Neon

“Report immediately to W2218. Final evaluation of test results to ensue. Subsequent placement in Kanjo Unit to follow.”

Commander Benett.
Kanjo Div.
Snr. Recruiting Officer.
10933394-55-483

Nathan read the message with calm expectancy. Not nervous. I’m not nervous, he told himself. But his heart was suddenly beating time and a half. His palms itched with moisture because this was yet another marker along his path away from civilian society. With each phase of Kanjo initiation, he slipped further and further away from Stephen. It was too late to go back now. He’d signed the contract. Truly, the point of no return had long passed. He had even begun to integrate himself with the Kanjo community. Perhaps not all that effectively as the other Kanjo seemed wary to associate with him until more was known. Suppressions. Levels. Ranks. Kanjo Name.

So why was he nervous?

Nathan strode through the halls with a quick, businesslike step. The sooner he learned his results, the sooner the ache in the cavity around his heart would go away.

When the click of the door signaled the arrival of their fourth and final member of the meeting, neither of the three men in the room moved from where they sat, evenly spaced, around a black rectangular table that looked to be made of polished carbon fiber like much of the facility’s furniture. They did look up at him, however, Gelrik tossing a loose two fingered wave before returning to his tablet, Steel with as stoic a nod as one would expect, and the commander with a smile that had clearly been practice, but neither offered him a specific place to sit.

“We won’t waste your time, Nathan, I promise. My name is Commander Benett, and I’ll be your governing superior from the moment you make your decision and leave this room.” The man was efficient, that much was obvious, but from the way he fidgeted with his cuffs to the brisk way he spoke, it was just as clear that he wasn’t much of a people person.

“I understand you’ve already met these two, so we’ll skip the introductions. Dr. Gelrik, based on your earlier tests, has compiled a list of the most promising emotional synaptic paths, balancing out the potential benefits with the total percentage of your overall personality that will be effected.”

“Well, there’s more to it than-“

In what seemed to be a trend around the facility, Gelrik’s corrections went all but ignored as the commander continued on over him.

“Steel here will be your squad captain starting next week, after you’ve had some time to recover. Given that this is a special circumstance, it’s highly suggested that you confer with him to ensure that you find an efficient place in his squad. Our tests have confirmed that you are the first level 4 capability we’ve seen in years, after all, so I ask that you make maximization of your abilities an imperative.”

Sliding over the tablet he’s been holding, Gelrik quick skimmed over the interface with his finger, displaying the pages of information while he spoke.

“You’ve got quite the brain, bud. There’s a total of 17 sections for you to pick from, organized by emotion. Each will have a percent that shows the total percentage of synapses that will be freed up in your cerebrum to allow us to input more combat knowledge, the capacity of your neural bridge with your mech, and stuff like that. It’ll also list possible side effects, but if you have any questions I can elaborate. Try to shoot for about fifteen percent between the four choices, and we’ll be good to go.”

‘Good to go’? Gelrik could feel Steel’s cold eyes on him and doubled back.

“Well, there are some combinations that aren’t recommended, but we’ll discuss that when it comes up.”

A brief quiet, and the commander stood.

“Well, I’d like the results by morning, if you could, and welcome to the Kanjo.”

Nathan took the tablet at once. So. He had some say in what he would lose. In the monster he’d turn into. This was something he hadn’t quite expected. Though Stephen had never spoken about it, Nathan had assumed that Gelrik, in communication with his commanding officers, would be the one to choose the Suppressions most likely to take and succeed. It was like swallowing a marble. His throat constricted. Stephen had chosen the combination that had killed him.

He had abandoned Lexis, knowing that he would never love her again when the Suppressions squeezed even the knowledge of love became uncertain.

His grip on the tablet tightening, Nathan glanced down at his choices. A line of text followed each potential area of suppression, explaining the percentage of synapses freed, the diagnosed effects, potential risks, and compatibilities.

Fear 7%
Hate 4%
Anxiety 3%
Subservience 4%
Shame 5%
Love 10%
Impatience 4%
Awe 3%
Pride 7%
Envy 6%
Trust 5%
Joy 8%
Empathy 3%
Fatigue 5%
Apathy 3%
Ambition 7%
Irritation 4%

Stephen, you idiot.

