Timestamp: Cycle 4, Month 4 — Solar Season
Location: Arcanum Base – Resonant Hangar & Civilian Supply Sector Delta
The Arrival
The hangar hummed like a deep metallic heartbeat—steady, low, alive. Every vibration crawled up through the floor into boots and bones, a reminder that this place was more than just a building. It was a machine. A living ecosystem of steel and resonance that thrummed with purpose even at rest.
Morning sunlight speared through the steel beams above, scattering gold across rows of Frames standing motionless like ancient guardians from some forgotten mythology. The light caught the edges of their armor, turning them into silhouettes that suggested power without requiring motion. Dust floated in the shafts of light, swirling like fragments of memory caught between air currents—the accumulated evidence of a thousand training cycles, a thousand moments of preparation.
Cadets filled the walkways in hushed tension. The kind of tension that came from anticipation mixed with uncertainty. Some leaned against the railing, arms folded, pretending calm. The performance was visible to anyone paying attention—the way their shoulders were held just slightly too rigid, the way their eyes kept tracking toward the bay doors. Others adjusted gear that was already perfect, had been perfect for hours. But the hands needed something to do. Occupation kept the nervous system from spiraling into worry.
No one said it out loud. There was an unspoken understanding that voicing the anticipation would make it more real, would make the weight of the moment harder to carry.
The Riftguard were coming.
Real soldiers. The kind who'd walked through Rifts and made it back. Not simulations. Not training. The actual thing. The experience that separated theoretical knowledge from lived understanding. Everyone in this facility had heard the stories. Stories that varied depending on who was telling them, but that all carried the same underlying message: the Rift changed you. It broke things inside you and sometimes—if you were lucky, or possibly cursed—it put them back together differently.
A low siren blared once—short, sharp, final—and silence fell like a weight.
From the far side of the hangar, the massive bay doors split open with a hydraulic hiss that sounded almost alive. A wave of cold air rushed in, carrying the faint ozone scent of Rift transit crafts—half metallic, half electric, like a storm trapped inside a machine. The smell was distinctive enough that even cadets who'd never experienced it directly recognized it as something dangerous. Something that carried the residue of places where normal physics broke down.
Through the glare of light and mist, four figures appeared.
Their silhouettes were sharp, defined, unmistakable. Not the soft edges of youth or training. These were people whose bodies had been refined through exposure to extremes, whose movements carried the efficiency of experience. Their coats were long and battle-worn, trimmed with silver lines that shimmered like scars of experience made visible. The coats had been repaired multiple times—Jade could see the subtle differences in the threading where sections had been replaced. Those weren't just marks of combat. They were marks of survival.
They marched with the kind of discipline that didn't need an audience. Not slow. Not fast. Just inevitable. The kind of pace that suggested they had important places to be and the confidence that nothing would stop them from getting there.
Jade Ronquillo stood near the front line, hands half-clenched by his sides. He'd been warned to keep still—no waves, no chatter, no awkward gestures. The warning had come from Celene, delivered with the kind of knowing look that suggested she understood exactly how nervous he was. His palms itched anyway. The sensation was maddening—the urge to do something, anything, fighting against the requirement to remain motionless.
His eyes tracked the movement of their coats, noting the burns—places where the fabric had been scorched but not destroyed. Places where the wearers had been close enough to something dangerous that heat damage was the least of their concerns. The faint chemical stains that even base sterilizers couldn't clean. Those stains suggested exposure to things that Arcanum's standard decontamination protocols couldn't handle. Which meant they'd been in situations where decontamination wasn't priority. Where survival was the only metric that mattered.
"Those are the Riftguard?" Celene Yusay whispered beside him, her tone hovering between awe and disbelief. There was something in her voice that suggested she was reading more than just visual information. That the harmonic frequencies these people carried were telling her stories that optical sight couldn't access. "They look like—"
"—like ghosts that never died," Dean Pineda muttered from Jade's other side, arms crossed tight. His voice carried a weight that suggested he understood more than he was saying. The kind of understanding that came from thinking about what it would mean to be tested at that level. To be broken and continue anyway. "That's what the outer warfronts do to you."
The observation hung in the air. The outer warfronts. The places where the Rift's influence was strongest. Where the boundary between normal reality and Rift reality had become so permeable that the distinction barely mattered anymore. Where you went if you were either the bravest or the most desperate. Often both.
