Draven, following their visit to Delta, immediately began booking Zones. Doing so revealed not only three but, in fact, eight accessible daily slots divided in hour-long blocks. Of those, he reserved three, then rinsed off in the shower and headed to bed.
The following morning was disorienting. Despite a relatively travelled upbringing, especially given the variety and density of his uncle, aunt and cousins' schedules, Draven needed a moment of recalibration.
Fox wasn't up. Draven consequently made sure to stay extra quiet as he inspected his spoils from Around the Crock, then threw blue eggs from some farm planet onto the stove. Ten minutes later, he finished a decent breakfast.
The campus ground, at eight AM, was docile and empty. Formerly congested walkways were barren to the point of inauspicity, though Draven supposed that could've been more a factor of him arriving two weeks before actual semester launch.
Draven stepped through Delta's sliding entrance and nodded to a new receptionist, this time a surly man with bushy brows who barely shot him a second glance as he buzzed in and ambled to a changing room.
His new Zone, Five, was configurationally identical to Three. Draven jogged its perimeter while silently revising his earlier Duel, then consulted the console to produce an adversary.
Alright, he decided, F4 was a wash. Let's kick things up a notch.
Draven, intent on honing his instincts, once again chose a Duellist opponent. [Force]-[Fleet] focalization demanded reflexive acuity, while something like [Focus] generally required higher battle IQ, which was not his current goal.
He called out the activation triggers, and the bot charged.
This time, the droid was armed with a greatsword. Draven met it's charge, feinted right, then grounded the blocking blade with Tooth to expose the bot's throat for Claw. The Duellist reared inches clear of his swipe, escaping the killshot by a hair's breadth. As it stumbled, Draven adjusted to grip Tooth by the mace. His lunging stab connected, scoring a thin line across the droid's midsection.
Affronted, the drone tried and whiffed a pommel bump before heaving a diagonal overhead at his shoulder. Draven rolled left, then sidestepped its following lunge. The Duellist, overextended, endured consequence through Claw hooking its guard and ripping the weapon away while Tooth slammed into its throat, or at least, would've, had the Zone not Zeroed.
"Killshot knockout confirmed. Victor, Magal."
"Better," he deduced, barely out of breath, "but still comfortably assailable. I outclass them."
Draven then took on an F6, and the fight was closer. It managed to nick him en route to defeat, this time by technical knockout, leaving Draven's Condition at eighty-nine percent.
Not bad, he contemplated, inspecting his unchanged Attributes. But I need to tighten up. He paused as a second bot tromped out while its counterpart retreated for repairs. Statistically, Weavers are weakest against Phalanxes or Sentinels. [Fort] to turtle through touches, then either [Force] or [Focus] as a closer. I need to solve them early.
The Duel took three times as long.
With Draven's endurance and the droid's durability, the battle quickly devolved to attrition. Unfortunately for the Sentinel, Draven adapted quickly and soon had it on the back foot. By the end of the session, he'd won four spars, though at the cost of almost thirty-nine Condition.
A few puffs later, and Draven was good as new.
That being said, his Screen remained unchanged. Magal, apparently, hadn't accumulated sufficient experience, though such was to be expected. Shanelle hadn't held back, forcing constant adaptation from both Draven and his Xeno. Necessity, after all, mothered invention. The droid, conversely, did not.
Against the drone, he actually held the advantage.
That has to change, Draven decided as he strolled back to his apartment. Gains are just as important as experience. I'll have to dial up the difficulty.
And so he did.
In the mornings before Fox awoke to derail his agenda, Draven burned hours in the Fields. He had the good sense to broaden his defensive portfolio by varying drone classes, strengthening an already robust foundation.
Fox, on the other hand, introduced him to 'the guys'. None of them impressed Draven, but he quickly pegged that more as a reflection of his natural disinterest than their character. In the days preceding first bell, the group visited several of Nell's twelve distinct districts, exploring other schools, dozens of malls, restaurants, projection theatres and even, at one of the stupider boy's requests, a sleezy red light district.
