and the Diem's hatches opened, releasing a long telescoping stairway that extended to the hangar floor.

"Good luck with the mission. All instructions are at your operational base in the Capital." Monica gave a light wave, watching them climb. Both recruits smiled, waved back, and stepped into the Diem, taking their seats in the surprisingly spacious interior.

"DEPARTURE PROCEDURE INITIATED — THREE MINUTES TO LAUNCH." A robotic voice echoed through the hull, even and unhurried, as if three minutes to launch were a perfectly unremarkable amount of time.