I inch open the door to the Appraiser’s office and pop my head through. Immediately, the mental image I’d built up for it shatters.

  “Is this the right building?”

  Tension furrowing my brow, I lead my father and sister through the doorway. The place is a small, sterile affair comparable to any family doctor’s, furnished with waiting room necessities and little else.

  “I sure hope so.” Argin chuckles, oblivious to my discomfort, and nods at the young secretary minding the front desk. Eris dismounts his shoulders. “You’ve been praying for this day for weeks.”

  “Good afternoon.” The secretary quirks a courteous smile, gesturing to the long benches flanking the door. “Did you come from very far? Please, take a seat.”

  Despite our polished appearances, Argin’s small-town predilection for dropping his G’s gives our origins away. My sister and I exchange grins. Our school teachers would explode with frustration.

  “Your appointment is at 14:30, correct? Appraiser West will see you momentarily…” The secretary shuffles through a sheaf of paper. “...Mister Irwin Maric.”

  Ah! She said my name.

  I straighten my posture, sleeves, and the hem of my shirt. I expected her to address Argin. I’m still acclimating to the fact twelve-year-old boys qualify as ‘young men’ in Ursica.

  “Thank you.”

  Argin eases himself down on a bench. Eris and I follow. Excluding the secretary, we’re all who’s present in the waiting room.

  “It’s fancy here,” Eris whispers, swinging her legs. “Fancy, but a little bit empty.”

  “Yeah.”

  The benches leave just enough space around the doorframe for a coat hanger and umbrella stand. Magazines sit stacked upon a small table nearby. An ornate grandfather clock ticks away in the corner, while stern portraits of the Appraisers employed here observe us with piercing eyes. The leftmost wall opens into a narrow hallway.

  My inner Arata stirs at the sight. Memories of long, miserable nights in hospital waiting rooms spring to the forefront of my mind.

  “Nngh…”

  An unpleasant twinge attacks my temples. I close my eyes and rub my forehead, forcing the images back. Those days are literal lifetimes away. I’ve got enough to stress over as a preteen on the cusp of bloody manhood.

  “Feeling nervous?”

  “Huh--?”

  My thoughts disperse at Argin’s voice, and the sudden headache along with. He gives my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

  “You’ll be fine, Irwin. Don’t worry about the outcome.”

  “Yeah,” adds Eris. “It doesn’t matter what Attributes you get. People can be anything if they try hard enough, right?”

  I flicker a smile. If not for my 30 years of life experience, I might find comfort in their words. Alas, I’m old enough to recognize a parent’s well-meaning platitudes and a younger sister’s naive optimism.

  I rub the back of my neck. “Right.”

  Before this moment devolves from heartwarming to depressing, the rhythmic clack of hard soles against the floorboards catch our attention. I straighten in my seat. Moments later, a thin, grey-haired woman glides from the hallway and towards us.

  Argin nudges my back. I hop to my feet.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” She stops in front of me, the ivory badge denoting her role sparkling against her grey waistcoat. “I’m Appraiser West. I take it you, young man, are Irwin Maric?”

  Kindly eyes squint at me from behind a pair of round spectacles. I swallow a lump in my throat. Nod, nod.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

  Appraiser West smiles. To my father, she says, “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Glad to hear it. Hmm… it’s a lovely day outside, no? The Appraisal will take an hour, perhaps, but if you’d rather leave and come back for him--”

  “Leave?” A cartoonish pout distends Eris’ cheeks. “We can’t watch the Appraisal? I wanted to see, though.”

  “Eris.”

  Father shoots her a warning look. So do I, but I’m more concerned with her upsetting Argin than embarrassing herself. She holds my eyes for a moment. Then, sighing, Eris stares at the floor.

  “I’m sorry, little Miss, but the Appraisal ceremony is best conducted one-on-one.” Appraiser West’s gentle voice restores some of Eris’ spirits. “We want him to get the most accurate results, don’t we? Chin up. I’m sure Irwin will tell you all about it later.”

  “...Okay.”

