August, 1097

The sweltering, sun-drenched beaches of Siesta already feel like a distant, feverish dream.

The reinforced bulkheads of the landship have sealed the ocean breeze away. We are moving again. The brief, golden reprieve of the summer festival is officially over, and the relentless march of Rhodes Island has resumed.

I am safely tucked away in the labyrinthine aisles of the Archives.

Sitting across from me at our usual wooden table is Ms. Skyfire. Her departure for Victoria has been slightly delayed by administrative red tape, granting me a few more precious days of her intense, fiery tutelage.

I stare down at the geopolitical history book resting open on the table. The sprawling map of Terra is dotted with borders and crests I am desperately trying to memorize. My finger traces the thick, bold line of our current trajectory, stopping at a massive territory marked by a stylized pegasus.

"Ms. Skyfire?" I ask.

My Victorian tutor looks up from her own dense stack of Siestan reports.

"What is the Kazimierz Alliance?"

Ms. Skyfire lets out a sharp scoff. She slams her pen down onto the table.

"The United Knightly Territory of Kazimierz, Lethe, is a tragic, neon-lit circus masquerading as a sovereign nation," Ms. Skyfire declares.

She reaches across the table, tapping directly onto the pegasus crest printed on my map.

"Historically, it was a land of true, honorable knights," Ms. Skyfire lectures, her eyes flashing with fierce criticism. "The Kuranta warriors of old defended their borders with unmatched bravery and a strict code of chivalry against the Empire of Ursus. But they have allowed their entire culture to be completely cannibalized by corporate greed." I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands.

"They are ruled by the General Chamber of Commerce," she continues, her tone sharpening into a razor-edged sneer. "They have stripped the title of 'Knight' of all its nobility and turned it into a commercialized, blood-sport commodity. Their so-called knights are nothing more than glorified gladiators and walking billboards, fighting in massive, blindingly loud arenas simply to sell soft drinks, insurance policies, and overpriced merchandise to a mindless, cheering populace."

The sharp, peppery disdain radiating from her makes my nose twitch.

"They traded their lances for corporate sponsorships, and their dignity for broadcast ratings," Ms. Skyfire finishes, crossing her arms tightly. "It is loud. It is utterly devoid of actual culture. And it is entirely exhausting to witness."

Ms. Skyfire describes massive arenas. Blinding neon lights. Thousands of screaming, frantic people crammed together to watch sports filled with blood. My mind instantly conjures the terrifying, deafening roar of the Siestan music festival, but magnified a hundred times over, stripped of the beach's joy and steeped entirely in the metallic tang of violence and corporate malice.

The very thought of navigating a city that loud makes the horns on my head throb with a phantom ache.

"Good thing I am staying on the landship…" I murmur, shivering slightly at the prospect of stepping into that blinding, neon-lit chaos. I hug my R.I. jacket tighter around my shoulders, immensely grateful for Dr. Kal'tsit's strict containment parameters.

I look back down at the map, my brow furrowing slightly as a much more pressing, practical priority surfaces in my mind.

I tilt my head, looking back up at my fiery tutor with wide, earnest eyes.

"…do they have sweets too?"

The suffocating, peppery indignation in the air completely flatlines.

Ms. Skyfire freezes. Her feline ears give a sudden, bewildered twitch. She stares at me. A slow, profound sigh escapes her lips. She brings a hand up, gently pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Honestly, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire mutters, shaking her head. "I could detail the total, systemic collapse of the entire Terran economy, and your first question would be if the apocalypse halted the production of red bean paste."

My tail giving a small, defensive thump against the bottom of my chair.

"I have to know!" I protest, a faint, prickly flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks.

"Miss Adele said every country has their own special baked goods!"

Ms. Skyfire lowers her hand.

"Yes, Lethe. They have sweets," Ms. Skyfire concedes, picking her pen back up. "Though I assure you, it will be heavily mass-produced, overly sugary garbage stamped with the face of whichever commercial knight is currently trending. They have deep-fried dough that is traditionally soft but dense. They are filled with rose jam or plum preserve, provided they aren't entirely ruined by artificial preservatives."

