"You don't live in the dorms?" Liz pieces together what Dylan asks a second after he says it.
They've just left Boswald after Professor Milligan's lecture on amorphous materials to hop on the tramway. Dylan's accent hasn't been the easiest to understand, everyone from the Cygnus sector talks a little funny—Liz believes it's the ancestry from Singapore—and after Milligan's class it's near gibberish to her ears. She opens her wristlet and opens the translation addition.
"One second, I'm processing a bit slow today. But I'm staying at Dormont." She activates the app. "It's by—"
"The warehouses, I've heard. Its security system there is insane," he says and suddenly it's easier to understand him even though he sounds the same.
Liz rubs the spot behind her ear with the neural implants. Reading the manual had told her it works by stimulating the basic language areas of the brain. She received them last year as both a birthday and graduation gift.
"Should help with the aliens," her father had said.
"They've got the newest tech from this year's Morrigan Armaments' Weapons Expo collection. Are you one of the dignitaries' kids, then?" Dylan continues.
He's mildly impressed and annoyed at the same time. Ha. Dylan's one of the ten kids on the same degree path as Liz. They met during those awkward icebreakers organized by the department. He's not a particularly brawny or tall man. He's willowy and short. Liz never pictured him as a military buff, but he's a product of the school like everyone else.
"No. Not at all. My brother's part of the SOTC. Since I'm military adjacent, I applied for free housing, and they stuck me there."
"Oh, woah. Crazy. So, he's Altered?"
Liz narrows her eyes at him.
"Crazy good, or crazy bad? The direction of this conversation depends on your answer."
"Crazy interesting. Which is a good thing, I guess?" his voice squeaks.
Anti-Altered propaganda is popular these days. Even at an institute like this there are still purists who find otherness disconcerting. Articles all over the Q write about and release videos of dangerous Altered individuals. Despite only being a sliver of the overall population, it makes the most headlines.
The cart stops. "You have arrived at Central Station," the automated system responds.
"We're on the same page then."
Liz turns from him, and they exit onto the station. With the first class over and done with, she's got two more blocks, both closer to the evening. Right now, Dylan and she are on their way to basic. They aren't participating, it isn't required for students, but it can get you out of compulsory volunteering in fourth year. The idea is to go, check out the difficulty level, weigh out the different types of suffering, and make a well-informed decision.
Like any good student.
"And yeah, he got sick four years ago. We didn't know he manifested until a year after. His food fell right through his plate," Liz says.
"A matter manipulator. Type 1 with environmental influence. I'm jealous."
It's genuine. Liz can tell by the excitement in Dylan's voice. She smiles at that.
"It's annoying, trust me. He uses it to phase through walls and scare everyone or break into some place he shouldn't be."
"I can think of a few places I would sneak into."
"…."
"Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that."
"Uh-huh. We're here."
They've reached the ROTC complex. The most expensive area on campus placed smack dab in the middle of the institute. It's fit with a track, field, pool, low G obstacle course and shooting range, and so on. Basic training includes a lot of stamina and muscle building so beginners are usually kept on the track or pools. Today, judging by the chanting Liz is picking up near the lip of the Bowl, they're on the track.
"Great. They're out today, meaning we don't have to go inside," Dylan says and makes his way over to the west entrance.
Liz follows.
The Bowl, as everyone calls it, is the track and sports field at the center of the ROTC complex. It's about 5,000 meters deep into the ground with a gradual decline to floor level. A design chosen to support a top that's fully retractable for severe weather conditions, which occurs in the last third rotation around Typhon when the radiation is at its peak. Entrance to the Bowl is strictly below ground during those months, meaning a trek through the spiderweb of passages underground.
They load onto the lift—a square panel, metal as all things are, with a single control terminal. It whirs when Liz palms the controls. A florescent holo lights up with several floors. "G1," she selects. The panel lifts as a shield encases them before sliding down the ramp.
"If possible, I'd like to avoid the caves," Dylan says.
