Chapter 8 

There are more than just Darklings that are defined as Halflings. One of the only Halfling breeds that seem to be respected and even revered are the Brightlings. The dynamic opposite to the Darklings, Brightlings are half angelic, notably marked by their lineage with a pair of wings sprouting from their back, a complexion that is literally glowing at times, and luminous irises. Brightling wings do not allow for flight, but do let them glide from heights. This is only made possible by the race’s hollow bone structure, like that of a bird.

Day 1, Igniday

The alarm blared with a wailing horn call. At that moment, it must have been the most horrific tune to wake up to. The handbook called it The Rising and mentioned something about its history and meaning, but at that moment, I didn’t give a griffin’s ass what it meant, I just wanted it to stop. As The Rising started up, I rose from my fitful sleep in a panic, shooting up into the sitting position fast enough to slam my head against the overhang. My ears rang, my skull throbbed, and I probably had just concussed myself. I rolled out of bed and straight onto the floor, the sheets and Sasha coming with me in a tangle. I struck the floor with a slapping thump on the cold tile. The noise emitted from my mouth as my nose pressed against the floor sounded akin to some bastardized mash between a zombie and a mating hippocampi.

I had half a mind to crawl back into bed and cover my head with the sheets to block out the light that activated with the damned blaring hell noise. It was then that I heard the shouting.

“Get your worthless asses out of bed, you sorry sacks of shit!” Came a furious male voice from down the hall outside my room. I really did not like the sound of that. Then I heard a door open, a male scream of panic followed by a loud thump. I liked that sound even less. To get to the locker, I untangled my naked self from the sheets in a frantic rush, tugging and yanking in near panic. I threw the locker door open and dressed in a blur of cursing, hopping, and stumbling. The uniform was almost solid black, made up of pressed pants, combat boots, and a dark grey t-shirt under a dress uniform jacket top that buttoned down the left side of the breast. Every scrap of the uniform was made from some strange material that felt tough and durable yet somewhat elastic. On the shoulders of the shirts and jackets was a symbol that looked like an eight, made up of straight lines, but the top half was open, ending in two prongs like a bident; the design was done in a deep purple. Only a few years later did I learn that the style of suit was called a double-breasted three-button dress coat with a notched lapel.

I had just laced up my second boot, still shirtless when my door slid open. The figure that stepped through made me go pale. It was no man; it was a beast that looked vaguely like a man. Clearly an Orc by his grey-green skin, thick body hair, square jaw, and blunt tusks. He was so large, even for an Orc, that he had to crouch and sidestep to fit through my doorway. His eyes were a flat slate grey under a brow so heavy you could have hung your jacket on it. He dressed (and I use the term loosely) in a uniform similar to my own, only his was trimmed in copper, and his shoulders displayed what looked like four bidents merged to make some kind of compass rose. The uniform would have looked nice if not for the fact that it was stretched so tight over his behemoth frame that the buttons and seams strained with every shift and motion. They must have been reinforced to an ungodly degree.

I’m pretty sure I let out a slight squeak when he loomed over me like a mountain of muscle and wordless threat. He uttered only two words, “Dress, now.” and it sounded like a thunderstorm, and a rockslide had a baby. If I was panicked before, with him in the room, I was so terrified I was sure I was going to faint if he so much as looked at me with annoyance. 

I threw on the undershirt and reached for the jacket, only to freeze when I heard the mass of muscle growl. He raised a single massive paw, giving me the urge to flee like a rabbit as he pointed to my belt line. 

“Tuck.” was all he said and all I needed to hear. I tucked in my undershirt and slipped myself into the coat so fast I rumpled it. When he saw this, he emitted another growl, and I froze, not even daring to breathe. He stepped further into the room, his steps strangely quiet. But I barely noticed that because I could only just barely manage not to fall off my feet. He lifted his hand toward me, and I stepped back in reflex. This only drew another rumble from the large man that forced me to lock in place. He pressed a single finger against my left lapel, his touch gentle but heavy.

“Pin.” The monster of an Orc rumbled. It took me a moment to remember the enamel pin of a grimmalk that my uncle had given me. I scrambled across the room to the workbench. I made to scoop up the pin from the tabletop, but in my rush, I only slapped it to the floor. As the pin bounced and danced across the tile floor, I threw myself in hot pursuit. I scampered across the floor like a gecko to snap up the pin at the foot of the Orc Mystagogue. He reached down with a massive pallet of a hand and lifted me from the floor with two pinched fingers on the back of my collar. He took the pin from my numb hand and pinched off the damnit backing between his lips with shocking dexterity. He slipped the pin through the lower half of my left lapel and snapped on the damnit before I even knew what he was doing.