My eyes instantly light up. The terror of the neon-drenched arenas completely vanishes, replaced by a bubbling, effervescent thrill of sugar.

The sharp, rhythmic tapping of a pen against the polished wood of the table instantly shatters my sugary daydream.

"Wipe that vacant, sugar-glazed expression off your face, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire commands, her voice slicing cleanly through the quiet of the Archives. She slides a dense, heavily annotated book across the table, pointing her pen directly at a complex cluster of equations. "Kazimierz’s culinary exports will not be on your Originium thermodynamics evaluation. Focus on the geological conditions that foster the creation of inert Originium crystals. Now."

I flinch, my ears drooping as I quickly sit up straight.

"Yes, Ms. Skyfire," I force my mind to pivot away from rose jam and back to the terrifying, microscopic mechanics of Originium.

I barely manage to read the first line of the text before the silence of the Archives is violently, joyfully ruptured.

A massive, overwhelming wave of sugar and warmth floods me.

"Lethe! Ms. Skyfire!"

I whip my head around. Bounding down the row of towering bookshelves is Lisa.

She skids to a halt right at the edge of our table. Even though she is practically vibrating with energy, her impeccable manners instinctively kick in. She presses her hands to her skirt, offering a quick, breathless bow to Ms. Skyfire.

"Excuse me for interrupting your lesson, Ms. Skyfire," Lisa says. She looks up, her eyes sparkling. "But can I please kidnap Lethe for the afternoon?"

Ms. Skyfire pauses.

"Kidnap my student?" Ms. Skyfire leans back in her chair. "That is a rather bold request, Suzuran. To what end, exactly?"

"For training!" Lisa announces proudly.

My blood instantly runs completely cold.

My mind violently flashes back to Training Hall.

"Tr… training?" I whine. "Lisa, no! I barely survived Ms. Dobermann! If I have to run again, my legs are going to fall off! Dr. Warfarin will draw all my blood!"

Lisa giggles. She steps closer, gently resting her hands on the edge of the table.

"Not physical training, Lethe," Lisa promises, her smile radiating pure, unadulterated reassurance. "Arts training."

I blink. "Arts?"

"Yes!" Lisa nods enthusiastically, her tails giving a swish. "Since you will go on field missions now, you need to know how to properly use your Arts outside the garden. You need to know how to cast safely in the open, and how to coordinate with other Operators!"

Lisa looks at me, her eyes shining with absolute sincerity. "I am a Supporter, just like you, Lethe. My Arts are not for destroying things; they are for helping our friends and slowing down the bad guys. Since we both go out into the field now, we should practice together!"

I sit completely still, the logic of her words sinking in.

She is right. Out in the Columbian barrens, I had been completely helpless. If I am going to step out into Terra, I cannot just rely on swinging my Kazdelian artifact around like a clumsy club.

I turn my head slowly, looking across the table at Ms. Skyfire.

"Suzuran's reasoning is entirely sound," Ms. Skyfire declares. She folds her hands on the table, fixing me with a stern, expectant look. "Theoretical knowledge of Originium is useless if you cannot practically apply your focal point under pressure. And since your physical combat rating is an absolute embarrassment to the Medical Department, your Arts are your only viable line of defense."

Ms. Skyfire waves dismissively, but elegantly toward the aisle.

"You are dismissed for the afternoon, Lethe," Ms. Skyfire permits. "Go practice your Arts. But I expect you to have Chapter Ten completely summarized by tomorrow morning."

"I will, Ms. Skyfire! Thank you!"

I don't waste a single second. I scramble out of my chair, hastily gathering my notes and shoving them into my bag. I grab my dark, twisted Arts Unit from where it rests against the table.

Lisa beams, her tails puffing up in triumph. She reaches out, grabbing my free hand.

"Come on, Lethe!" Lisa cheers, already pulling me down the aisles. "We are going to have so much fun!”

