The brilliant blue text faded from the massive stadium board.
Leaving the formation, Caleb walked toward the deployment tunnels. Loose gravel crunched under his boots. Purple code from the hacker continued to glitch across his cracked visor, leaving vibrant, territorial trails in his peripheral vision: You belong to the Seventh now.
He ignored the text.
The quartermaster's cage sat at the end of the long concrete corridor. Unclasping the heavy surplus chest plate, Caleb let it drop onto the scratched metal counter. The cracked helmet followed, hitting the steel with a dull thud.
The bored quartermaster scanned the damaged gear, checked a datapad, and slid a small, matte-black metal pin across the counter.
A Seventh Division insignia.
Caleb picked it up. The sharp edges of the metal dug into his calloused thumb. Slipping the pin into his pocket, he pushed through the swinging doors of the deployment locker room.
The room sat completely empty. Rows of dented metal lockers stood silent, smelling of stale sweat, weapon oil, and ozone.
Leaning his good shoulder against the nearest bench, Caleb pressed two fingers behind his right ear. Exhaustion dragged at his joints. A dull, grinding ache radiated from beneath his sternum where the fractured bone aggressively knitted itself back together in the dark. He just wanted to go back to his cramped apartment and sleep for fourteen hours.
He scraped his thumbnail against his skin, digging under the adhesive of the matte-black comms-chip. A sharp sting flared along his scalp as he peeled the device free from his hairline.
A smooth, static-laced voice buzzed from the tiny speaker in his palm.
[??? : Put it back, Caleb. I want to listen to the celebration.]
Caleb frowned. What celebration?
He didn't ask. Shoving the chip deep into his jacket pocket, he buried the speaker beneath thick canvas.
One night without the ghost.
Grabbing his keys off the bench, he turned toward the exit, ready to head for the transit rail home.
The locker room doors swung open, clattering loudly against the tile.
Kikaru marched into the room. She had traded her ruined white prototype armor for a crisp, perfectly ironed gray academy uniform. A heavy carbon-fiber brace still locked her left leg straight, forcing a slight limp into her otherwise immaculate stride.
"There you are," Kikaru announced. She wrinkled her nose, sweeping her gaze over the rusted lockers. "This room smells like damp concrete and despair."
Caleb rested his forearms on his knees. "The pristine corporate suites are down the hall. Are you lost?"
"Hardly." She stopped a few feet away, crossing her arms over her chest to favor her bandaged ribs. "The Defense Force rented out a lower-sector tavern for the graduating class. The Neon Serpent. It is a sponsored networking event. Mandatory attendance."
Caleb offered a dry, crooked smile, noting the sharp crease in her collar. "You wore the academy dress uniform to a dive bar?"
"It commands respect," she shot back defensively, adjusting her cuffs. "I am officially a First Division asset now. I will not show up to a Captain-hosted event looking like a vagrant just because my primary armor is in the repair bay."
She lifted her chin. "Besides, seeing as I will be climbing the command ladder rapidly, it is critically important to monitor all Defense Force assets. Even the lackluster ones drafted into the Seventh."
Caleb let out a short, genuine laugh. It was a rare, rusty sound that pulled slightly at his healing chest. He slipped his keys back into his pocket and stood up.
"Alright, Commander," Caleb said. "Lead the way. Let's go monitor some assets."
Kikaru offered a sharp, satisfied sniff. She turned on her heel, her carbon-fiber brace clicking against the tiles as she marched back toward the exit.
An hour later, the underground transit rail dropped them at the edge of the entertainment district.
During the ride, Kikaru had maintained a stiff, perfect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap while the neon lights of the passing cityscape painted her face in alternating shades of electric blue and violent red. Caleb had leaned his head against the vibrating glass, letting the rhythmic clatter of the train tracks loosen the tight knots forming along his spine.
Neither of them spoke. They had both nearly died on the asphalt today. Small talk required energy neither of them possessed.
The Neon Serpent tavern overflowed with survivors.
