Alan stopped mid-step. His face twisted with disbelief, exasperation, and something bordering on pity. "Shit… it can't be," he muttered, then raised his voice with frustration. "What are they even teaching you in schools? You've worn Ranger Armor before. How could you not know it?"
Oliver winced and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how ridiculous his ignorance must have sounded. "I don't know. The first time, I was focused on not freaking dying. The second time… well, I guess I wasn't paying attention." His eyes narrowed, as though trying to recall his memories.
Alan sighed. His steps resumed, and Oliver followed alongside as he searched for the words. "How do I explain this…" Alan spoke softly, more to himself than to his friend. Finally, he faced Oliver, using his hands as if shaping something unseen in the air. "When you wear one of the Crystals, your body… changes. It undergoes what they call an evolution."
"Evolution?" Oliver echoed, skeptical. "How does that even work?"
Alan gave a dry laugh. "No idea. I didn't study the science of it. All I know is what they drilled into us during training. The change is somehow tied to your bloodline, your genetic material. Families often end up mirroring similar traits after generations of exposure to the Crystal."
The barracks now loomed closer, a dark, comforting sight after a long day.
Alan's voice dropped lower. "Most times, the evolution gifts you. Enhancements, powers, unique traits, the kind of thing that separates survivors from corpses. We call those gifts Boon."
Oliver tilted his head. "And the other side?"
Alan's eyes flitted to Oliver's. "Sometimes the Crystal doesn't gift you. Sometimes it cuts instead of heals, twists instead of strengthens. That's when we call it a Glitch."
Oliver's breath came out in a soft plume of mist as understanding began to dawn on him, piece by piece. Like bits of shattered glass sliding together to reveal a larger image, the things he had witnessed earlier. The powers, the strange things the Rangers did, suddenly made sense. A spark of comprehension lit. Though with it came a swarm of questions that gnawed at him even harder than his ignorance had.
"Aaaah…" He exhaled, the sound caught somewhere between relief and revelation.
Beside him, Alan's tone was steady, almost rehearsed, as though repeating knowledge etched into his brain. "You don't need Ranger Armor to discover your Boon or your Glitch," he explained. "All it takes is contact with a Z-Crystal. But using an Artificial Armor, that's the safest and reliable way of finding out."
Oliver nodded, though doubt still clouded his expression. "I get it. I think…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing as he replayed events from earlier in the mess hall. "But why didn't you mention your Boon at the table?"
Alan stopped walking. His face hardened, the easygoing tone he'd carried before vanishing like mist. "You think that wasn't deliberate? Some of those kids might not have realized it yet, but sooner or later, whether we want it or not, we're going to be competing."
His voice dropped lower, mocking and resonant as he threw on his best impersonation of the ever-stern Major Five. "Only 0.001% of you will ever qualify as Rangers… blah, blah, blah."
Oliver almost smirked at the impression. Alan leaned closer. "Think of it like this. What's the enemy you fear most? It's not the one you see. It's the one you're unprepared for. And the moment you let someone know the nature of your Boon…" He shook his head slowly. "You've already begun losing."
Oliver stared at the ground as his mind spiraled.
Keep secrets. Expect competition, even among allies.
He recalled the boy at the mess hall, the one who'd sparked the discussion in the first place. Oliver's memory replayed the exchange. No surname. Just a first name, as if daring anyone to press further. He hadn't said the word Nameless, but he also hadn't denied it.
Their boots echoed off the stairwell as they finally reached the dormitory. The steel door muttered open with a pneumatic hiss, swallowing them into the dim-lit corridor lined with rows of bunks and the low hum of generators overhead.
Oliver followed Alan into the dormitory, each step carrying the quiet awareness that somewhere among them, perhaps even lying in the bunk beside his, was a future enemy in silence.
"Could you all shut up for a second?!" Alan's voice cracked across the dark dormitory like a shot. His face, pale beneath the faint glow of the overhead lamps, twisted with fury as he glared at the boy sprawled on the adjacent bunk. "I couldn't sleep all night!"
The target of his outburst stirred only slightly, still half-wrapped in a blanket, his snores rattling the metal frame. It wasn't until a boot flew across the bunks, a reckless projectile aimed in irritation, that the struggle finally broke.
Oliver jerked awake in time, rolling aside with instincts sharpened by survival. Boots and other possible projectiles were thrown in every direction. Luckily for Oliver, he was on the top bunk bed and was almost not hit.
While the battle was still raging, the siren blared, marking the start of yet another day.
The first night had left its mark. Fifty cadets, crammed shoulder to shoulder inside a steel-clad barracks. The air was thick, a mix of sweat and recycled oxygen. For some, bonds had already sprouted from yesterday's trials. Voices rose in camaraderie, jokes bridging the rift between strangers. For others, the tight space, the constant noise, and the stench brought only misery.
