OSWonder
Currently Existing
His breaths left him in a soft, even rhythm. Bright eyes glinted dark under the lights, specks of grey in his sharp gaze shining like hard steel, a blade on the verge of being drawn. His muscles were pulled tight, legs bent and arms tense at his sides, ready to pounce at any given moment.
Go.
He snapped forward at the sound of the automated voice, faster than a bullet from a gun, straight into a mass of glimmering foes. Molten silver seemed to float and shiver around his wrist before taking form in the shape of a sword gripped firmly in his hand. In a blurred flash of movements, the men that had materialized in front of him fell in halves, dropping like flies as he cut through the crowd like a shark through water.
Two on the right, one to the left. Three more targets defeated. The once packed tunnel was slowly becoming sparse of moving things.
From the corner of his vision, the edge of an axe blade swung toward him. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the silver sword disappeared, replaced by a thin, wide shield. The loud clash of metal echoed in his head, a ringing reminder of how close he had come to nursing an axe to the head. He ignored it. Twisting, he sent a kick into the torso of the axe-wielder that sent the large man crashing into the his dead ally’s bared blade.
The dented shield tore like paper in his hands as he moved on to his next enemy, now just five feet away from his goal. One half moulded itself into an arm guard that took the blow of a sabre swinging down at him. The other half wrung itself into a dagger that stuck itself so deeply into his attacker that its pointed tip tore out of the man’s back.
Once again, the silver pooled and shifted, shaking off the blue blood it had gathered in the midst of its transformation. He did not even look back at the last standing target as he shot him down, mid-lunge, with his newly formed electric pistol. His free hand slammed into the red panel that stood at the very end of the tunnel.
Congratulations. You have completed Level 12 of Simulation-T.
His surroundings shimmered and shifted, the tunnel melting away to reveal a practice room full of an odd mix of gym equipment and weaponry. Odd, in terms of normal people. In Celia, however, those were the two things every practice room had to have.
Your timing is 96.72 seconds. Your grade is A0.
A low whistle came from the other end of the room. A boy with a crumpled uniform and shock of platinum blond hair sat at a corner, clapping for him in a show of being impressed that was only half genuine.
“A0 for a Level 12 simulation. As expected of my King,” the youth laughed, voice colored with something like envy, respect and sarcasm rolled into one.
Cleo barely spared him a glance as he skipped off the platform, leaving the simulation chamber empty once more. The gun in his hold melted back into its original form, a cuff that hung off his wrist in deceptively plain fashion.
“Your turn,” he finally responded, slipping off a small piercing from his left ear that snapped back to join the rest of his Weapon once released. It was the link between his thoughts to his weapon, one of the many parts that made the Shifting Seasons so efficient yet so difficult to control.
“Try not to die, sweetheart,” he drawled, flashing the passing blonde a scathing grin that earned him a not-so polite hand gesture in return.
Maverick Collins. Year 2. Diamond Queen. Simulation-T, Level 12. Starting.
The announcement by the detached voice of the system reigned as the only sound in the room as Cleo stood, leaning against the cool glass wall, eyes flickering close.
Go.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, the only sign of exhaustion that he would let himself display, as he shrugged off his shirt. The sweat on his bare skin seemed to dissipate in the cold air, a refreshing feeling that he sought to enjoy for a few seconds more before he changed into his uniform.
On the control panel a few feet away, he saw Mav struggling at the very end of the tunnel. The corner of his lips lifted in the barest form of a smirk. Looks like his practice grade this time would be a B2 at best. He was probably being a bad friend by having thoughts like this. But, still.
Just as he finally pulled himself together enough to put back on his full, stifling uniform, a knock sounded on the locked door. A frown passed by Cleo’s face that he smoothed over before going over to their visitor.
The intruder on the other side was a mousy girl, a Five or Six from his Deck whose name he had unfortunately forgotten. Mousy, by his standards, though she did have quite an athletic build compared to most her age. Still, if she were place in a group of Celia’s other girls, she would turn out unfortunately small. Even if you were gold, in their small world called school, there were diamonds, rubies, sapphires decorating the halls at every turn, after all.
“The...the Principal called you over to his, um, office, Thayer,” she stumbled out, eyes wondering everywhere but on him.
“I got it, thanks,” he replied, polite yet nonchalant, dismissal clear in his tone.
“He says to hurry,” she added, fiddling with her shirt in a manner that kind of got on his nerves.