Draven's overall conclusion of Fox's friends was that, while harmless, the boys were spoiled and stupid. None really seemed to understand the gravity of commitment an Installation demanded, though Draven did internally acknowledge he could be the outlier.
Two weeks passed in a flash. Before they knew it, September fourth arrived, and it was time to attend the opening ceremony. That, however, was at noon. Draven, naturally, spent the morning in a Zone and gained a subrank in [Force].
"Baby steps," he affirmed quietly, heading back to Belanger. "Slow and steady."
He scowled. 'Slow' was antithetical to his philosophy.
Fox met him in the kitchen, sipping what was probably coffee. Draven did them both the favour of trying to ignore him and headed straight for his room.
"Where were you?" interrupted Fox, lovably obtuse as ever.
Draven slowed. "Working out. You good?"
"Yeah." Fox cringed into his cup. "Late night."
Draven was well aware. His perfectly peaceful sleep had paid the price at two forty-six that morning.
"Caffeine'll fix that. Rest up." He turned to leave.
"Delta?" asked Fox.
Where else?
Draven smothered an eyeroll while replying, "Routines work best when they're followed."
"Yeah, so why didn't you say anything?" complained Fox. "I'm closing on F1."
"Next time." Draven had kept his word and suffered hour long sparring sessions with Fox, trying to provide the barest of fundamentals on footwork and not spearing oneself clean through. It'd been joyless and testing. "Figured you'd work at your own pace."
"My pace won't hit F8 by October!" accused Fox.
"That's the thing," sighed Draven. "It's not about me. Rank isn't given, Fox, it's seized. If I drag you, we'll both lag. Sink or… well, maybe not sink, 'cause you do have some promise, but the summit's a slippery slope. And I'm barely finding my feet."
Fox rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You literally just had to knock."
Scorching stars. "Right. My bad. I'm gonna hit the shower."
He took his sweet time, hoping his roommate would flit off to wherever he and his friends liked to waste time. Sadly, the Lancer's migration only went as far as the couch, where he watched a movie on the window Viewer.
"Assembly in thirty," he warned, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Draven shot a thumbs-up that Fox didn't see, so the boy repeated himself.
"Heard you." Draven poured himself a glass of juice, then tried and failed to escape to his room.
"Hey."
"Yeah?"
"Do I actually have promise? Or were you just being nice?"
"The potential is in your hands," Draven told him. "The more time passes, the slower you progress. The highest climbers start early. Rank cap is one of the hardest things to predict because you never know how much someone is willing to throw in."
Fox nodded sombrely. "What about you?"
"No idea. Just taking things a day at a time."
There wasn't a shadow of a doubt in Draven's mind that he'd either die or reach S-rank, but Fox didn't need to know that.
"Fair. Got any more slots?"
Draven shrugged. "Not sure. Lemme get back to you on that."
He escaped to his room to burn the remaining half hour reviewing anti-Sentinel [Fleet] schemes. Time flew, and after what felt like a blink, Draven was plodding alongside Fox and throngs of Masters cadets streaming into the Arena. Most were unrecognizable, save a handful of unremarkable Year-Threes and Fours he remembered seeing circulated through prospect lists.
The Arena, however, quickly overrode Draven's ruminations. Fox's earlier tour hadn't nearly done it justice.
Bold, burnished bronze twisted through thick, simulated plaits to form a glossy, rounded exterior, accented by sharp slashes of red. Draven glanced up at the thirty-foot crest framing an armoured knight gleaming against the planar facade as he filtered through Gate B. Proximity readers automatically connected to his Glass, which chimed as MM confirmed his entry pass.
He and Fox, thankfully, did not encounter any of the latter's 'friends' on the way to their seats. Glancing out into the massive Zone displayed a temporary stage built into the Arena's south end, where technicians ambled about. The floor itself, on the other hand, was seven hundred yards long, and a half the width. Said floor was flat, gunmetal grey, and checkered with dormant hexagonal 'tiles'. When activated, those tiles would change shape, size and texture to emulate artificial environments for added challenge and immersion.
Wonder how long it'll take me to get down there, wondered Draven. Year-Two varsity? Oof. That's in a while.
