The live-gild sun rays are muffled, choked through dense, endless clouds that reduce the lithe, warm energy of the Sun. All it emits is a dead, cold, almost fluorescent filter of light; perfect for taking a test.

It's five rows of ten students each, with every victim gripping his or her pen like a lifeline.

The proctor, sitting motionless at the professor's desk and with a supreme view of the test-takers, sets his eyes on them like a living fixture of pure observation: waiting, anticipating for the moment he sees that one stray glance, or that single passed note. Tests in the Royal Academy of Engineering aren't to be taken lightly, we all know.

A certain, rather-attractive Kimley Gaunter nips at the inside of her mouth when she reads over the final question on the first page:

"A quadrametric di-mana circuit with a torso cross-connection will display what following output in a frame 1 automaton?"

With a deep breath, Kimley comes to the bitter realization that this, like half of the questions on this exam, were not in the study material at all. She sneaks a blink-fast glance at the others in her row:

Mortified, disgusted faces stare down at their pages. In fact, the whole room would be silent in their dismal state, if it weren't for the pencil strokes of one single student, all the way at the end and the back.

Kimley isn't our heroine, but this girl is.

Clare Airineth, academically years ahead of her peers but two years younger, snaps out the final strokes to her answers, finishing the test at the speed expected of a class 5 engineer. With a wide, socially-clueless smile, she passes over the immensity of jealous gazes on her way down the steps from her row to the proctor.

His sunken eyes twinkle with a sort of pretentious half-victory half compassion when he takes her test into his wrinkled, pinkish hands. "Gave up alr-" The proctor stops a moment, adjusting his glasses while perusing through the pages. "Ahh, well there's one in every class, I suppose," he says, correcting himself with a raised brow. " That's an A+. You have a nice day, Miss Airineth."

"Thank you, sir." She bows her head, her sprightly blond cowlick performing a humorous, flippant wave over her generally well-combed appearance, her single earring drooping aside to do the same, albeit with a more respectful style to it.

She turns to leave the classroom, sparing a look over to her classmates. They all look at her with that mix of envy and grief; not hatred because they wouldn't admit it, but certainly a desire that she weren't there with them.

With the same, kind smile she got from her mother, she leaves them to their fate, certain this is just the destiny of people who would rather have friends than have a comprehensive grasp of their material. Making a smooth swing out, she exits the classroom with a true sense of excellence. She's younger than the others, and yet here she is, outdoing her peers in spades.

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She almost starts monologuing in her head, with the great King Victor congratulating her on the recipient of Class-5 Head Engineer, but the professor has been waiting on the other side of the door, leaning about coolly in his tweed vest and waistcoat.

"Went well, I trust?" He asks, popping his pipe to the side of his mouth.

She stutters. She'll never get used to the fact that the professor for this class is none other than Jack Elwood, the living rock star of the automaton engineering field.

"W-yeah it... yeah, great, sir!"

He nods at an angle with that expressive mix of charisma and certainty he's perfected over years of tests. "Great. Your mom would be proud."

She has no idea what face she's making at him, but is very hopeful that it's a smile. "Thank you, sir! I'm sure she would be... sh-"

"I'm sure your project is going to be just as impressive."

There's a pause in the hallway, her green eyes steadily widening. "...The what, sir?"

He arches his face in a way that creates in her the simultaneous urge to go right up to him and either kiss him or punch him in the mouth so hard that it bleeds; a sort of semi-pretentious confidence that she cannot help but find both infuriating and attractive. He's got twelve years on her and she knows she's too young, but she can't help imagining.

"Your thesis project, next Friday."

"Next..." the words cut through her like a saw.

"You remember from your syllabus, right?"

She's quiet a second, a slow, lying nod all that she produces for the longest time.

"Y-yes. Yeah, the master's presentation thesis class. The one all final year masters students have to do?"

He leans his head down just a tad, sizing her expression up past his thin-rimmed glasses. "The one you've been working on since the beginning of the year?"

Like a conduit of midnight, a cold sweat overtakes her like dew on the grass.

"Yes sir, I'm already done! It's on... infrastructure."

He leans back with a smile. "Wonderful. You know, I'm really proud of you."

Even hit with a compliment like this does nothing to save her from the gut-wrenching horror of failure. "Thank you, sir," she says, her tone like a broken record.

"Your mother was an amazing woman, and it's worth restating that she'd be very happy to know how well you're doing."

"Thank you, sir."

He draws back, leaning on the wall and reaching for his pencil and algorithm-filled notebook. "I know your dad's just as proud; any father would. You've got a class five ahead of you, Miss Airineth. The other students are good, but you're driven, and that's exactly how all the class fives are. That's what sets us apart. Run along now and spend time with your father. You're going to be busy a year from now when you get that commission, after all."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." Clare bows, backing away in the same movement.

Elwood nods again. "Have a nice day."

"Thank you." And at that, she finally feels secure enough in her formalities to leave the outer keep and head down the streets home.

The moment she's out in the fresh air of the day and the shadow of the walls she stops. One, two, then three deep breaths pass through her as she tries her best to calm down, but it's not helping. She has to get to work immediately; progress is the only way to fix this. She glances up to the rim of the wall, those densely-armored guards doing their rounds, braving the cold weather for hours on end to keep watch outside and measure the water level of the ocean; she'll do it for people like them. She'll invent something that can do it in their place.

Strutting at a double-quick pace, Clare passes by the circulating crowds of humans and automatons; human-like in shape but faceless and clearly more mineral than animal. She rushes by without so much as a greeting to anyone or anything, readily reaches the Royal Library of Engineering, and slips inside aiming for one of the underused and always-silent study rooms.

She spends the next two hours pouring over ideas for a thesis, but to no avail. What contribution could she possibly make to such a readily-shrinking body of available discoveries? What's more, how could she have possibly forgotten?

This will be the last problem of this caliber she has — it only gets worse from here.