“Ah, Engineer Thea, a welcome sight. It seems the Collective finds your talents more suited to instruction these days, rather than… participation.” Master Roric, a compact man whose frame bespoke years of kinetic discipline, rather than the ethereal grace of an Aether-Engineer, offers a nod. His face, etched with the lines of a life lived beneath the Veridian smog, hints at an age that long predates the widespread Resonance Imbuing, placing him firmly outside the glittering echelon of the Aetherium Collective’s upper crust. “And who is this apprentice you’ve brought to my particular brand of enlightenment?”
Silas Vance observes the man with a detached curiosity. Roric’s musculature, while impressive, lacks the subtle, almost luminous quality of an Aether-Engineer who directly channels the Collective’s ubiquitous energy. He is, Silas surmises, a relic of a different era, or perhaps simply one of the ninety-five percent who never quite ‘activated’ during their initial Resonance Imbuing. Still, in a city obsessed with the raw manipulation of aether, there is always a niche for those who master the more visceral mechanics of the human form. For shaping the raw recruits, those who might, with a generous dose of fortune, discover a nascent Aether-Resonance, Roric is, no doubt, ideal. Their strength is negligible, their knowledge of close-quarter mechanics even less so. Unless, of course, they happened to be one of the statistically improbable few whose family had risked the illicit, self-administered Resonance Imbuers, hoping to bypass the Collective’s stringent selection process. A risky gamble, one imagines, but desperation often outweighs prudence in the smog-choked underbelly of Veridia Prime.
“This is Apprentice Vance,” Engineer Thea states, her voice as precise as a freshly calibrated gear. “He is, shall we say, a unique profile. Agility-inclined, with a potent ranged Aether-Claw projection that manifests from his wrist-rigs. It has proven remarkably adaptable. Given the nature of his primary tools, he should integrate seamlessly into your kinetic discipline classes, Master Roric.”
“Aether-Claws, you say?” Roric’s brow raises, a flicker of something akin to intrigue in his eyes. “Versatile, indeed. Alright, Apprentice Vance, let’s forgo the preliminary schematics. Show me what your body already knows, and we’ll begin charting the course for what it needs to learn.”
Silas feels a wry smirk tug at his lips. Engineer Thea, too, allows a ghost of a smile to play upon hers. They both understand the unspoken truth: Silas knows next to nothing about formalized unarmed combat. His ‘skill set,’ if one could call it that, is entirely reactive, an intuitive dance with the unfolding chaos of Aether-Thread skirmishes, guided by the insistent, fragmented advice of the Chimera within him. With the Chimera’s constant, low-level intuitive override, however, he might, just might, avoid the profound embarrassment that often accompanies the initiation into Roric’s no-nonsense regimen.
Master Roric, a man who has witnessed enough flinching and fumbling to spot nascent anxiety, offers a gruff, yet not unkind, smile. “No need to wind your gears, boy. This is merely kinetic calibration. Leave those fancy wrist-rigs by the perimeter, and we’ll engage in a light spar. If you’re truly uninitiated, just move as your instincts dictate. That’s usually the most efficient path to discerning your core kinetic archetype.”
*”Just swoop in from above and snap his neck,”* the Chimera’s voice, a familiar hum within Silas’s own mind, suggests with its usual disconcerting lack of subtlety.
*“Unhelpful,”* Silas transmits back, a mental sigh. *“I cannot fly, you’ll recall.”*
*”Then jump or something,”* the Chimera pouts, the psychic equivalent of a frustrated huff. *”I don’t know. Just… engage.”*
With a practiced motion, Silas unlatches the twin Aetherium-laced wrist-rigs, setting them precisely beside a stack of training mats. They feel lighter than expected without the hum of latent Aether-Thread energy, almost inert. He takes the basic combat stance Engineer Thea had drilled into him on his very first day—a surprisingly natural alignment of his frame, designed more for balance and deflection than aggressive offense. At the very least, he now possesses the rudimentary knowledge of how to throw a punch without dislocating a shoulder. The actual utility of such knowledge, however, remains to be seen against a seasoned Mechanist such as Roric.
The air around them crackles, not with aether, but with anticipation. Master Roric, without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ launches a sudden, deceptively fast punch. Silas, a flicker of muscle memory from Thea’s endless drills, swats it aside with the flat of his hand, the impact jarring but not damaging. He reflexively counters, a punch of his own arcing towards Roric’s midsection. The Mechanist simply sidesteps, an almost casual movement that renders Silas’s effort utterly moot.
