Discovery Gaming Community

Forty pens scratched furiously on paper. Their stone-faced instructor was like a silent whirlwind, covering the whole broad whiteboard with relevant equations for upcoming examination.

Alaric turned to the next page of his notebook, attempting to copy every last number and symbol verbatim. The majority of these functions were review, even as far back as lycée, but the loss of even a single point could be felt further down the line. Friendly voices choked the air with competition and ambition.

Their schooling and breeding was sublime. No easy advantage to race against.

"Visit my office if you still do not understand something. Dismissed."

"Congédié, bien commandant. Bon après-midi commandant," the class returned as a single organ.

Cadet Alaric Favager gathered his effects and departed hastily. Decorum was in Villenueve Hall.

"Atroce, camarade," Luc wailed, last week's quiz crumpled up in his hands.

"You only got one wrong."

"And I never get one wrong my friend," the pencil of a man stuck his finger in Alaric's shoulder.

"Not anymore. Soon you'll be as bad as Chaput. Have you packed yet?"

"Packed? What are you talking about Favager?"

"Surely you're getting kicked out over this."

"Ha!" Luc Comtois shoved the quiz in his bookbag as they walked. "As long as I don't turn into a drooling meathead like you, I should be fine."

"Drooling."

"Only when you pass out in fancy class."

Alaric said nothing in reply, only rolling his eyes and popping a little caffeine pill into his mouth.

"Sore?"

"The fitness test is a breeze. It's easier than the regular workouts."

Luc whistled and shook his head. "It hurts to sit down. I barely got over sixty on the sit-ups."

"How were your push-ups?"

Luc snapped his fingers. "Maxed it, now that you're working with me. Passed the run."

"But you haven't broken ten minutes yet?"

"Are you kidding?" He scoffed, "I think ten minutes and fifteen seconds for two-and-a-half kilometers isn't so bad!"

Alaric groaned. "Come on, I can get you down to nine-thirty by the end of the term if you'd just run with me."

"You're already a brute in the gym. I'm not letting you be my cardio coach, either."

"Suit yourself."

A cadet leaving Villenueve held the doors open for them. The two men thanked her and walked inside.

"Savatier and Fosse might."

"Huh?"

"They might work with you. Their run times suck. Fosse might even get kicked out."

"How bad is it?" Alaric stopped and turned, solemnly evaluating much in the fashion of a doctor.

"She's at thirteen."

Alaric visibly recoiled. "Mon dieu."

"Right? They told me to tell you they would even pay you if you trained them."

They continued walking. They stepped inside the classroom where Madame de Dijon was already writing on the board. Luc wavered for a moment, but ultimately sat at the back with his friend, just as he had every day since the start of the term.

The rest of the cadets filed in. Saint-Cyr and Janvier walked briskly to the front, again. Alaric cursed whatever gods had blessed them with the enthusiasm and affinity for court manners that should've been his.

"It would be a lot of extra time, considering they're even worse than you. Luc. Not sure extra francs would be worth it."

"They would pay you well."

Alaric leaned back in his seat. "And what would I spend it on? More undershirts?"

Luc threw his hands up. "Just think about it. If Fosse drops before she wears that tight dress to the summer gala, I'm blaming you."

He lined up his shot. Everything rode on the perfect confluence of wind currents, the arc of the throw, and the precise force behind it. Alaric flicked his wrist forward and committed. Victor and Felix pulled at their hair, and Geneviève gripped his arm for good luck.

The projectile flew.

...and the little ping-pong ball landed cleanly in the last cup. Alaric's camp jumped for joy, leaping up and down like victorious warriors. The girl at his side took a fistful of his dirty black and dyed-blond mop and pulled him in for a rough kiss, the taste of alcohol swirling jubilantly in their mouths.

"Fils de pute!" the gang of wiry chain smokers from Coisy cursed their luck while their vaunted former champion threw his head back for three more shots of rum.

Alaric's tenacious focus on the game cleared, and the pounding of music and the musk of drunken festivity returned to the senses. His little gang was muscled away for another game to be set up. Dozens of little white cups lined up on the table like fusiliers tasked to leave their targets passed out on the bathroom floor.

"I'm six in. Get me one in... in memory of those bastards from Coisy.""

Geneviève slithered over to the kitchen bar, now slick and reeking from a dozen little spills. Her boyfriend eagerly took the offered mixed drink. His face twisted up at the scent and he nearly retched after pounding it down.

"This stuff is awful," Alaric groaned. "Arthur! Your drinkshh... are disgusting."

"Just shut up already," he shot back, nervously adjusting his glasses. He put down a roll of paper towels and wrung his hands. "I appreciate you getting everyone over here. Just don't complain like an asshole about free alcohol."

"Je m'en fou. You owe me."

Arthur promptly flipped him off, in the way only friends who hate each other do. Geneviève clumsily shoved him away.

"Need some more?" She whispered to Alaric.

He leaned down quickly and locked her in a sloppy kiss, sending them both stumbling against the wall.

"What... what are shyou doing later baby?"

Her hands wandered dangerously. "I think I have a few surprises for you."

Felix barged in and grabbed Alaric for balance. "Not in front of us asssshole. I'm not wrecked enough to washhh your stupid ash!"

"Piss off," Geneviève barked, leaning so as to get the most value out of her offensively low top.

"Listen, listen, ladieshh-"

Alaric was cut off by a loud crash and a yell. A few moments later, Arthur burst through the crowd. "Alaric! Alaric! Get these connards out of my house!" His face was bloodied and the poor man was shaking like an earthquake.

Arthur's burly "friend" blinked slowly. That last drink was kicking in.

"Those assholes from Coisy! Get your dumbass guests out of here now!"

"Hey, cool it dégénéré, I'm not-" he froze the instant he noticed the extent of the injury. "Merde. What the hell did they do to you?"

"Fix this. Now."

"Sshhhit, you're the one who wanted more gueshsts to ssshow up..." He pushed his empty drink in Arthur's hands and meandered into the kitchen, stumbling past throngs of confused party-goers exchanging in hushed whispers.

The crowd gathered there gave the group of troublemakers a wide berth. They argued among themselves, most likely about the bloodied, broken bottle in their leader's hand.

"Hey..."

They turned to face the newcomer. The tallest one, Rob, took a slow drag from a cheap cigarette. He bent down casually, extinguishing it on a leather couch. Pointing at Alaric with his bottle hand, he marched forward.

"Don't tell me you're pencil-neck's girlfriend."

Geneviève's head poked out from behind her drunken soldier with a scowl.

"I guesshh I am," Alaric shrugged. Time to get out."

Rob didn't stop. He waved the bottle menacingly. Its brutal edges flashed red in the dim light with splatters of blood and drops of beer. Geneviève stumbled back into the wall, suddenly terrified.

Alaric casually discarded his shirt and threw it to the side.

Rob sprinted forward with an aggressive stabbing motion. He intended to gut his foe right off the bat. Alaric weaved sluggishly to the right, nearly losing his balance in the process. Rob stumbled through the failed attack and crashed straight into the fridge.

Fresh blood dripped to the floor. Alaric looked down curiously, taking brief note of the shallow cut across his chest.

Rob came back to his feet and set himself up for another charge, and-

"CRACK!"

Victor cackled. The wood bat cracked in two over Rob's thick skull and he fell like a brick. Alaric gave his friend a thumbs-up.

"Idiot!" Victor yelled.

"Huh?"

Alaric turned too late. A fist crashed into his cheek, sending him reeling into a table. He slipped, barely keeping his balance. His blood ran hot as lava as the memories flooded back. Instinct kicked in. He regained his footing. He didn't see two Coisy assholes anymore.

Now Adrien and Michele were both on him, drowning him in a flurry of reckless punches and kicks. Alaric grabbed the closest limb in a hazy rage and ripped Michele down to the floor with him. The attacker's head cracked on the table, and he rolled away clutching his skull.

Adrien tried to throw another ragged haymaker, hunched over the table. It connected, but poorly. Alaric ignored the ringing in his ears and the wet trickle coming down his brow and grabbed both of Adrien's wrists, yanking him down too. Alaric leveraged his weight and muscle to roll on top, locking his foe in place with an arm laid over his neck.