Heavy bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating up through the soles of Caleb's boots. The smell of cheap draft beer, spilled liquor, and roasted meat hung thick in the air. Veterans mixed with the rookies. The grueling tension of the urban zone trial dissolved into loud, reckless relief.
Caleb pushed through the heavy wooden doors, the noise washing over him instantly.
A sharp microphone feedback squeal pierced the music, hushing the tavern.
Captain Ren Kade stood on a heavy oak table near the center of the room. The silver-haired Second Division Captain flanked him, nursing a glass of dark amber liquid. Elara leaned against the bar nearby, her dark-gray First Division uniform cutting a sharp silhouette through the crowd.
"Drink on the Defense Force tab tonight," Kade ordered. His voice carried a brutal, grounded weight over the speakers. "You survived the tutorial. You proved your utility. But tomorrow morning, the celebration ends."
The room went entirely still.
"At zero-eight-hundred, you pack your belongings," Kade continued, his sharp eyes sweeping over the crowd. "You will relocate entirely to your respective Division housing sectors. The training wheels come off. You are entering active combat zones. The casualty rate will climb. Look at the people standing next to you. Memorize their faces. Not all of you will make it to the end of the year."
Kade lowered the microphone, handing it off to a bartender. "Dismissed."
The tavern stayed quiet for three seconds. Then the cheering erupted again, louder this time. Teenagers fueled by adrenaline chased the high.
Navigating the crowded room, Caleb carried a heavy glass mug filled entirely with ice water. Alcohol mixed poorly with shattered ribs. He slid into a cracked leather booth tucked in the back corner.
Hiro slammed two massive wooden platters of grilled skewers onto the table. The kid vibrated with pure nervous energy, tapping his combat boots against the floorboards in a rapid rhythm.
"I still can't believe it," Hiro breathed out, grabbing a chicken skewer. "We actually made it. They handed me a Third Division badge right at the exit gates."
Iharu slid into the booth opposite them. The redhead had swapped his crimson-trimmed armor for an expensive civilian jacket. He kicked his boots up onto the empty chair, a deep scowl twisting his face.
"Don't get comfortable, scrubber," Iharu muttered. He snatched a skewer directly off Hiro's plate. "They only drafted you out of pity. The Seventh Division is a meat grinder."
Hiro pulled his datapad from his jacket pocket. His fingers tapped the glass screen in a frantic, practiced blur.
"I am setting up a cross-division tactical thread," Hiro announced, ignoring the insult. "We need to coordinate. Share combat schedules. Compare our training loads."
Iharu scoffed, chewing on a piece of meat. "I do not need a support group."
"Add him," Caleb said quietly, taking a sip of his ice water. "He needs the notifications to know exactly how far behind us he is."
Iharu's jaw locked. He swallowed hard. Snatching his own datapad from his pocket, he aggressively punched in his personal frequency code.
"I am only joining this garbage thread to track your combat scores," Iharu snarled, shoving the device toward Hiro. "And to keep tabs on that pompous princess. Once my sync rate hits thirty percent, I am leaving all of you in the dust."
"Sure you will," Hiro beamed, hitting the send button to finalize the group invite.
Hiro argued loudly with Iharu over the tactical thread settings.
Caleb focused on the condensation running down the side of his water glass. The deep bruising along his right arm throbbed a steady, rhythmic ache.
Next to him, Kikaru swirled the amber liquid in her cup. The crisp, ironed collar of her academy uniform was unbuttoned at the top.
"My prototype cracked," Kikaru said. Her voice barely carried over the noise of the crowded bar.
Caleb glanced at her.
She stared into her glass. "The Mitsurugi core plating is rated to withstand a building collapse. That Honju pierced it in three seconds. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move." She took a slow sip of her drink. "My father demands absolute perfection. A Mitsurugi does not bleed in the tutorial phase. If you hadn't stepped in..."
She trailed off, tightening her grip on the glass.
Caleb ran his thumb over the scarred edge of the wooden table. He kept his tone flat, offering only the brutal reality of his world.
"Before today, I spent five years scraping rotting bone marrow out of the disposal yards," Caleb said. "I stepped in because if you died, the Guild would have docked my pay for letting a high-value asset expire in my sector."