"Mate," marvelled Fox, breathless at the sheer breadth of the Zone, "this is..."
Draven retreated from his mental scheduling and replied, "Pretty average, honestly. You should see the stuff they build on Osiris."
"Obviously," snorted Fox. "But this? For a school?"
Draven shrugged. "It's a serious school."
"Too true."
It took thirty minutes for the remaining cadets to trickle in. Draven spent most of it failing to identify significant faces in the growing audience while his roommate gaped over the stadium in reverent disbelief. Fox's gawking and gasping got old fast, so Draven was relieved when an amplified voice finally boomed, "Welcome, everyone."
The crowd slowly quieted and faced the stage, where the technicians had disappeared in favour of a tall, dark-haired man. Hidden cameras projected him onto a jumbotron hologram, enlarging his tailored grey suit, sharp, steely eyes, and strong, square features to observable proportions.
"My name," he began, "is Patrick Butler. Most of you already know that, and those who don't are in trouble." He frowned at his projection. "I hate that thing. How do they keep making me fatter?"
The laughs were polite and measured.
"I'm the Dean of this institution, and to all our new freshmen and transfers, we're glad to have you. To everyone else, yes, I have to do this again. And yes, I will make this joke every year."
Their apparent comedian of a principal earned another round of chuckles.
"Masters Academy," he began, "is many things. A pioneer of development. A statement of strength. A symbol of unity. We represent much. But to you, I pray we become family. Individually, your new purpose is now to attain an elite, comprehensive command over the many intricacies of Scionry. Ours is a dangerous galaxy, and Terrankind, despite countless fantastic advancements and safeguards, is far from infallible. We, therefore, must never fail."
He paused his slow walk across stage. "You all know of the Yorgan War, and its ensuing repercussions on our systems. You know of our enemies and allies scattered across systems, and the Corps' subsequent responsibilities. Many of you believe you will graduate, woo the Republic with astonishing combat prowess and live out your remaining days in easy, famed bliss through sweeping League success." He shrugged. "That could happen. Our SCS draft rate is exceptional. But you will fight. You will serve, and you will kill. Those are all fundamental parts of your new lives that all must accept. The alternative is death. It is that simple."
Butler spread his arms, grinning wryly. "So let's keep that eventuality hypothetical, eh?"
"We have to kill people?!?" whispered Fox, panicked.
Draven's jaw clenched. "Shut up, Felix."
"Now," continued Butler, "I know a lot of you might feel overwhelmed. This is exciting, after all! Scion school! I can already picture wide eyes imagining all the incredible Abilities, Games and Duels. Hell, some of you may even hit the Feeds. Again, possible, just unlikely." Butler held up a finger. "But that doesn't mean don't try."
He gestured, and a line of cadets tromped out from a hidden entrance. These, Draven immediately recognized.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"Cadets, allow me to introduce varsity Teams Rogue, Ash and Spider."
The applause reflected the student body's recognition. Everyone, even the Year-Ones, knew them. Except, of course, Fox. He looked completely lost.
"I present our highest-performing athletes. In Year-Four, V-Team Rogue came third in the Crucible War Games knockout, while three of them made top seven in the Duel bracket. Ash almost won theirs while having all members in the top ten, while Spider's captain, Daldus, managed a dramatic silver medal."
Another applause. Draven wasn't impressed. Historically, Masters was a terrific varsity school, but the past few years hadn't been its strongest. A decade ago, the suggestion of heading home without trophies would've kept their athletic department awake at night.
"Rogue captain Vengrid, at A7, is currently Masters' highest-ranking cadet." The according Scion stepped forward. Draven scanned her silver hair, sharp posture and neutral expression with mild interest.
Striker, he recalled. Average, though. I'll be surprised if she makes the Ter.
Fox was on a slightly different wavelength. "Rezzes. She's..."
"Fox, you're drooling."
Fox clapped his mouth shut and scowled. "Who asked you?"
Draven rolled his eyes.
"To reach her level," Butler continued, "tireless consistency is unconditional. Relentless commitment to ascension must become your dogma. Sixty-five percent of the Fleet's pro B ranks come from top ten schools, people. That means you. So yes, it will not be pleasant. Yes, you will have to suffer. But when it's all said and done, you will be Masters."
