I'm writing this on the shuttle from Sheffield Station. There are about 20 of us here, mostly veteran hunters who worked Bretonia and the taus, some of them I know. I left Jones the keys to the gunboat and the appartment I stayed in at Graves, so if this goes south I'll still have somewhere to come back to if he doesn't wreck it. So far we've made one stopover on Manhattan, and we've been told there will be another stop at Stuttgardt, but none of us really know where the final stop in, just that after Stuttgardt we'll be getting an armed escort into the omegas.
It's been three weeks since the shuttle landed at Capetown. In that time, I've done more pushups, crunches, and pullups than I care to remember; and still more besides. For us, the day now begins at 0400 hours and ends when the last man finishes the evening run if we're lucky and the instructors are feeling generous; rude shock to those of us largely used to setting our own schedules. The station itself is unlike anything I've ever seen in the guild, not even Sheffield and Deshima could match its size and scope. The twenty of us were assimilated as soon as we landed into a group of thousands, all training to aid in some as yet unknown campaign. For now though we're simply running and jumping and being pushed to limit with no end in sight, and we can only imagine that it will be worth it.
There are 1,300 initiates in our group alone...1,300...that's staggering. There were 1,700 of us, but the days and weeks since I last wrote have taken their tole on our class. Those who couldn't make the cut were removed from the training during that time, men who weren't fast enough or strong enough or smart enough for the Core. Some, such as those who were dropped due to injury or illness, will be given the option to try again, but many of them will not. Most of those who failed will be returned to the houses to hunt or trade or mine or some other other meager means of existence, or so we've been told. For those of us who remain, they are of little consequence. The exercise remains grueling, but our bodies have hardened against the exertion, and our instruction has begun to shift towards tactics and basic fighting techniques. Each of us has also been assigned to a group of eight men in total, our conturbenium. Mine consists of myself, Michael Harding, John Wescott, Benjamin Sanders, Nathan Clark, Lionel Thomas, Patrick Boon, and Giles Norvayn. Together, we will be responsible for each other's readiness and overall performance; for the remainder of our training, we will no longer be graded individually, but as a single unit: Epsilon Phi Omega. Shame and honor will be shared alike between us, so it seems I've been assigned seven new best friends.
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