Nathan breathed out slowly as he saw what had attracted Stephen to the Suppression of Love. Ambition. Love cut down 10% of the pathways holding him back as a Kanjo. Simply by watching Stephen over the past few months, it was not hard to deduce what he’d chosen. Love and fear were at the top of the list. Now, eyeing the 8%, Nathan knew Joy had been axed as well. You idiot.

Anger welled up in him. Why hadn’t they stopped him. Shoot for 15%, Gelrik had said. Stephen had gone well beyond that limit. It was not ambition, then, that had driven him. It was recklessness.

He tapped the screen four times and made to hand it back to Dr. Gelrik. At the last moment, he withheld it.

“What happens if I choose five?”

It had been a quick decision, quicker by a mile than the average inductee into their hall of crazy, at least. Most people sat awake with it at night, returning it early in the morning with bags under their eyes and thoughts tired and unsteady. Those who did choose on a whim or with an arbitrary process often regretted it on the operating table, but none of the men in the room could read far enough into Nathan to place his decision into any sort of category. It hardly mattered, either, for the decision was his regardless barring any complications or concerns, but it was what he said next that drew a reaction even from Steel, for never before had he heard the question posed.

Thankfully, the answer was simple. At least for Steel.

“You regret it for the rest of your life.” He answered back, speaking for Dr. Gelrik who wasn’t quite sure what to say himself. “Assuming you survive the procedure – which, by the way, is unheard of – you would likely be too unstable to serve any use in battle. That said, in a best case scenario, you could potentially have the highest rewritable partition to date making you an absolute force in combat.”

“Yes, but,” Marx finally butted in, adjusting his glasses while he bumbled his words. “That’s crazy. I mean, it’s possible - I’ve only seen a few others with brain elasticity like his. Still, there’s a good chance it could kill you, and a better chance that you’d be more or less lobotomised.” It was a poor choice of words and he knew it, but neither the commander nor Steel were listening intently.

“We could use someone on the front like you, if you want to take that risk.” Benett admitted, flustering Gelrik. Across the table Steel folded his arms across his chest, watching Nathan carefully.

“Why?” He asked, no hidden motives, no agenda.

“Let’s call it idle curiosity,” Nathan said. Of course, it was no such thing. The truth was, he wasn’t exactly sure what had made him ask. Was it anger at his situation? Competition with Stephen? Or was it complete apathy as to whether he lived or died?

Perhaps when Gelrik sliced his brain open, he would be able to find the answer and tell Nathan afterwards. But for now, idle curiosity was the only answer he could give. If it truly was apathy, that was something Nathan could not afford to carry anymore if he were to be a Kanjo. He would need to be motivated in order to merely survive the process. And so his finger descended, and he marked one more box, then slid the tablet back over to Gelrik.

Suppressions:

Fear
Pride
Anxiety
Shame
Apathy

‘Idle curiosity’

Curiosity was an inherently active thing as far as Steel was concerned, and the fact that Nathan would so recklessly consider endangering both himself and his comrades on such a childlike premise. It wasn’t the choice itself, but rather the lack of an admirable reason that grated at him, making him wonder already if Nathan’s spot on his team was in any way negotiable with the commander. Yet, the majority of him that was a soldier first forced him to silence, and so it was that the tablet was handed back without complaint, save for a concerned expression behind Dr. Gelrik’s unusually troubled eyes.

“Twenty five percent total.” Marx bit the inside of his cheek, tapping away at the screen. “Adding apathy is going to complicate things a little bit, but at that percentage it’s nothing overly intolerable. Twenty five percent will make you the second highest in the whole force as far as your partition goes, but… are you sure?” The question was posed just as much to Nathan as it was to the others in the room. The commander nodded, looking to Nathan expectantly, and Steel said nothing.

Finger poised over the button, Marx only awaited confirmation from Nathan himself.

Gelrik and Steel’s hesitance was not lost on Nathan. What he was doing was reckless. But, the way he saw it, no more or less reckless than what any Kanjo did. Someone had to push the boundaries, and if it wasn’t him, then who would? Every level of suppression was unsurpassable…until someone surpassed it. He remembered as a child being awed as the news crews surrounded a Kanjo in Blue and Silver uniform. The first ever level three suppression. It had been unthinkable then. And that made five less unthinkable for Nathan.

“I’m sure,” he said, relinquishing the tablet to Gelrik.

If he went the same way as Stephen did, at least it would likely be right away. But if he pulled through…he would be the asset he’d promised.

