~December 5th, 135 AH~

~Joint Base Akra, Reiter Garrison~

Compared to the absolute treat that had been breakfast, and at least in terms of the food on offer, the post-Gauntlet ‘banquet’ didn’t quite live up to its name.

Classmates, lower-years, and even uninvited guests crowded the canteen in disorderly groups, filling it with rowdy chatter. This was the one time of the year where an undisciplined party atmosphere was permitted if not encouraged, and almost all the pent-up proto-Reiters took full advantage: going in for seconds and thirds of ‘cheeseburgers’, getting drunk on decidedly non-alcoholic ‘beer’, and chatting up the girls that were visiting from the Corps.

Almost all, with Zelen being a stolid exception.

Normally, he would’ve found an inconspicuous end of a table to blend into, but this was impossible today, what with he being one of only two successful graduates. Seated beside the much chattier Megha Vakta (whose examiner for the Trial happened to be a pensioner years out of combat), Zelen tried his best to avoid eye contact with the whole room, while chewing his synthetic beef patty as slowly as humanly possible.

Throughout the meal, a veritable carousel of well-wishers rotated through their table, greeting Megha with warm congratulations before turning to Zelen only as an afterthought. On top of being a model proto-Reiter, the Vakta heir was also a deft socialite, able to turn up the charm on command (especially for the girls) and regale his friends and would-be friends with tailored jokes and flattery. Zelen, on the other hand, could only spare a stiff smile and a mumbled ‘thanks’ for each interaction (though his eyes too did linger on the girls for an extra second or two).

He knew he was being excessively antisocial, even by his less-than-stellar standards. But the truth was, that duel against Makiri Shiranui had taken too much out of him.

He could sense that both his Somatic and Psychic Reserves were running on fumes. The sheer magnitude of his fatigue from just one engagement was alarming and more than a little mystifying, though he suspected that some of it could be attributed to his sustained bewilderment about how the fight had ended. In any case, what he needed right now was a good sleep, and not the performative adulation of his peers.

At some point, there came a lull in the constant attention, and the two new graduates finally had a moment to themselves. Megha, as always, was the first to strike up a conversation.

“Brother, what’s going on with you? You’ve earned your time in the spotlight, now go out there and enjoy it.”

On top of being a model proto-Reiter and a deft socialite, Megha Vakta was also one of the few people in the Regiment Zelen could call a friend. Zelen knew that his friend was offering, well, friendly advice, but in his current state, he had neither the energy nor the inclination to take it on board.

“Who’re you kidding? I’m an Athelstan and you’re a Vakta. We’re always in the spotlight. How is this any different?”

“The difference, you idiot, is we don’t have our parents watching our every move. So they can’t know about, you know, which of these fine women we might invite to our barracks tonight.”

Cheeks reddening, Zelen gave his companion a look, which was answered by an exaggerated wiggle of the eyebrows. If Megha weren’t actually drunk, he was certainly acting like it.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Zelen snapped, perhaps a tad more harshly than was warranted. “Did you forget that we’re both already engaged? You should be more careful about what you say, especially with so many people around.”

Megha’s snort contained a note of incredulity. The Vakta heir then put Zelen in an affectionate headlock. “And you should lighten up, Reiter Athelstan. I could lend you some of my Old Earth magazines if it’ll help get you in the mood.”

Zelen’s cheeks darkened another shade, and not from the strength of Megha’s grip. He knew about his friend’s magazines, of course; they were something of a legend among his classmates. But he himself had never partaken—not that he was completely devoid of curiosity…

“Come on,” Megha continued to tease, “someone here must’ve caught your eye. What about that Gaertner girl talking to Wong right now? Pretty sure I saw her giving you the—”

But Zelen was spared from speculating on the Gaertner girl’s interest in him, for at that moment, the sound of a whistle pealed across the canteen.

A collective hush came over the partygoers in an instant—discipline unbroken despite the festive mood—and all eyes turned at once to the front of the room, where the Instructors had their own table apart from the rest of the group.

Captain Collima Duodecim, a broad-shouldered man whose uniform always appeared in danger of bursting at the seams, now stood with a glass in hand and stern eyes scanning his captive audience. The noticeable flush on his cheeks made Zelen doubt the non-alcoholic nature of the contents of his glass.

Stolen story; please report.

“Another year, another batch of useless recruits not worth the shirts on your backs,” the burly Instructor growled then paused, allowing his students several seconds to stew in their shame and discomfort. That was the intent, anyway, but Zelen knew that most in this room had heard the same opener before—many of them more than once.

“But for at least two cadets here, your achievements this day represent a rite of passage,” Captain Duodecim continued, quickly taking on a canned tone that betrayed the rehearsed nature of his speech. “For us at the Reiter Regiment, it’s a time-honoured tradition to welcome new members into our fold by assigning them a callsign. And it’s fallen to me to present one of you with yours. Vakta! Stand up!”