He started throwing rights and didn't quit. One after another, each bone-curdling smack drove Adrien's eyes into a deeper and deeper daze. His face drowned in welts and cuts, with blood dripping onto the wood floor.

Michele recovered and wrapped his arms around Alaric's torso, intent on throwing him off. Instead, Alaric threw his weight to the side, crushing Michele under his back. He rolled over and slammed an elbow into the side of his head. It was a clean hit, despite his stupor, and Michele was out cold. He turned his attention back to Adrien, about to throw another straight fist into his jaw. He grimaced through the blood trickling over his lips and-

Geneviève and Felix pulled Alaric roughly to his feet. He flailed like a fish out of water, screaming in slurred and interrupted means every single way he was going to beat Rob, Michele, and Adrien absolutely senseless.

"Just stop you asshole! You're gonna kill him!"

"Damn right I'm gonna kill him!"

But he stopped for a moment, as the expert grip of his friends aborted his warpath.

His blood cooled. Seeing the state of the kitchen and dining room froze his lust for blood.

"Oh... ssshhhit."

Fortunately, nobody had died that night. But five boys were hospitalized. The Police Royal were put in their place with a pathetic bribe.

--

Alaric Jean-Paul Favager d’Astier stared up at the blinding lights over his surgical bed. Nothing truly serious, but his entire chest had been stitched up.

Felix and Victor had taken him, but their parents were quick to pluck them from the hospital for what would surely be a screaming match of epic proportions followed by a slap on the wrist. The nurses came by too, sternly informing that none of the three Coisy boys were seriously hurt. Their tone lashed at him, warning that he might not be so lucky next time.

The door opened again. Probably another nurse.

"Son."

His blood turned to ice in his veins.

"Dad."

21st of April, 716 AGS (801 AS), in a field near Saleux, Planet Amiens

Four machines crested the lip of the cracked dirt pit at top speed, racing down the slope over and around holes and patches of weeds. The lead vehicle skidded cleanly to a stop, throwing up a little spray of dirt on a parched colony of long grass. The others circled around the man of the hour, cheering his good fortune.

Alaric was freshly eight. The event came with all the trappings of elderly prestige, and he walked with his head held high, at times stroking an invisible beard. There was a home-made cake, of course. It was triple chocolate.

Little Girard and Leonide got two slices each; one for the party, and one in the fridge for later. Marie scoffed when a heap of the cake and frosting was offered right before she left for her shift. Mother politely waved away her plate, and Alaric and his three guests each had one at the party. That left a whole eight slices left in the fridge, and Alaric schemed to double this remainder with the cake knife later that evening.

He got some socks and a shirt from his Aunt Emma and Uncle Claude, along with ten francs in an envelope. Aunt Josephine and Uncle Leon sent a card from their whole family. It had another ten francs, and was attached to a box containing an awesome die-cast Gallic Metal Service transport, just like the one Uncle Leon flew.

His father had saved for weeks to get him a great, big model kit for a Valor-class battleship with all plastic pieces. It came with everything, even the stickers! Alaric wouldn't have to whittle the cannons and antennae this time. It also came with three five-franc credit chips. He eagerly began the countdown for his father's return from the mining complex so they could start on the battleship. Just a week and some change!

But the greatest boon of all was his mighty chariot. As awe-inspiring as a battleship and faster than a light fighter, it would be his ticket to finally zooming up and down the streets and in the old dirt pit with Victor, Felix, and Cosette.

It was a watermelon pink bicycle, well-kept by his older sister until she finally outgrew it and purchased a commuter's road bike with her own money. It had tassels on the handles, a real kick-stand, and hardly any rust! Alaric's friends had to scavenge theirs from parts in the junkyards or had inherited far more beat up examples from their own siblings.

Alaric was newly wealthy - a capitalist with thirty-five francs on his hands - and had enough clothes that he surely would never need to buy any again. He was going to invest fifty-fifty in IDF and GMS with twenty francs and save the rest. It was really just earmarked for snacks. Once you own a battleship and a bicycle, there isn't much left in the world that money can buy.

So Alaric felt mighty charging into the dirt pit, the ringleader of his little gang's newly-completed bike squad. They tried races around the edge of the old junk pit and jumps off of piles of wood and scrap and dirt. They scurried around for whole hours that day, already digging wear tracks into the soil with their incessant riding.

That's when three more bikes vaulted over the perimeter, desecrating the sanctity of their beautiful, decrepit waste pit. They were sleek, black and blue, and only a few years old. To the four amateur racers, they looked like stunning machines of the future.

Jacques was ten, which made him very important. He was considered popular by all those who ought to know. Smaller kids stepped out of his way, and his peers clamored for his opinions. He had a certain charisma about him, and not just for his might. He could be affable when he wanted to. Unfortunately, many of the kids under him didn't seem to rate that treatment.

Nature at times levies curious burdens on some and advantages on others. When Jacques was formed, some power up high must have posited that some children should just be huge, and saw fit to test it immediately.

He had the stature of an ancient warrior, a veritable Goliath at well over one and a half meters. It was hard to tell where the muscle on his bone ended and where the flab began at some points, but it didn't seem to make much of a difference where the mass came from when his vicious right arm went swinging.

"Nice bike, Alaric! Did a fairy give it to you?"

His cheeks flushed. It was one thing to ride around with friends, but a boy having a pink bike wasn't something that one necessarily wanted leaked, especially to the boss of the whole school.

"Thanks. My mom gave it to me," he didn't like the guy, but he could understand how one might appreciate craftsmanship.

Jacques rode over with his wingmen. They didn't even need to scrape their feet to stop right in front of Alaric and his friends. Instead, they just used their functioning brakes. It was enough to make any kid envious.

"What are you, a little girl?"

"No, I'm not! It just came this way."

Jacques laughed. "Sure it did. A girly bike for a stupid little girl!"

"Shut up, Jacques. You're stupid," Victor rode between the two, trying to shout Jacques down.

Jacques didn't tolerate this slight. He stepped off his bike and walked imposingly over to Victor, sitting on his own junkyard piece. The bigger boy shoved Victor over, kicking the jury-rigged gear assembly for good measure.

Cosette and Felix rushed to intervene until they were cut off by Jacques' cronies who started chasing them around the pit. Alaric's last two allies shrieked, pedaling as fast as humanly possible to avoid their bikes getting busted up too.

Alaric's heart beat fast. His hands sweat around the handlebars with white knuckles.

"C-come on Jacques, go away!"

"Shut up jackass," he spat in reply.

Jacques had lost his patience. His fists were raised and his tone leveled daggers. Alaric's heart raced. He tried to pedal away, only for his bully to grab him by the arm and yank him to the ground. His head rattled in a makeshift bucket helmet. He saw double for a few seconds and struggled to re-orient himself; the breath had been knocked out of him. His heart sank when he felt Jacques take a fistful of collar and lift him up.

"This is where we ride our bikes now, Alaric. Never come back."

"But we want to ride here," he shot back in a bout of ill-advised bravado.

Jacques wound back his right.

"No wait! Please, please don't hit me! I'll do anything!"

Jacques cackled, and in his eyes, one blackened harshly, there was a terrifying appetite for the power he was wielding.

"Give your bike back!"

"No! I-"

THWUMP.

Alaric saw stars.

He cried. He cried when Jacques and his friends got bored and left, and he cried when his friends walked him home.

He dropped his bike in the yard between the tomato planters and pounded on the back door. His mother gasped and bent down when she stepped out.

"Oh, mon petit fils, what happened to you?"

All he could explain between fits of sobbing and hiccuping was that he didn't want to ride his new bike anymore.

Madame Favager wasted no time on the antidote to her son's malaise. Potatoes from the garden mashed with cream and cheese traded from the neighbors' farm, whipped together into a sweet, fluffy puree. She washed the blood and dirt from his cuts with gentle cotton dabs as he ate, an old cartoon playing on their ancient entertainment set.

"Is dad getting off early?"

Mom shook her head sadly. It had happened maybe three or four times in Alaric's memory, that the painfully long work period in the depths of Amiens' mines would be cut short due to some equipment failure or safety violation.

Alaric never knew why it made portions smaller for the next few days or why they couldn't have lights on at night, but he would always declare that he could eat just a piece of bread for every meal if it meant that dad could miss work every day.