For a man who, by Veridia Prime’s stratified standards, is technically a ‘non-elite,’ Roric possesses an infuriating, almost preternatural agility. Silas’s follow-up punch, thrown more out of instinct than strategy, meets only empty air. A sudden, rather disheartening realization settles upon Silas: Engineer Thea, during their previous skirmishes, had been taking it even easier on him than he had initially suspected. The notion is not entirely unexpected, given the Collective’s propensity for coddling its nascent Aether-Engineers, but it is nonetheless a sobering one.
Roric’s knee, suddenly, efficiently, connects with Silas’s midsection, forcing an involuntary grunt from him and driving him back a step. The impact, while controlled, is enough to momentarily steal his breath. Instinct, however, a more reliable guide than conscious thought in these moments, takes over. Silas sweeps his leg out, aiming for Roric’s supporting limb, an attempt to unbalance the Mechanist.
He misjudges the range, his foot skimming harmlessly past Roric’s boot. But the lowered stance allows him to block the Mechanist’s next knee strike with his forearm. Without thinking, Silas surges forward, tackling Roric, whose stature is only marginally greater than his own. It seems, at the time, like a reasonable decision: minimize the height advantage, bring the fight to a more grounded plane.
It proves, almost immediately, to be the wrong strategic choice. The veteran Mechanist, rather than being driven back, merely meets Silas’s charge, absorbing the impact with an almost impossible rigidity. Then, in a single, fluid motion, Roric pivots, his grip on Silas’s arm and shoulder solid. The world blurs. One moment Silas is upright, grappling; the next, he is spinning through the air, gravity asserting its undeniable authority. He lands hard on his back, the collective gasp of his own lungs escaping in a whoosh. A small cloud of Veridian dust, forever present even indoors, puffs up around him. For a moment, he simply lies there, winded, the ceiling of the training hall blurring above him. But Roric’s training, and Thea’s, had at least instilled the fundamental principle of immediate recovery. Silas gasps, air flooding his deprived lungs, and rolls to his feet, muscles protesting but compliant.
“Not bad, boy,” Roric says, a thin smile on his lips, the kind that only veterans of countless sparring sessions ever truly master. “You recover well. And I have, I believe, an adequate sampling of your current proclivities. We’ll place you with the mixed-kinetic archetype group. Your particular blend of speed and raw, if unrefined, power suggests you’re more suited for the close-quarter brawls of the lower sectors or, more pertinently, the nastier engagements with errant Chimeras that sometimes breach the city’s outer perimeters.”
He continues, gesturing with a hand that has clearly thrown a multitude of punches. “It might appear counter-intuitive, I grant you, but with your inherent velocity and kinetic discharge, a well-placed strike to the cranial plate can, in fact, temporarily stun many Common Chimeras. And those grappling skills, once refined, can be adapted to keep their various appendages, claws, and proboscises, at a safe and appropriate distance from your vital organs.”
Silas processes this. “It’s not an offensive art, mind you,” Roric clarifies. “For offensive engagements, you have those delightful Aether-Claw projections. But if, by some unfortunate turn of events, they manage to breach your ranged perimeter, I believe we can teach you to adequately defend your person.”
Punching a bio-engineered chimera, especially one of the more aggressive varieties that sometimes necessitated extermination teams, still strikes Silas as a profoundly terrible idea. The thought alone conjures images of razor-sharp talons and acidic ichor. However, he muses with a weary detachment, if the immediate options are limited to either punching a creature or becoming its next meal, the former does, admittedly, possess a certain crude appeal.
“Engineer Thea,” Roric calls out, turning to Silas’s mentor, who has been observing with an almost clinical detachment. “Come over here and lend a hand. Your apprentice needs to absorb the fundamentals of this particular kinetic archetype, and we currently have an even number of recruits for partner drills.”
Engineer Thea, who had appeared poised to merely observe the remainder of the session from the sidelines, gives no outward sign of reluctance. Duty, after all, is the immutable currency of the Aetherium Collective. She steps forward, her posture radiating an understated authority. Silas understands. Few of these newly-imbued recruits possess the sheer physical augmentations he has received, the constant intuitive boosts from the Chimera. Sparring with them would be less training, more an exercise in unnecessary brutality. A rather dull affair for all involved.