The four veterans stopped at the center of the hangar. The movement was synchronized—not through any external coordination, but because people who'd trained together long enough moved in unconscious harmony. The lead figure stepped forward—tall, sharp-eyed, beard trimmed close but uneven, like he didn't care enough to perfect it anymore. His presence alone made everyone straighten their backs involuntarily. It was the kind of presence that came from genuine authority, not from rank or title, but from something deeper. From having made decisions that determined whether people lived or died, and having to live with those decisions afterward.
"I am Commander Virel Kaen, Division Delta," his voice carried through the air without needing amplification. It was the kind of voice that had been used in environments where amplification systems didn't work, where you had to project authority through pure vocal force. "With me—Lieutenant Aras Menoa of Epsilon Division, Major Drevan Holt of Sigma, and Warrant Officer Sari Ilen of Theta."
The introductions were delivered with minimal inflection. Names and ranks, nothing more. These people didn't need to establish their credentials through elaborate preamble. Their presence was credential enough.
His gaze swept across the formation. It was a slow, methodical scan—not lingering, but not hurried either. The kind of assessment that came from someone trained to evaluate people in moments. To read character from posture, from the way weight was distributed, from the steadiness or lack thereof in eye contact.
"You've survived the synchronization trials. You've touched the M.A.N.A. field directly—and you're still standing. That alone makes you more than most who try."
The statement landed with impact. It wasn't praise exactly. It was acknowledgment of accomplishment filtered through absolute honesty. The implication was clear: most people who tried the synchronization trials failed. Most of them failed in ways that left lasting damage.
A few nervous glances exchanged between cadets. The acknowledgment of that reality created a small ripple of tension. But there was something else too. Something like validation. They'd made it through something that most people didn't.
A small smile flickered across Jasmine Pineda's face. The expression suggested she was processing this information and finding it satisfying. The kind of satisfaction that came from confirmation of something you'd already believed about yourself.
Allen Maniego only grunted quietly, the sound lost in the hangar's echo. The noise suggested acknowledgment without engagement. Allen had never been someone who needed external validation. The external world was mostly irrelevant to him until it demanded action.
Virel continued, his voice dropping slightly in tone but not in clarity. "We're here under orders of the Outer Arcanum Command to evaluate your readiness for Rift exposure. That means observation, combat protocol, and most importantly—ethics."
He let that last word hang. The emphasis suggested it was the most important part. Not combat effectiveness. Not synchronization percentages. Ethics. The question of whether you would do what was right when doing what was right came with consequences.
"If you can't remember the purpose of your power, you're a liability. And liabilities die first."
The statement was delivered flatly. Not as threat, just as fact. The kind of fact that came from experience. From watching people who were powerful but unguided make decisions that got others killed. From understanding that capability without moral framework was worse than useless.
He scanned the front row again. His eyes locked on Jade with the kind of focus that suggested recognition.
"Cadet Jade Ronquillo," he said evenly. "You wrote the Countercode that neutralized the Rift malware breach, correct?"
Jade's heart tripped a beat. Actually tripped, as if his cardiovascular system had recognized the sudden spike in attention before his conscious mind had fully processed it. The sensation was startling. He'd known his name was in reports, that his work had been evaluated by command. But having a Riftguard commander—someone who actually mattered on the scale of real operations—reference it directly was different. It was being seen at a scale he hadn't anticipated.
"Yes, sir. Countercode version three-point-one, built to—uh, re-sequence the defensive kernel and isolate corrupted transmission nodes."
The technical explanation emerged from nervous habit. When uncertain, retreat to language you understood. Give yourself time to process by translating experience into jargon.
Virel nodded once—a single confirmation motion. "In simpler words—you stopped the Academy from burning."
A ripple of quiet laughter rolled through the crowd. Not mocking. Genuine appreciation for the simplification. The kind of laughter that came from understanding that what Jade had done was prevent catastrophe. That the technical details mattered, but the outcome mattered more.
"That was good work, cadet," Virel added, and the words carried real weight. Coming from someone with his experience, with his demonstrated competence, the compliment felt earned rather than performative.
Jade managed a small nod, the compliment sitting awkwardly but warmly on his shoulders. Celene smirked beside him, whispering, "Told you your nerd code would save us."
The comment was delivered with affection. Over the past months, their dynamic had evolved past simple teasing into something more substantial. Celene understood what Jade was, what he did, in a way that most people didn't. She appreciated the technical skill while never losing sight of the human being behind it.
Dean muttered something like, "Show-off," but there was pride buried under the sarcasm. The kind of pride that came from watching someone you respected demonstrate competence at a level that deserved recognition. Dean had learned to balance genuine feeling with the performance of command officer skepticism. It was a skill that kept morale stable while maintaining standards.
