(Ember pov)
The gymnasium's fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the training mats that covered most of the floor. I bounced lightly on the balls of my feet, feeling the give of the padded surface beneath my thin training shoes. The standard Academy gym uniform allowed for complete freedom of movement, though the fabric already clung to my skin from the warm-up exercises we'd completed minutes ago.
Through my eye, I saw the gymnasium in all its detail: the scuffed blue mats, the weapons racks along the far wall, the observation windows where instructors could monitor multiple training sessions. But right now, I saw so much more. My sparring partner, Kael, stood across from me on the mat, his outline shimmering with the distinctive glow of focused concentration. He was human, probably seventeen or eighteen like me, with the broad shoulders and thick arms of someone who'd spent considerable time in weight training. His buzz-cut brown hair was already damp with sweat, and through my Force sight, I could see the energy coiling in his muscles as he shifted his weight, preparing for our bout.
I settled into my stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands raised in a loose guard. I watched Kael mirror my position, his outline brightening with anticipation. The patterns around his shoulders and hips told me he favored his right side.
"Begin!"
Kael moved immediately, closing the distance between us with surprising speed for someone his size. His right fist came straight at my face in a powerful jab. I'd seen the energy gathering in his shoulder a fraction of a second before the punch launched, giving me just enough warning. I slipped to the left, feeling the wind from his fist brush past my cheek.
He followed up with a cross from his left, but again, I weaved under it, the movement flowing naturally from countless hours of practice. But Kael anticipated my evasion and was already bringing his knee up toward my chest.
I twisted hard to the right, the knee grazing my ribs instead of landing solidly. The impact still sent a jolt through my side, but I used the momentum of my spin to create distance, dancing backward on light feet.
"Good lateral movement, Korrath" Instructor Harren commented though her tone remained neutral.
Kael pressed forward, not giving me time to fully reset. This time he led with a feint a high jab that he pulled back at the last second. The real attack came from below: a vicious hook aimed at my ribs. I side-stepped the punch, feeling it whistle past my guard, and immediately countered. Dropping to one knee in a fluid motion, I drove two quick punches into the meat of his thigh, the same combination Vex had drilled into me during our early training sessions.
Through my Force sight, I saw him shifting his weight, preparing to raise his foot for either a kick or a knee strike. The energy was gathering in his hip flexors, telegraphing the movement before it began. I started to rise, intending to slip away from whatever attack was coming.
But Kael was faster than I'd anticipated.
Instead of the kick I'd expected, he lunged forward, using his superior reach to close the distance before I could fully stand. His fist crashed into my face a straight right that caught me just below my eyepatch. The impact was devastating, and I couldn't help but roll with the punch, letting the momentum carry me backward into a controlled tumble. The taste of copper filled my mouth as my lip split against my teeth, blood trickling warm down my chin. My head rang from the blow, but I'd learned never stopping meant winning.
As I scrambled to regain my footing, I kept Kael in my focus even as my regular vision swam. He was already pursuing, confident after landing such a solid hit as I continued my backward motion, letting him think I was retreating.
"Finish strong, both of you!" Instructor Harren called out.
Kael lunged forward again, throwing a combination of punches designed to overwhelm my defense. But I was already moving, using his forward momentum against him. I ducked low under his extended right arm, pivoted on my left foot, and scrambled behind him in one fluid motion.
I saw his energy signature shift as he realized his mistake the sudden brightening of alarm as he started to turn. But I was already in position. I chambered my right leg and drove a devastating kick into the back of his left knee. The joint buckled immediately, and Kael's large frame crashed to the mat with a grunt of pain and surprise. He hit the padded surface hard, the breath exploding from his lungs in a loud whoosh that echoed through our section of the gymnasium.
I immediately backed away, maintaining my fighting stance even though the match was clearly over and watched as he struggled to catch his breath on the mat. "Match!" Instructor Harren announced, making a notation on her datapad. "Victory to Korrath. Good adaptation and counter-striking. Reeves, you telegraphed that final combination work on disguising your intent."
I relaxed my stance, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. My face throbbed where Kael's punch had landed, and I could feel the area around my eye already beginning to swell. But the familiar satisfaction of victory dulled the pain somewhat.
I walked over to where Kael was pushing himself up to a sitting position, his face flushed with exertion. Extending my hand, I offered to help him up.