This last bit was issued with the Instructor’s trademark bark, prompting Megha to jump to his feet and stand at attention out of reflex. He did so rather clumsily, bumping against the table and knocking plates and cutlery onto the floor. A smattering of stifled laughter went up across the room, then quickly died down.

Captain Duodecim seemed to be in an unusually forgiving mood, however, and acknowledged his student’s mishap with merely a smirk. He then went on, “Over the course of his proto-Reiter training, this cadet has proven himself to be both astute in the classroom and capable on the battlefield, consistently topping his class in nearly all assessment categories. Despite that, I’ll be damned if I can recall a lazier sack of shit than Megha Vakta in all my years as an Instructor.”

This brought out a round of laughter, now absent hesitation. The mood had shifted again, to one of polite joviality.

“He’s especially famous for his penchant for disappearing without a trace right when he’s up for latrine duty. You might have wings, kid, but for how good you are at hiding them, they might as well be transparent. For that, but also just because you’re a pretty fucker that deserves a pretty name, we’ve decided to give you the callsign: Glasswing. May the Nexus ever heed your call, Reiter Vakta.”

Loud applause, cut with much whooping and cheering. Even Zelen found himself clapping along enthusiastically, more than a little touched by the brutish Instructor’s sensitive words. Beside him, Megha directed an emphatic salute toward Captain Duodecim, eyes visibly moist.

It took some time for the applause to subside, and by then another Instructor had stood up, presumably to give the next speech.

Captain Ambrose Vasseur was a fresh-faced man who cut a much less imposing figure than his colleague beside him. A rare breed among Instructors, he was a Sehermensch who was evidently unafraid to boss around Tetrarch brats who could one day have their way with him if they wished. Indeed, he was just as tough as the other Instructors and just as unshy about doling out corporal punishments.

He was also the Instructor Zelen personally hated the least. So, it was with no small sense of relief that he learned he’d be receiving his callsign from Captain Vasseur. Their eyes met across the room, and Zelen took his cue to stand up, with a touch more grace than his friend had managed earlier.

“Cadet Zelen Athelstan is someone that needs no introduction. An average student at best, but one that set himself apart with his bravery and ingenuity on an Eidolon. Nowhere was that on clearer display than in the arena today, when he managed to outduel one of the best active Reiters among our ranks, with an extraordinary manoeuvre few others would’ve thought up, let alone tried.”

A pause, filled only by contemplative silence. Zelen did grow uncomfortable then, mostly because he still wasn’t 100% sure that he’d won the fight in question.

“We Instructors have a theory as to the source of his uncanny battle instincts.” From a shift in tone and a slight upcurl of the Captain’s lips, it was clear that his speech had transitioned into its customary lighthearted passage. “We are what we eat, and Cadet Athelstan is no exception. His love for all things seafood is well-known here in the Garrison. I’m told that, even this morning, he wolfed down no less than five fish tacos immediately before stepping into the arena. Perhaps it stands to reason then, that the great Spindrift was overwhelmed by the sheer smell emitted by his young opponent.”

Now the laughter rang in earnest, and Zelen found himself joining in. He knew he was the butt of the joke, but somehow the thought of it only filled him with warmth.

“But rest assured, your callsign won’t be Tacos or Fishbreath, though I admit I did push pretty hard for the latter. It turns out even we Instructors aren’t that cruel. No, in honour of the unique hunter’s instincts that will serve you well long into your career, we give you the callsign: Kingfisher. May the Nexus ever heed your call, Reiter Athelstan.”

Another round of applause, perhaps with a little less cheering than what Megha had been showered with. Zelen didn’t mind. He found himself welling with entirely unexpected emotion as he duplicated his friend’s salute.

Was this what it felt to become a full Reiter?

For eight years, Zelen had imagined this moment only as a kind of escape. Release from the tyranny of his Instructors. Liberation from the petty politicking among his peers.

Never in eight years could he have known that it would instead be acceptance, camaraderie, promise.

He’d earned his callsign. He was now one of a select few individuals in Akropolis entrusted with the fight for humanity’s survival. And that meant that these older Reiters now willingly and proudly trusted him with their lives.

It was such a simple realization, one that he’d been willfully blind to in his haste to justify his individuality—to make it feel okay that he felt so different from his classmates. All he needed to feel like he belonged… was simply to belong.

As the banquet resumed, Zelen found himself recovering considerably from his exhaustion. With his newfound energy, he made a conscious effort to mingle and make himself available.

He listened, he told a joke or two (at Megha’s expense, of course), and he even had a brief and terrifying conversation with the Gaertner girl that had allegedly been giving him the come-hither eyes all evening. Nothing would come of it, of course (he was still engaged, after all), but after the terror wore off, he found he was glad for the experience.

He was just getting into the swing of things and really starting to enjoy himself when there came a tap on the shoulder.

It was Captain Vasseur, and he still wore his knowing smile from earlier. But his tone was all business as he said, “Hate to interrupt your evening, but I need you to come with me. You too, Vakta. It’s time for the Tethering.”