"He'll make that model with you first thing when he comes home, mon fils. Don't worry."

Once clean, and done with his snack, he sulked into his room to play with his ships.

When he saw the calendar counting down a week and a half, he cried again.

16th of October, 727 AGS (812 AS), Room 202, Villenueve Hall, Ecole Navale Royale d'Amiens

Alaric popped another caffeine pill when Madame de Dijon turned her back to the classroom. Dizzying twists and pirouettes encumbered the blackboard with every possible bow and introduction one should make in noble company, with each step finely detailed in chalk. Madame was a sight to behold, a whirlwind from one end of the board to the next, writing and then demonstrating, demonstrating and then writing.

Her chin was locked at a permanent thirty degree angle so that she could look down on her charges without interruption. The sight was indomitable, and certainly compounded by her attire. She insisted on wearing her slim, ferocious Marine dress blues year-round, spangled with more medals and ribbons in recognition of courtly pomp than one could imagine.

It was generally intolerable between the months of April and October on Amiens to wear anything dark or heavy, and yet Madame carried on in the swelter without so much as a peep or breath indicating discomfort. She had the air conditioning to her classroom shut off, and this only multiplied the suffering. Somehow, not a drop of sweat was ever present on her. Perhaps even her own pores were intimidated.

She enabled such hellish conditions with the justification that right protocol and etiquette should always be a priority, and that a student should be able to execute all of the expected behaviors under the greatest stress and discomfort. Some took eagerly to the challenge, smiling and bowing and saying every right thing with machine-like efficiency even as their undershirts flooded.

For such a student Madame would at times offer praise, in the form of a microscopic smile hidden beneath the eternal sneer. Receiving one was a momentous event, and for some it raised spirits for days and weeks at a time.

Alaric wondered what it was like as his spine yowled from practicing the same jumble of courtly bows at least fifty times over. Luc's sympathetic eyes peered over a palisade of flash cards.

"Not that one, dammit. You don't bow that deep for a vicompte."

He grumbled and tried again.

"No, no, stop-" Luc exhaled slowly. "Same speed as before. But keep it shallower. Remember the rule, one meter away, barones you bow to the belly, a vicompte you bow to the..."

"...hips."

"Right. Now do it again. You don't slow them down until you're past vicompte."

"Damn it all."

Finally, he got one right.

"Now a barone that you've already met."

Alaric waited a beat, and then bent at the hips-

"You forgot to touch your hat. Remember, if you've met the chap, tap the cap."

Luc's unfortunate comrade threw his arms up in exasperation.

"I swear to the-"

Madame cleared her throat. It echoed like gunfire, exterminating all stray voices.

"Practices are over. We will now review the cadet branches of Thierry from the reading."

And just like that, the board was swept clean of its refined diagrams. A spiderweb of family relations going back centuries replaced it. Madame glanced at her book from time to time, but it was evident that nearly all the vast body of material was fully committed to memory.

For the next half hour, dignified names blended together in a slurry of hot, reeking exhaustion. Not even two pills were enough for today's lesson. Alaric only rested his eyes a few times, but the end of lecture felt as though it had come too quick. The breadth of Luc's pages of fresh notes beside his half-page was evidence enough that some of those blinks were rather prolonged.

"Review the material for next week's test. We will cover introductions, bows, table manners, and the Thierry, Valois, and Bocage families..."

Her wretched masses clung to the silence. Though no break in her expression indicated it, but Alaric long suspected that Madame savored the last few pregnant seconds of quiet she held them in each day.

"Dismissed."

Forty chairs squealed as they slid out, and forty sets of legs shot up.

"Congédié, bien commandant. Bon après-midi commandant."

The class gaggled by the doors, filing out slow and lethargic through the narrow opening. Alaric and Luc tapped their feet beside some of their classmates, away from the mob and in no particular rush to shower and change. Cadets Saint-Cyr and Janvier were casually discussing the finer points of napkin folding.

"How do you do it?" Alaric marveled.

"Hm?" Saint-Cyr cocked her head.

"How do you two blow through this so easy?"

"Probably because we try, Cadet Favager," Janvier cackled.

Luc shook his head. Alaric rolled his eyes.

"I am... related to some nobles," Saint-Cyr seemed to tease.

"Is that so? And that suddenly makes you a genius at remembering half a million names and twice as many ways to set forks?"

"No, but it helps."

"Then how do you study?"

"I don't study."

Alaric deadpanned.

"Bull. You don't study at all?"

"I don't study, the material" she shook her head. "I do the material."

"What do you mean you're doing etiquette? Did His Highness start attending when I wasn't looking?"

Her lips thinned. "Don't be an imbecile, Favager. I don't memorize from my notebook. I practice things out as if they were real. Janvier and I have little dinners and balls three times a week, and twice on the weekends."

"You're crazy."

"I'm not crazy, I'm passing. What about you, Alaric?" She inquired sweetly. "How are you doing?" She batted her eyelids for good measure. If Alaric wasn't already boiling from the heat, his blood was bubbling up now.

"Fine. I get it."

They filed out behind the last of their fellow cadets.

"You don't suppose I could join you for one of those?"

"No."

"What about that whole thing in the handbook where it says cadets are supposed to back each other up in all ways?"

"No. Two is enough for this. Three would slow it down, and I really don't have the time for extra sessions. I mean, how much free time do you have?"

"I'll pay you."

She blinked. And laughed.

"Alright Favager, how much will you pay me?" She chuckled.

He counted on his fingers, carrying and adding numbers on the movement of his silent lips.

"Fifty francs a week if we meet twice a week."

"So, twenty-five per study session?"

"I thought it wasn't studying?"

She flicked his arm. "Twenty-five per practice?"

"No. Fifty at the end of each week. Starting next week."

"What, you don't have any francs lying around?"

He sniffed.

"No."

She pursed her lips and pretended to vacillate on her decision.

"Fine. Fifty francs a week and I'll make sure you don't fail."

"You don't sound too confident, Cadet Saint-Cyr. You don't think you can get me an A?"

"I'm not a miracle worker."

Alaric crossed his arms.

"Come see me Saturday before supper, Favager. Initial appointment. Maybe we can manage a B."

Saint-Cyr turned slick on her heels and sauntered off for the women's dormitories with Janvier. Alaric sighed, running a hand through his sodden black fuzz on his head. Luc sidled up to him.

"So... you have a plan to make fifty francs a week?"

"Give Savatier and Fosse the good news. I guess I'll be helping them with their fitness after all."

7th of July, 718 AGS (803 AS), in the yard of the Favager residence, Saleux, Planet Amiens

In patchwork shorts and an old tee shirt, Saleux was almost tolerable in the summer. It was a medley of cute little houses, cramped and loving and made by hand, all of them prostrate victims of the sun for well over half of the year. The town was placed rather unfortunately, close enough to the equator that the terrible global warming and direct impact of the sun drowned it in a sweaty miasma and yet far enough from the coast that not even sea level rise could introduce the tempering mercy of a sea breeze.

For some parts of the year, it was almost lovely. On the precipice of winter and spring, the days were fresh and pleasant, comparable to mild summers on more amenable worlds. And as far inland as Saleux was, excellent surf was available year-round just two hours away on the submergent coastline to the south.

At least, it was to those who could afford to drive down or take a fast train. Alaric settled for his posters.

He was able to handle this weather, whining less and less as he advanced in his years. At age eleven, he rarely complained except in the peak of season.

But his mother never complained. In a long, ragged yellow dress and shawl with thick gloves on, she spent long hours under the oppressive barrage of the Picardy system's yellow sun. She would first tend to the fowl, before breakfast, and later in the day tend to the vegetables, followed by the flowers.

The backyard was the crown jewel of their home, bound by a tall fence of plain brown planks topped with barbed wire. It encompassed a few coops, nearly a dozen planters of herbs and vegetables, and a few rows for flowers at the end.

Maintaining the home and plying the yard was a herculean task, which often had Madame Favager up with the sun and in bed far after it departed. But as hard as the blistering heat and long hours tried to batter her down, her fortress of enthusiasm never cracked. She was never short a loving smile when it was needed.

While Alaric's little brothers napped inside, he worked out in the yard with his mother. The day's stories from the news service seeped out of the window.