Commander Virel stepped back, his posture suggesting he was transitioning from personal assessment to operational directive. The shift was subtle but unmistakable.
"All units, prepare for evaluation drills. Training Sector Delta is now under Riftguard control. Full observation conditions—no fatalities allowed, but expect injuries. Begin deployment."
The directive was clear. This wasn't training. This was evaluation. Real stakes, real risk, but not designed to be lethal. It was the kind of middle ground that pushed people to their limits while theoretically preventing permanent damage.
The veterans dispersed, each heading toward a control deck with practiced efficiency. Lights across the hangar flared alive—not the soft glow of standby mode, but the full luminescence of active operations. The Frames began to stir, their Resonant cores glowing to life. Orange, blue, white, violet—a spectrum of color that indicated different frames coming online simultaneously. Like hearts remembering how to beat again after a period of dormancy.
The Observation
Training Sector Delta sprawled beyond the cliffside, a vast open field enclosed by towering holographic walls. The terrain shimmered to life—cracked streets, leaning towers, drifting dust. An entire ruined city reborn in light. The architecture was deliberately chosen—recognizable as once-human, but degraded enough to suggest reality rather than pristine simulation.
Jade and the others stood at the deployment line, helmets tucked under arms, suits humming faintly with pre-sync energy. The anticipation was physical. You could feel it in the air itself—the way the electromagnetic fields were resonating just slightly higher than baseline, responding to the presence of so many neural systems preparing for integration.
"Alright," Commander Virel's voice echoed through comms. The transmission was crystal clear—no static, no interference. Everything filtered through military-grade communication equipment. "This isn't about who looks good in a fight. We're testing coordination, control, and cohesion. Survive the simulation as one unit."
"Define 'survive,'" Jasmine muttered, and her tone suggested she was asking a genuine question masked in irreverence.
"Functioning systems at the end of the test," Virel replied flatly. His response suggested he wasn't offended by her tone, just answering the question underneath it.
Dean chuckled. "So… no explosions?"
"Dean," Jade warned, but there was affection underneath the warning. Dean had a tendency toward humor under pressure, and while it kept spirits up, it also sometimes masked genuine nervousness.
"Right, right," he sighed, grinning. "No promises."
Jade inhaled, fingers brushing the cool edge of Astra Nova's control pad. The sensation grounded him—the physicality of the material, the hum of the machine beneath his hand. This was real. This was happening.
"Team Vanguard, formation Echo. Let's move."
The call-out was standard procedure, but it carried weight. This was the first time they were being formally evaluated as a unit by external authority. Everything they did now was being assessed, analyzed, critiqued.
"Copy," Celene's voice came through the link. Her tone suggested she understood the weight of the moment. "RX-Prism online."
"Tempest Wing ready," Jasmine followed. Her voice had shifted into operational mode—all business, no levity.
"Helion Vanguard active," Dean confirmed. The rumble of his frame's startup sequence was audible even through the comms.
"Cross Zero calibrated," Gene added, his tone steady but distant. Gene was always distant. It was how he maintained focus when systems were demanding his attention.
The others checked in—Mateo Reyes, Aegis Halo; Liwayway Cruz, Arclight; Dalisay Arven, Spectra Nova; Allen Maniego, Heavy Strike. Eight Frames, eight pilots, eight consciousnesses preparing to merge with machines and function as a coordinated unit.
The hum of synchronization filled the air—a resonant harmony that vibrated through the field. It was the sound of eight neural systems aligning, of consciousness beginning the process of distribution across multiple platforms.
Engines roared. Energy wings unfurled. The Frames rose into the simulated skyline like a storm ascending. The motion was fluid, coordinated, beautiful in the way that only synchronized combat systems could be beautiful. They moved as if they were parts of a single organism rather than separate entities.
From the observation deck, the Riftguard officers watched in silence. The kind of silence that came from professional assessment. Their faces remained neutral, but their eyes tracked every movement.
"They've got rhythm," Major Drevan murmured. His assessment was delivered to Virel, but not quietly. Loud enough for anyone paying attention to hear. "Instinctive, but unrefined."
Lieutenant Aras crossed her arms, her posture suggesting she was processing something deeper than visual information. "Give them months, not years. They'll surpass most rookies."
"Especially that one," Virel said quietly, watching Astra Nova blaze across the sky. Jade's frame was moving with the kind of precision that suggested he was thinking several steps ahead. Calculating probabilities, running scenarios, positioning himself for maximum effectiveness. "Pineda flies like he's thinking three moves ahead."