The large Orc turned around and half tossed me out into the hall. He stepped out behind me and pointed to the door that led to the stairs down, and I needed no more command to understand what I had to do. I clambered to my feet and bolted, weaving through the crowd of new students to head outside for breakfast. The moment I stepped outside, I found a Ceangar dressed the same as the Orc, pointing and shouting at students to get into a uniform formation. The Ceangar was short even for his race, standing at around three foot two. His desert-sand-colored skin was laced with raised pale scars across his face and neck. His eyes were the ice blue-white of northern ice wastes, and his gaze seemed to give that frosty stare a bladed edge. His amber hair was slicked back with a copious amount of gel, the sides shaved down to a fade.

I, just like all the other new students, was completely lost, frantically turning my head, trying to find anyone who looked like they knew what was going on.

“Move your pale asses, you cock lickers!” The Ceangar barked. “Newbies are to stand rank and file over here!” He pointed to an open patch of ground to his left. “I want five even columns and as many rows as needed to fit all you dim wits!” 

I moved to follow instructions, flowing with the mass of bodies around me toward the space the short and intimidating man had indicated. I faced toward the Ceangar and his Orc counterpart in the rightmost column about six people back. The two instructors began walking around the formation, the Ceangar with his hands folded behind his back, the Orc with his arms folded over his massive chest. 

The two had made it only two rows deep before they both stopped. The shorter of the two stared at the student’s feet beside him. Pointedly moving his gaze from the first student to the student next in the row. Before anyone could respond, there was a blur of motion and a sharp crack of something hard hitting something soft, followed by a shout of pain and surprise. The dauntingly angry instructor was suddenly holding a blunt, long knife. The student beside him was on the ground, coddling his left shin.

“When I tell you to stand in formation, I want it to be PERFECT! Even arm’s length distance between you and the student in front of you and in line with the student to your left. Now SHAPE UP!”

All at once, we all started making adjustments, measuring the distance with our arms and shuffling. Once we stopped shifting around, he spoke up again. “That’s better. Now, if you are shorter than the person in front of you, tap them on the shoulder. If you are tapped, you are to half step to the left and step back. These exchanges are to be quick and clean and to keep happening till you are taller than the trainee in front of you.”

 I was tapped three times and did my best to follow instructions. I looked around and noted everyone around me was either a Human or an Elf. They were giving me fleeting glances, only to look away when I made eye contact. In the formation's front were the shorter races, the Ceangars, a single Gnome, and a few Dwarves. At the rear was where most of the Orcs and Dracose stood.

“Great, you now have proven that you all can follow the simplest of instructions when given the proper motivation.” As he said this last bit, he slapped the flat of his blade against his open palm hard enough to elicit an audible clapping sound. “Now, what you are going to learn is some basic footwork.” 

There was another loud Thuwap of metal striking flesh and another wail of pain. “Stand still, you damned greenhorns. If I catch you twitching, fidgeting, or even sneezing, I WILL break something. Now, whether what breaks is my instructing tool or your bones, that’s all up to you. Now, look to your feet!”

We all looked down. “They should be in the shape of a V with heels touching. When I say RIGHT FACE, you are going to push with the toe of your left boot and pivot on your right heel. You will make this quick and clean, and you will stand in a V stance when you are done.”

We all did as we were instructed. He then had us do the shoulder tap thing again. Then we were directed to do another pivot to the left. By the end of it all, the tallest in the formation, a male Dracose, was in the back left corner. Meanwhile, I was in the third to the left column, five people back out of the ten rows.

“Great, now that we have the cattle all pretty like in their rows, it’s time for introductions. I am Mystagogue Kellennar, my meat slab of a partner here is Mystagogue Thrasher, and your names are, as of right now, are worthless. You have no name. Today is the first day of your life as a Slate. Your name is based on your location in this formation. Starting from my right, you are going to count off.” He pointed to the shortest person in the formation, a tiny female Gnome with fluffy orange hair. “You are Slate one or S1. Now count off, loud and clear, before I make sure you need new teeth.”

One after another, each student shouted a number identifier until it was my turn to squeak out “S 23!” but it was barely loud enough to meet Kellennar’s instructions. When he glared at me, I visibly withered under the burning cold gaze of disapproval. On went the count until a resounding silence after the count of fifty.

“I suppose that was a… tolerable display. Now memorize the faces to your left and right and the back of the skull ahead of you. Till the end of your first year, this will be your position. Your number is your name as far as I am concerned, so remember it better than what your parents used to call you. Now, we are your physical conditioning and combat training instructors. When any Mystagogue speaks to you, you are to respond with either yes or no sir, ma’am, or Mystagogue.”