It was unlike the doctor to remove himself from any technology that was within a ten foot radius if given the option, but once Nathan handed back the tablet, he simply tapped it once, locking in the decision kept within before setting it down and folding his hands together on the table.

“If we’re going to do something like this, I’d like my choice of a team to oversee the process. We’re probably going to have to move it from 9 am to noon or later, too.” He wasn’t so much making a request as he was dictating to the commander who outranked him half a dozen times and at least doubled his weight, but at fifteen years at the head of his department, Gelrik had earned enough to respect to get a nod from his superior without a hint of hesitation.

“Do it. We’ll set the time for noon tomorrow, then, Nathan, agreed?” It wasn’t as if he had the choice, especially in the face of the commander.

Crossing the room to where Nathan was seated, he held out his hand, stiff either from respect or practice. “I wish you well, soldier. Make sure you pull through; we’re going to need guys like you.”

Nathan stood with the commander and shook his hand. His grip, like the commander’s was firm. He nodded curtly. Twelve, noon. The commander left, and Nathan was aware of Steel’s eyes clapped tightly on him. He knew Steel did not approve of his decision. But it didn’t matter. If he didn’t want him on the squad, that was fine. Nathan would be placed with another squad. What Steel didn’t seem to realize was that he made risks every day. He was a ticking time bomb, and at any moment, he could go. Just like that. If they were in the middle of a mission, he would screw his own squad. The difference with what Nathan was doing was… null.

Steel was afraid. He was stagnant. He had no vision for the future of the Kanjo. And whether Nathan flamed out right away or not made very little difference. He was paving the path to the level five Kanjo.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said evenly, looking at Steel. “But I wonder if you do.”

Steel did not smirk. He did not scoff. In fact, if Nathan’s show of certainty had been delivered with any purpose other than to make a literal statement, then it had totally missed its mark. He’d met kids like Nathan before, looking for a shot at glory, chasing some misguided sense of valor, or without any regard for their own personal safety, but none, thankfully, had ever been placed into his squad and lived to see the end of their first month of surface. Such arrogance didn’t faze him any more than the petty motives behind it, and so he bothered not to cater to such behavior.

Nathan would die, or he would learn that it took more than ambition to survive as a Kanjo with your sanity intact.

“I follow orders, as should you. Do that and you can wonder whatever you like, I take no issue.” It was a textbook answer from a chapter he remembered reading during his squad captain training, intended to defuse tensions between squad members while maintaining mission priority. It wasn’t ideal for the situation, but he doubted the texts contained any information as to how to deal with someone a couple years his senior whom he perceived to be his junior and would soon be so in rank. Not only that, but the texts suggested that a level 5 suppression simply wasn’t possible, and neither was Steel’s own level 4 which he had set the record for years before. Regardless, the cohesion of the team had to be maintained, even before they were assembled.

“Now, do you have any constructive questions, or should we proceed with assessing your skills and preferences as to you role on the team?”

Nathan thought for a moment before answering Steel. He could not begin to speculate on what position he could fill before he knew the requirements of each position, the openings Steel had to fill, and some testing in each area. It seemed pointless to start making decisions now, so he began with the basics.

"First of all, I assume that when we go on mission, we will have a non-Kanjo pilot and crew for the ship. Then we dock and make up the landing party? Forgive my ignorance, but you Kanjo are so tight-lipped about procedure. Everything us common folk know comes from speculation."

‘Tight lipped’ was, in a word, an understatement when it came to describing the security measures the military enacted to keep the inner workings of the Kanjo department secret. Some of their effort went into top of the line encryption, information control, and other more traditional methods, sure, but their greatest veil was one which the general population had tucked willingly over their own eyes – the media.

The celebrity status of the Kanjo meant that the people of Noir either wanted to know all about them and their personal lives to a near ravenous extent, or it was forced upon them anyway, but whatever the reception, it was all too easy to mold whatever image they wished. Steel himself didn’t care much for it, but he had to admit, it was a clever ploy. People didn’t ask questions about wartime protocol when the latest Kanjo was spilling their carefully scripted deepest, darkest secret live on a Saturday night special broadcast.

“Our missions are typically conducted in small teams of three or four to optimize our efficiency; we are only accompanied by military standard personnel during large scale operations, and even then we’ll be acting as our own squad” Steel informed, picking up right where Nathan’s change of tone had led him without missing a beat. “Typically only the more tactically inclined Kanjo will work closely with the military.”