"Good match" he said, grasping my hand and letting me help pull him to his feet. Despite our similar age, he had several inches and probably forty pounds on me, making the leverage awkward. "That kick came out of nowhere. My knee is going to screaming tomorrow."
"Your cross nearly took my head off" I replied, gingerly touching the swelling beneath my eye. "I'm going to have a beautiful bruise."
Kael grinned, though he was still breathing hard. "Harren's right though I need to work on my tells. You seemed to know where every punch was coming from before I threw it."
I shrugged noncommittally. Most students didn't know about my Force sight and I preferred to keep it that way.
Around us, the gymnasium continued its controlled chaos. On the mat to our left, two students were engaged in a grappling match, their techniques focusing more on submission holds than striking. To our right, a mixed group was practicing defensive drills, one student attacking while three others practiced various blocking and evasion techniques.
The energy patterns of the room created a complex tapestry in my sight dozens of individual signatures weaving and pulsing as students pushed their bodies to their limits. Each match had its own rhythm, its own ebb and flow of aggression and defense. Assistant instructors moved between the groups, occasionally calling out corrections or demonstrations.
"Both of you clear the mat for the next pairing" Instructor Harren commanded, already looking at her datapad to see who was up next.
As we moved toward the edge of the training area, Kael rotated his shoulder experimentally. "You train outside of Academy hours, don't you? Those combinations were too smooth to just be from class."
"My guardian's in Intelligence" I admitted, accepting a towel from the equipment rack and dabbing at my split lip. "She's been preparing me for this since she got me."
"Want to grab some water before the next round of exercises?" Kael offered, gesturing toward the hydration station in the corner.
"Sure" I agreed, falling into step beside him despite the slight limp he was trying to hide.
As we walked, I kept my Force sight active, watching the energy patterns shift and swirl around us. Two more students were taking their positions on the mat we'd just vacated, their signatures bright with nervous anticipation. The instructor was explaining the rules, though I could tell neither was really listening they were too focused on sizing each other up.
The hydration station was crowded with students cooling down between matches. Some sported bruises and small cuts like mine, the price of full-contact training. Others seemed fresh, either having won their matches decisively or still waiting for their turn.
"Nice takedown Ember" one of them called out a human girl named Taylor whom I recognized from my Tactical Analysis class. "Reeves usually bulldozes through everyone with that reach of his."
"Lucky timing" I said, filling a cup with cold water. The liquid stung my split lip, but the cool relief was worth it.
"Luck nothing" Kael protested good-naturedly, his voice carrying a mix of humor and genuine frustration seep through. "She read me like a datapad. I need to work on being less predictable."
"Predictability isn't always weakness" I offered, watching as Kael flexed his knee experimentally. "Sometimes consistency in training builds the foundation for improvisation later."
"Spoken like someone who just dropped me on my ass" Kael shot back, though his grin took any sting out of the words.
A Zabrak student I recognized from Advanced Cryptography leaned against the wall nearby, pressing a cold pack to his shoulder. "You both looked good out there" he said, the accent placing hisr origins somewhere in the Outer Rim. "Better than my match took an elbow to the solar plexus in the first thirty seconds."
"Five minutes until cooldown exercises!" Instructor Harren's voice cut through the gymnasium's ambient noise like a vibroblade through synth-leather. "Partner stretching, then individual meditation. Don't think you can slip out early I'm watching the door, and yes, Cadet Torven, that means you."
A guilty-looking student near the exit froze mid-step, then sheepishly turned back toward the main training area. Scattered laughter rippled through the assembled students.
"Every time" the Zabrak said shaking his head. "Torven tries to duck out early every single session. You'd think he'd learn after getting caught three times this week alone."
"Maybe that's his form of consistency" I suggested earning a snort of amusement from him.
We lingered by the hydration station for a few more minutes, the conversation drifting to upcoming assignments and rumors about next week's tactical scenarios. Through my Force sight, I watched and took a few mental notes as students began pairing up for the cooldown exercises some gravitating toward regular partners, others reluctantly accepting whoever was left.
"Did you hear about the new slicing protocols they're implementing?" Someone asked, lowering her voice slightly. "Apparently someone managed to breach the Academy's secondary firewall during last week's practical exam."
"That was intentional" Kael said, surprising us both. "My roommate's in the advanced track they told him it was a honeypot. Academy security wanted to see who would take the bait."