"...and travel advisories have been issued by the police and Compté Andre de Chartres, Compté du Amiens for the communities of Bernaville, Coisy, and Flixecourt. Gendarmes intervened in La Faloise today..."

"Come here, petit ours," mother called above the subdued noise of the radio.

"Yes mama?"

A stack of white buckets and a waste bin sat beside her.

"Did you finish pulling all of the weeds from the flower beds?"

"Mhmm!" Alaric proudly dumped armfuls of invasive plant in the waste bin. Once full, it would be drowned and sealed, rotting the seeds and roots so that they could be used as fertilizer without risking another invasion.

She pinched his cheek.

"Mooom..."

"Oh, let me have my fun, petit ours. Marie won't let me do this anymore."

She dumped her stack of weeds and took two of the empty buckets.

"Come. Let's get some water."

Alaric took his bucket with both hands and followed his mother out of the back gate. It opened to a well-trod dirt path, winding through trees and wildflowers to the bank of the gentle L'Ancre river. The path was just under a kilometer, but the winding turns and dodging of prickly plants made it slow going.

"What's a travel advisory?"

She pondered her words.

"Well, a travel advisory means... that the police are just making sure a place is really, really safe for people to go."

"Why isn't it safe?"

"Well," she began somberly, "you know how dad and I had to leave Marne with you and your sister, when you were just a baby?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, some of the people that were fighting on Marne tried to come to Amiens."

"Are they gonna hurt us?"

She laughed away his concern. "No, Alaric, we're very safe. The Marine and the police have it all under control."

She was relieved he could not see her anxiously biting her lower lip.

When they came upon the river, they filled their buckets to the brim with its flow. They splashed their faces to cool down and sat in the shade for a few minutes before returning uphill the way they came. Alaric strained with his bucket, although not as much as he used to. His mother encouraged him up the trail, each time offering him the chance to put his bucket down for a moment.

"I can do it. Let's keep going."

She would smile, and carry on with her two buckets.

Back in the yard, they laid each bucket side-by-side and filled pails. Watering all of their plants took considerable resource, but one or two trips a day was well worth the savings on the water bill. Alaric watered the flowers, which was a precise task requiring many weeks of practice and oversight before his mother had allowed him to do it unsupervised.

The fiery red and deathly-purple dahlias were first, then the two beds of drooping pink orchids, then the crimson daylilies and Gallic Blue irises and pink peonies, the pink phlox in the groundcover, and lastly, the fiery orange marigolds.

Many of them were now flowering. Tomorrow, they would cut and stuff their flowers into vases and arrangements for the market, along with some of their vegetables and treats.

Their work outside finished, they cleaned up and saw to the baking. Two pans of brownies were the result. Half of one pan would go to the family, which meant a whole quarter-pan for Alaric. The rest were wrapped and refrigerated with other recent creations for the next day.

Late as it was in the day, the sun was still high.

"Can I go over to Felix's house now?"

"Let me think..." she tapped her chin. Alaric groaned.

"Come on, please?"

She played the part of a wearied parent giving in. "Oh, alright."

"Thanks mom."

He rocketed for the door with his quarter-pan of brownies stacked in a paper bag when his mother tugged on his collar.

"Thank you for helping me today," she sang, placing a little purple aster behind his ear.

She wrapped him in a tight hug which coiled him like a spring. When she released, he shot out the door, bounded off the porch, and was down the street towards Felix's house in the blink of an eye.

Victor and Cosette were already with Felix at his house when Alaric arrived. Felix's face was red; his eyes were bleary, having run most of their tears. His mother silently released them to play.

They went to the junkyard. They sat atop an old train car, watching the sun finally descend. Felix sobbed and sniffled, scattered details about his father in La Faloise slipping through now and again.

Felix's mother had broken to him in a shaky tone that his father wouldn't be coming back from work. Maybe he was busy, or maybe he got hurt, or maybe he just got lost. All these wholly reasonable suggestions from his friends were each met in sequence with a slow shake of the head.

Felix knew, and they knew.

Alaric shrouded him in the best hug that he could, and gave him the biggest share of all the brownies.

Misty clouds hugged the spotlights lining the track, marking the seeping, ambient moisture suspended in the early morning air. The orbs of dew clung to the lights, perhaps as desperately as cadets clinging to their sheets in the face of a morning alarm. They were the harbingers of an inescapable, lukewarm dampness that infested clothes and brewed with sweat.

Shallow puddles covered each of the track's lanes, carrying orange flakes of its rubber surface in little circles with the breeze. Alaric deftly sidestepped each one in his path, as any cadet knew the raw, sustaining discomfort of flooded running shoes.

He glanced at his timepiece. Oh-six fifteen. Five minutes early. He was first to arrive from his little workout group, and the only company was the cackling buzz of insects and a few early-bird runners. He tapped his feet.

"Hey Al-"

"Merde!" Alaric yelped, spinning on his heels and throwing up hostile fists. His hair stood on end, and his heart descended slowly from his throat. "Dammit, Luc. Don't scare me like that."

He crossed his arms and surveyed the track. "Has anyone shown up yet?"

"No, but they should be filing down here any minute now."

At oh-six eighteen, Savatier and Fosse bounded through the gate to the track, late to being early. Alaric waved them in, until he noticed their company close behind. Three more cadets followed. He recognized them as Faucheux, Masson, and Leclerc.

"Brought some friends with you?" He stuck his hands on his hips and surveyed the class. Slow, out of weight standards, or too weak for pull-ups and pushups, it wouldn't matter. It would be fixed.

"Oh no no, not really. We appreciate the help, it's just... you know, if we're following your workout, they can follow it too, right?" Fosse tried to soften the potential offense. Bubbly and unable to finish a sentence without gesticulating along the way, she bobbed up and down as she spoke.

Despite Fosse's workout shirt and sports bra, Luc was shocked still. Alaric covertly pinched his side.

"No problem. Makes no difference to me. Just make sure you keep up. Assistant coach here, Cadet Comtois," he elbowed his friend out of the Fosse-induced stupor, "will help me keep you all motivated. Remember you're here to hurt and get stronger."

His new disciples nodded.

"Alright, let's get to work. Stretch for five minutes, and jog a warm up lap."

He led their first slow lap around the track. Afterwards, he shouted them to the deck and led a grueling series of flutter-kicks, followed by crunches, then pushups, planks, burpees, and back to the start of that routine again. The rest periods were short, only for sipping some water and recovering. In under a minute, the cycle began again. With regards to the puddles, there was no comfortable way to perform. Everyone took a pain bath in one of the track puddles at some point.

"One-two-three-ONE."

"One-two-three-TWO."

Alaric set the pace, going at full speed even as cadets dropped to the ground or skipped reps for seconds at a time out of exhaustion. His abs burned, his arms were on fire, and his chest beat intensely. After their fourth time through the circuit, he called the stop order. Just a half-hour in and he'd nearly killed off his little troop.

Luc grinned through the pain. He had been trained up to it, and he savored watching the others remind him of his older level of fitness. He yelled encouragements and rep counts nearly as loud as Alaric had for the circuits.

"How do we feel?"

"Outstanding," the cadets gasped in a straggled chorus. Naval spirit wasn't lost on them, even when suffering at the miserable crack of dawn.

Alaric popped up to his feet and stretched out his calves.

"Feeling tired?"

The group chattered in agreement.

"Good. Let's do some cardio."

Luc glared, suddenly betrayed. He saw in Alaric a Brutus to his Caesar, and the knife of a cardio workout was just plunged in his back.

"Hey. You have to do cardio with me. That's what you pay me in exchange for helping me smoke them," Alaric chastised.

The taller friend nodded, somber. His legs were already burning at the thought.

Alaric squirmed in the cocktail of warm dew, puddle water, and sweat pressed against his flesh by his plain academy workout shirt. He pulled the blasted thing over his head and tossed it to the side of the track with his water bottle.

He wasn't massive, but his arms, core, and chest were defined by sharp, muscular lines and pop. Veins coursed down his considerable biceps and meaty forearms, creating the impression of a much larger man. Certainly no bodybuilder, but a lifter, and a hard and consistent worker at that.

He was a far cry from the mere creature he was only a few years ago. Steam rose in the morning air from his tightly-cut black high and tight, glistening from sweat. He reveled in the "suck" as it was called; it was the soreness, suffering, pump, and combined feeling of achievement from those three.