Kanjo operations were a difficult thing to describe, Steel knew, for there was no ‘typical’ mission aside from a supply raid which, for the most part, they only handled when the payout was large and the risk was high. The power horse of Noir offence and defence, they played a pivotal role on the field, but with their dwindling numbers, that meant that their efforts were only put to use where required which, for the most part, were in situations either to fragile or too volatile for standard troops. Still…

“Above all, we have to be versatile as a team. One day we might be called upon to conduct a scouting mission to a future raid target, while the next we might be fighting three day long defensive battle just beyond Noir’s atmosphere. Think on your strengths, and we’ll work from there.”

“I see.” Nathan thought for a moment. The Kanjo were a versatile fighting squad, it seemed. An A-team reserve for the most difficult, intensive, and short notice of missions. Seeing as their roles would vary so much from mission to mission, it did not make much sense to Nathan to be assessed as a single unit. Rather, he felt that he would need to see how he worked with the group before discovering what his strengths would be. And to do that, he needed to get his personalized mech. It would be a long process with many weeks of intense training just to become comfortable with the controls. And before even that, there was the procedure which would suppress the five traits he had given to the odd doctor. And before that… perhaps the most painful game of all: waiting.

“If that’s the case, then I feel that we really can go no further until I can begin training with the core. I can tell you this. I am able to make the hard decisions. Quickly and without doubt. But I am not reckless.”

Not reckless?

Were he the laughing sort, Steel might have chortled at Nathan who, mere minutes before, had made a decision that was not only dangerous, but to which he seemed to have given little thought despite a mountain of evidence that a cautious sort would have perceived as a dozen red flags. He could appreciate a soldier who could make a quick choice without hesitation, at least, but younger though Steel was, he could see the naiveté of inexperience lifting from Nathan like an aura. Regardless, his job was to ensure that his squad operated at maximized efficiency, and little more.

“Understandable. You’ll likely have just a couple days to run over some basic diagnostic tests – physical, mental, and in a virtual space – to help inform your choice.” It helped, Steel supposed, but it was near impossible to accurately predict how the brain would function after the suppressions had been implemented. Certainly there was a measure of guaranteed stability determined via tests and simulations to at least assure that the patient, once healed and trained, would be functional on the field, but the experience was… indescribable. To be the same person, and yet perceive the world entirely differently – there was no means of knowing how things would pan out.

“Wild and I will be overseeing the process, if not directly involved, which should also give you a better idea of the team dynamic.” He paused, tapped away briefly on his wrist comm, and looked back up, a personnel file loading up on the screen behind him with all three of their personal files as well as a fourth – Saya Menin _’Whisper’

“Our fourth member is new as well, and it looks as if she’s just been released from the hospital. I would like to include her as well.”

Things were moving quickly for a new squad with two new members fresh off the operation table, but it was to be expected under the given circumstances.

“If you’re able, I suggest we start right away. I doubt they will want to push your operation back past the end of the week.”

Nathan picked up on Steel's unexpressed ill-humor. The pride that would soon be erased from his brain's processes ached, but he would not admit to Steel that his decision had not been careless, reckless, or made on the spot. Ever since Stephen had returned home, Nathan had wondered what he himself would have given up, if given the same opportunity. On the net, there were diagnostic tests created by the most avid Kanjo fans. From the hundreds of hours of Kanjo interviews that glowed from their TV screens, they'd pieced together the known Suppressions, the statistics, the rates of success and failure, and the personality types that fit well together. He had taken those tests time and time again. None of them would allow him to choose a fifth Suppression. But he had spent hours at night, staring up at the black ceiling, thinking about that last trait: apathy. What if it was the key? What if the Kanjo cracked because, after a while, after losing so much of who they were, they simply didn't care to keep going any longer. Ambition was the last trait he would erase. Ambition would keep him alive. Rank, monetary gain, those things meant nothing to him. But the will to live, and to live fully, even now, was so strong that it hurt.

“There's no point in waiting,” Nathan agreed. His five suppressions were locked in. Dr. Gelrik would be prepping for the surgery. He had just under twenty-four hours left until he became truly Kanjo. And that time did not belong to him. “Let's get through as many of the diagnostics as we can.”

“Diagnostics.” Steel repeated, as if testing the word himself to see if it was adequate. Silently he conceded that it wasn’t, but he said nothing, instead pulling at his cuff from where it has slipped just a little too far inside his sleeve with an emotionless smirk.

“Place nice, Steel.” Marx chimed in, evidently having been paying more attention to the conversation than he was welcome to. With the commander gone it was a wonder that he hadn’t returned to his nest of wires and screens where the green glow somehow made him seem less pale, but the piece of paper in his hands - real, printed pulp - gave away the source of his interest.

Ignoring it, Steel nodded, giving nothing away. “Everything will be handled according to protocol; ‘by the book’.” He added, repeating the colloquialism that Wild often tossed his way as some sort of insult which had yet to fully comprehend.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Marx sighed to himself as Steel turned to leave.

“Wait, hold on, one second -” He stammered, standing and scooting over to Nathan before he could move even a step. “It’s a bad time, I know, but around here there is no sense waiting for good ones so…”

Aware of how uncomfortable the situation was, Marx awkwardly handed the paper in his hands to Nathan along with a fancy ink pen. The paper, a hasty print out of the document that they had solidified only minutes before, was still warm, evidently having been printed during their short conversation.

“It’s not strictly legal to print something like this, but it’s not like I’m going to sell it. If you could sign it, though, it’ll be a piece of history.”

Nathan looked down at the proffered paper, trembling in the doctor's hands, almost coldly. An ounce of bile rose in his throat. He choked it down with barely suppressed rage. As a child, he had collected posters and trading cards of his favorite Kanjo. He had yearned for an autograph of even a level one Kanjo. But after Stephen had enlisted, all of that had changed. He would watch none of the interviews, read none of the tabloid stories, lost all interest in owning a sock that had formerly belonged to a Kanjo. And he was disgusted at the thought that others still bought into the hypocrisy. The doctor who would be poking holes in his brain, no less.

Without a word, Nathan turned away from Gelrik and motioned him on. He left the doctor with the limp paper hanging in his hand, untouched and unsigned.

“I don't think Whisper will be able to join us, if you wanted to assemble the whole team,” he said as soon as the door closed and they were in the outer corridor. “She may have left the hospital ward, but she shouldn't over-extend herself.”

For only a moment the doctor looked as rejected as the paper that bent in his hands with a quiet crackle, but by the time Nathan had passed he simply sighed, set it down on the table, and reaquainted himself with his laptop. Watching them go, he knew his request had been out of place but like all of the others who worked closely with the Kanjo, he’d become desensitized by proxy. In time Nathan - or whoever he would become by the end of the week- would grow used to the careful balance that kept them all going. Nothing could be kept too precious, nothing could be left unsaid, and above all they had to take advantage of the time they had around people who didn’t see them solely as glorified super soldiers with an unstable mind and inescapable fate. Of course, there would be no hard feelings over a withheld signature while Nathan was yet new to their secretive little world, but Steel, observing carefully, had already made his first ‘diagnostic’.

Or actually, much to his surprise his first and second.

“You’re aware that she is already out of the hospital, then?” He asked, leading them out the door and to the right. There was no need for a real answer; Nathan’s business was his own, though the show of initiative was worth noting.

“It’s true, I won’t be allowing her to participate, however it seems she contacted Wild and is unwilling to spend the rest of the afternoon resting.”

Hardly looking up from the screen on his arm while they traversed the halls, Steel typed up a message and sent it by the time they reached the elevators.

“If they wish, I’ve invited them to join us to observe. And Whisper- “

With a ding the elevators slid open and three people stepped out. Until they were inside, doors closed, and on their way to floor B2 of Wing R, Steel waited to continue.

“You are aware of the strange nature of her suppressions, yes?” Again, rhetorical. “Much like we're doing now, Wild and myself have already conferred with her regarding her placement on my team. Her blindness and level 4 pilot status are a result of that discussion.”

Insistent for such a small and underwhelming girl, Whisper hadn't even blinked when she suggested a physical suppression be used to supplement her two mental ones that would have placed her squarely in rank 2 and well below the bar to serve under Steel. The show of resolve hadn't been as unwavering as she surely intended, her trembling hands were clear signs of that, but when the day came for her operation she crumpled the release waver that he'd made available to her and tossed it aside. Without pride he wondered what she thought of her decision now, but he suspected it was something she would soon have in common with Nathan when the time came.

Nathan stared at Steel, taken aback by this revelation.

Not only had he neglected to think of Whisper's blindness as a Suppression, he had assumed from the ease of her movements in the brief moment that they'd met, that she had been born blind. It was not an uncommon affliction in Noir's Outer limits. The pollution, the chemical smoke and smog burned the eyes and weakened the lung. The scant food supply, and the minimal shelter weakened the body before its time. Nathan felt himself lucky to have suffered only the stunted growth that had left him barely five feet tall, and that only from malnutrition. He otherwise may easily have grown to the six feet that his brother came to.

But Whisper. She had sacrificed her sight—not the most important sense, but the one humans so desperately clung to—to advance in the Kanjo ranks, to compliment her mental Suppressions? Nathan wondered if this had been done before...if this was something the military simply kept out of the media. Or if Whisper was the first.

“Well,” Nathan said dryly. “It was truly only a matter of time before we came to this. I trust you won't try to take away my sense of touch. Without fear or pride, what other method will you find to punish me for 'stepping out of line'?” Nathan had a shrewd feeling that the points of disagreement between himself and Steel were only at their tender beginnings.

“You will not be formally punished for misconduct.” Steel corrected, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the light that moved from one number to the next on the panel above them. “The Kanjo self-govern.”

There was a good reason no news of rogue or otherwise misbehaving Kanjo ever hit the media, and it was a much less interesting one than the tales of top-secret cover ups and delicate hush orders that conspiracy theorists often dreamt up. They were, at least much more than any citizen of Noir, above law. Even the chain of command existed as a means to an end, providing a responsive environment required in military affairs, but everything from the choice to take or refuse an order down to the time one woke in the morning was an act of will. It was a confusing environment to adjust to, but in all the years Steel had served it had only grown stronger.

The only requirement: to remain, one must undergo suppression.  

“Do not mistake your purpose here. Should you wish to leave, you may do so. Should you wish to ignore an order, you may do so. Should you wish to blame others for the anger you feel at the situation you have been put in -”

Steel turned only his head towards Nathan, making sure to make direct eye contact to the backdrop of the elevator’s numbing hum.

“- you may do so.”

“Hah!”

The empty laugh came out of Nathan's mouth before he could stop himself. Indeed, it was his first slip from self-control since he'd left the Outer Rim so early in the morning. Should you wish to leave...? Of course he could leave. But at what cost? Before the Suppression, there would be the matter of finance. Though he hadn't read through his contract, he suspected heavy fines for reneging upon that fateful midnight signature, and even if no such fines existed, he was sure he would be held accountable for all of the expenses the military had used thus far to bring him here: Steel and Wild's trip to the ghetto, the military shuttle that had whisked him to the Core, the outfitting and testing he had already undergone, not to mention the preparation that were already underway for his own surgery. And just the previous day, Nathan had been unable to pay the bills for heat or water back home. From a financial standpoint alone, leaving was not an option.

As for the rest of it, Nathan wondered why Steel would tell him any of this. To disobey orders in the military? For a Kanjo unit especially? He wondered if he'd heard right. But then again... perhaps this was the reason so many of them cracked. Without the formal rigorous structure of military service, and yet with so much pressure placed upon them... how could they not eventually... implode?

“Should you wish to blame others for the anger you feel...” Steel went on, and a grim smile painted Nathan's lips. “You may do so.”

“But only until I break,” he said quietly. Then, he would be at the mercy of his own unknowing, unfeeling, incomprehensible state.

Steel pondered what exactly Nathan meant by ‘break’, but decided against voicing it. He was too angry, like an animal trapped in a corner, and there would be no sense testing him now. The very concept of the point at which a Kanjo broke was an interesting one, though, and he wondered if Nathan had considered the fact that his life, at least from what Steel knew of it, sounded like a fate just as unfavorable. He could not imagine it, of course, and calling up imagery like that which he’d seen during their late night visit did nothing to stir the empty pocket in his mind where only an ounce of empathy remained, but the lifeless face of Blaze - or Stephen - felt inexplicably like the other side of the same argument.

If his social and financial position was both his reason to remain and his reason to resent the fact, then he was likely destined to live a short and terrible life of service. The sad truth, he supposed, was that Nathan appeared to believe this to be a story he shared with most of the others. He was not alone, that was an unavoidable fact, but his story was only one of many. Part of him wondered if it was best to let the new recruit learn for himself, but out of a previously dormant sense of obligation he yet had for a man who had once helped guide a younger and more naive version of himself, he offered one last push.