  With that, Appraiser West bobs a polite nod and turns for the hall from which she emerged. “Come along, Mister Maric.” She beckons at me over her shoulder. “Let’s make a man out of you.”

----------------------------------------

I half-expect Appraiser West to swap her waistcoat and badge for a lab coat and stethoscope. The layout of her small clinic -- I mean, office -- isn’t helping repress Arata’s traumas.

  “Would you like to sit or lie down?” Appraiser West gestures from a cushioned chair to the couch standing in lieu of an examination table. “It’s important you’re comfortable, so do try them both. You can leave your shoes by the wall.”

  “... Thanks.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Is it just me, or did the temperature drop? I rub some warmth into my arms, crinkling my sleeves, and approach the pillow-strewn couch.

  Arata’s got some dark memories about rooms like these… imagining myself lying here weighs on my heart. I examine the couch with exaggerated curiosity before sitting in the armchair.

  “I’ll sit here. It’s... warmer.”

  “Of course, of course. Sorry about the cold.”  Appraiser West looks up from the clipboard she fetched from the wall behind her desk. “The concentration of mana is rather high in this room. Helps with the process, you see, though it sucks the warmth right out of you. No?”

  I react with a half-hearted smile. You know what else is always cold? 21st Century hospitals. Though… I’ll admit the temperature in this room does match the wind surrounding the portals at the Station.

  Appraiser West slides a chair into place across from me. “So, then. Before we begin, what do you know about the Appraisal process?”

  “Oh, uh…”

  I just sat down, and I’m already suffering a pop quiz? That’s not fair. No disrespect meant, Ma’am, but I’m nervous enough! I fidget in my seat while Appraiser West skims her papers, cobbling together what should resemble an intelligent reply.

  Umm…

  “Human Appraisal happens in parts.” I spew out the first fact I remember. “There are more aspects to a human Essence than an object’s or monster’s, so information must be unearthed in pieces for an accurate interpretation. A competent Appraiser can read an unconscious thing’s Attributes in one go, though.”

  “Correct.” Her mouth lifts into a grandmaternal smile. “And what order do we extract these parts in?”

  My eyes swivel upwards as I wrack my brain. I swear I memorized this. Being put on the spot makes recollection difficult -- it’s not like Arata had much practice in school.

  “Attributes, Inclinations, Mastery, Affinity?”

  “I see you’ve done your homework! That’s wonderful.” Her pencil hovers over the clipboard in silence. No news is good news, I guess. “So, then. Bonus question: What’s the one aspect we don’t find at one’s first Appraisal? You might not recall.”

  “Um… hmm.”

  Appraiser West is right. I consider shrugging, but a grown adult should put in proper effort. I spend a moment sifting through my memories. There must be something floating about between my ears.

  … Aha!

  “Skills? I remember it’s illegal for minors to acquire Skills.”

  “Very good, Mister Maric. Very good.”

  She jots something down and rests the clipboard on her lap. My eyes follow her movements, but from this distance, I can’t read her notes.

  “You must enjoy your Social Studies. Indeed, it’s illegal to awaken Skills in a child. By and large, you’re much too young to handle the Universe’s gifts responsibly. For this reason, the ‘Skills’ section of your Appraisal report will be blank -- or at least, should be.

  “Your parents are law-abiding citizens, yes...?”

  I freeze at her dark tone. Then Appraiser West winks, eyes sparkling, and the knot in my chest unwinds. Jeez! How many kids has she terrified with that sense of humour?

  “Just a little joke, Mister Maric. No need to look so frightened.” She glances at the clock mounted above the doorway. “Moving on, then. How relaxed are you feeling?”

  My shoulder lifts in a well-meaning shrug. “A little nervous, but I’m ready for the ceremony. Actually pretty excited.”

  “Wonderful. Each portion of the Appraisal will take between three and seven minutes, depending on the pliability of your mind. We’ll do one part, break for five minutes; do the next, break; etcetera. How’s that sound?”

  “Lots faster than I expected.”

  She chuckles. “It often is. I’ll lower the lights now. Please close your eyes, Mister Maric, and we can begin.”

----------------------------------------

So, listen.