His eyes casually drifted over his group. Tired, but capable of continuing. His look suggested a challenge, perhaps an invitation. "Work hard with me, and we'll all make it."

Not an unattainable level by any means. It was one he would take them to.

"Jog the corners, sprint the straightaways," he announced.

Leclerc nodded with a faint smirk hiding on his lips. He tossed his own shirt to the side.

"Let's do it!"

"I like the enthusiasm. Alright! Cadet Leclerc is taking the lead. I'll keep the time, just keep moving."

The first lap went well. Savatier and Masson even raced each other. Luc huffed behind Alaric, drafting off of him while silently begging to be released.

By the fourth lap, everyone was huffing and gasping with Luc. Alaric took the lead once Leclerc began to slow, pushing a few dozen meters ahead of the pack.

Soon, he lost sight of the group. His legs caught on fire, hot knives stabbing into his calves with every long stride. Lava simmered and bubbled in his lungs with every breath, spikes of air threatening to shred his insides. But he kept his eyes on the track ahead, just one step followed by another.

"Come on, keep up! Follow that asshole!" Luc fulfilled his duty through his desperate breaths. "Come on! Come on! Pick it up Fosse, pick it up Faucheux, you can slow jog in the corner! Move it!"

Alaric slowed back down to the group pace, taking up the rear. Anyone who fell back next to him would be pushed, prodded, and goaded back up to proper speed. He kept up rearguard duty for the last few minutes on the clock.

"Alright! Time!" He shouted. Through gasps and wheezes, his trainees still managed fist-pumps and boastful shouts. "Walk it out."

They did a final slow lap, and closed with stretches. Luc leaned in to his friend's ear.

"You're gonna tell them about the fee now, right?"

The black-haired athlete rubbed at his neck. "I don't know man, it's just..."

"Wha- come on! That's what this is for. Do you want to fail etiquette or not?"

He shrugged in reply. "Look, it just doesn't feel right."

Luc sighed, and stared at their proud fitness pack as they congratulated each other for surviving.

"I guess."

"We're all cadets. We should be helping each other. I'd feel like an asshole."

"Phew. Alright then. We've saved your conscience, that still leaves a big problem."

"Maybe she'll see things the same way. I'll figure something out. I always do."

"First time for everything."

"Fu-" Alaric started, raising a belligerent finger.

"All stretched. We can go, right?" Fosse begged.

"Right, right. You uh... you all have the schedule I made?"

A wave of confirmations followed.

"Alright. Don't be late, and invite your friends if you want. As long as you're doing the workout, you'll succeed. I guarantee it."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Uhh..." Alaric waved towards the exit gate, "dismissed."

"Congédié," they replied as one.

They filed out casually and Luc shot him an incredulous look.

"Not bad, mister officer. Dismissing people already?"

"Don't ask me."

Luc stroked his chin. "Maybe you ought to put this on your brag sheet at the end of the term."

"Oh yeah? You really think?"

"Sure," Luc stretched out his arms. "Shower and breakfast?"

"Shower and breakfast."

11th of May, 722 AGS (807 AS), Monsieur MacMahon's classroom, Les Plaines Regional School, Saleux, Planet Amiens

Collèges.

Awkward. Restless. Bursting with children climbing the fence into early adulthood, a task which some took to gracefully. However, most others tripped, stumbled, and fell on the way.

Alaric sailed at flank speed from the devilish purgatory of childhood and adulthood battling it out over his body. He thanked the stars that the stink of battle was now far more subdued, and the acne craters of artillery duels between the two stages of life mostly cleared from his face.

His baby features now abandoned him, and his kid charm fell away like a booster rocket. He grew taller, and his voice plummeted dramatically from a church soprano to an occasionally-squeaking baritone, which threatened to evolve at once to a perhaps thrilling bass.

But he relished that the weirdest stage was now, for the most part, behind. He had his friends, and they had all leveled out from the chaos of early collèges. He paid no heed when his mother gushed "oh, how handsome you are" or "you just look so lovely, all grown up and taken care of!"

He was "taken care of" rarely. He let a stringy, prickly beard thrive like weeds on his chin, and abandoned his hair like wild grasslands so long as it didn't interfere with his vision. Alaric would sit meekly, often to the rear of any class. No great attention was paid to him and he did not seek it. He contented himself with window-staring daydreams of fighters and cruisers zipping between the stars, and filled notebooks with pencil diagrams of the dusty wooden models which spangled every shelf of his room.

Alaric's math teacher, a stout and thickly bearded fellow by the name of MacMahon droned on at the other end of the room. His gentle monotone was a famed sleeping agent, and it often took distractions for one to remain awake and attentive in his class.

This was Alaric's excuse to see to his model sets during lectures, obscured by the two dozen heads and torsos between him and the teacher. His fingers were as steady as a surgeon's as he applied his Obstinate-class battlecruiser's main guns to the port and starboard wings jutting below and fore of the bridge.

Gently, ever so gently, he lowered the first anti-ship gun on its prescribed dollop of glue. A satisfying little squish followed, and after a few seconds, he tested its sureness. The gun was rock-steady on the wing.

Then came the next. A similar dollop of glue, perfectly formed from the practice of hundreds upon hundreds of similar attachments over the years. Neither gun could articulate, but they were mounted facing forward, as if the plastic ship was charging its mortal foe.

He stared at it, struck with sudden curiosity. Who were the crew within those little window stickers? What kind of person did it take to fly machine works of art with celestial bodies? How strong were they, and sewn with what courageous fabric?

He imagined great men, and often wrote little stories for them. Heroes that were larger than life, careening headlong into the enemy's wicked formations. Their physical descriptions differed, but the common denominators were the traits of imagined fearless leaders. They wielded great power and refused the word "no" any legitimacy. They were strong men, and nothing could hurt them.

Salvation was only minutes away, now. A clock above the door crept closer and closer to two, which hesitated like a performer in the spotlight with so many eyes watching. MacMahon continued to ramble, unaware that his whole class was wrapped up in the final ticking seconds.

...And then the bell chimed. In an instant, doors flew open and throngs of kids pushed and poured through the halls like a tsunami wave. Alaric quickly packed his things, throwing his model parts in a plastic bag and cradling the frame in his arms like a delicate child.

He poked his head out of the class, his lanky body spilling out of the doorway. No sign of Jacques, or Richard, or any of the usual subjects.

Perhaps today he could really get away with it. He spent every passing period dodging in and out of crowds, and his reward was the feeling of some francs still in his pocket. These would go well to some snacks.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, drifting into the hall with the stragglers of the mob. The front doors were in sight, and beyond them, the bus home to Saleux. He reached for the double doors, when his collar suddenly clenched and choked his neck.

"Hey. Alaric."

A bolt of fear rippled down his back. He was so close...

"Hello, Jacques," he answered shakily.

"I missed you at lunch."

"I was studying."

"Studying what?" Jacques spat. "This place is a joke."

"Look, I just need to go home, and-"

Jacques turned Alaric around and lifted him up by his shirt, cocking a fist just under his chin.

"You usually get me some food at lunch, Alaric. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Look! Look, I was just busy, OK?"

Jacques glared at him for a moment.

"Alright. Fine. Hand it over, then."

Alaric breathed a sigh of relief, plunging a shivering hand into his pockets for change. He piled the francs into Jacques' waiting hand. He steamed, angry at himself for getting cocky and blowing a rare chance to keep his leftover lunch money.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Yeah. OK. I guess not."

Jacques' new friend Pierre cackled. Their little gang pushed by, although Pierre stopped at the door.

Just like Jacques, he was an unfortunate beast of a man. He gave Alaric a once-over, taking stock of their victim.

"Let me see that," he barked. His sweaty hands shot out at the battlecruiser model Alaric was cradling.

"Hey- piss off!" Alaric slapped his hands away. His spontaneous burst of backbone shot him in the foot.

Pierre scowled, and as Alaric flailed away trying to protect his work, the bigger kid sent a wide right haymaker flying.

Alaric clung desperately to a support pillar as the bones in his skull pulsed violently. His entire skull ached and his vision shimmered. Pierre stomped over and easily ripped the model cruiser out of his arms. Dizzied, Alaric's attempt at recovering it ended in him stumbling to the floor.