"Tunnel system," Liz corrects. "It won't be hard to as long as you return during break."
Break is timed with radiation season; most kids leave to return home then. Nobody likes the underground passages. There's something about being locked in an enclosed space that makes people a little crazy. But at the same time, they're ingenious. Building a series of underground tunnels outside of traffic creates the perfect backdoor to any complex in the case of catastrophic failure. Which is one of the selling points of the school.
"Caves. Tunnels. It's an ant farm down there. And no one likes to think too deeply about ant farms."
Liz glances at Dylan's shuddering. She, for one, has never thought about ant farms and doesn't understand the fear. The lift stops and jostles. This time Liz grabs the control terminal to steady herself as the shield lowers.
"Ten seconds left. Nine. Eight. Seven…" someone shouts.
They step off the lift at ground one. From the stands, they can see and hear a woman at the finish line shouting at the trainees who pass her one by one. Loud thumps echo each time another person finishes. Dylan and Liz can't see the trainees well with the guardrails, so they move in closer. Up a short ramp and past a set of emergency doors. The final trainee crosses the line. Huffing, he unzips his vest in a ripple of blue and drops it to the ground in a thump.
"What are those?" Liz asks.
"Suit simulators. They weigh the same as an average evo suit and limit your tactile function through its barrier system," Dylan says.
"The average suit is what? Eight kilos?"
"More like fifteen."
Liz groans. "I'm starting to think this isn't worth it."
"Doesn't Terra-54 require mandatory PT?"
"PT is glorified physical education where I'm at. Best I can do is run a mile under 12 and do about thirty push-ups and sit-ups under 1.1 Gs. The teachers started calling it PT when they realized it would help them get grant funding. What about KR-16?"
"Neither are required passed primary schooling. Education focused is what they call it, but I took some sports. I'm a fast runner at least."
"If the last runner doesn't make it under a minute, make it six more instead of five. I don't want any excuses now that you've shed the wait," the woman shouts.
There's only one groan from the pack of thirty some students. Everyone's conserving their energy for what's to come.
"Even if you're fast, I don't think we'd make it," Liz announces.
"Maybe if we started practicing at the gym," Dylan suggests.
"Gross."
Liz leans onto the guardrails and sighs. The trainees are rounding the curve again, coming up on lap two. At the front of the pack is a brick of a man. Broad shoulders and beefy arms. Liz looks at her long, limber limbs and wonders how long it would take to build muscle like that.
"Hey, it won't be so bad and maybe we could even grab something to eat after."
But Liz doesn't hear him. There's flash. Over on the opposite stands something shimmers behind the beefcake.
"Do you see that?" she asks, turning away.
"See what?"
Liz turns round. "Over—"
But it's gone. Only the bleachers sparkle in the pink hue of Typhon's red rays.
"Never mind. I think the architecture is getting to me."
"Hah. You're starting to lose it and it's only the first semester. Get used to the Brutalism, we won't be seeing much else other than these bleak metal slabs."
Her wristlet pulses. A message from her brother arrives.
"Can't get much out of Serg. But she said it's a tanker, V'lal Manufacturing. You know those ships, sis. The Veltan invented space flight centuries before us. Chances are it's a real sighting. Stay in Dormont. I'm working on getting you a flight out."
Liz's pulse thumps.
The red sky shimmers again. But this time it's different. An alert in the sky. A blue broadcast lights over the institute, both audio and visual messages relay.
"WARNING!" it blares.
"A Rift has been detected! Please head to the evacuation sites designated in yellow. Instructors will be waiting in tunnels 1-10 to bring you to your destinations," the message reads.
Dylan grabs her arm. Liz gives with the force, dizzied, and glances at him. His eyes are bright, crazed.
"We need to—"
"Kurraack!" something screams.
It's unlike any sound Liz has ever heard before—deep, drowning. "Unreal," is what she thinks. And when she sees, sees the beefcake of a man, stomach concave and shredded with something invisible to the human eye suspending him in air, she thinks it's more than that.
A nightmare.