The response from the students was a chaotic mix of answers that mostly comprised “yes sir.” and “yes Mystagogue.” There was a long moment of silence that seemed to stretch on. It was after a few seconds, I noticed a couple of things. First was the rising pressure coming from Kellennar. Then I noticed the engorged vein throbbing at his neck. 

“What, did you just call me?” he murmured, only just loud enough for me to hear. “DID YOU JUST CALL ME MA’AM!?” his murmur rose to a barking yell. “DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING MA’AM TO YOU!” Kellennar stormed past the first few rows of students to stop in front of a Human boy one row ahead of me and a space to my right. The Ceangar literally climbed up the guy’s uniform till he was pressed nose to nose with the blond-haired boy. “DO I HAVE A FUCKING PAIR OF TITS!? DO I LOOK LIKE A PIECE OF FUCKABLE MEAT?!”

“N-no sir,” the poor student stammered. 

Kellennar snarled at the terrified teen before rearing his head back and slamming it into the student’s trembling lips. Kellennar kicked off from the student as he fell to the ground, his lips split and bleeding, several of his teeth chipped, and even one tooth looked to be missing. As the first student fell, the student right behind him only just managed to step aside to avoid being fallen upon, instead jostling me.

Kellennar turned to the student who had just stepped aside. “Did I say you could move?”

“N-no Mystagogue. Sorry, Mystagogue.” whimpered the High Elf as he shuffled back into his space.

“That’s better.” Kellennar turned away and strolled back out of the formation, hands clasped behind his back yet again. He deftly spun on the ball of one foot to face us. “Today, instead of you flatheads getting a fattening breakfast followed by a swift beating at my hands, I am to escort you to the medical center for physical checkups, immunizations, and the installation of your R.A.T. Tails, therra-node mounts, and B.I.C’s. To get there will be the maiden flight for this formation, meaning that in order to get to the medical center, you slug cocks need to learn how to march.” Kellennar said with relish.

At that moment, he started pacing back and forth from one end of the formation to the other. “Marching is simple as pie. When I say ‘left’, you step forward with your left foot. When I say ‘right’, you are to step forward with your right foot. Not a lunging step or a baby step, but an even step. For you shorter maggots, that means you make a step large enough to not get stuck on the boot of the whore face right behind you. For you giants in the back, I know it’s easy to keep those airheads of yours in the clouds up there, but if I catch you stepping on anyone, I will climb that mountain to the top, I will leave my mark at the summit, and it will be a welt. Am I clear?”

This time, the response was a semi-uniform “Yes, sir!”

“Good. Now, you will be following my marching instructions. They will be as follows: left, left, right, left. That means step to the beat, and I swear to the goddess’s tits, if you try to take two left steps in a row, I will beat you senseless and have you running drills for the next week from sunrise to sunset. Am I clear?”

Another resounding answer of “Yes, sir!”

After that, he taught us how to turn while marching, how to half turn while marching, and how to about-face or turn around in a single fluid motion. I fumbled with each of these, lacking the dexterity to perform any of the commands smoothly, drawing snickers from the surrounding students, mostly from the Brightling directly behind me. When we did an about-face, that very same Brightling slapped me in the face with his dove-white wings.

As we began marching to Mystagogue Kellennar’s beat, he would circle around the formation that he called a breaker, smacking anyone who didn’t march to his liking with the flat of his long dagger. He hit me three times in the fifteen-minute march for falling out of step. But two of those three times I was struck was because the Brightling behind me stepped on my tail. One time I could excuse it as an accident, but after that, I knew the half-angel was just being malicious. 

When the breaker formation came to a stop in front of a three-story grey building, my tail was throbbing. I hated how sensitive the damned limb was. The only parallel I could draw to just how sensitive it was would be comparing it to a guy’s... man bits. When we came to a stop, I coddled my bruised tail in my hands, holding it close and as gingerly as I could.

The building before us was a single solid piece of grey stone, most likely synthcrete, dappled every few feet with textured windows that allowed light to pass but obscured vision through the panes. The automatic front doors were also glass, bearing a holographic symbol of an oversized syringe filled with a crossed feather and leaf, the universal symbol for hospitals and medical facilities. We were sent in one column at a time. A few minutes after each column entered, the next was waved in by a nurse. When it came time for my column to enter, I could feel my anxiety, which was already high, spike. I had never had implant surgery before, and my father only had me vaccinated twice in my life, and that was only when the flu was really hitting the town hard. 