"Bad move, dumbass," Pierre spat. He held the model in his hands, ultimately disinterested in its composition. He threw it against the pillar, and its pieces shattered to the floor at Alaric's feet.

His tormentors laughed as they departed.

He gathered up the pieces solemnly, collecting them into his plastic bag of parts. It was a futile effort, as the frame itself had been wrecked beyond recognition by the impact.

As he lifted himself up and went out to the buses, he saw a few teachers pass him by. Not a single one paid him more than a second's glance, and his underpaid instructors continued at top speed to their own vehicles or to the train station. There was simply no time to spare. Or, at the very least, no time worth sparing him.

It was a relatively quiet ride back home. He massaged his pulsing cheek, and dabbed away the crimson ooze from a cut under his eye.

As she had done many times before, his mother cooed and cleaned the wound, applied and ice pack, and made something good to eat.

But this was no salve. Alaric could only keep staring at the remains of his model set and the blood which had dripped down and dried on it.

He secluded himself in his cramped room that afternoon, wailing away at his bed, and the walls, chafing under the ever-inescapable jackboot he was crushed under.

He yelled. Cried. Now, it was all too much.

His father had come home that night, and was off of work for the next couple of days. After the family ate dinner in the kitchen, he quietly took Alaric by the arm and led him into the garden.

"Your mother told me about what happened today."

Alaric's cheeks burned. As they stood, watching the evening sun trickle through the pockmarked clouds, he buried his face in his hands.

"I don't want to talk about it."

His father put a warm, calloused hand on his shoulder.

"I know. Nothing I can say can make this better."

Alaric turned, ever so slightly.

"Yeah? Yeah... I know."

Father sighed, lighting up a cigarette and taking a light drag. Thin wisps of smoke disappeared into the air.

"I just... I just don't think I can take it anymore."

"Then don't."

'it's not that easy! These guys, they're just-"

"Alaric," he commanded.

The son quieted, looking up weakly.

"Don't you want to learn how to... you know... take care of yourself?"

"You mean fighting, right?"

"Yes."

Alaric sighed. "I guess, it's just... it's really, really scary."

"I know it is, son."

"I don't... know if I can do that. And... can we even afford that?"

His father took another drag, and placed his hands on his hips.

"Well, if you want to try, we can make it happen for you."

"I just... I don't... wouldn't that be expensive?"

"I don't know, Alaric. That's not important right now."

He turned and walked back to the house.

"Just remember that nobody can solve your problems for you, Alaric. Real problems like this. You know your mother and I love you. But you have to come into your own."

He stepped back into the house, leaving Alaric alone with the setting sun casting its final rays over the garden. He viciously swiped at a tear falling down his cheek. Now, he was left to himself again.

He threw his fist at the fence. And again, and again, and again.

He fell to his knees. Thoughts of the model cruiser ran through his head, of the little sailors in the window stickers. He would never be like them. He knew it.

But he could try.

17th of January, 723 AGS (808 AS), Steier Gym, Bernaville, Planet Amiens

Alaric's arms shot a deadly flurry of combos at the heavy bag. Even in the winter, this basement was mired in sweat and its prolific stench. Fire raged in his belly, focused like the end of a searing torch.

Right, right, left and straight. Right, right, left and straight. Red gloves whipped the sand-filled target with relentless speed and intensity. He ducked down and to the left, covering up his head with an arm. He whipped back around with a fist, and then slammed it with a high, sweeping kick.

"Time. Time! Front and center!" Monsieur Steier bellowed. His gut popped over the edge of his pants in a sweat-stained white undershirt, but the compound density of his arms and the sharp determination in his wrinkled face commanded an intense authority.

Alaric lined up on the mat with the six other young men in their session. They tossed their gloves quickly to the side.

"On your faces! One, two, three, four..."

Pushups were the classic go-to. Pushups until the arms were fully ignited, and shoulders trembled, and biceps quaked. And then, even more pushups. These wouldn't be out of any inner strength or last reserve of energy, but an instinctive reaction to avoid the attention of their instructor.

One blast of the whistle. Burpees. The students strained and their guts twisted and turned as they shot up and down from the mat, leaping up from a pushup and a squat and back down again.

Sweat flowed like bursting rivers down their faces. Alaric wiped away a coursing tributary which tickled his brow and threatened to flood his eyes with pinpricks of salt. His shirt was pasted tight to his chest from the moisture.

As the next whistle blasted ordering them to shadowbox for the last three minutes, all seven had nowhere to look but the mirror.

Alaric's chest, for the first time, stuck prominently from his clothes. Each time his arm surged forward violent, it coursed out with the snap of thickening bicep and the gleam of sweat which sparkled from the light, shining atop his veins from the ceiling lamps.

His back was erect. He stared straight ahead, with his brows furrowed. He was at once light and agile, ready to fly from place to place on his feet, and steady as a boulder. Low and centered, he stood fast against his imaginary enemy. Every few punches, he would shoot out a kick which snapped like a bullwhip, drawn back as fast as it had been issued.

As the timer counted down, his arms wavered from the strain of merely being held up. He pushed through the burn, drawing from a deep sea of magma which boiled deep in his chest.

He threw his punches faster now, his shaved head bobbing up and down with the shots and blocks. He saw so many enemies in that mirror, and there was never enough time to dispense all of the revenge due to each one.

The last whistle. Two blasts.

"Alright, go home!"

The other students bent over and caught their breath.

"Except Alaric, of course."

He went to work immediately. He took all the gloves, towels, and pads and collected them for cleaning. He raced over to the closet where the brushes and mops were stored. He saw to his work in a frenzy despite his absolute exhaustion, for the quicker his appointed rounds were completed, the quicker he could be home.

Steier looked over now and again, doing his slow part to clean up the basement gym as well. He always disappeared upstairs about halfway through, leaving Alaric to finish preparations for the next class and handle all of the laundry.

For good measure, he attended the whiteboard, too, updating attendance, records, workout plans, and weekly schedules.

Now having taught and attended a class and prepared the gym for the next day, he shuffled upstairs with a threadbare gym bag slung over his back.

There, Steier was always waiting with coffee, a piece of fruit, and a few words of encouragement. On a good day, he might even smile. Alaric graciously accepted his ration, asking one last time if he needed any more help. Steier's bushy mustache twitched, and he laughed. Of course he didn't. Any more, and his steep discount might become "pay," and there was no way he was taking on a paid assistant.

It was a hard sprint to make it back to the train station on time. When the stars aligned and his plans worked out, Alaric was a few minutes early for the train that went through Saleux. But there were times that he was too late, and he would have to content himself with sitting on a bench with some book until the next service to Saleux in thirty minutes' time.

Steier lent him old texts of his, either about kickboxing technique or old tomes about confidence, or success in the business world. He absorbed them like scripture, committing their lessons to sacred memory. His favorite was an ancient book of quotes reprinted in the Gallic tongue that Alaric cracked open for motivation often. He dug into his bag for it, flipping to his favorite page.

As the next train to Saleux sounded its horn on approach, he re-read his adopted mantra which shone under the aging yellow light of a neglected lamp.

"Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor."

He stuffed it back inside with his gear and boarded the train. Surrounded by only a few commuters at that time and at that specific section of the line, he was more often than not alone with his thoughts.

He was home by dinner. Alaric drenched himself in a brief, frigid shower and washed himself down. Once dried and changed, he joined his parents and siblings for their meal.

"How was boxing, petit ours?" His mother asked, pouring beef and vegetable stew into six bowls, five regular and one double-size.

"It was great. Lots of footwork and counters today."

His stomach lusted for the hearty meal placed in front of him. Ever since he began working out and boxing, his mother had ratcheted up the size of his portions bit by bit until he was sometimes eating double what any one of his siblings would eat.

"Girard, Leonide, how was school?"

"Fun," the droned, diving into their stew.

"What did you learn?"

"Nothing."

Mother huffed and shook her head.

"Marie, how was your day?"

She shrugged, wiping her mouth politely.

"Can't complain. Passing all my classes. Work was good."

"Well that's lovely, dear. Did... Oh! Did you bring Alaric his math book?"

"Yeah, only when I found him at lunch, though. I looked for him, like, all of forty minutes before classes started."