"And someone did?" I asked, genuinely curious. The Academy's approach to testing often blurred the lines between examination and entrapment.
"Three someones, apparently. They're all getting 'special instruction' now." Kael made air quotes around the last two words. "Which either means they're being fast-tracked for cyber warfare specialization or they're scrubbing reactor cores for the next month."
"Two minutes!" Harren called out. "Find your partners now!"
The hydration station cleared as students moved back toward the mats. I ended up partnering with the Zabrak man —Vinca, who told me as we found an open spot. Kael paired with another human male from his sparring group, both of them moving gingerly as they nursed their respective injuries.
The cooldown routine was standardized Academy protocol fifteen minutes of assisted stretching designed to prevent injury and promote recovery. Vinca and I worked through the positions mechanically, each taking turns providing resistance while the other stretched.
"Hamstring stretches" Harren announced, demonstrating the position at the front of the room. "Hold for thirty seconds, then switch."
I lay on my back while Vinca lifted my leg, pushing gently to stretch the muscles that had worked so hard during the sparring match. The familiar burn of a good stretch spread through my hamstring, and I focused on breathing through it.
"Your split lip looks nasty" Vinca observed, glancing at my face. "Might want to get some bacta gel on that."
"I've got some in my room" I replied, switching legs. "Had worse during training with my guardian."
"Former Intelligence, right? That's what Kael said."
Word traveled fast in the Academy. I simply nodded, not particularly interested in elaborating.
The cooldown continued through various positions, quad stretches, shoulder rotations, spinal twists. Each movement was designed to address the muscle groups most commonly stressed during combat training. Harren moved through the room, occasionally correcting form or offering modifications for those with injuries.
"Final position meditation stance," she announced as we concluded the partner work. "Five minutes of controlled breathing. Focus on your heartbeat, bring it back to resting rate."
I settled into a cross-legged position, hands resting lightly on my knees. Around me, I could feel the collective energy of the room settling, like ripples on water gradually stilling.
The five minutes passed in relative silence, broken only by the sound of breathing and the occasional shift of position from students whose flexibility didn't quite accommodate the traditional meditation pose. When Harren finally called time, there was a collective exhale of relief.
"Dismissed" she announced. "Reminder that next week we're beginning weapons integration training. Review your combat manuals sections fifteen through eighteen. Those of you with facial injuries, med bay has bacta patches available."
The gymnasium erupted into motion as students gathered their belongings and headed for the exits. I collected my small gear bag from the storage cubbies along the wall, checking that my water bottle and towel were secured inside.
The corridor outside the gym was cooler than the training space, the recycled air carrying the faint metallic tang that permeated most of the station. I followed the flow of students toward the locker rooms, the division between male and female facilities marked by simple holographic indicators.
The female locker room was a plain space just rows of gray metal lockers, bench seating bolted to the floor, and a communal shower area partially obscured by privacy partitions. The sound of running water and conversation echoed off the walls as students in various states of undress went through their post-training routines.
I found my assigned locker—number 847—and input my access code on the small keypad. The lock disengaged with a soft click, and I pulled out my regular uniform and toiletries. Setting them on the bench, I stripped off my sweat-soaked gym clothes, trying not to wince as the movement pulled at my bruised ribs.
The shower area had individual stalls with basic privacy screens enough to maintain modesty but not enough for true solitude. I claimed an empty stall and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until it was just shy of scalding. The hot water sluiced over my skin, washing away the sweat and grime of training.
I kept the rinse quick and efficient, mindful of the Academy's water conservation protocols. Even on a station with advanced recycling systems, resources were carefully monitored. Three minutes was the recommended shower duration, though enforcement was generally lax unless someone was being obviously wasteful.
Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed my towel and dried off quickly. The locker room's climate control kept the temperature comfortable but standing around wet was still unpleasant, after managing to dry off enough I pulled on my uniform. The most delicate part of changing was dealing with my eyepatch, I reached into my gear bag and pulled out a spare identical to the one I'd worn during training but clean and dry. The sweaty one from sparring went into a separate compartment of the bag.
I positioned the fresh eyepatch carefully, making sure it sat comfortably without putting too much pressure on the growing bruise beneath my eye. The elastic band held it securely in place, the black fabric blending reasonably well with my red skin.
Gathering my gym clothes, I stuffed them into the bag along with the used eyepatch and towel. As I closed the locker, my HUD flickered to life in my peripheral vision. With a thought, I activated the reminder function.
[REMINDER SET: Laundry - 1900 hours -]
The text floated briefly in my field of view before fading to a small icon in the corner of my vision.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and headed for the exit, nodding goodbye to my locker neighbor as she worked through an elaborate haircare routine that seemed entirely too complex for military training. The corridor outside was less crowded now, most students having either rushed through their cleanup or still being in various stages of changing.
The route from the gymnasium to the tram station was familiar enough that I could navigate it without conscious thought. My feet carried me through the maze of corridors while my mind processed the morning's training.
I reached the tram platform after a five-minute walk. The station was one of several that serviced this section of the Academy, connecting the training facilities with the residential sectors, academic wings, and administrative areas. The platform itself was a raised section of reinforced deck plating, with safety barriers that would activate once a tram arrived.
A small crowd had already gathered perhaps fifteen or twenty people waiting for the next tram. Students made up the majority, identifiable by their uniforms and the general exhaustion that clung to them like a second skin. But there were others too: a pair of professors in the darker, more elaborate uniforms that denoted their status, discussing something on a shared datapad; a maintenance technician in coveralls, tool belt jangling with each movement; a medical officer whose white uniform stood out starkly against the station's predominantly gray aesthetic.
The platform's display showed the next tram arriving in two minutes. I positioned myself near a support pillar, far enough from the edge to avoid the initial rush when the tram doors opened.
The distant hum of the approaching tram grew louder, accompanied by the subtle vibration through the deck plating that preceded its arrival. The safety barriers activated, projecting a faint blue energy field along the platform edge. Moments later, the tram glided into view a sleek, elongated vehicle that moved on repulsor lifts along a dedicated track system.
The tram was typical of Imperial design: functional, efficient, and utterly lacking in aesthetic consideration. Its hull was the same gray as everything else on the station, broken only by viewport panels and the glowing strips that indicated door locations.
With a soft hiss of pneumatics, the tram settled onto the platform and the doors slid open. As expected, a wave of passengers disembarked first students from earlier classes, a handful of professors including the severe-looking woman who taught Xenobiology, and several support staff whose shifts were evidently ending.
I waited for the initial exodus to clear before moving forward with the other boarding passengers. The interior of the tram was standing room only by the time I entered, the seats along the walls already claimed by those who'd boarded first or had the political capital to claim them through intimidation.
The tram's interior was already crowded as I stepped through the sliding doors, my gear bag shifting against my hip as I navigated between the standing passengers. The residential section was twenty minutes away—four stops through the station's main transit circuit—giving me enough time to make progress on the project I had started before I left home and managed in my free time.
I found a relatively clear spot near one of the viewport panels, positioning myself where I could lean against the curved wall while keeping one hand free for the overhead grip. My fingers wrapped around the polymer handle, the material warm from constant use, while I adjusted my stance as the tram began to move with its smooth acceleration.
With my position secured, I focused on my HUD, the neural interface responding instantly to my mental command. The translucent overlay materialized in my field of vision, various icons and notifications arranging themselves along where I customized them years ago. I dismissed the unread messages with a thought—they could wait—and instead navigated to my development workspace.
[PROJECT: FI'LIN DEN WEB INTERFACE - VERSION UPDATE]
The website bloomed into existence before me, floating in my augmented vision like a holographic display that only I could see.
The gunsmith's website was still in its early stages, but the foundation was solid. The header was displayed in bold, militaristic font similar to a store where Sera had taken me for weapons training and had remarked that the business was doing well.
What made this idea take forever was the decorative elements I'd been experimenting with, inspired by some of the more creative sites I'd seen on the wider Imperial network. Specifically glowing lizards.
They materialized as the page fully loaded, each one about the size of my palm, their bodies emanating a soft golden luminescence that pulsed gently, like breathing made visible. But it was their wings that truly caught the eye delicate, translucent membranes that seemed to catch and refract light that didn't actually exist, creating tiny rainbows at certain angles. The creatures were modeled after the native fauna of some world I'd read about.
Currently, three of them flitted around the website header in an obvious pattern, occasionally circling the shop's name before dispersing to explore other parts of the page. The animation was smooth, achieved through a combination of code that I'd spent the previous evening debugging. But their movement was still too mechanical, too obviously scripted.