The metallic corridors of the landship stretch out before us, a sprawling labyrinth of brushed steel and LED lighting. We are supposed to be heading toward the training halls, but the brisk, determined pace of Lisa suddenly slows.

She turns to me. Her ear gives a subtle twitch,

"Lethe. Let’s stop by the garden really quick," Lisa suggests, her eyes sparkling with that familiar, blindingly bright optimism.

"Ok… okay," I stammer. I stop walking.

"Don’t be so hesitant! That’s your garden too, Lethe!"

She doesn't give me a chance to protest. Lisa reaches out, grabbing my hand firmly. Her grip is incredibly warm. She practically drags me down the remaining corridors, pulling me toward the blast doors of the Convalescent Garden.

As we step into the sensor's range, the locks disengage. The metal plates hiss and smoothly slide apart.

The rich, humid wave of warm air spills out, carrying the thick, earthy scent of damp soil and crushed leaves.

The garden is massive.

It is no longer just a sprawling greenhouse. Ms. Closure and her engineering team have completely knocked down the far bulkhead, drastically expanding the garden into what used to be an adjacent medical storage sector.

They have just completed it last night and I have been avoiding reality all day.

"Oh! Lethe! Lisa!"

Miss Beanstalk waves excitedly, her arm waving high in the humid air.

She is standing triumphantly in front of her newly constructed domain. Neatly arranged behind her is a row of humming incubators, glowing with a soft, warm light. Below them sits a carefully sectioned-off pen area, bordered by sturdy but unobtrusive clear- material fencing designed specifically to keep her little critters completely separate from Miss Lena's fragile flowerbeds.

Miss Beanstalk crouches down, carefully lifting a small, scuttling metal crab into the air. She inspects its carapace with absolute, dead-serious professional pride, checking the joints before looking back up at us with a beaming, triumphant grin.

I let out a long, shuddering exhale, the rigid tension finally melting entirely out of my spine. The garden isn't a chaotic, trampled warzone. Miss Lena's sanctuary is perfectly safe, and Miss Beanstalk has her nursery.

I loosen my grip on my Arts Unit, returning her energetic wave as Lisa eagerly pulls me down the winding path to see the new additions.

We step past Miss Beanstalk’s meticulously organized crab nursery. The clicking of claws fades into the gentle, rhythmic hum of water pumps and air purifiers.

The path winds deeper into the newly annexed section. The bright, open canopy of the main greenhouse gives way to a row of sleek, reinforced glass terrariums and glowing environmental pods.

Standing before a towering, multi-tiered habitats are Miss Lena and Podenco.

"If we raise the ambient humidity by just four percent, the mycelium network should stabilize far faster in the nutrient substrate," Podenco murmurs, her face pressed close to the condensation-beaded glass. Her finger traces the sprawling, web-like pattern of white fungal threads growing inside.

Miss Lena gracefully adjusts the dial on the pod’s external control panel, her movements unhurried and precise. "A prudent adjustment, Podenco. However, we must ensure the ventilation cycle compensates appropriately, or we risk suffocating the adjacent sprouts with excess spore density."

"I'll recalibrate the exhaust filters," Podenco nods, her tail giving a focused, rhythmic sway. "We cannot have cross-contamination in the…"

She stops mid-sentence, turning her head as our footsteps announce our arrival.

Miss Lena looks up from the control panel. The moment she spots me, a gentle, welcoming smile breaks across her face.

"Oh, Lethe," Miss Lena says, her voice a soft, melodic anchor. "There you are. We were wondering where you had been the entire morning."

A tiny, guilty flush warms my cheeks. I had been hiding in the Archives with Ms. Skyfire and Miss Adele, completely burying myself in thermodynamic equations and geography to avoid the looming dread of the new garden. I duck my head slightly, my fingers nervously twisting the hem of my R.I. jacket.

"Sorry…" I mumble, my voice dropping into a sheepish whisper. "I was just doing my homework."

"There is no need to apologize for being diligent, sweetie," Miss Lena chuckles softly, stepping away from the monitors to gently smooth down the fabric of my sleeve.

Before I can fully sink into the comfort of her touch, Podenco practically launches herself away from the glass.

"Lethe! You have to look at this!" Podenco cheers, her eyes sparkling with absolute, unrestrained excitement. She grabs my free hand and eagerly pulls me toward the glowing row of habitats.

She gestures widely to the humming machinery. "Do you realize what Ms. Closure's engineering team actually built for us? These aren't just standard glass boxes. They are fully isolated, micro-climate environmental pods!"

I blink, staring at the thick, reinforced glass and the complex readouts glowing in the dim light. "Micro-climate?"

"Yes!" Podenco beams, practically vibrating on her heels. "We can perfectly mimic the exact soil acidity, atmospheric pressure, and moisture levels of almost anywhere on Terra! We can recreate the dry, baked earth of the Columbian barrens, or the humid, dense air of a Sargonian rainforest, right here on the landship!"

She presses her hands against the glass of the mushroom habitat, her expression one of absolute scientific triumph.

"We can cultivate wild, volatile herbs that usually wither and die the second they are uprooted from their native soil," Podenco continues, her voice rushing with breathless passion. "And because the ventilation is completely isolated, I can finally study the toxic properties of spores and aggressive nightshades in a perfectly controlled environment, without risking any contamination to Miss Lena's flowerbeds!"

"That is… amazing, Podenco," I whisper, genuinely in awe of her botanical domain. While secretly noting to never get on the bad side of my poison-expert friend.

"Isn’t the new garden the best, Lethe?"

Lisa spins around on her heels, her fluffy tails swaying in a wide, joyous arc.

I look around the sprawling, newly annexed sector. The glowing micro-climate pods hum quietly, housing Podenco’s fragile, exotic flora, while Miss Beanstalk’s metal crabs click away safely in their designated nursery. It is a masterpiece of life and preservation. I give a slow nod, my eyes tracking the condensation forming on the thick glass of a terrarium.

"It is," I agree.

But as the words leave my mouth, a sudden, heavy knot forms in the center of my chest.

I watch Podenco meticulously adjust a nutrient drip for a rare vine, her movements effortless and practiced. I watch Miss Lena gently prune a fern with absolute perfection. A sharp pang of guilt twists in my stomach.

"I wish I could help more," I murmur, my voice dropping into a quiet, fragile whisper. "For as much time as I spend in the garden, I am becoming more of a Medic than a botanist day by day."

The rhythmic clipping of Miss Lena’s shears comes to a halt.

Podenco stops adjusting the valve. She turns to face me, a soft sigh escapes her.

"Lethe," Podenco says. "If you actually tried to help me with the botany, you would probably mistake my lethal nightshades for a sweet herb and accidentally poison the entire medical wing. I am perfectly happy keeping you away from the fertilizer."

A faint, prickly flush warms my cheeks, and I puff them out instinctively.

Miss Lena steps out from the canopy of ferns. She approaches and gently rests her hands on my shoulders, her touch a profound, steadying anchor.

"You are exactly where you are supposed to be, Lethe," Miss Lena leans down just slightly, ensuring her kind, unwavering eyes meet mine. "Podenco and I tend to the soil and the roots so that the body might heal. But this garden is a sanctuary, and a sanctuary is nothing without peace."

She offers a beautiful, serene smile.

"When our Operators return from the dark, carrying nightmares they cannot speak of, it is not my teas or Podenco’s herbs that pull them back from the edge. It is you. You take their pain. You give them the quiet they desperately need. You are the heart of the Convalescent Garden, Lethe. Never doubt your place here."

A hot prickle of moisture touches the corners of my eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Lena. Thank you, Podenco," I whisper.

Lisa suddenly claps her hands together with a sharp, energetic smack.

"See? You are the best palliative care assistant ever!" Lisa cheers, her eyes sparkling with renewed determination.

"And that is exactly why we need to make sure your Arts are perfect outside the garden too!" Lisa declares. "Excuse us, Miss Lena, Podenco, Miss Beanstalk! We have a training room to catch!"

"Have fun, girls," Miss Lena chuckles softly, stepping back to let us pass. "Don't push yourselves too hard."

"Show her how it’s done, Lisa!" Podenco calls out, offering a cheeky wave.

"I will!" Lisa promises.

Lisa drags me out, pulling me out of the humid, earthy warmth of the garden and straight toward the corridors of the training sector.

I let Lisa drag me by the hand. Then, the ambient air in the corridor shifts.

The flavor that floods me is breathtakingly ancient. It tastes like dark blackberry tea, cold obsidian, and the sharp, freezing stillness of a mountaintop.

But overlaid across that ancient, regal flavor is a bizarre, frictionless streak of sheer focus.

Before I can even process the contradiction, a sudden rush of wind tears down the hallway.

Whoosh.

A blur of dark fabric and metal zooms past us at a terrifying speed. I completely freeze, my tail snapping rigid as I stare down the corridor.

It was a man. And he was sitting perfectly upright, his legs crossed at the ankles, riding a standard-issue Rhodes Island office chair. He navigated the sharp curve of the hallway with the practiced, flawless precision of a seasoned driver, the wheels clicking frantically against the floorboards before he completely disappeared from sight.

I stand there, my jaw hanging slightly open, staring at the empty hallway.

"Uhm… Lisa?" I ask, I point down the corridor. "Who is that?"

Lisa simply covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as a bright, musical giggle bubbles out of her.

"That's our Elite Ops Caster," Lisa chimes, her eyes filled with amusement. "Mr. Logos." I blink.

"Mr. Logos????"

This is Logos? The brilliant Elite Operator who authored the incredibly complex Arts Assimilation metrics that even Ms. Skyfire begrudgingly respects?

Before my brain can fully recover from the sheer absurdity of it, quiet, deliberate footsteps echo down the hallway.

The man himself rounds the corner and begins walking back toward us. Without the blinding speed of the office chair, I finally get a clear look at him.

He is, without a doubt, one of the most striking people I have ever seen on this landship. He is tall and incredibly slender, with skin pale and piercing, orange eyes that seem to hold the weight of centuries. His messy, ash-grey hair falls over his collar, framing a face of delicate, almost ethereal beauty.

He is dressed in a sleek, impeccably tailored dark uniform accented with sharp lines of bright, electric blue. But it is his coat that truly anchors my attention. It is massive, trailing behind him like a dark, liquid shadow. The fabric splits into long tails adorned with sharp, star-like ornaments, making the entire garment look like a pair of folded, predatory wings.

Protruding from the sides of his head, weaving through his hair, are dark, jagged structures. They sweep upward and outward, resembling a crown of blackened, petrified wood or perhaps dark, crystallized feathers.

I stare at the flowing, wing-like coat and the feather-like protrusions framing his face.

"He is a Liberi?" I whisper to Lisa, leaning in slightly.

Lisa shakes her head.

"No, Lethe," Lisa corrects, offering a warm, knowledgeable smile. "He is a pureblood Sarkaz as well. A Banshee."

The towering Banshee stops right in front of us. Up close, the sheer, ethereal beauty of his features is almost intimidating. His piercing eyes look as though they have witnessed the rise and fall of entire worlds.

His gaze sweeping over Lisa’s bright, polite posture before settling onto my slightly paralyzed frame.

"Suzuran. Lethe."

The moment he speaks, the air in the corridor actually vibrates. His voice is highly resonant, carrying a deep, melodic timber that I can literally feel humming against my bones and resonating at the bases of my horns. It isn't just a voice; it feels like an incantation, woven with the innate power of the ancient Sarkaz bloodline.

Lisa doesn't even blink at the sheer gravity of his presence. She dips into a flawless, perfectly poised curtsy, her nine fluffy tails swaying gently behind her skirt.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Logos.”

I instantly scramble to follow her lead. I grip my Arts Unit with both hands and practically fold myself in half, offering him the deepest, most respectful bow I can physically manage without toppling over.

"Goo… Good afternoon, Mr. Logos!"

Mr. Logos's expression remains perfectly serene, a mask of unbothered tranquility. He tilts his head just a fraction.

"Are you here for your Arts training, Suzuran?" he asks, his melodic voice echoing gently off the brushed steel bulkheads.

"Yes," Lisa reaches out, gently resting her hand against my arm to pull me up from my exaggerated bow. "Mr. Logos, I want to show Lethe more about using Support Arts in the field. Since she will be deploying on logistics missions now, she needs to know how to properly coordinate with Field Ops."

Mr. Logos shifts his focus back to me.

He simply looks at me. The frictionless streak of sheer focus bleeding through his emotional resonance hums quietly.

"I see," Mr. Logos murmurs.

He gives a slow, deliberate nod, the gesture surprisingly gentle.

"I shall wish you luck," Mr. Logos says, his voice carrying a final, resonant note that seems to actively smooth away the lingering nervous tension in my spine.

Without another word, he walks gracefully. He does not return to the abandoned office chair sitting a few paces down the hall. Instead, he simply continues his measured, regal stride down the corridor, presumably heading toward his own high-level training regimen, leaving the discarded piece of furniture sitting innocently against the wall. I stand there, staring after him until his dark silhouette completely disappears around the corner.

My tail, which had been tucked rigidly against my leg, finally uncoils, giving a slow wag.

"He is… very majestic," I whisper, my eyes still fixed on the empty hallway. "But…”

Lisa giggles.

"Come on, Lethe! We have a training room booked, and we cannot waste our time! I have so much to show you!"

The doors of Training Hall 6 slide shut behind us, completely sealing away the bustling noise of the corridors.

Unlike the sprawling, heavily militarized arena where Ms. Dobermann had brutally exposed my complete lack of physical endurance, this room is smaller and heavily padded. The floor is lined with thick, shock-absorbent blue mats, and a row of unmoving, faceless foam target dummies stands rigidly against the far wall.

Lisa immediately marches to the center of the mat, her nine tails fanning out in a wide, authoritative sweep. She plants her hands on her hips, looking every bit the strict instructor, though her bright, sparkling eyes completely ruin the stern facade.

"Okay, Lethe!" Lisa announces, her voice echoing in the quiet hall. "Since we are both Supporters, our job isn't to hit the bad guys hard. Our job is to control the battlefield!" She reaches out, her own staff glowing with a soft, warm light.

"When I use my Arts, I create my Foxfire," Lisa explains, her tone taking on a practiced, educational lilt. "It makes the air feel thick and heavy for the enemies. It slows them down, makes their armor feel weak, and helps our friends hit them easier."

She lowers her staff, looking directly at the dark, petrified branch clutched in my hands.

"You are an empath, Lethe," she continues. "You pull negative emotions away to heal our Operators. But if you can pull feelings, you should theoretically be able to push them, right? If a bad guy is running at you, maybe you can push an emotion into them to make them stop!"

"Pushing…” I murmur, my brow furrowing. "I… I tried to project soft, smooth and sweet feelings when Operators enter the garden… I don’t know if works."

"Then you definitely should be able to!" Lisa encourages, stepping closer. "This time, you have to be the one directing the flow. Try projecting an emotion outward. Try it on the dummy!"

I turn to face the row of unmoving, featureless targets. I widen my stance, gripping my staff with both hands, and squeeze my eyes shut. I dig deep into my chest, trying to summon a wave of intense, overwhelming calmness. I push the feeling outward with all my will.

I open my eyes, panting slightly.

The dummy remains completely, entirely motionless. It does not look calmer. It just looks like a piece of foam.

"I don't think it's working, Lisa," I whine, my shoulders slumping. "It doesn't have a mind. It doesn't have a flavor. I'm just waving a stick at a mannequin."

Lisa pouts, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "You're right. You need a real target. Someone with actual emotions."

As if the universe itself has decided to answer her request, the pneumatic locks of the training hall suddenly disengage.

The doors slide open.