Why? He wanted to ask, slightly confused, but refrained from it. He had the feeling she didn’t know, anyway. He merely nodded his acknowledgement instead. The girl scurried away, looking more than glad to be done with her task. He wondered if he should be offended at that. Was he really so monstrous?
Congratulations. You have completed Level 12 of Simulation-T.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mav’s voice came hurtling at him, only to be ignored.
“Why the hell are you stripping?” Ignored again. Cleo threw on his uniform in ten beats flat with the practiced ease of a delinquent with an oversleeping issue. Which he wasn’t, obviously.
Your timing is 152.11 seconds. Your grade is B2.
Called it, he thought in the back of his mind as he quickly stuffed his few belongings into his bag and thrust it into Mav’s arms.
“Help me bring it to my room, still the same password, thanks,” he rushed out in the middle of tying his tie. He left his exasperated Queen standing bereft in the gym room, heading straight for the Principal’s large office on the highest floor of their main building.
+++
“Morning, Cleo,” the secretary greeted without even looking up at him.
“Morning,” he returned as he passed by her. On her desk, he could see a student profile lying around that had quite a few blanks.
Oh. The curiosity he had at being summoned was wiped clean. The boy he had recommended was probably here already, then. Innis Harvey had been a strong competitor and came close to beating out a few of their Academy’s students in a tournament last year. He had quite the head on him, too, so Cleo saw no harm in putting his name up when one of the boys from his Deck suddenly decided to drop out, leaving an open spot in their year.
He knocked on the door and, upon a muffled response, opened it with little hesitation. He stepped in with a greeting already on his tongue.
And then he stopped dead in his tracks.
The new student that sat there was no Innis Harvey. He was someone Cleo had never once seen in his life. With dark hair in a wild mess and narrowed eyes, he was a rough looking youth that held approximately none of the cool elegance or prestigious aura their Academy boasted of its students.
“Sir?” His intended salutation left his lips as a question as he removed his surely stupefied stare from the boy to his Principal. The elder looked rather sheepish, a look rarely seen on the stern man, as he motioned for Cleo to take the empty seat beside the stranger.
“This is the new transfer from our school. Lyca Public High?” The man, likely a teacher, standing at the side provided, sensing the weird atmosphere that filled the room. It was the same school as his acquaintance. Clearly, however, they missed the memo that he only meant that one boy and not just any random one from Lyca.
“Quinton Wright, he got the best scores in the Test in Lyca,” the Principal added, a weight behind his words that carried through their meaning to Cleo. This Quinton had done better than his proposed new entry. They couldn’t just skip over him based on his demand. It would be unfair.
Irritation flashed in Cleo’s heart that he suffocated with logic. If Innis really had been bested by someone else, he had no reason not to welcome that someone else. Strength was worth more than any vague connection. To oppose to Quinton would mean him throwing away what could potentially be a useful piece. He was not fool enough for that.
“Cleo Thayer, pleasure to meet you,” he opened, a faint smile decorating his lips as he offered a hand to shake. His eyes raked over the boy’s figure one more time. There was muscle in his arms. Not the lean, tough kind gained from purposeful training but those gained from hard labour. He was attractive, too, if they were going by general consensus, even though he really was desperately in need of a barber.
“The top student in the Academy, I heard,” the teacher interjected again, a hint of something else in the way his eyes flickered from Cleo to Quinton. It would come as no surprise if that man had said something to the other boy about him, how he had been the one to highlight “their school”, who his parents were and all those oh-so-important details.
“Only the top ranked, Sir, in my year. Everyone here is too talented for me to claim otherwise,” he deflected, tone of voice walking the line between aloof and snide. He didn’t care for this teacher of some nameless school. He only cared about the one who trumped even a known, experienced tournament fighter.
“You’ll be in his dorm and classes, for now. He’ll show you the ropes,” the Principal informed his current object of interest before turning to him with,”and you, take care of him.”
Cleo’s smile turned just a smidgen sharper. That sounded almost like an accusation. It sounded like the elder was warning him not to do anything to the poor soul beside him. If he were any less controlled, he would have sneered. As if he was so petty.
You can be, his traitorous mind reminded. He pretended it didn’t.
“Of course,” he agreed simply as he rose to his feet. He bowed to both the Principal and the foreign professor as he left, not even turning behind to check that Quinton followed. Everyone followed him, as long as he let them, anyway.
“So, Quinton, was it?” Cleo finally spoke again when they were a few steps out the office and heading toward the elevator.