The half-hearted applause suggested the pun as something of a staple to the Dean. Butler's speech then tapered off with the announcement that their schedules had just hit MM.
Draven checked and found a series of classes broken down into 'block' periods, similar to the Zone reservation portal. Three blocks from eight to twelve twenty, then a break, then a final period. He also noticed, with some interest, empty blocks scheduled after official class hours.
Some of them, that is. MM had shrunk his reserved Zone slots and rescheduled them in the afternoon and evening, post-lecture spots.
"From that shuffling," observed Butler, "I assume you are all checking. Good. Initiative breeds impact. Now, blocks one to five are your class periods. They are easy to distinguish; during the week, those are the times you are in lectures, Zones, or wherever else instructors decide to hold class. The letter blocks past fifteen twenty hours are your extracurricular sessions. There, you may schedule any extra activities, such as training, study groups, class assignments and whatever else. Use your time wisely."
Draven, while annoyed, had only lost three slots in the shift, with the rest split over several days. Curious, he checked the maximum reserve date and realized yes, in fact, the receptionist had been dead on. He could only book ten days in advance, as MM blocked everything past August 31st.
I'll start with three two-hour sessions per week, he decided, setting an alarm two minutes before September 2nd's E block reservation lift. There's no telling how quickly Delta will fill up, so let's not leave things to chance. Damn. Hate being in the dark. He shook his head. So annoying.
Butler's speech was winding down. "Now, that's a lot of information, but our staff is phenomenal and will always be happy to go over it again." He smirked. "Alright, enough chatter. I can tell half of you are falling asleep." Draven quickly saw where Butler was going. "Who says we really put this Arena to use, hmm?"
That elicited the loudest cheer of the day.
"Yeah, thought so. Vengrid, Heracor, step forward."
Year-Four Horan varsity power rankings, if Draven remembered correctly, had designated Heracor as an exceptionally mediocre Phantom. The current crop of Masters' elite were not doing their school justice. In terms of call-ups to the Horus League, the ninety-four-five season had only seen seven local cadets participate in twenty-three Games. For the top school in the system, that was horrendous. And, of course, that wasn't even considering the actual Scion League, which, depressingly, only once had Vengrid sit on a bench for a week while one of their Strikers regrew an arm. Allegedly, the head coach had almost immediately realized she wasn't at all competitively useful, but, due to registration rules, had to wait before sending her back.
This is going to be interesting, thought Draven. I hope. Please be interesting.
He, of course, had witnessed many, many top-level contests. His uncle exposed him young, and his cousins, social as they were, almost always had ways to acquire the tickets he needed. Aunt Eliza's S-rank also did wonders for nepotistic manoeuvring, but it also meant he wasn't nearly as impressionable as the awestruck freshmen. Hell, even some of the older cadets shifted about apprehensively, eager for the Duel.
A localized Zone rippled out of the tiles and, via gravitational motorization, hovered to hang twenty yards over the centre of the Arena. Vengrid and Heracor, armed with flat expressions of determination, jogged to separate staircases leading up to the Duelling floor.
Cheers sounded across the rising, translucent Zone dome as they hit the paint, then settled opposite one another. Vengrid, occupying the lower third and fourth quadrants, briefly eyed her adversary, then Summoned.
Draven ignored the oohhs and aahhs as dense pink-brown plates materialized over her Masters branded sub-Summons, then as Heracor was cocooned in violet and green. The Striker twirled her ranseur, a three-pronged spear alongside a tall, rectangular shield, while Heracor bounced lightly from foot to foot, juggling kriss knives.
"Who'd you think is gonna win?" inquired Fox excitedly.
Draven studied the armoured cadets. "Heracor is at a disadvantage. Strikers do well against Phantoms, since [Force] excels at tanking through [Fleet] salvos, and stacking [Focus] gives her the best folk for shock crippling, which will end the Duel. Additionally, he's a lower rank and, if I recall, which, to be fair, is probably the most important bit, a worse fighter." He shrugged. "It's an exhibition game, though, so who knows?" Draven cocked his head and explained, "Folk rolls easier off the tongue than 'focal'."