Kikaru stopped swirling her drink. She looked at him.
"You are a terrible liar, Caleb Mercer," she murmured.
A short, rusty laugh escaped Caleb's chest. The sound pulled slightly at his mending ribs.
Kikaru paused. She set her glass on the table. Shifting closer on the leather bench, she invaded his personal space. The scent of lavender soap mixed with the sharp sting of distilled spirits. She reached up, her manicured fingers hovering near his throat.
She grabbed the frayed canvas collar of his disposal jacket, folding the rough fabric down. Her knuckles brushed against the thick white medical tape wrapping his collarbone.
Caleb went completely still.
"You have a one-percent output," Kikaru asked, her voice dropping to a quiet, demanding whisper. She kept her fingers resting lightly against his collar. "You have no pedigree. No sponsors. No augmented strength. Why do you fight like you have everything to lose?"
"Touching the recruits already, Princess?"
The intrusion shattered the bubble.
A woman leaned over the edge of their table. Vivid red hair fell in a sharp, asymmetrical cut around her face. She wore the dark-gray uniform of the Seventh Division, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows to reveal thick, jagged scar tissue winding up her forearms. A calculating, razor-sharp grin stretched across her mouth.
Vice Captain Iris Calder.
Iris swept her dark eyes over the booth, taking in Hiro's nervous flinch, Iharu's scowl, and Kikaru's hand hovering over Caleb's neck. She finally locked onto Caleb, studying his bruised arm and cheap surplus gear.
"I'm Iris Calder," she announced, sliding smoothly into the empty space at the edge of the booth. She propped her boots up on the lower table rail. "I run the vanguard for the Seventh. And you must be the charity case."
Kikaru pulled her hand away from Caleb's collar. She sat back, her spine snapping into a rigid, defensive line.
"He is not a charity case," Kikaru stated, her tone dropping into a cold, professional clip.
"Sure he is," a heavy, booming voice rumbled behind Iris.
Captain Ren Kade stepped up to the booth.
The sheer density of the man forced the surrounding recruits to step back, creating a wide circle of empty space around their table. Kade did not carry a drink. He looked down at Caleb with absolute detachment.
"You are here because the First Division manipulated a vote," Kade said directly to Caleb. "I accepted the transfer because the Seventh Division requires bodies. Do not mistake this for a reward. The Seventh handles the highest concentration of Danger Class breaches on the grid. Our casualty rate reflects that."
Kade leaned his massive hands on the table, looming over Caleb.
"Tomorrow morning at zero-eight-hundred, you deploy to the front lines. Survive, and you earn your keep. Fail, and we leave you in the rubble."
Kikaru's hands curled into tight fists on her lap. She kept her posture perfectly aligned, but the hard line of her jaw betrayed her anger.
Kikaru bristled. Her hands curled into tight fists on her lap. She kept her posture perfectly aligned, recognizing the immense gap in rank, but the hard line of her jaw betrayed her anger.
"Respectfully, Captain," Kikaru said, her voice tight but measured. "He survived a Danger Class-6 Honju with a one percent augmented output. He possesses high-level tactical processing. Categorizing him as fodder wastes a tactical asset."
Kade shifted his heavy gaze to the heiress. He let the quiet stretch. Kikaru held his stare, refusing to look away.
"We will see what he is tomorrow, Mitsurugi," Kade grunted.
The Captain turned his back on the booth. Iris offered a two-finger salute, an amused glint in her eyes, before pushing off the table and following her commander into the crowd.
Caleb watched the dark-gray uniforms disappear into the sea of celebrating recruits. He shifted his weight, sliding out of the leather booth. His boots hit the sticky floorboards.
Kikaru turned toward him, her jaw still locked tight.
Caleb reached into his pocket. His calloused thumb brushed the sharp edges of the matte-black Seventh Division pin resting right beside the hidden comms-chip. He pulled out a few crumpled credit chits, tossing them onto the wooden table next to his half-empty water glass.
"I need to pack," Caleb said.
He left the neon-lit tavern, pushing through the heavy wooden doors and stepping out into the freezing night air.