Stepping onto the padded mats is the fiery Sarkaz Field Ops. Vigna is carrying her terrifyingly sharp lance over her shoulder, a half-empty bottle of sports drink dangling from her other hand.

She takes two steps into the room before she completely freezes. She looks at me, then at Lisa, and finally at the dummies.

"Wait," Vigna says, blinking in confusion. She pulls her communicator from her pocket, her brow furrowing. "Isn't this Hall 6? I booked this for Vanguard spear drills."

"Vigna!"

Lisa's face lights up like a miniature sun. She practically teleports across the training mat, closing the distance before Vigna can even take a step back.

Vigna’s eyes go wide. "Uh, hey, Suzuran. Look, I think logistics double-booked the room, I can just go…"

"Vigna, you have the absolute most perfect timing in the entire world!" Lisa interrupts, her hands clasping together in a gesture of pure, weaponized innocence. Her tails sway in a synchronized, mesmerizing rhythm. "Lethe is trying to learn how to defend herself in the field! We desperately need a real, strong Operator to help us test her Arts. Could you please help us?"

Vigna stares at Lisa’s wide, pleading eyes. The sharp, peppery adrenaline of her emotional resonance completely stalls. She opens her mouth to refuse, her grip tightening on her lance, but she is entirely helpless against the blindingly pure light that is Lisa.

Vigna lets out a massive, defeated groan, letting her head drop back to stare at the ceiling.

"Argh! Fine!" Vigna huffs, aggressively twisting the cap back onto her sports drink and tossing it toward the benches. "But only for ten minutes! I have a rhythm I need to keep up for my drills!"

"Thank you, Vigna!" Lisa cheers, grabbing the Field Ops by the hand and dragging her toward the center of the room.

Lisa quickly positions Vigna on one side of the blue mat, then jogs over to stand safely behind me.

"Okay, Lethe!" Lisa instructs, her voice dropping into a hushed, tactical whisper. "Vigna is going to pretend to attack you. Your job is to push an emotion into her that makes her lose the will to fight! Make her drop her weapon!"

I swallow hard. I look across the mat.

Vigna spins her lance with terrifying, effortless grace. She drops into a low, aggressive combat stance, the tip of the weapon pointed directly at my chest.

"Alright, rookie," Vigna calls out, a fierce, competitive grin stretching across her face.

"Show me what you've got! Here I come!"

Vigna lunges forward.

She covers the distance with terrifying speed. My heart leaps into my throat. Every survival instinct in my body screams at me to turn and run.

But I plant my feet. I close my eyes. Instead of reaching out to pull her emotions, I visualize the heaviest, most exhausting sensation I know. I think of the bone-deep, liquid-lead exhaustion that follows a full day in Trimounts. I think of the absolute, brain- melting boredom of reading Victorian geopolitical history. I gather that massive, suffocating blanket of pure lethargy, and I shove it straight down the invisible empathic channel directly into the charging Vanguard.

Thud. Squeak.

The terrifying rush of footsteps abruptly falters.

I peek one eye open.

Vigna has skidded to a complete halt just two paces away from me. The fierce, competitive grin has entirely vanished from her face. Her fiery eyes are half-lidded, glazed over with a sudden apathy.

The aggressive, fizzing cherry cola flavor goes completely, entirely flat.

"You know what…” Vigna slurs, her voice dropping into a heavy, unbothered monotone. Her shoulders slump. Her lance slips from her grip, clattering loudly against the mat.

"Fighting is dumb," Vigna mumbles, swaying slightly on her feet. "Everything is dumb. I think… I'm just going to lie down right here."

Without another word, the energetic Vanguard simply collapses. She completely folds like a wet towel, face-planting directly onto the training mat with a soft, defeated groan. She just lies there, completely motionless, her arms sprawled uselessly at her sides. I stare at the neutralized Elite-in-training in absolute shock.

"It worked!" Lisa cheers, bouncing up and down behind me. "You completely pacified her! That was amazing, Lethe!"

I lower my staff, my heart still hammering against my ribs. "I… I think I made her too tired. Is she asleep?"

I take a cautious step forward, poking Vigna's shoulder. She doesn't react. She just lets out a long, heavy sigh into the foam.

"Okay, phase two!" Lisa announces, completely ignoring the fact that we have entirely short-circuited an Operator. "If you can make her stop fighting, you should be able to give her energy! Try to buff her, Lethe! Give her the will to fight back!"

I look down at the completely unmotivated Sarkaz.

"Buff her?" If I need to give her energy, I need to push something bright. Something volatile. I think of the blinding, effervescent thrill of tearing into a fresh, sugary pastry. I gather all of that bright, buzzing, carbonated excitement, and I slam it directly into the channel.

The reaction is instantaneous and violently explosive.

Vigna's eyes snap wide open. She inhales a massive gasp of air, her entire body going rigid.

She shoots up from the floor like she has been launched from a cannon. The flat cherry cola flavor in the air instantly detonates, erupting into a blinding, hyperspeed geyser of pure, unadulterated caffeine and rock music.

"YEAH!" Vigna screams at the absolute top of her lungs.

She snatches her lance from the floor, but she doesn't drop into a combat stance. Instead, she flips the weapon sideways, gripping the shaft like the neck of a bass guitar. She drops to her knees, throwing her head back, and begins shredding a blistering, completely silent air-guitar solo on her lethal weapon, her red hair whipping wildly through the air.

"ROCK AND ROLL NEVER DIES!" Vigna bellows, sliding across the mat on her knees. I shriek, stumbling backward and hiding completely behind Lisa.

"I think I gave her too much sugar!" I yell over Vigna's manic, imaginary concert.

Lisa is clapping her hands in absolute delight, entirely entirely unbothered by the sheer chaos we have unleashed.

"It's perfect, Lethe!" Lisa giggles, watching Vigna execute a flawless, high-speed spin move. "You're a natural Supporter!"

Eventually, the massive surge of injected emotion burns itself out. Vigna's wild air-guitar solo slows down, her movements becoming sluggish until she finally drops her lance and collapses onto her back, completely gasping for air.

I cautiously peek out from behind Lisa.

Vigna is staring blankly at the ceiling, her chest heaving. The flavor radiating from her is a thoroughly confused, exhausted puddle of flat soda.

"What…” Vigna wheezes, rubbing her forehead. "What just happened… Why do I feel like I just played a three-hour set at the Obsidian Festival?"

I scramble forward, my horns dipping as I offer a frantic, highly apologetic bow.

"I'm so sorry, Vigna!" I stammer, my cheeks burning with a hot flush of guilt. "I was just trying to give you energy!"

Vigna slowly props herself up on her elbows, looking at me with a completely bewildered expression. Then, she looks at her lance lying on the mat, and finally at Lisa’s beaming, proud smile.

A sudden, breathless laugh escapes her lips.

"Okay… okay, kid," Vigna chuckles, shaking her head as she slowly drags herself back to her feet. "I will admit. Whatever that was… it's effective. But if you ever make me air- guitar with my lance in front of the Elite Ops, I am going to make you run laps with Ms. Dobermann until your legs fall off."

I gulp. "Understood, Vigna!"

Vigna grabs her sports drink, offering us a tired wave as she heads toward the blast doors. "I'm going to take a nap. Hall 6 is all yours, girls."

The doors hiss shut, leaving Lisa and me alone in the training hall.

I look down at my staff. The terrifying, crushing weight of the battlefield feels just a tiny bit more manageable now. I can actually protect the people around me.

“Thank you, Lisa.”

“Now, how does the drones work again?” Lisa walks over to the control console of the training room.

“Drones?!”

“You need to learn how to position yourself out there in the field! Ah, there!” Lisa presses on the console, then three practice drones starts with a whirr and lifts from their charging racks. Then they turn to face me.

“Eh?! Lisa, you promised no physical stuff!” I yelp. Looking at my best friend in utter betrayal.

Lisa just gives me her radiant smile.

I am screwed.