“Sing of rage, that burns so bright

of that anger that have set Man to fright

Tell me of lust, to make one green

and needs, that sentiment which is queen

End with the belief:

the center of man’s motif.”

- The Verse of Emotions, latter stanzas, taught to adolescent artificial consciousnesses.

Editor’s note: this song is supposed to teach artificial consciousnesses about human emotions. That’s the rationale, I think.

Westerfield marched up the stair, his heart in his throat, the rhythm of his breath uneven. Breathe through your nose, and out through your mouth. A bead of sweat rolled down his left side. He couldn’t see it, for the left side of his face was forever dark, but he could certainly feel the sting of salt against skin.

Increase the pace. He covered two steps on the stair with every stride and his hamstrings burned. Remember that you only managed to graze Sviratham. He held his arms at hip-height, turning himself into a locomotive, an unbending, unrelenting force.

That he had been the only one to actually score a proper hit on the Instructor meant little. Was the gap really that wide?

“Hello there!”

Cameron surged past the annoying figure. That’s what, three days now? He turned left, through an old corridor, jumping down a series of stairs - his knees ached, but the Chassis would heal him - and began to sprint. The rest of the people in Class 2095-13 didn’t understand.

He slowed, counting the seconds in his head until the next interval. Each of the people in his class, and in a sense, the wider world, had it wrong. No. He burst into motion, running, ignoring the pain, pushing through it.

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They thought that a Chassis made a Proxy, never understanding it was the opposite way around.

A chorus of four Chassis struck. The beaked shaman with black feathers got a jab to his face; the titan in chrome screamed as their knee was displaced by a low kick.

Further. Cameron Westerfield’s gasps for air echoed inside the helmet. When had he summoned it?

The dragonmask warrior with the two swords of mattermetal struck high; she struck low. In that moment, as the Golden Knight raised one set of vambraces to protect the head, and a kneepad for the low blow, their torso was open.

How many stairs had he climbed? No, that was the wrong to go about it. The stairs were not in front of him. They were in the way. His heart struggled to match his spirit. Like a train-car that been unhinged, it was losing out. The edges of his vision held touches of twilight.

His claymore struck the golden metal with a sound like bells. It did not penetrate. He could shear off hardened titanium. The force of his Field was still extant, burning black and gold. Not yet. Every muscle in his body strained!

The Field flickered, roaring like the dying breath of a candle.

“You do not lack for conviction, Mr Cameron. But that’s not enough. You must have the strength to back it up.” Then, there was light.

His heart lurched, and seized. His knees bent, striking the metal of the arcology-floor. Copper in his mouth. Even as the dark blotted out his world, even as his heart stopped and muscles screamed, even as white static unfurled inside his head, Cameron Westerfield thought one thing:

Raja Sviratham had pushed himself harder than this to gain that strength.

_______

The whistling halted. He came to stand over the knight in red.”You’re not done with being on top, are you?”

The figure lay still.

“You gotta make the rest of us look bad.”

Viktor’s eyes followed the bent stairs, each single step flattened under great force and back to Cameron Westerfield’s sitting form.

His chest rose, unevenly.

The red helmet, made to imitate a badger - Viktor had looked the image up - disintegrated.

Dark, matted hair stuck to his forehead. But neither that, or the symbol on the eye-patch, which denoted Morrow, one of the Sixteen was the defining feature of Cameron Westerfield.

It was the lone eye, the color of melting snow against a curb. It shone with absolute determination, never wavering, never blinking. “It…is…not…about…the…instructor.”

“Sure it is. He kicked your ass, so now you want to return the favor. Join mine and Lisa’s sessions and we could have a proper team. I’ll even let you join.”

Westerfield shivered.”You actually think that, do you?” He got up, swaying. That burning eye stared at Viktor. In an other person, Viktor thought it might be called contempt, but what he was seeing from Westerfield…pity?

“My war is with the Sovereigns. With Sejra, Morrow and the Regials that would make orphans out all of us. The Instructor isn’t your enemy.”

“Then, who-“

The blade slammed through Viktor’s chest, impaling him against the wall.

“Wha,” he gasped, blood spurting, his insides a furnace.

The sword rotated, like a skewer, shredding entrails and Viktor screamed.

“The instructor isn’t your enemy.” The eye like winter’s wake became Viktor’s world.”But I could be. So play your games with the Hong twins, but don’t drag me into them. I live for destruction of the Host, not your childish, insignificant attempts of upmanship.”

The blade slid loose and Viktor’s Chassis covered him, flooding his bodies with drugs and resealing the wound.

In that span, Westerfield left.

“Well, now I really want him on my team.”