"And the anomaly unit," Aras added. "Cross Zero. His sync readings are unstable—but his reflex matrix is faster than recorded prototypes."
The observation suggested Gene wasn't just competent. He was operating at levels that exceeded baseline expectations. Which was remarkable and concerning in equal measure. Remarkable capability could tip into dangerous if it wasn't properly managed.
Virel nodded slightly, his expression suggesting acknowledgment of the assessment. "Arcanum's researchers owe that pilot a medal. His resonance data stabilized the Frame protocols after the Rift incident. Without those results, half this unit wouldn't be flying."
The statement carried weight. It meant that Gene's work—probably work he hadn't thought was particularly remarkable, probably technical adjustments he'd made that seemed minor in the moment—had prevented other people from dying. Had made their survival possible.
Below them, the team engaged with the simulated Rift environment.
The formation moved with fluid precision. Positions shifted, vectors changed, responses cascaded through the group as one section adapted to circumstances and the others adjusted accordingly. It was synchronization at a level that went beyond simple coordination. It was something closer to intuition made mechanical.
Jade's voice cut through comms, calling adjustments with the kind of rapid-fire efficiency that suggested he'd been planning this sequence since they'd arrived at the sector.
"Dean, left flank—Jasmine, phase shift—now!"
Tempest Wing folded its prismatic wings and vanished into slipstream. The frame disappeared from normal space, becoming briefly inaccessible to conventional attack vectors. It was an advanced technique that required perfect timing and trust in your unit members to cover your absence.
Helion Vanguard's kinetic vents ignited, shielding the others. The heavy-assault frame was designed for this—absorbing punishment that would destroy lighter units, buying time for more vulnerable platforms to maneuver.
Cross Zero blinked through the rift haze, dragging plasma trails behind it like fractured light. Gene's movement was impossible. Literally impossible by standard physics. But somehow, through some combination of technical brilliance and raw synchronization capability, he was making it work.
The explosion that followed lit the field white—a cascade of energy that would have been catastrophic if the formation hadn't been precisely positioned. Formation intact. Everyone still flying. Everyone still functional.
Applause rippled through the hangar observation area. The response was genuine. Even seasoned observers understood that what they'd just witnessed was difficult. Was impressive.
Even the Riftguard cracked faint smiles. The kind of smiles that came from recognizing competence. From understanding that these young people might actually have what it took.
Hours passed through waves of simulated Rift incursions. Liwayway rerouted defense arrays mid-battle—her technical knowledge applied in real-time to problems that weren't in any textbook. Dalisay stabilized their M.A.N.A. grid—her sensitivity to harmonic frequencies allowing her to catch cascade failures before they became critical. Allen's heavy frame absorbed volleys that would've leveled a city block—his sheer presence providing the foundation that everyone else could build on.
They weren't perfect. There were moments when communication broke down, moments when timing was slightly off, moments when the formation wasn't quite optimized. But they were united. That was what mattered.
Inside his cockpit, Jade's breathing fogged the glass. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear but from memory. The weight of months of work, months of pushing himself to understand systems that shouldn't have been understandable, all of it crystallizing into this single moment where he was flying a machine and being evaluated by actual Riftguard.
"You alright, Jade?" Celene's voice cut in. Her question suggested she was reading more than just telemetry. She was reading him. Understanding what the weight of the moment was doing to his nervous system.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Just thinking."
"Stop thinking. Start moving."
The instruction was delivered with affection. Stop analyzing. Stop second-guessing. Just be present.
He smiled faintly. "Copy that."
The adjustment he made in response—a micro-correction in his approach vector, a slight shift in power distribution—cascaded through the formation. Everyone adjusted slightly. Everyone compensated. The unit moved more smoothly.
On the deck, Commander Virel folded his arms. His body language suggested completion of observation. The assessment was done.
"They move like a single current," he said.
"Shared trauma," Drevan replied. His tone suggested understanding that these people had been through things that bonded them at levels that training alone couldn't achieve.
"Same difference," Virel said. "It keeps them alive."
The observation carried a depth that went beyond surface analysis. Trauma was a force that either destroyed units or bound them irreversibly. For this group, it had been binding.
Recognition
Dusk washed over the training sector in gold and violet haze. The holographic skyline dissolved, returning to code and light, leaving the cliffs and real steel underfoot. The transition was jarring—from simulated environment back to baseline reality. The Frames powered down, exhaling light and vapor like cooling giants. The sound of their descent was audible—the mechanical sigh of systems powering back to standby mode.