I followed behind S18 as close as I dared. S18 looked from behind to be a rather broad Human with no hair. We passed down the entry hall to a nurse, who waved us down a hall to the left. We passed down that hall to be waved right by yet another nurse. Following my fellow students, I stepped into a long room lined with a series of mechanized arms hanging from the ceiling. A nurse at the entryway instructed us to remove our uniform jackets and t-shirts. I did as instructed and proceeded to follow the line. One by one, we stepped into a scanning chamber that, to my best guess, must have measured statistics like race, gender, height, weight, and BMI. It made sense if they had to cater each dosage and chemical type to each individual Slate to prevent adverse reactions. 

I was about to step into the chamber when I was shoved from behind. Stumbling inside, I barely caught my balance. Glancing over my shoulder, I found what I had expected: the Brightling smiling politely, his yellow-gold eyes gleaming with the predatory mirth of an oversized cat playing with prey. I turned back to face forward, taking a deep breath. I couldn’t let the asshole get to me. Brightlings always seemed to have a bone to pick with Darklings, or so I noticed from my many hours watching holovids. But then again, Darklings were always the villains.

After the scan finished and the doors on either end of the glass chamber opened, I stepped out and passed three paces to mount a slightly raised platform. The moment my weight pressed down on the pressure plate, the perimeter lights switched from orange to blue. I watched as the mechanical arms on either side of me shifted and moved in clean-cut and precise motions. Each arm ended in an injector gun, which inverted as they turned away to socket three vials a piece, each ampul filled with liquids of varying colors. The glass bodies all spun in unison as they locked into place. With all three of the vials fastened, the device flipped and rotated to face me. In quick fluid motions, the injection devices jabbed on either shoulder and pushed the cocktail of gods knew what into me. I winced with each sting of the needles and flinched as I felt fluid get pumped into my body. As the arms retracted, a series of holographic arrows directed me forward and onto the next platform. The process repeated itself another six times. By the end, my shoulders were raw and bleeding, and my eyes barely held back the rising tears. 

I stepped off the final platform and was waved into a room by yet another nurse. The room was one of a dozen along one wall. I stepped into the space to find it was just a normal doctor’s examination room, complete with a model Human skeleton in one corner, a model Orc skull on a side table, and a diagram of an Elven eye on the back wall. An elderly female Wood Elf sat in the chair beside an examination table, dressed in scrubs and a doctor’s coat. Her brown hair was cut in a short bob, and glasses perched on her nose magnified her brown sclera and Wood Elven green irises. Her ID tag displayed her name as Dr. Brooksheen. 

She gave me a polite nod, tapped her therra-node at her temple, and began looking me up and down. She stood and made a circle around me before asking, “Please strip for me.”

I did as I was told, stripping down to my underwear and trying to cover myself out of embarrassment. She gave me a kind smile and said, “Boxer-briefs to my boy. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.” 

I took another deep breath and stripped out of my last scrap of modesty. She inspected every inch of my body, no doubt scanning me with her therra-node for anything her eyes couldn’t pick up. Grabbing my tail, she ran her hand down the length of it and flexed it in key spots, which drew a wince of pain when she reached the bruise that the Brightling made. She then grabbed my horns and directed my head left, right, up, and down. She continued a very in-depth inspection of my body, having me do certain motions and actions like duck-walking across the room. After what felt like an eternity of embarrassment, she had me put my underwear and pants back on. But she told me to leave my shirts off and just carry them with me.

“What’s your Slate number, name, and SIN?” She asked.

“Um, my number is S23. My name is Iver Kaser Maverick. And I’m afraid I don’t know what a SIN is.”

“SIN or Social Identification Number is a number completely unique to you that our nation of Ventic can use to keep track of you and information connected to you. If you don’t know yours, it’s not a problem. Where were you born, and what are your parents’ names?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know where I was born, but I was raised in the town of Blackstone. I also never knew my real parents, but I was raised by a Wild Elf named Fermose Maverick. I hope that helps.”

The doctor began moving her hands in gestures of interactions with holograms only she could see, dragging, pressing, enlarging, scrolling, and typing with her fingers through empty air to my eyes.

“Interesting. I found your medical records from your doctor, but there is no record of who your biological parents are or of you even having a SIN. The spaces for all of this information are just labeled ‘N/A’. I will be sure to bring this up with the facility director and the Mysteriarch. They should be able to pull some strings and get you a SIN. Till then, for the purpose of your implant surgery, I will just put down your number as 000-000-0001.”

“Um, I’m s-sorry to bother you, ma’am, but the surgeries... umm,” I stammered.