The main body of the website displayed placeholder inventory that would be available at any armory. Practical items dominated the selection—this was a training facility, after all, not a military depot. Rows of training knives appeared first, their descriptions noting the weighted handles designed to simulate real combat blades while their dulled edges prevented serious injury. Below those, various stun weapons were arranged in a grid: shock batons, neural disruptors set to training intensities, and practice pistols that fired low-powered energy bolts.
Through my HUD, I pulled up the code editor alongside the live preview, the dual windows hovering in my vision without interfering with my awareness. The tram swayed gently as it navigated a curve in the track, and I shifted my weight automatically while keeping my focus on the code.
About after ten minutes of looking the problem appeared. The lizards were calculating the angle to face the cursor, but they weren't actually moving toward it. They'd just rotate in place like tiny golden turrets, which looked more idiotic than enchanting. I began rewriting the movement function, my thoughts flowing directly into code through the neural interface.
Around me, the tram's population shifted as we reached the first stop. A group of maintenance workers disembarked, their coveralls stained with various fluids that suggested they'd been working in the lower mechanical sections. New passengers boarded, including a pair of junior officers whose crisp uniforms stood out against the general dishevelment of the post-training crowd.
I adjusted my grip on the overhead handle as the tram resumed movement, then returned my attention to the code. The lizards needed more organic movement something that would make them feel alive rather than simply animated.
I implemented a test version a few minutes later and watched as one of the golden lizards suddenly became more responsive. As I moved a virtual cursor across the page the creature's head tracked the movement. When the cursor came close enough, the lizard launched itself into a graceful glide, its translucent wings catching imaginary air currents as it pursued the pointer.
"Much better" I murmured to myself, earning a curious glance from a nearby passenger who probably thought I was talking to someone through a private comm channel.
The tram's announcement system chimed softly. "Approaching Academic Sector C. Next stop: Residential Sectors D through G."
Still have enough time. I refocused on the code, working to apply the same improvements to all three lizards while adding individual personality variations. One would be more aggressive in its pursuit, another more cautious, the third somewhere in between. Small touches that would make them feel less like duplicate animations.
The weapons section of the site needed attention too. Currently, it was a static grid, functional but uninspiring. I added hover effects that would make each item glow slightly when a customer's cursor passed over it, and clicking would cause one of the lizards to fly over and perch on the selected item's corner, as if examining it with interest.
Through the viewport, I caught glimpses of the station's internal architecture as we passed through different sections. Massive support beams swept by, occasionally opening into vast chambers where other trams could be seen traveling on parallel tracks. The scale of the station never ceased to impress thousands of people living, working, and training in this metal city suspended in space.
The third stop brought another wave of passenger changes. The tram was slightly less crowded now, though still nowhere near empty. I shifted position slightly, finding a better angle against the wall that put less strain on my bruised ribs from the morning's sparring session.
The website project had consumed most of the journey, but I was making real progress. The lizards now exhibited believable behavior curious but not aggressive, drawn to movement but maintaining their own agenda when left alone. They'd occasionally interact with each other, performing little aerial dances before splitting apart to explore different sections of the page.
I added one final touch: when a customer added an item to their cart, the nearest lizard would swoop down, appear to grab the item with its tiny claws, and carry it to the cart icon in the corner of the page.
"Approaching Residential Sectors D through G. Please prepare for arrival."
The announcement pulled me from my trance. Twenty minutes had passed in what felt like moments. I saved my work by compressing and uploading the files to my personal development server in seconds. The website disappeared from my vision, replaced by standard HUD elements showing the time, my schedule, and a notification that my laundry reminder was set for two hours from now.
The tram began its deceleration, the smooth reduction in speed barely perceptible except for the slight shift in the standing passengers' stance. Through my Force sight, I could sense the anticipation of those preparing to disembark the brightening of their energy signatures as they gathered belongings and positioned themselves near the doors.
I adjusted my grip on the gear bag, checking that everything was secure. The bruise under my eye throbbed dully, reminding me that I needed to apply bacta gel once I reached my quarters. But first, a proper shower to wash away the residual sweat from training, then fresh clothes before heading to the armory to show Koryn the progress on his website.
