CHAPTER 5: The Impatient Wait
The news surged through Argentis' communication channels like an electric shock. Not the official version, which tersely mentioned a "contained structural failure" at the Central Station and "several civilians treated for acute stress," but the unofficial one, buzzing in encrypted student chats and hallway whispers: Cloe Valerius, daughter of the legendary Marcus Valerius, had unleashed an incredible power, halting a walkway's collapse with a net of golden light.
Kai learned of it while meticulously disassembling and cleaning a deactivated "Guardian" training rifle in the pre-military program's workshop. A notification buzzed on his tablet nearby, flooding the screen with messages from a group chat. At first, he dismissed the rumors as exaggerations—they usually were. But as more details emerged—grainy video clips from personal devices, confirmations from witnesses—a cold knot tightened in his stomach.
Cloe. Manifesting such power. In public.
He set the rifle parts down on the workbench, his hands freezing mid-motion. A wave of conflicting emotions swept through him. First, immense relief that she was unharmed, that she hadn't been injured in the incident. Then, a stab of awe and, yes, pride for his friend—he'd always sensed something special in her, beyond her quiet intelligence and kindness. But beneath it all, shamefully, he felt a sharp needle of envy.
She, who'd never sought power, who'd almost seemed to fear it, had been thrust into the spotlight. Meanwhile, he—who spent every free hour preparing, who studied tactical manuals late into the night, who lived and breathed the desire to fight—remained trapped. Trapped by two cursed years. Fifteen years old. Still two years away from even beginning the real training that would let him don an Aegis III and make a difference.
"You gonna stand there glaring at that firing pin like it owes you money, or finish cleaning it?"
The sarcastic voice snapped him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Liam leaning in the workshop doorway, arms crossed, a mocking grin on his lips. Liam O'Connell was Kai's polar opposite. Where Kai was intensity and technical focus, Liam was relaxed confidence and natural talent. With sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and an athletic build that seemed effortless, he was, annoyingly, the pre-military program's top marksman, his precision almost insulting.
"Thinking," Kai retorted, refocusing on the rifle.
"Clearly," Liam said, stepping inside and grabbing a clean cloth. "Must be exhausting. Thinking about the Commander's daughter? Everyone's talking. Heard she nearly brought down half the station."
"It wasn't like that," Kai said sharply. "She saved people."
"So they say," Liam conceded, polishing his own training rifle with efficient strokes. "Lucky break for her, huh? Straight to Aegis Academy, I bet. No waiting in line."
Kai clenched his jaw. Liam was just needling him, as usual, but the words struck a nerve. "It's not luck, Liam. And she didn't want this."
"No? Strange way to show it, putting on a light show during rush hour," Liam replied lightly. "Well, while she plays hero, we're stuck here cleaning dummy rifles and waiting to do more than obstacle courses." He shrugged. "Though two more years of cadet cafeteria food is genuinely depressing."
Despite his irritation, Kai smirked. Liam's cynical pragmatism was oddly comforting. At least he wasn't alone in feeling time crawl. "Two years," Kai muttered, more to himself. "An eternity."
"Depends how you use it," Liam said, picking up a calibration tool to adjust his simulated laser sight. "You can mope and stare at news feeds like a kicked puppy, or get so damn good that when they finally cut us loose, Sergeant Rex has to invent a new medal just for you." His tone was casual, but the challenge beneath was clear.
Kai studied him, recognizing the truth in the jab. Liam, despite his laid-back act, was fiercely competitive. "And what'll *you* do besides polish your aim?" Kai asked.
"Me?" Liam grinned, a glint in his eyes. "Besides becoming a sharpshooting legend and a master of emergency rations… probably figure out the bunk assignment system. Always get the top bunk, and I hate the top bunk." He paused, his expression briefly serious. "And make sure when we get there, we're ready. Both of us. No use being a lone hero if your squadmate can't watch your back."
The words resonated with Kai. Despite their rivalry, they shared an unspoken understanding forged through training and a shared future. He nodded. "Right. We'll be ready."
In the weeks and months that followed, Kai clung to that resolve. Cloe's accidental heroism became a catalyst—not for shortcuts, but for doubling down on his path as a soldier enhanced by technology and discipline. If Cloe embodied the unpredictable power of the Gifted, he'd master the reliability of human skill.
He immersed himself in training. Every simulation was followed by hours of data analysis, scrutinizing micro-errors in positioning, fire management, and battlefield awareness. He joined every optional workshop: exosuit repair, encrypted comms, combat first aid, subterranean navigation. He absorbed knowledge like a sponge, driven by time's relentless march.
His part-time job at Military Supply Depot RM-7 became crucial. The cavernous space, reeking of metal and insectoid residue, housed damaged gear—Aegis limbs torn off, acid-pitted armor, shattered helmets. Each piece told a story. Technicians shared grim advice: "Never trust a dark space, kid," or "Never underestimate the eight-legs. They're smarter than they look."
These glimpses of war contrasted starkly with his school life. While peers worried about exams, Kai studied corridor blind spots and alloy tensile strength.
He tried to maintain normalcy with Cloe, but an invisible barrier had formed. She seemed distracted, her green eyes shadowed by unspoken pressures. She mentioned sessions with Dr. Thorne and "focus exercises" but avoided details.
One afternoon in a park, watching children play under artificial light, Kai finally asked, "How… how is it? With… you know?"
Cloe traced patterns on the bench. "It's… complicated. Dr. Thorne is kind, but… it's a lot. Trying to control it… like holding back a storm with drizzle." She met his gaze, vulnerable. "And you? How's… the waiting?"
"Work," Kai said simply. "Training. Learning. Using the time." He didn't mention the frustration.
Silence lingered, heavy with unspoken words. Kai wanted to reassure her but faltered. Instead, he mentioned a patrol's encounter with a Stalker in Sierra-9.
Cloe shuddered. "Glad they're okay."
Her reaction steeled his resolve. He *had* to be ready.
That night, in his shared room, Kai reviewed Aegis III hydraulic schematics on his tablet. His brother slept below, oblivious. The ever-present hum of Argentis' ventilation filled the silence.
On his desk lay his training combat knife—a blunt replica, but true to the real thing. He practiced cuts and thrusts in the cramped space, imagining chitin resistance and vulnerable joints.
He knew real combat would be chaos. But every practiced move, every memorized diagram, was a brick in the fortress he built against fear and helplessness.
Two years. Five hundred and thirty-seven days, to be exact. He'd count each one. And make each one count.