“How and how well do you fight?” An odd question to start with. Odd, again, in terms of normal people. In Celia, however, again, it was a staple question toward anyone you might end up in a group with.
Cleo had to take care of him, after all.
distortedxmayhem
Go.
He snapped forward at the sound of the automated voice, faster than a bullet from a gun, straight into a mass of glimmering foes. Molten silver seemed to float and shiver around his wrist before taking form in the shape of a sword gripped firmly in his hand. In a blurred flash of movements, the men that had materialized in front of him fell in halves, dropping like flies as he cut through the crowd like a shark through water.
Two on the right, one to the left. Three more targets defeated. The once packed tunnel was slowly becoming sparse of moving things.
From the corner of his vision, the edge of an axe blade swung toward him. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the silver sword disappeared, replaced by a thin, wide shield. The loud clash of metal echoed in his head, a ringing reminder of how close he had come to nursing an axe to the head. He ignored it. Twisting, he sent a kick into the torso of the axe-wielder that sent the large man crashing into the his dead ally’s bared blade.
The dented shield tore like paper in his hands as he moved on to his next enemy, now just five feet away from his goal. One half moulded itself into an arm guard that took the blow of a sabre swinging down at him. The other half wrung itself into a dagger that stuck itself so deeply into his attacker that its pointed tip tore out of the man’s back.
Once again, the silver pooled and shifted, shaking off the blue blood it had gathered in the midst of its transformation. He did not even look back at the last standing target as he shot him down, mid-lunge, with his newly formed electric pistol. His free hand slammed into the red panel that stood at the very end of the tunnel.
Congratulations. You have completed Level 12 of Simulation-T.
His surroundings shimmered and shifted, the tunnel melting away to reveal a practice room full of an odd mix of gym equipment and weaponry. Odd, in terms of normal people. In Celia, however, those were the two things every practice room had to have.
Your timing is 96.72 seconds. Your grade is A0.
A low whistle came from the other end of the room. A boy with a crumpled uniform and shock of platinum blond hair sat at a corner, clapping for him in a show of being impressed that was only half genuine.
“A0 for a Level 12 simulation. As expected of my King,” the youth laughed, voice colored with something like envy, respect and sarcasm rolled into one.
Cleo barely spared him a glance as he skipped off the platform, leaving the simulation chamber empty once more. The gun in his hold melted back into its original form, a cuff that hung off his wrist in deceptively plain fashion.
“Your turn,” he finally responded, slipping off a small piercing from his left ear that snapped back to join the rest of his Weapon once released. It was the link between his thoughts to his weapon, one of the many parts that made the Shifting Seasons so efficient yet so difficult to control.
“Try not to die, sweetheart,” he drawled, flashing the passing blonde a scathing grin that earned him a not-so polite hand gesture in return.
Maverick Collins. Year 2. Diamond Queen. Simulation-T, Level 12. Starting.
The announcement by the detached voice of the system reigned as the only sound in the room as Cleo stood, leaning against the cool glass wall, eyes flickering close.
Go.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, the only sign of exhaustion that he would let himself display, as he shrugged off his shirt. The sweat on his bare skin seemed to dissipate in the cold air, a refreshing feeling that he sought to enjoy for a few seconds more before he changed into his uniform.
On the control panel a few feet away, he saw Mav struggling at the very end of the tunnel. The corner of his lips lifted in the barest form of a smirk. Looks like his practice grade this time would be a B2 at best. He was probably being a bad friend by having thoughts like this. But, still.
Just as he finally pulled himself together enough to put back on his full, stifling uniform, a knock sounded on the locked door. A frown passed by Cleo’s face that he smoothed over before going over to their visitor.
The intruder on the other side was a mousy girl, a Five or Six from his Deck whose name he had unfortunately forgotten. Mousy, by his standards, though she did have quite an athletic build compared to most her age. Still, if she were place in a group of Celia’s other girls, she would turn out unfortunately small. Even if you were gold, in their small world called school, there were diamonds, rubies, sapphires decorating the halls at every turn, after all.
“The...the Principal called you over to his, um, office, Thayer,” she stumbled out, eyes wondering everywhere but on him.
“I got it, thanks,” he replied, polite yet nonchalant, dismissal clear in his tone.
“He says to hurry,” she added, fiddling with her shirt in a manner that kind of got on his nerves.
Why? He wanted to ask, slightly confused, but refrained from it. He had the feeling she didn’t know, anyway. He merely nodded his acknowledgement instead. The girl scurried away, looking more than glad to be done with her task. He wondered if he should be offended at that. Was he really so monstrous?