Later, as the low-slung Veridian sun begins its slow descent, painting the brass towers in shades of bruised copper, Silas finds himself once again traversing the utilitarian corridors towards the communal Refectory. Every muscle in his body screams in protest, a symphony of aches and profound exhaustion. His gait is less a walk, more a shuffle, a reluctant dragging of leaden limbs. He feels, quite literally, wrung out, as if Roric had personally recalibrated every joint and sinew.
Yet, the Aetheric Memory Coil, humming faintly at his temple, performs its designated function with impressive efficiency. The fifty discrete techniques demonstrated throughout the session, the precise angles of deflection, the leverage points, the counter-movements—all reside in his short-term memory with perfect, crystalline clarity. It’s an intellectual understanding, for now. He estimates, with a practiced cynicism, that after a few more weeks of this particular brand of physical torment, allowing his muscles to translate intellectual recall into reflexive action, he might, just might, be able to consider himself a ‘trained amateur’ kinetic practitioner. A rather dubious title, he considers, but a step nonetheless.
Silas secures a vacant table in the Refectory, its surface scarred by countless meals and spilled stimulants. He anticipates a solitary, quiet consumption of his meager rations, a moment of respite. But solitude, it seems, is a luxury not always afforded to the Collective’s recruits. Soon, other members of the mixed-kinetic discipline class, their movements also betraying a similar degree of post-training debilitation, begin to gravitate towards his table.
“Man, Apprentice Vance, you certainly drew the long straw with that Resonance Imbuing, didn’t you?” one of the young men from his group greets him, collapsing onto the bench opposite. “First week, and you’re already moving like a calibrated automaton, plus you’ve got a personal Mechanist.”
Silas offers a tired, sardonic laugh. “A personal Mechanist because my Resonance signature is apparently so wildly divergent from the usual archetypes that the Collective has no existing protocols for my training. So, yes, Engineer Thea and I are essentially ‘guessing our way through it,’ as you so eloquently put it. Most of you, I assume, received the standard Force-Modulator or Conduit-Striker archetypes, yes? The open-circuit or the rod-stabilizer over the raw kinetic discharge?”
The small cluster of recruits at the table nod in a weary affirmation. “Yeah, the initial skill manifests as a rather pathetic shunt of raw kinetic energy,” another recruit pipes up, picking at his synth-protein ration. “But at least the Resonance Activation was straightforward. All you had to do was provide a direct kinetic discharge. I managed that before I even hauled myself out of my bunk this morning. Gave a celebratory fist pump, connected with the shelf above my head, and that was apparently sufficient to activate my mark.”
“Plus,” another adds with a glint in his eye, ignoring the grim reality of their current physical state, “we get a rather generous boost to our overall stamina reserves. So, even if we never ascend to the most powerful Aether-Engineer ranks, we can at least aspire to be reasonably popular with the ladies of the lower sectors.” He punctuates this with a rather weak, self-congratulatory chuckle.
“It’s certainly better than nothing,” a fourth recruit concedes, sounding genuinely exhausted. “But honestly, sitting around all day discussing intricate Aetheric schematics like the Symbiotic Aether-Engineers sounds like a vastly more enjoyable prospect than having my frame systematically dismantled and rebuilt every single cycle, all in the name of ‘body strengthening skills.’”
The first recruit laughs, a sound that is more wheeze than mirth. “Your neural processors seize up trying to perform basic aetheric calculus, you’d never survive as an Aether-Thread Weaver, much less a Symbiotic Engineer.”
“It *has* to be less arduous than getting thoroughly thrashed day in and day out,” the complaining recruit grumbles. “I’m a lover, not a fighter, you understand.”
“We all know you’ve never managed to be either,” the second recruit retorts, his voice laced with the weary, yet familiar, camaraderie of shared suffering. “So, you might as well learn to throw a decent punch.”
Silas eats his meal, listening to their banter, a dry, ironic smile playing on his lips. The drone of the Veridian Refectory, the clatter of cutlery, the low hum of conversation—it all blends into a familiar symphony. Another day of instruction concluded. Another layer of grit added to the nascent foundation of his new existence. The brass towers outside hummed with distant aetheric power, indifferent to the aches and pains of the recruits below. Life, it seemed, continued its relentless, mechanical churn.