Exhausted cadets leaned against their Frames, sweat mixing with the faint residue of ozone that clung to everything near active neural interfaces. But there was pride mixed with the exhaustion. The kind of pride that came from knowing you'd been tested and had passed.
The Riftguard approached again, their movement deliberate and unhurried. Virel's tone softened, just enough to make everyone straighten despite their fatigue.
"You've done enough. Your metrics have been reviewed. Eight of you met Riftguard standards."
The statement landed like a benediction. Not everyone had made it through the evaluation successfully. But eight had. Eight people were being recognized as having demonstrated the qualities necessary for real Rift work.
A holographic panel shimmered to life, displaying eight names:
"Jade Ronquillo. Dean Knicko Pineda. Jasmine Pineda. Celene Yusay. Mateo Reyes. Liwayway Cruz. Dalisay Arven. Allen Maniego."
The names hung in light, official, permanent. This wasn't suggestion or recommendation. This was recognition at the highest operational level.
Virel paused, his expression shifting slightly. There was one more thing.
"Special acknowledgment to Specialist Gene Armas, for contributions to Cross Zero calibration and synchronization safety. Your data improved Frame survivability rates across all Divisions."
Gene blinked, clearly caught off-guard. He was being recognized publicly, in front of everyone, for work that he'd done quietly and without expectation of recognition.
"Didn't think anyone noticed," he said quietly.
Celene nudged him with her shoulder. "They notice when you don't explode."
A few chuckles followed. The levity helped ease the weight of the moment. Even Virel smirked faintly. The expression made his face look younger, suggesting the person underneath the command structure was still present, still capable of appreciating humor.
"Effective immediately," Virel said, "you are elevated to Provisional Riftguard Officer Rank, under Delta Command mentorship."
The statement transformed everything. They weren't cadets anymore. They weren't probationary members of the military structure. They were officers. They had authority. They had responsibility. They had the weight of actual command.
Applause erupted, loud and genuine. It wasn't the polite applause of a formal ceremony. It was the roaring acknowledgment of peers recognizing achievement. The hangar seemed to vibrate with the sound of celebration. People who'd been standing rigidly relaxed slightly. Expressions shifted from neutral to something approaching joy.
Dean grinned at Jade. "You realize this is your fault."
The statement was delivered with the kind of affection that only came between people who'd survived impossible things together. If Jade hadn't written the Countercode, if he hadn't solved the infection problem, none of this would be happening.
"Yeah," Jade said, still dazed. The reality of the moment hadn't quite settled into his consciousness yet. "Guess I should've crashed the system instead."
"Please don't," Celene said immediately. Her response was simultaneously practical and affectionate. An acknowledgment that while Jade's self-deprecation was part of his communication style, crashing systems was actually something to be avoided.
Virel extended his hand. The gesture was surprisingly formal—a handshake offered between equals. "You've earned the right to face the real thing. Remember—real Rifts don't pause for you to think."
"Yes, sir," Jade said quietly. He took the offered hand, and the contact felt like a transfer of something beyond physical grip. Like authority, like responsibility, like the acknowledgment that he was no longer in a protected training environment. He was in the actual world now, where decisions had consequences that extended beyond simulation parameters.
The hangar doors opened, flooding the floor with amber light. The Riftguard walked toward the horizon, their silhouettes fading like the last flare of a dying sun. They didn't look back. The gesture suggested that the evaluation was complete, that nothing more needed to be said.
The new officers stood in silence, watching the light fade. The moment stretched, full of weight, full of recognition of what had just happened. They'd crossed a threshold. They'd been judged and found adequate. More than adequate.
Dean broke the silence first. His voice was steady but carried uncertainty underneath.
"Well… guess that makes us official."
"Doesn't feel real yet," Jasmine murmured. Her tone suggested she was waiting for the reality to settle into her consciousness, for the moment to become fully integrated into her understanding of who she was.
"It will," Jade said. His certainty was grounded in pattern recognition, in understanding how these structures worked. "When the next Rift opens."
Celene looked at him, her expression suggesting she understood the implication.
"And it will, won't it?"
He nodded. "It always does."
Outside, beyond the walls of Arcanum Base, the world dimmed into violet twilight. The quality of light suggested transition. Evening becoming night. One cycle ending, another beginning.
And in that silence, in that moment of dusk, one truth settled deep into everyone's consciousness:
The Riftguard hadn't just arrived to test them.
They came to pass the torch.
The responsibility was theirs now. The protection of the boundary between Rift and reality. The work that kept civilization functioning in the face of forces that wanted to tear it apart.
They were officers now.
Everything that came next would be different.