Congratulations. You have completed Level 12 of Simulation-T.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mav’s voice came hurtling at him, only to be ignored.
“Why the hell are you stripping?” Ignored again. Cleo threw on his uniform in ten beats flat with the practiced ease of a delinquent with an oversleeping issue. Which he wasn’t, obviously.
Your timing is 152.11 seconds. Your grade is B2.
Called it, he thought in the back of his mind as he quickly stuffed his few belongings into his bag and thrust it into Mav’s arms.
“Help me bring it to my room, still the same password, thanks,” he rushed out in the middle of tying his tie. He left his exasperated Queen standing bereft in the gym room, heading straight for the Principal’s large office on the highest floor of their main building.
+++
“Morning, Cleo,” the secretary greeted without even looking up at him.
“Morning,” he returned as he passed by her. On her desk, he could see a student profile lying around that had quite a few blanks.
Oh. The curiosity he had at being summoned was wiped clean. The boy he had recommended was probably here already, then. Innis Harvey had been a strong competitor and came close to beating out a few of their Academy’s students in a tournament last year. He had quite the head on him, too, so Cleo saw no harm in putting his name up when one of the boys from his Deck suddenly decided to drop out, leaving an open spot in their year.
He knocked on the door and, upon a muffled response, opened it with little hesitation. He stepped in with a greeting already on his tongue.
And then he stopped dead in his tracks.
The new student that sat there was no Innis Harvey. He was someone Cleo had never once seen in his life. With dark hair in a wild mess and narrowed eyes, he was a rough looking youth that held approximately none of the cool elegance or prestigious aura their Academy boasted of its students.
“Sir?” His intended salutation left his lips as a question as he removed his surely stupefied stare from the boy to his Principal. The elder looked rather sheepish, a look rarely seen on the stern man, as he motioned for Cleo to take the empty seat beside the stranger.
“This is the new transfer from our school. Lyca Public High?” The man, likely a teacher, standing at the side provided, sensing the weird atmosphere that filled the room. It was the same school as his acquaintance. Clearly, however, they missed the memo that he only meant that one boy and not just any random one from Lyca.
“Quinton Wright, he got the best scores in the Test in Lyca,” the Principal added, a weight behind his words that carried through their meaning to Cleo. This Quinton had done better than his proposed new entry. They couldn’t just skip over him based on his demand. It would be unfair.
Irritation flashed in Cleo’s heart that he suffocated with logic. If Innis really had been bested by someone else, he had no reason not to welcome that someone else. Strength was worth more than any vague connection. To oppose to Quinton would mean him throwing away what could potentially be a useful piece. He was not fool enough for that.
“Cleo Thayer, pleasure to meet you,” he opened, a faint smile decorating his lips as he offered a hand to shake. His eyes raked over the boy’s figure one more time. There was muscle in his arms. Not the lean, tough kind gained from purposeful training but those gained from hard labour. He was attractive, too, if they were going by general consensus, even though he really was desperately in need of a barber.
“The top student in the Academy, I heard,” the teacher interjected again, a hint of something else in the way his eyes flickered from Cleo to Quinton. It would come as no surprise if that man had said something to the other boy about him, how he had been the one to highlight “their school”, who his parents were and all those oh-so-important details.
“Only the top ranked, Sir, in my year. Everyone here is too talented for me to claim otherwise,” he deflected, tone of voice walking the line between aloof and snide. He didn’t care for this teacher of some nameless school. He only cared about the one who trumped even a known, experienced tournament fighter.
“You’ll be in his dorm and classes, for now. He’ll show you the ropes,” the Principal informed his current object of interest before turning to him with,”and you, take care of him.”
Cleo’s smile turned just a smidgen sharper. That sounded almost like an accusation. It sounded like the elder was warning him not to do anything to the poor soul beside him. If he were any less controlled, he would have sneered. As if he was so petty.
You can be, his traitorous mind reminded. He pretended it didn’t.
“Of course,” he agreed simply as he rose to his feet. He bowed to both the Principal and the foreign professor as he left, not even turning behind to check that Quinton followed. Everyone followed him, as long as he let them, anyway.
“So, Quinton, was it?” Cleo finally spoke again when they were a few steps out the office and heading toward the elevator.
“How and how well do you fight?” An odd question to start with. Odd, again, in terms of normal people. In Celia, however, again, it was a staple question toward anyone you might end up in a group with.
Cleo had to take care of him, after all.
distortedxmayhem