Oliver, however, fit easily into the chaos. He stretched, blinking the sleep from his eyes, seemingly untouched by the unrest.
His life in New San Francisco had demanded an iron tolerance for noise. Sirens, blaring vid-screens, too many tenants packed into too few living units. Compared to that, a chorus of snores and curses in a military chamber was hardly a challenge.
Alan, however was another story. He had dark circles dug beneath his eyes, and his jaw clenched with the restraint of someone who had been awake every second of that night.
The boys fell into motion immediately, shoving into line, trading words and elbows as they spilled from the dormitories. Their destination, as always, was the cafeteria. A massive plated structure alive with steam vents and the clang of trays.
For all its chaos, an anxiety clung to the group. Today wasn't like yesterday. Today, they would meet their professor, the commander of the Second Battalion. The unspoken anticipation made every clatter of utensils seem louder.
Oliver shoveled food with haste. Alan, despite his exhaustion, mirrored him; neither boy lingered. Around them, cadets devoured their rations with the desperate urgency of recruits who knew missed meals meant missed chances. Conversations overlapped with manic intensity. Rumors about the professor, speculation over assignments, bravado-laced boasts from those too anxious to stay silent.
Oliver and Alan were among the first to finish eating and decided to head to the training room early. Since they were still new to the island, finding the right path among the dozens of buildings sometimes took hours.
Fortunately for the boys, they didn't take long to find it. All the training buildings were located in the northern area of the island, one of the few areas shared by both battalions. The basic training building had two floors, but it was covered in dark glass, allowing little of what happened inside to be seen by those walking around the base.
Inside, the corridors stretched long and sterile, lined with doors only discernible by the holographic script. Each glowing projection described the curriculum held within: combat theory, tactics, Crystal engineering, history of the New Earth.
The air buzzed with the pulse of projectors, guiding cadets down the endless passages. Though the entire building belonged to the Second Battalion, each corridor was segmented into territories for different barracks.
Oliver and Alan pressed forward, their steps echoing softly on the polished floors, until they arrived at the door marked with their training unit's designation.
The room opened into a vast, semi-circular amphitheater. Rising bleachers curved around a central podium of steel. The boys slipped into the front row, while the chamber slowly filled with the march of others arriving from breakfast.
It was then that he entered.
The figure who approached the podium was not like the rest. He carried himself with the poise of a seasoned soldier. His uniform, though scarred with wear, bore numerous medals. His hair was dark, cut with the precision of an officer, and along his cheek stretched a jagged scar.
But it wasn't the scar that caught the attention of the room. It wasn't even the medals.
It was his eyes.
Or rather, what replaced them.
The officer wore a sleek visor, an unbroken band of black glass encircling his head like a single, seamless lens. It reflected nothing, revealing nothing, giving him an almost inhuman appearance. Every whisper in the room revolved around that one detail.
"Is that him…?"
"It's really Caine…"
"One of the Nameless…" For some, awe hung in their voice; others, fear.
Oliver shifted in his seat, suddenly aware that most of his peers were leaning forward, their eyes wide. Even Alan, who traditionally scoffed at anything stamped with the NEA's insignia, sat straighter.
"Who is he?" Oliver muttered, leaning close to Alan.
Alan tilted his head in disbelief. "Sometimes I'm amazed you don't know anything. That's Caine. A legend. One of the Nameless. There aren't many that got to be an official, maybe a handful, and almost everyone in the Corps has heard his name."
Oliver swallowed hard, wishing once again that he'd spent more time in New San Francisco studying instead of surviving.
Caine reached the podium. He didn't raise his voice immediately; instead, he tapped the steel with one gloved knuckle. The sound alone silenced the whispers, commanding attention without the need for effort.
"Welcome, cadets of the Second Battalion. My name is Caine. I will be the Major responsible for your training over the next three months."
From the ground below the podium, threads of light ignited in sharp lines, weaving upward into a full holographic grid. The light turned into maps, silhouettes of Z-Crystals, schematics of Ranger Armor rotating in the air. All of them hovering between instructor and recruits, living diagrams.
Caine continued, voice steadier than the hum of machines around him.
"For the next three months, you will be taught, trained, and evaluated. You will be tested in ways far beyond your current expectations. Many of you will fulfill your duties with honor as officers. But…" Caine paused, visor turning as though sweeping the crowd, scanning each face as prey beneath his attention.
"The focus of this battalion lies elsewhere. Those of you who have the strength, the will, and the fortune to ascend. Those who will become Rangers."
A pulse of static expanded through the holograms, transforming them into battlescapes, alien structures, and swarming enemy forms.
"Pay attention. You will need to pass three of the following tests."