"Oh, okay." Fox scratched his head. "Who has better Abilities?"
Draven shrugged. "I dunno."
"Really?" Fox looked shocked. "But… why?"
"Why what?"
"Don't you know?"
Draven made a face. "Why would I memorize their Abbs? These guys suck, Fox. I'm not going to learn anything useful from them. As for the rest, most of this stuff you'll pick up eventually." Draven sighed. "And Abilities are only as good as the Scion makes them. We'll have to see."
Fox nodded. "Right, right. I bet the dude'll win!"
Draven shrugged. Were it up to him, he'd walk out to keep throwing himself at the Striker droid and iron out his stupidly aggressive reach-punish reflex, but alas, the assembly was mandatory.
"Maybe," he told Fox.
The familiar timbre of a digital female voice tinkled through the Arena, declaring the Zone as active. Draven watched the competitors crouch, then the bell chimed.
Immediately, Heracor took off with a movement Ability Draven was almost certain was an evolved variant of Blitz. Vengrid punched the butt end of her weapon into the paint, ballooning a crackling circle to cover quadrants three and four, along with about half of one and two.
Heracor, unperturbed, snapped out of his eccentric strafing patterns and instantly ran her down. The fight, even at such a distance, happened practically at the edge of Draven's perception, meaning actual combat would leave him steamrolled.
Vengrid rebuffed Heracor with her heater, then staked the ground he'd occupied only moments prior. His [Fleet] managed to outpace her [Focus], allowing the Phantom to dance clear.
Draven snapped. "Slipstep."
"What?" slurred Fox, mesmerized by the Duel.
"Heracor's Ability. It's one of Blitz's D-rank evolutions. Buffs the accelerant while amping control through conditional, invisible platforms. Classic, blue-collar castle-crashing legacy. Think harriers, rangers and wedge guards." Draven nodded in recollection, SL highlights springing to mind. "Effective applicants are touch-rate demons."
Fox tore his eyes off the skirmish to gape at his roommate, utterly clueless.
"Successful strikes over attempts." Draven gestured to the fight. "Top percenters are categorical pains in the hide. As for the rest… don't worry about it."
Fox snapped back to the Zone. "What about Vengrid?"
Draven squinted to watch her rear back, then hurl her spear across the floor. Despite actually adjusting to curve at her opponent, Heracor dodged. Vengrid flexed her gloved hand, freezing the ranseur mid-flight before returning it to her grip.
"She's used three. Heat Seeker, Recall and Blade Boon. Heat Seeker changed the spear's direction in the air, Recall recalled it, and Blade Boon is the Amp evolution she used to make it glow. It hikes damage, while also inflicting what I believe is an enfeebler, but don't quote me."
"That's... how can you tell?"
Draven watched a ghostly replica of Heracor's knives materialize behind the Striker. She, bearing a [Focus] focal, obviously noticed and deflected, allowing Heracor to complete the ruse and score a gash across her unprotected back.
The northeastern Viewer broadcasting the Duelling cadets' Condition bars flashed, then decreased Vengrid's by four percent.
"Huh. Ghost Claw. Very interesting." Draven faced the Lancer and shrugged dismissively. "There's no shortcut. Find a team or league and watch, Fox. Over and over. You pick stuff up with time."
Draven refocused on the Duel. Vengrid seemed content to bomb Heracor from range while the Phantom remained in perpetual transit, darting in for quick, glancing strikes in an unavailing attempt at attritional attenuation. It was boring, basic combat strategy that did nothing but stultify a once exuberant audience.
And that's the problem with perfunctories, sighed Draven. No drive, and therefore creativity. Elementary layering and Abb stacks. Basic, methodical philosophy with zero spark. No wonder we're trophyless.
Eventually, after whittling Vengrid down to the sixties, Heracor's luck ran out, and the ranseur clipped his thigh. The Viewers lit up with 'significant strike' animations, then dropped the Phantom's previously untouched Condition to eighty-four.
"About time," muttered Draven, relieved.
Heracor landed on his feet, but Blade Boon's debilitator degraded both muscle and armour. Vengrid subsequently interrupted his rhythm recovery with another swipe, functionally ending the fight. The official end, however, occurred when she redirected one of his brasher charges airborne before cracking his ribs in an overhead that lit up the Zone and rocketed the Phantom off the edge of the fourth quadrant.
"Technical knockout confirmed. Victor, Vengrid."
Applause exploded across the Arena. Fox's roar was among the loudest, galvanized by what was frankly a mediocre display of average A-rank combat.
Too average, in fact.
Even for an off year, there's no way that's our top-rank ceiling, reasoned Draven. Butler probably told them to keep it courteous.
Speaking of, the Dean popped back onstage, thanked the Duellers and dismissed the audience. As they filtered out, Fox refused to stop babbling about the fight and its electrifying impact. Draven, conversely, was elsewhere.
Heracor and I have the same weakness, he realized, concerned. Recovery. Abysmal [Force] coupled with F-rank [Fort] is a significant strike cocktail of catastrophe. Concrete Striker or Sent touches might as well be nuclear bombs. He nibbled at his lip. Hell, even a [Force] heavy Duellist could split me like a walnut. Draven grimaced. That's grim. That is very, very grim.
"Dray!"
Draven snapped from his musings. "Huh?"
"Where are you, man? I asked what you're doing today?" This time, it was Fox who looked exasperated.
Draven cocked his head. "I... I think I'll stop by the library."
Fox reverted to his customary state of befuddlement. "Why?"
Draven, mind already whirring, broke away. "I've gotta find something. Don't wait up."
As Morrison Library occupied the same block as the Arena, Draven arrived in no time flat. Once inside, he immediately accessed MM to navigate the mazy halls and locate his target on the fifth floor.
Like most libraries, Morrison housed its extensive catalogue in custom 'data discs', readable only by Masters approved hardware. Draven, after repeatedly consulting his Glass, finally found 'Impenetrable — A Comprehensive Analysis of Scion Defence, Book 8 (WEAVERS)' in one of the rear shelves. The author, Ernest Legg, was familiar to him in the most superficial sense. He'd heard the name a few times, and often followed by praise.
Draven then parked behind a Board in the seating section and got to work. He used the stand and stylus on his right to prop his Glass for notes, then slipped the disc into the reader.
He proceeded to spend the following hour reading without taking a single note. Somehow, the entire book was useless. Weaver recovery, apparently, was a universal, unsolvable issue, and most workarounds were little more than band-aid stitching. Many, many illusory Abilities. [Fleet] enhancement. Damage reduction.
But nothing, strangely enough, to bolster his [Fort]. At least, not at his rank. In fact, the only real suggestion for endurance training actually revolved around offensive application, not defensive tenacity.
I can't believe this, he grumbled, tsking irately. The hell am I supposed to do now?
"Quiet," snapped a voice on his right.
Draven turned to regard a strikingly bronzed, green-eyed brunette staring intently at her notes. Frowning, he swept their surroundings and found the entire row empty, save them.
"Are you talking to me?"
She spun to glare. "Who else? Shut up. I'm trying to study."
Draven arched his brow. "Three things. One, rude. Two, for what? Syllabuses haven't even dropped yet. And three, you chose to sit beside me. There are, like, seventeen other chairs."
She rolled her eyes. "First, I don't care. Second, that's what makes me better than you. And third, I was here first. You sat beside me."
"Really?" Draven didn't remember noticing her smoothie or backpack, which was slightly concerning. "Oh." He turned back to his Board. "Sorry."
Each of the twelve discs contained a chapter. Draven managed to reach the sixth before giving up, smothering his groan into a hissing sigh as he massaged his aching eyes.
I'm so done.
"What?" snapped the girl, who, like Draven, hadn't moved in over three hours.
He waved her off. "Sorry, sorry. I—"
"You've been grunting for over an hour! What is wrong with you?"
"My bad. I just... this stupid book is... dumb."
"I see." She eyed him pensively. "Just out of curiosity, is Terran your… fifteenth language? And what breed of gorilla did you learn it from? One with a missing frontal lobe? Or one without lobes at all?"
