IN THE PRESENT

I am given a room, one that’s not far from where Ander’s is. That gives me some small measure of comfort in this unfamiliar place.

The room is about the same. A bed, a chest, and a bathroom unit.

On the bed is a pile of clothing, this time in my size. I look through it and see that my impersonation of a Might soldier is beginning earlier than I thought.

There are a few pairs of black CannonWear bodysuits to be worn under my uniform. Any soldier or guard, no matter the branch, wears CannonWear at all times.

I put the CannonWear away in the chest and reach for what’s next.

Two pairs of thick black pants with red piping. Standard wear for day-to-day operations. There’s also a pair of looser-fitting red ones. I hold them up and examine the thin stretchy material. These, I think, are for training.

I leave the red pair out and keep going through what’s left.

They’ve given me a few thin, black, long and short-sleeved shirts. I guess these are also for general use. On the left breast of each shirt is the red flag and silver star of the Might of the Republic.

I run my fingers over the embossed symbol of Might and wonder how many times my flag will change in my lifetime.

I throw all but one short-sleeved shirt into the chest and grab the black vest with a million pockets and red detailing. It’s for combat operations and surprisingly heavy; I know I’ll have to get used to the weight of it if anyone is going to believe I’m a Might soldier.

The last item is a formal black outer jacket with a silver strip on the collar, my Officer’s coat. In the field, officers don’t display their ranks because it would give the enemy the advantage of knowing who is in charge. But when not in combat, ranks are displayed prominently, through the color of the collar on everyone’s coats.

The material is soft and supple. I haven’t worn anything this nice in a long time. I gingerly lower into the box with the rest of the clothes.

Ander said to meet him in one of the training suites on the lower level once I had settled in. I assume I am also supposed to get used to the new clothes.

I shrug on the full CannonWear suit, surprised at how comfortable it feels from head to toe. Only hand hands, face, and feet are exposed. With the t-shirt shirt and loose red pants on over it, I put on my dingy Fate-issued boots again. I’m pretty sure the combat boots are the same regardless of branch.

I examine myself fully dressed in the reflective surface of one of the shower stall’s outer walls. With my hair pulled back tight and my Might-colored clothes, I could almost pass for a soldier in training. My darker skin will make me stand out among most of the Might personnel but the woman I will be impersonating already had that issue.

I take a long, deep breath and decide I’m ready to face whatever awaits me… at least for today.

I end up asking for directions and have to use that annoying elevator system again but I eventually find Ander.

He’s in one of the old Might training areas, which are made up of a series of rooms designed to home different combat skills.

Currently, Ander is standing in the middle of the sparring ring.

“I thought you said it wasn’t real training.”

Ander’s hands are behind his back as he rocks on his heels. “I’m not going to teach you to fight. I’m not actually going to teach you anything.”

He shows me what he’s holding and I curse under my breath as I approach the center of the ring.

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In each hand is the hilt of an IR-blade. InfraRed blades are dated technology from when electromagnetic radiation technology was the main type of weaponry. Nowadays people either use fusion-based or EF, short for Electrical Fragmentation, which is just a fancy way of saying that it emits a signal that interrupts electrical output, both in man-made objects and human brains.

“IR-blades? What are we, our grandparents?”

“No, we are aristocrats. You may be a low-ranking officer, but even you would know the basics of IR dueling. It is, after all, the sporting event most preferred amongst the high-ups in the Republic.”

He throws one of the hilts at me and I catch it on instinct though I do fumble and almost drop it.

Once it’s secure in my hands I turn it over to inspect it. The hilt is lighter than I expected, and the handle is cool in my hand. The back curves up and cups my knuckles, offering a bit of protection.

I flick the switch under my thumb and the blade hums to life. A beam of dark red light shoots out from that base, the edges of the blade hazy while the center is a steady beam of red.

I swing the blade a few times, testing its weight. It cuts through the air without any resistance.

“Cool, right?” Ander watches me, his eyes dancing.

My hand drops to my side as I flick the device off. “I prefer my pulse guns.”

“Who wouldn’t.”

I try to hand the IR-blade back to him but he doesn’t take it.

“Sadly, you need to learn how to use these.” He holds up the one in his hand. “Even, I had to learn how to use them,” he offers as he shakes his head at the memory. “Can you imagine, us Fate boys having grizzled Might retirees teaching us? God, I’m sure they must’ve hated us,” he muses though the humor doesn’t reach his eyes,

He juggles the hilt between his hands and I can’t help but look at his scar. I know the scar on his face is from an IR-blade. A protective feeling swells in my chest. I don’t want him near these weapons.

“Isn’t there someone else who could, like, go over this?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to teach you, Zo. I haven’t used one in ages. A Fate Judge doesn’t duel, after all.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that I feel like smacking myself. Of course, he wouldn't. Outside of the Reunification resistance forces he still maintains his position as a Judge in the Fate branch. It’s easy to forget when I never see him in his robes.

Only about half of the Reunification are branded as traitors. The rest work within the system. They are the ones who most of us don’t know about. They operate from a distance, feeding information, and using their influence to help. And since we, the fighting forces, don’t know who they are, we can’t rat them out if we get caught.

Ander is a bit of an exception since he has become the de facto leader after Uncle Shou’s death. I would still be out there, working alongside Ander as a presumed upstanding member of society, if I hadn’t just been caught.

Now they’ve branded me a traitor, taken away my family name, and I have become one of the Reunification members that have to live at a base instead of being out there, helping to bring down the Executors of the Republic.

“So what say you Zorione Zahino? I think you’re up for the task?”

I smile back at him and ignore the ache in my chest as I say, “I’m Nergui now. I’m not Zorione Zahino. I’m not Fate, I’m not even Insight.” I look down at my hands, still holding the IR-blade. “I never thought it mattered. It’s just a name, right?”

I don’t look at Ander. I don’t want him to see the tears welling in my eyes. Zahino was the last connection to my parents and to my brothers.

To be Nergui is to be nothing, literally. It was a word from one of the Old World languages that means to have no name. It was once a good thing, a name to protect your children from dark spirits that stole their souls through their names. But now, it’s the mark of a traitor. It means your identity was taken from you; you weren’t worthy of it.

I feel Ander’s hands close around my shoulders, his chin resting on top of my head as he pulls me against him. “You’re still Zahino. And we will find Atilio. I promise you, we won’t stop looking. So focus on what’s ahead. I won’t let him go, okay?”

I nod against his chest, trying not to let out any of the sadness and fear building up inside me. But I can’t contain it. It’s threatening to spill over. I need to do something. To move. To fight.

I take a step back and reignite the IR-blade.

“So if I don’t get to play with you, who do I get to beat up?” I feign confidence. I’m fairly certain I’m going to cut myself up before I land a hit on someone else.

A voice from behind startles me and I spin around, the blade pointed out in front of me to ward off the unexpected arrival.

“I could easily best you with that blade, probably with my eyes closed and standing on one foot.”

Leaning against the door, also dressed in a Might training uniform, is a man I have never formally met but would recognize anywhere. For a moment I forget to breathe as I stare at the face of the enemy.

“Killian,” Ander calls from behind me, “glad you could make it. I hope they didn’t give you too much trouble at the gate.”

Killian. Killian Reydon, second born to Muirus Reydon, the Might of the Republic.