Alaric took another gulp of stew. "I was in the gym."

"What the hell are you doing in the gym before school? I can barely spell my own name before lunch."

"Mom's coffee is just that good."

"Bull. Nobody has that kind of energy."

He shrugged. "I guess you're right. You could've left the book with my teacher, though."

Leonide peered over his bowl at his older sister. "Yeah, Marie. Why didn't you leave it with his teacher?"

"Didn't cross my mind."

The rest of dinner was quick and uneventful. Mother and father caught up, and their four children scarfed down their meals to free up time for other things.

Girard and Leonide got up first, and they waited anxiously for Alaric to be done too. They pestered their older brother constantly to teach them boxing moves, which he had initially refused to do, accusing them of wanting to terrorize their classmates.

But mother had convinced him over time it was just out of brotherly admiration, and they managed to reach an agreement. Alaric would show them some basic techniques, but nothing too good, so long as they had all of their homework done before dinner. He hoped that their brains would be too stuffed to retain anything, and at the very least it kept their grades tolerable.

Alaric stood up and took his bowl to the sink. Girard and Leonide were hot on his tail.

"Come on! Show us something. You gotta!"

"Yeah, come on Alaric!"

Their tired brother laughed. "Fine. Mère, are they done with all their work?"

"Yes, honey, I checked."

Alaric cracked his knuckles.

"Alright boys, how about this..." he shooed them into the living room, where he dropped into a fighting stance. The boys were at rapt attention.

He fired a quick right, then ducked down and covered his head with his left arm. He swooped back up with a twisting right, and a left, then a kick.

Hyper and uncoordinated as they were, it took the better part of fifteen minutes for both of them to get it down. But once they had the basic progression, Leonide and Girard started dueling each other with it. At that point, they were so absorbed that Alaric was able to sneak away.

He spent the rest of the night alternating between schoolwork and his model sets. He could put his mind to kickboxing, but calculus was still an undesirable realm for him to get lost in.

He settled into bed that night a little less exhausted than the last, as had been a continuing trend for months on end.

And once again, he made his way to school early in the morning, devoting in the weightlifting gym before it was flooded with gaggles of first and second-year physical education students.

21st of October, 727 AGS (812 AS), near Satie Hall, Ecole Navale Royale d'Amiens

The female dormitories were a complex of three buildings arranged side-by-side on a low hill, which once housed the old observatory. The male dormitories were just down the hill, near the library and gymnasium, and so the walk up to Satie Hall in the female complex was brief, and perhaps pleasant.

Amiens' unrestricted industrialization wreaked terrible havoc on the climate and ecosystem and its effects were vast, numerous, and often quantified in costs of francs and human lives. However, for all of its tragedy, it bore some caveats to the planet's inhabitants. Even into late October the air was pleasantly mild. Those birds which had survived the ecological cataclysms or had been imported from warmer climes sang jovial songs, scurrying from tree to tree and building to building.

Trees and flowers bloomed late into the season, and far beyond the traditional summer break the grounds of the academy were blessed with a cornucopia of natural sights and sounds. They were the hallmarks of creatures at their gallant peak, stretching their stems, petals, wings, or feet as terrifically as possible before the brief winter set in.

The sun was out that day, beaming gently through the swash of branches in the breeze and little creatures scurrying on the ground and in the air. The air, of course, was still fresh with the vigor of summer. Mowed grass and expansive gardens were an orchestra of scent, picked up as they were and shuttled by the winds to cadets attending to their weekend business.

It was a time of excitation.

Cadet Alaric Favager wore the relaxed uniform of the weekend. His blue and white academy polo was tucked smartly into his blue slacks, which were thin and airy enough so as not to choke violently with heat under the weight of sunlight. He meandered up the path to Satie Hall, briefcase in hand, absorbing the tranquility of the day.

He approached the front doors, pausing beside a decorative flower bed. He was in no hurry to explain to Yvette that he had arrived penniless. Instead, he tarried, squatting down beside a patch of subdued pink and crimson gardenias. Their flowers were glossy, moist, and leathery to the touch, but they drooped meekly on their stems. They were like master paintings left without attention or care for preservation, malnourished in love and care with only the suggestion of what they might have looked like in days past.

He crumbled bits of soil in his hand, struggling with their density. Tiny puddles of water speckled the surface of the dirt in the flowerbed. His lips straightened into a line, and he cursed the fact that he would have to attend to his own studies instead of this mismanaged plot.

Yvette was waiting in the same uniform as Alaric, prim and proper on a sofa in the Satie Hall lounge. She tapped her watch.

"Late."

Alaric sighed. "Sorry. I got held up."

"Don't be stupid, Favager," she stared at him plainly, hiding whatever judgements she concocted behind a steely, practiced facade. "Alright. Come on."

She gestured for him to follow. They went into the basement, full of tables and couches most often reserved for parties and events. Yvette had blocked out an hour for her studying, and the whole room was empty. Furniture was pushed against the walls and her notebooks and bag lay by the door.

"Look..." Alaric took a deep breath. He scratched the back of his neck. "Yvette. I'm going to be frank with you."

"Hm?" She turned, eyeing him curiously.

"I don't have anything to pay you with."

To his surprise, she just shrugged and continued to the center of the room, waving at him to follow.

"That's fine with me."

"What? You're just... helping me for free?"

"I wasn't serious about the payment. I thought we were joking."

"Ahh... oh."

She shook her head at him. "I wouldn't charge a cadet to help them. Would you?"

"No. I wouldn't."

"Right. We're all cadets here," she snapped her fingers. "So let's get started."

Alaric put his briefcase against the wall.

"I'm gonna warn you now, this really isn't my strong suit. I can't study etiquette for the life of me."

Yvette rolled her eyes and flicked her hand, waving away his concern. "That's why we aren't studying. We've been over this."

"Alright, alright. Show me."

"How about we start with introductions and pleasantries? I'll start as a commoner, and then we can just work up to higher and higher noble ranks. Alright?"

"Ok," he exhaled. "Let's do this."

She offered a hand, palm facing down. Alaric called on his absolute basics and took it with a bow. She pulled them both into character, inventing little stories and scenarios for their pretend meetings. He would bow and greet her, engage in the procedure to the best of his memory, and then she would correct or make suggestions in the moment.

Playing a charismatic noble daughter, she wore an inviting smile on her features, speaking sharply and with impeccable tact.

"Good day to you, Monsieur Favager. It is so good to meet you. I am the Vicomptesse du Val. I believe we have met?"

He paused, stopping himself from executing a full bow. "Hold on, this one is different," he thought. Yvette waited a beat.

"I believe we have met. What a lovely hat that is, sir!"

At once, it clicked. He tipped an imaginary hat, then bowed deep at the hips. He took her hands and asked about her family, naming as many members of the real house du Val as he could. She laughed politely whenever he stumbled, gently steering him in the right direction.

It wasn't long before it didn't feel like studying at all. He was simply the bold, famous Monsieur Favager who all the noble families wanted to meet. Soon he was stepping through any introduction she threw at him, if only for the sake of his fantastical character. She switched between identities on a dime, alternating between members of different families with different moods under different circumstances with no discernible effort.

He marveled at the incalculable depth of her knowledge. Once he grew basically confident in his skills, he tried to put his own spin on their little practices, switching up the circumstances of their meetings and claiming increasingly outlandish identities. Nothing he came up with could bypass her guard, and she parried every approach with the perfect response.

Her poise and proud stature gave the vision of a truly sublime person. Alaric knew she had some ties to nobility, but by her performances, she might as well have been a crown princess.

Her skin was warm each time their hands met, and her mock greetings and compliments invoked that same heat in his cheeks, and a flutter deep in his chest. Truly, she must have been peerless in her studies as a noble woman.

"See what I mean? It's not so bad when it isn't just a dusty book on manners."

"If you told me I was going to be doing this kind of stuff not even an hour into practicing, I would have called you crazy."

She smiled genially. "You're getting this. Now, let's do everything in succession. All the big families, any way of meeting them."

Alaric took a few steps back, steeling his eyes and cracking his knuckles. He was going to be Gallia's top rogue, and he braced himself for the coming gauntlet which would prove it.

She began as a lowly count's daughter, but the introductions were quick and she changed hats dozens of times, invoking every style of bow, greeting, and polite conversation they had practiced together. His face was tight and determined and his focus was solely on proving himself equal to the task at hand. He calmed his beating heart, ignoring the anxiety of the test and the distant allure of her regal facade, and engrossing brunette cascade.

When Yvette was the Madame Royale, the heiress to the throne, he dropped to his deepest bow yet, admiring her station with smoothly-delivered pleasantries.

"Bonsoir, ta grâce sereine. Your radiance is truly a credit to our Gallic House, and to our divine Kingdom."

Her face knotted up for the briefest of moments, sequestered under the guise of a cough.

He seemed so focused and intense, staring down at her with such gravity. It was almost annoying, how he rooted himself so firmly and delivered his sequences like some kind of professional actor.

But then again, that was the whole reason they were having their session to begin with. She tried to banish the thought, but some niggling straggler of annoyance remained, unable to be suppressed. There was... something beyond words that seemed off. She breathed at an off-pace, and she felt some curious, scant unease.

Yvette was trained and well-focused enough to work past it. She looked back at her practice partner, subduing the tick of annoyance he inflicted for no particular reason.

"Madame Royale... would you permit my leave?"

Oh, by the Roi, she had missed him the first time.

"Of course, good sir," she hid her scramble with a dainty chuckle. To him, it was just another test of his ability to deal with nobles.

He breathed a deep sigh.

"That's all of them, right?" He tread carefully with his words, cautiously confident that he had run the whole course without forgetting someone else who would be important to meet.

She raised a brow, teasing him with uncertainty. He bit his lip.

"You did great."

He whooped and pumped a fist in the air. "Hell yes! I never thought I could get this stuff down."

"Hey, as long as you take to the rest of the material that well, you might be looking at that B after all. Maybe an A minus if you get even more comfortable with it."

"Beyond my wildest dreams, Saint-Cyr. I owe you," he reached out, giving her a firm up-and-down handshake lasting more than a few seconds. "You're the best."

She beat her lips into a smile. "No problem Favager. You're not so bad when you aren't stupid."

He laughed. She had some kind of gravity about her, and being one of the smartest cadets he knew didn't hurt it at all. When they reset the chairs and tables, he left wondering what else he could learn.

Before that day, he had never really spoken to her much. He didn't think it was too far fetched to admire her abilities. He chided himself for not befriending her earlier.

Yvette went back to her room, moving on to study other subjects. She sighed at nothing in particular.

23rd of March, 723 AGS (808 AS), in the yard of the Favager residence, Saleux, Planet Amiens

Early spring on Amiens was a return of color and pleasant temperatures. It was the calm before the consuming vortex of heat, pollen, and flowers which rendered everything between the poles in its slick heat and raw organic density. The tulips, azaleas, and pansies bloomed in the Favagers' yard, forming a rainbow palisade around the house.

Alaric's mother led him slowly through the garden gate, holding it open as wide as she could to fit him through.

"Merci," he strained, re-adjusting the carrying pole which pressed into the muscles of his shoulders.

Two deep buckets of water were hanging from either end of the pole, and such was their volume that only two or three trips were necessary in order to water the entire garden. Mother placed a hand on her lower back out of sympathy.

"Are you sure you don't want to just make more trips?"

Alaric shook his head rapidly, searching the yard for an appropriate landing zone for the buckets. He set them down with the pole next to a vibrant patch of pansies, which shone gold, violet, and striking white under the open skies. The soil was richly cared for, well-nourished with compost and water, clumpy but not compacted, and practically bursting with little bugs and worms who took enthusiastically to the violent suppression of pests.

"I could use the exercise," Alaric tried to brush away her concerns. He leaned to the left, and then to the right, stretching and cracking his joints.

"I don't believe that," she chided, pinching his cheeks.

Alaric was a far cry from the wiry, fragile mere presence he was just under a year ago. His height had once been incredibly awkward; he had towered over others, but his arms and legs appeared as though they had been stretched violently upward to achieve it.

Now his stature was properly filled. He dabbed sweat from his forehead with a white work shirt that had been bought two years ago, which now strained under the herculean task of containing his newfound pectoral mass and bicep width. What little fat he once had was concentrated unceremoniously on his chin and belly. Both deposits had been eviscerated. His legs too were now full, and they deftly carried the strain of several gallons of water uphill with only some minor complaint.

He was firm in stature, and this was by far the most visible change. Before, his stance was imminently prepared for retreat, ever occupying as little room as possible. Now, in one moment, he was capable of gliding effortlessly across a ring or mat. But in the next moment, he could drop be rock-steady in his position, as immovable as a concrete tower. He filled his space and would not be challenged in it.

"I thought you said you wouldn't be able to do this when I was older," he whined. She finally let go of his cheek.

Mother pouted. "So long as you live in my house I can pinch your cheeks whenever I want."

"I didn't think that was the deal."

"I'm your mother. There are no deals," she teased, brandishing a trowel.

"Fine, fine."

He shouldered the carrying pole once more, loading up a pair of fresh buckets.

"Are you sure you don't want any help?"

"It's good for my legs," he turned towards the gate, stretching out his calves for another walk. "You should take care of your back."

"The day I can't work in my own garden is the day they put me in the ground, petit ours." The deployment of her nickname for him as a little boy served to enforce her authority.

"Fine. You can get the water when I'm not here. For now, I need the exercise."

"You're almost as stubborn as your father."

Alaric laughed all the way out of the yard. Nobody could be that bad.

The trip down to the river always invoked familiar sensations. The smell of low, dusty brush and clean air was just crisp enough to refresh, but not so clean and sterile as to erase the undertones of earthy sweetness. The dirt crunched under his boots, mixing with the crackle of leaves and sticks made by rodents and rabbits dashing from bush to bush.

He knelt down beside the river to fill the buckets. The occasional hare or squirrel clamored to the bank a few meters down where the cover of flora was thicker, drinking their fill. Girard and Leonide had always been of the persuasion to come to the river with little guns so as to bolster their meals, but Alaric never sought to join them.

He made his way back up, soon feeling the burn splashing in his thighs with each step up the inclined trail. His arms steadied the pole, keeping splashing to a minimum. The gate was propped open on his return, and he deposited the two buckets near the first pair.

"Come. Look," his mother summoned.

He dropped the pole and followed her over to the left side of the house where a small flower bed was shielded from much of the sun's impact.

"Look at how they're taking," she marveled.

The Lyons fire roses stretched casually towards the secondary light filtering in their direction, as if roguishly dismissing the odds against their success. As sensitive and picky as they were, they appeared to thrive. Petals folded in gorgeous layers of deep crimson and radiant orange which gave the impression of an inferno frozen in time.

"I didn't think they would make it."

"Me neither," mother sighed wistfully.

She gingerly cut one of the stems, placing it in a vase she had brought with her.

"We used to grow these on Marne. It was tough, and we had to do it indoors, but we had enough for two or three big bouquets every season."

"How big was the house?"

She chuckled. "Your father and I grew them in our bedroom."

They sat there for a moment, simply admiring their miraculous success.

"You know, I remember something your father said just about fifteen years ago."

"What's that?"

"Well..." she looked around for the right words. "We were leaving Marne for Amiens after the Conseillards took over. And when we were being taken from our house to the starport, your father told me that come hell or high water, we would be back by the time you were grown."

"Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes," she measured her tone carefully. "But we have a life here now. I don't think we would move back even if we could."

"I didn't think you liked it here so much."

"Life is harder. But it's our life. We're growing here, just like the roses."

He nodded, as one might feel obliged to when they think someone is being sagely.

"You should remember that Alaric. No matter where you are, or what's happened to you."

"Remember what?"

She tapped the dirt with her trowel. "Grow where you're planted. Maybe you can't control where you are, but you can always change what you are."

"Sounds good to me," he agreed quickly.

"Oh well," she laughed.

They went back to the rest of the garden. He shouldered the pole for one last trip.

"You'll think I'm very smart one day, Alaric. Just you wait."

"Of course, mère."

He went back to fill the last pair of buckets for the day. His legs burned again, and his mind turned to common things. He wondered what Victor and Felix were doing, and fantasized for the thousandth time that week of a life not carrying buckets, living prestigiously on some Gallic core world.