The tram settled into the station with barely a whisper, magnetic locks engaging to hold it steady as the doors hissed open. I moved with the flow of disembarking passengers, my Force sight helping me navigate the crowd without collision and gliding around each individual with room to spare.
The residential corridor stretched before me as I stepped off the tram platform, my footsteps echoing against the metal deck plating with a rhythmic precision and the familiar gray walls of Section E greeted me like old friends or perhaps more accurately, like cellmates who'd grown comfortable with each other's presence through forced proximity.
My quarters were exactly as I'd left them this morning: small, functional, and utterly devoid of personality save for the few modifications I'd made to certain furniture pieces. The door hissed closed behind me with the finality of a sealed tomb, and I let my gear bag drop to the floor with a satisfying thud that probably annoyed whoever lived in the unit below.
I moved to my wardrobe first, pulling open the narrow doors to reveal the small selection of clothing the Academy had provided, plus a few pieces I'd acquired since arriving. My fingers found the outfit I'd been saving for occasions that required something more than the standard uniform. Dark pants with reinforced seams that wouldn't restrict movement, and a fitted tunic in deep burgundy that managed to look presentable while still allowing a full range of motion.
After changing quickly, I turned my attention to the bed. To anyone watching, it would appear I was simply lifting the mattress to check something underneath. But my fingers found the specific beam I'd hollowed out during my second week at the Academy, using tools "borrowed" from the maintenance workshop during a particularly boring evening.
The hollow space yielded its treasures: two smooth wooden rods, each about fifteen centimeters long and perfectly smoothed. I'd shaped them myself from a small broom I asked to be shipped to me from home. I sat on the edge of the bed, rolling up my sleeves to expose my forearms. The skin there still bore faint marks from previous practice sessions with this technique. From beneath the bed frame, I retrieved two rolls of tape one electric blue, the other matte black. The colors weren't just aesthetic choices. Different tape colors provided different levels of stickiness.
Starting with my left arm, I positioned one rod along the inside of my arm, aligned with the pathways that ran from elbow to wrist. The placement had to be precise too far to either side and it would impede movement, too close to the surface and it would be obvious even through clothing.
The blue tape came first. I began wrapping from just below my elbow, each pass overlapping the previous by exactly half the tape's width. The pressure had to be consistent just tight enough to hold everything in place, but not so tight as to cut off circulation. Round and round the tape went, creating a spiral pattern up my forearm. The wood disappeared beneath the layers, becoming invisible to casual observation. When I reached my wrist, I switched to the black tape, using it to create a more rigid cuff-like structure that would provide additional support.
The right arm followed the same process. By the time I finished, both rolls of tape were completely exhausted, and my forearms felt like they were encased in flexible armor. Now came the real prize. Reaching back into the hollowed beam I withdrew two computer spikes, cylindrical devices about twelve centimeters long and two centimeters in diameter. Their matte gray surfaces were unmarked save for the small interface ports at one end and the barely visible seam where the casing could be opened to access the internal components.
These weren't standard Academy-issue training spikes. I'd acquired them through a complicated series of favors and trades that had taken time to arrange. They were military-grade and each one had cost me more in favors than I cared to calculate, but good tools were worth any price.
I positioned the first spike against my left wrist, right where the wooden beam created a natural channel beneath the tape. With careful pressure I worked it under the tape layers until it sat flush against my skin. Once in place I carefully removed the wood leaving the spike held securely by the tape alone.
The process repeated on my right arm, though the angle made it more challenging. When both spikes were in place, I pressed down on the tape, smoothing out any telltale bumps or ridges. To a casual observer my arms would appear to have nothing more suspicious than athletic tape.
I rolled my sleeves back down, adjusting the cuffs to ensure they covered the tape completely. The fabric settled naturally over the concealed spikes, hiding them from view while keeping them easily accessible. A quick flex of my wrists confirmed everything was secure—the spikes wouldn't shift during normal movement, but I could retrieve them with a practiced motion when needed.
Standing before the small mirror mounted on the wardrobe door, I examined my reflection. The tunic hung well, neither too tight nor too loose, professional enough for a meeting but practical enough for whatever might come after. The tape on my arms created slight bulges beneath the sleeves, but nothing that would draw attention unless someone was specifically looking for concealed items.
'Tomorrow, we'd begin weapons training in earnest. Real weapons, not just training implements designed to bruise but not kill.'