She refocused on me and, with a single gesture, must have closed the therra-node display. “Let me guess, you’ve never had any implant surgery before.”

I gave a vigorous nod even as I rubbed my palm along my left bicep nervously as my gaze fixed on my shifting bare feet.

“No need to fret, child. I have checked you over from head to toe, and there should be no complications. And if you’re worried about pain, they will give you a sedative. You go to sleep and wake up with a tender spot at your temple and at the nape of your neck. If you have anything worse than a minor headache in the next week, be sure to come back, and we can give you another full examination.” She said with a kind smile even as she pushed her half-moon spectacles up her nose. She then directed me that once I stepped out of the room, I was to head left. After I passed all the exam rooms, I was to take another left at the door labeled WR3. I was to take a seat there and wait to be called.

I followed my instructions, entering a large waiting room lined with cushioned chairs in metal frames and light blue plastic upholstery. They lined the clean white walls like the rest of the facility with motivational posters, most depicting adventurers being daring and courageous with script underneath reading things like ‘With a positive attitude and an open mind, you can do anything!’. Several of the chairs were already taken by students. Some gathered in small groups and talked in hushed tones. Others read magazines provided on tables spaced between every few chairs. The seat I chose was in the back corner. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms and tail around my legs, and just watched and waited. I looked at each of the students in the room. 

The Brightling who had been giving me trouble was in a group with the male High Elf in the row beside me, the one who had bumped into me, an Orc, and a Dracose from the breaker formation. They were cheerfully chattering away and occasionally laughing at an aggravating volume. 

Everyone in the room seemed to have their own story, and that was plain to see by the look of each person. The way they looked, the way they held themselves, even the manner of their dress. Not that I could have told you what any of their stories were, but there were three that caught my eye. Three loners just like me, only they all looked tougher and meaner than me by miles and leagues. 

There was the Wild Elf girl with fiery red hair braided down to her lower back. She was thoughtlessly fiddling with the tips of her hair with her hands, and pink burn scar tissue lined the outside of her left forearm. What really caught my eye about her was her blue sclera. That was almost unheard of for Wild Elves. Most of their scleras were brown or green.

Then there was S18. From the front, I could plainly tell he was a Halfling Dwarf, probably Dwarf-Human from his stature. He was the only bald student in the room, and he had the start of a brown beard just long enough to have three braids. Dwarves were a very proud species, and Dwarf Halflings were very rare to come across. He was pretending to read a magazine. The only reason I knew he was pretending was that the magazine was upside down, and his eyes were looking into the middle ground. Either he was pretending, or he was practicing reading upside down, and I was not one to judge people for their odd hobbies.

There was an Elf boy aggressively tapping his foot on the floor as if he needed to get up and move but couldn’t. I couldn’t tell if he was a Wild Elf or a High Elf because he had traits of both breeds, but he couldn’t be a crossbreed. His uniform was a shambled mess even after only two hours in it. His disheveled, dirty blond hair was wild, bringing to mind a similarity to a lion’s mane.

Lastly, was the most striking of the three. To call her a girl was a bit of a stretch. She was definitely Human at one time, but from her lower jaw down was nothing but cybernetics. Her platinum hair was a sharp contrast to the dark grey matte metal of her body, cut short to frame her face, bringing out the purple scars that looked to crawl up her cheeks. Her lavender amethyst eyes almost seemed to glow beside her pale hair. She kept busy with a tool kit on her lap, small driver in hand, as she tweaked the mechanical internals of her left arm. It was this girl that I found both the most fascinating and the most terrifying. She must have survived something terrible to end up like that at such a young age. 

My already sky-high anxiety began creeping as I thought about what all of these new students must think of me and what they would do to me, given half a chance. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Inhale 1, 2, 3, 4, hold 1, 2, 3, and exhale 1, 2, 3, 4. I repeated this over and again until suddenly, I heard a male voice call out, “Maverick, S23!”

I shot to my feet and quickly hurried across the room to meet a Dwarven nurse. I was led through a pair of sliding doors and escorted with brisk haste into an operating room. The room was dark save for an overhead light above the operating table. Just to the side of the table was an elevated metal plate holding a series of tools that made me pale. I audibly gulped as the nurse instructed me to lie face down on the table.

“I-is this going to hurt?” I asked as I climbed atop the table, my hands and legs trembling.

In all honesty, I don’t remember her answer, but the next thing I knew, there was a breather mask being mounted to my face. The gas tasted odd, with a bitter tang. That was the last thing I remember before blacking out to the sound of an electric saw.