“You won’t be you by then.” It was a heavy statement for elevator banter, but somehow Steel managed to make it sound entirely factual. “Before that happens I suggest asking Whisper why she made the choice that she did. She is new to her new world, and unlike the rest of us might be more willing. I cannot guarantee that it will change your mind, but you’ll have a much higher chance of a stable recovery if you can find some peace of mind.”

On que the ding of the elevator punctuated Steel’s sentence, opening them up to an unremarkable concrete hallway where Wild, with Whisper beside her, leaned casually against the wall.

“Beat you.” She smirked.

“... some peace of mind.”

Those last words, spoken in a gentle, yet casual manner, gave Nathan serious pause. Indeed, they felt almost like a punch to the gut, for though he had not realized that he gave off any feelings of unease, he realized how ridiculous it was to assume that he was a mask of passionless apathy, a strong and stoic candidate for the Kanjo life. Perhaps he had spent so much time thinking of Stephen, of Lexis and Jackie, that he'd completely forgotten about himself. Had forgotten the weight of carrying for his brother's family. Had forgotten that his mind was far from the peace Steel spoke of, dangling off a precipitous cliff into the very insanity that held Stephen.

He closed his eyes to steady himself. The constant anxiety gnawing at his stomach, he would gladly do without. But without that pressure to guide him, to motivate him, who would he be? That, of course, was Steel's point. Soon he would be a different person. A person with new potentials, a new mental make-up, and a new direction.

Achieved only with a peace of mind that he hadn't consciously known he lacked. Until now. There was no denying his anger. That would as easy to erase as skimming froth off the top of a boiling pot of milk. But he'd been completely unaware that he was not at peace with that anger.

“Enough of the pep talk,” he said brusquely. “Let's get this done.”

A perk of her head and a whistle was Wild’s response to the intensity coming off of Nathan when the two stepped from the elevator but decided against pushing her luck. This Nathan was a little better than the one from the night before, as much as she loved watching someone lose a fight they had needlessly picked.

Whisper, meanwhile, after taking a moment to match the dark outline with the voice, cursed the way she couldn’t read his expression to match it. Eye contact, even, just so she didn’t have that blank stare. It was a futile effort, though, and in the hope of avoiding the problem altogether she nodded and looked away to the side.

Silently agreeing with Wild in that it was best just to continue, the four of them followed him down the hallway several meters a set of double steel doors. Whisper, listening intently to the footsteps so as to know when to stop, recognized the telltale echo, remembering the bland, wide hallway and the rust on the large bay doors crumble to the floor as they slid aside. Inside, though it was much too dark with the single pale light to make out shapes, was a mound of dilapidated pieces of scrap, the majority of which we dozens of feet wide. Wires, panels, and even bullets, all from mechs destroyed in battle.

“From here, alllll the way to the back there. Welcome to old hangar 8.” Wild piped up like a part-time tour guide. The building, nearly the size of the main hangar, was full from front to back and halfway to the ceiling. Through it pathways had been made most just wide enough from them to pass two by two, leading them one dim hanging light at a time until finally they reached a round clearing large enough to echo.

“As Wild said before, this is the decommissioned hangar 8 - now used for the storage of mechs deemed irreparable.”

Clearly accustomed to the space, Wild meandered further in to where a pile had been made, finding a hunk of metal to use as a seat. The scrap pile, like the other not too far across from it, contained chunks painted mostly green where it wasn’t raw steel or charred if Whisper’s memory served, while the other had white and orange. Knowing why now, she didn’t feel particularly inclined to sit near either of them, but while her implants were still calibrating to accommodate for her blindness it was either follow Wild or stand dazedly in the dark and end up in the way.

Pausing just long enough to take a quick look around and breathe a deep, drawn breath, Steel calmly began to roll up his sleeves, methodically folding each layer until just below his elbow.

“The official record says that this place is empty and demolished.” He added while busy at his task. Perhaps the latter was true, but it was far from empty. That, Steel supposed, was the grim point of the place, but he would let Nathan come to his own conclusion if he cared to do so. Until then, they had a task at hand.

“First, I need to assess your fighting ability. Don’t hold back; I won’t be doing so either.”