The thought triggered something in my mind, a decision that had been percolating since Instructor Harren's announcement about next week's curriculum. If I was going to start carrying a weapon regularly, I might as well start getting comfortable with it now.
I turned back to the wardrobe, reaching past the hanging clothes to the back panel. My fingers found the concealed latch I'd installed another unauthorized modification and the false panel swung open on silent hinges. The hidden compartment wasn't large, but it was sufficient for its purpose.
The chest holster hung from a hook inside the compartment, its leather straps worn but well-maintained. But it was the metallic panels integrated into the back that made it special. Each plate was about the size of a playing card, made from an alloy that could generate a powerful magnetic field when activated. The panels were designed to align with the spine when worn properly, distributing weight evenly while providing a secure mounting point for appropriate weapons.
Below the holster, wrapped in protective cloth, lay my real prize.
The warhammer was unlike anything in the Academy's standard loadout. Its design was brutal in its simplicity a long handle wrapped in synthetic leather for grip, topped with a massive head that combined blunt trauma potential with technological enhancement. The head itself was a masterwork of engineering, with gravity field manipulators built into the core that could be turned on and off at will.
The purchase had cost me a majority of my saved credits, but holding the weapon now, feeling its perfect balance despite its considerable weight, I knew it had been worth it. I lifted the hammer carefully, surprised as always by how light it felt when the gravity manipulators were inactive. The head caught the room's artificial light, its surface bearing the scars of previous battles fought by whoever had wielded it before me.
Setting the hammer on the bed, I looked down at my current outfit with a sigh of frustration. I hadn't thought this through properly. The holster needed to go on before the tunic, not after. Poor planning Vex would have given me one of her disappointed looks that somehow managed to convey volumes without saying a word.
I pulled the burgundy tunic back over my head, careful not to disturb the tape on my arms. The cooler air of the room raised goosebumps on my exposed skin as I reached for the chest holster. The leather was cool against my fingers as I lifted it, checking that all the straps were properly adjusted from the last time I'd worn it.
The holster slipped on like a piece of armor, the straps crossing over my shoulders and meeting at a central point between my shoulder blades. I reached behind myself, fingers finding the magnetic panels and adjusting them by feel until they aligned properly with my spine. The sensation was odd a subtle pull against my spine as the magnetic fields activated at their lowest setting.
The main buckles connected across my chest with clicks, and I spent a moment adjusting the tension until the holster sat perfectly snug enough not to shift during movement, but not so tight as to restrict breathing or flexibility. The weight distribution was excellent; even without a weapon attached, I could barely feel the holster's presence.
I pulled the tunic back on, smoothing it down over the holster. The cut of the fabric had enough room to accommodate the extra layer without looking bulky, though I could feel the slight pressure of the chest straps against the material. A few adjustments to how the tunic lay, and the holster became virtually invisible beneath the burgundy fabric.
Now for the real test.
I lifted the warhammer again, this time bringing it up and over my shoulder to find the magnetic mounting point on my back. The weapon's handle had been modified with magnetic plates that matched the ones in the holster, and as I brought them into proximity, I felt the sudden pull as the fields interacted.
The hammer snapped into place with a solid thunk that resonated through my chest. The magnetic fields locked it securely against my back, the weight distributed evenly across my shoulders and spine.
I turned back to the mirror, examining the full ensemble. The hammer's handle extended above my right shoulder, easily accessible for a quick draw. The head of the weapon sat at the small of my back, mostly concealed by the bottom half of my top though its outline was visible if you knew what to look for.
A soft chime resonated through my neural interface, the reminder I'd set earlier flickering to life in the corner of my vision.
[MEDICAL APPOINTMENT - 1430 HOURS - LEVEL C MEDICAL WING.]
The text pulsed once before minimizing back to a small icon, but the message was clear I needed to leave now if I wanted to arrive on time.
I turned from the mirror, my movements causing the gravity hammer on my back to shift slightly within its magnetic mount. My hand reached for the nightstand, fingers closing around the familiar weight of the metal case that held my specialized cigarettes,I slipped it into my pocket, the weight settling comfortably against my hip.
The door to my quarters hissed open as I approached, the motion sensors responding automatically. I stepped through the threshold, the corridor beyond already busy with the typical afternoon traffic of students moving between classes and training sessions. The door sealed behind me with a whisper the lock engaging automatically.