"I need defensive cover," he snapped, glaring. "The moron who wrote this useless book refuses to accept the reality that low rank Weavers will take touches, and therefore require a counter. It's a fyzzing [Fort] focal, for crying out loud. Almost like someone playing for time should be able to survive the skynning time!" Draven massaged his temples. "I'm not asking for Impasse, just to stay swinging after swallowing a sig."
The girl's expression mellowed slightly into something bordering interest. "You don't look like a Weaver."
"I'm not," he scoffed. She inclined her head in askance, so he explained, "It's just my arch."
"No kidding?" She browsed him with an intrigued once-over. "What's it like?"
"Stressful," admitted Draven, gesturing to his blinking Board. "Hence, grunting."
The girl, after momentary reflection, pushed upright and leaned for a better angle on his screen. "Weapon?"
"Scythe-hatchet maces."
She frowned. "Come again?"
"It's probably somehow weirder than it sounds. Dual-wielding scythes with mace head pommels. The blades collapse against the snath, which changes them to a narrower shape." He mimed clapping. "Hatchet."
"Mhm," muttered the girl. "Disturbing."
"Fyzz off," snorted Draven. "It's also cooler than it sounds."
She eyed him, then asked, "Weight?"
*****
Xeno Designation — MAGAL
PARTIAL SCREEN
Rank — [F5 (15.2)]
- [Force] — [F0 (10.3)]
- [Fleet] — [F8 (18.4)]
- [Focus] — [F2 (12.5)]
- [Fort] — [F9 (19.7)]
- [Form] — [S-Silver (94.3)]
*****
"Five-six, almost seven," he replied absently.
She cocked her head. "Where's the dip?"
"[Force]," said Draven before snapping into an astonished double-take.
Attribute 'weighting' was the colloquial term for focal skewing. As Draven explained to Fox, all Scions were different, leading to minute variances in individual subranks. For a hybrid of Draven's F5 rank, focals averaged at F8, while nonfocals languished at F2. Were Magal to have followed that template, Draven's split would ratio at a perfectly even five-five. However, with his [Fort] ahead by one, it shifted to five-six. The dip, as she called it, was which of his nonfocals dropped to compensate.
Draven couldn't believe it. He'd finally met someone who spoke his language.
"You know weight?" he exclaimed.
She wrinkled her nose. "And how to spell 'gutshot'. Any other stupid questions?"
"Sorry," he laughed. "My, uh, roommate is new. Sixty percent of our conversations are me explaining basic stuff."
"My condolences," she offered before settling back in her chair. "Want the truth? Weavers are built for evasive attrition, not ballistic. The one percenters just dance you to death without so much as a singe. You can't find what you're looking for because what you're looking for doesn't exist."
Draven slumped. "Thank you, strange girl."
"But," she continued, "you aren't a Weaver, are you?" Draven glanced over, where she was eyeing him meaningfully. "You're a Deviant, so your actual bread and butter is eccentricity." She ejected her disc and slipped it back in its case, then gestured dramatically. "Make up something cool. Isn't that the point of your class? Live up to it and deviate."
Draven contemplated the suggestion, then asked, "What's your name?"
"Shakol."
He frowned. "That sounded like an XD, which means you haven't answered my question."
The strange girl combed him with a long, thoughtful look, then eventually replied, "Hydi."
"Dray," replied Draven. "Or Carv nowadays, I guess. Your choice."
"I'm good," she replied. "Good luck. Bye."
He watched her glide off to the elevators. She looked a touch frazzled. Draven, on the other hand, felt purpose seeding within him.
He had a goal. If F-rank was truly devoid of helpful defensive opportunities, he'd just have to make one up, ala Magal creating Void Blight. Something perfectly suited for his style.
The quintessential Deviant directive.
Fair enough. Thanks, Hydi.
Magal, like a dormant, omnipresent predator, rumbled hungrily in Draven's chest. The Xeno was completely on board.
"Finally," muttered Draven, punching the eject button in the corner of his dimming Board. "We have liftoff."