  Appraisal is a terrible experience.

  Imagine being weighted to a chair, drowned in sedative, stripped and inspected from the inside out. Imagine cold, unfamiliar hands peeling back your skin and searching the innermost you; poking and prodding at aspects of yourself you didn’t know existed.

  That’s what it’s like, coming of age.

  The first few minutes are terrifying.

  In her defense, Appraiser West warned me about the nausea. She warned me about the dizziness. She ensured I understood, to the letter, that I’ll be sluggish throughout the ceremony.

  What Appraiser West didn’t mention was the sense of utter helplessness. Arata underwent two lung transplants in his youth… I imagine this is how the process would’ve felt if he’d been awake. It’s unreal.

  “We’re almost through, Mister Maric. I promise Appraisal’s only this strange the first time.”

  Appraiser West’s voice drifts through one ear and slides out the other. Strange? Now, there’s an understatement. I try nodding, but my head won’t lift. Every muscle weighs a ton.

  I shiver from within as her mana surges through me, sapping the warmth from each nerve and fibre. Unwanted memories of Arata’s death surge forth. I relive them with startling clarity: The growing chill, the blackening room, the final heave of borrowed lungs that could only try their hardest.

  My insides twist. The prickling headache from the waiting room returns with a vengeance, and I slur at her to pause.

  …

  Nothing happens.

  The first time I requested a break, the bony hand on my forehead lifted in a heartbeat. Now it lingers. Didn’t she hear me? My pre-adolescent vocal cords can’t power through Appraiser West’s casting of [Lethargy I].

  “Try not to resist, please. Relax your Essence. The final stretch reaches the deepest -- flinching here only prolongs the reading.”

  Something tenses her voice, making my pulse quicken with concern. Her mana delves farther. Familiar sparks scatter behind my eyelids, and the queasiness grows.

  What’s wrong? I want to ask. Her grandmotherly tone becomes strained, as if she’s struggling to maintain her kindly air.

  “You’re doing wonderfully, Mister Maric. Relax. It appears there’s more information here to glean than expected.”

  Um, what?

  You can’t imply something’s happened and expect a kid to stay calm. I’m a cumulative 42 years old and I’m inching up Panic Peak. An actual preteen could be traumatized! The pounding headache sure isn’t helping, nor are the fleeting mental images of hospital beds and white, tiled ceilings.

  For both our sakes, I force them away. My headache somewhat abates. I should’ve picked the couch… surrendering myself would come easier lying down. Feels like she’s unraveling my Essence farther than possible.

  “... Hm.”

  Finally, her wrinkled palm leaves my brow. I’d sigh with relief if my lungs would obey. The muted click of her shoes against the rug-covered floor keep me grounded as [Lethargy I]’s effects start fading. I’d never seen a Status spell used, let alone been victim to it, and I feared I might not recover.

  My head is reeling. I’m nowhere near vomiting now, but the moment I can move my arms, I press a hand to my stomach to be safe.

  “How long did that take…?”

  I’m not ready to open my eyes. From the sound of clinking china and trickling liquid, though, I infer Appraiser West’s pouring a cup of tea.

  “That last part? Six minutes. Still within the normal range. It felt longer, I’m sure, but only because the first three parts took half as much time.”

  “Oh. So nothing’s wrong, then...?”

  Grateful for the low light, I crack open an eye. Appraiser West’s back in her chair, one hand holding a teacup, while its twin sits steaming on a saucer atop the small table between us.

  “That’s for you, dear. It’ll help your stomach settle.”

  My eyes sweep over the room. The clipboard where my report should be sits balanced on her knee. I appreciate the tea, but it doesn’t answer my question. I dab cold perspiration from my hairline.

  “How are my results? I’m a little worried I might have… well, a handicap or something….since it took so long.”

  “Don’t be, don’t be. You’re perfectly functional.” Appraiser West smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Low light glints off the frame of her glasses. “Mister Maric, before we review your results, may I ask you a question?”

  Her expression grows serious. I know better than to await a punchline this time.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Please go ahead.”

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘savant’?”