at him.
“Put on your gear.”
The air-conditioning blows through the air ducts in the ceiling. I shiver as I pass underneath one. He knows I hate being cold. I yank a pair of gloves from the weapons shelves against the left wall and walk back to the mat. I bounce for a second, finding my balance, and then slide on the gloves.
I tilt my head to the side until my neck cracks, an anxious response, Dad tells me, but I do it to remind myself that I’m tough. Dad waves me forward with his hands. He likes me to take the first jab, so he can tell me what I did wrong and then test my blocking ability by demonstrating on me. Any other day, I’d go along with it, but I don’t have time for this today.
The sooner I finish training, the sooner I can get to Jackson.
I flip forward and switch kick, aiming for his face, but he grabs my foot, spinning me around so I land hard on the mat. I bounce up and jab, not letting him stop to demonstrate, and end up clipping his jaw. I cringe, unsure of what he’ll say or do.
Dad nods in approval. “Nice work. Never give the opponent a chance to have the upper hand. Go again.”
I punch once, twice, three times as Dad blocks each hit, while my mind drifts again to last night. Jackson is an Ancient. A boy from school is an Ancient. Even now, I can’t wrap my mind around it.
The only Ancient I’ve ever seen is Zeus, their leader, during one of the televised addresses. And yeah, he looks human enough. I guess I assumed they looked human, but were actually something else, like they were projecting the human form. Some sort of illusion, like everyone says. But Jackson is very real. And if Ancients actually look and act just like humans, then maybe there are others at school. Maybe they are around us all the time, watching, analyzing—preparing to attack. And maybe that’s the real reason we train so hard. I’ve often wondered why Engineers need so many Operatives. Of course we’re told they maintain civil arrest throughout the country, though there are rarely uprisings, especially now that food shortage isn’t an issue. We all know that we’re training as a precautionary measure. It isn’t something they hide. But still, I always assumed we trained in case they attacked, not because they were already here.
A shudder creeps down my back. I have to corner Jackson today. This isn’t something I can keep from my dad for long.
“Are you listening to me? Where is your head today?”
“Sorry.” I shake all thought from my mind, wishing I’d grabbed some coffee or at least an energy shot. Tomorrow I’ll get up on time, but I know better than to ask for a break. I have ten more minutes to go, fifteen if I can’t get my act together.
“Start the sequence,” Dad says.
I bounce on the mat and tumble backward in a series of flips to give me the distance I need to do the sequence. Dad widens his stance, rotating his arms forward to get into position. He won’t hit me—well, he never has—but this look, serious and deadly, always makes me think he will. It’s no wonder he was top seed, top Operative, top everything. Part of it was because he wasn’t a legacy like me, but I think it’s also just who he is—driven, always a step ahead. Even though I’m the legacy, the one legally born to be commander, I’m not sure I’ll ever have the determination he has.
I sigh, wishing I could fight someone—anyone—other than Dad, and run across the mat, dive into the air, and then flip again and again until I’m in front of him, in motion before my mind can slow me down. I spin and kick. Throw punch after punch. My teeth grit together.
I push harder and harder, Dad blocking each move, but I refuse to give up. I shake the last of sleep from my body and continue to fight without thought or worry, until Dad throws up his right hand, his signal to stop.
He steps up, towering over me. “Good, but not good enough. You need to close the fight in under five. To pass Op training, you’ll
“Put on your gear.”
The air-conditioning blows through the air ducts in the ceiling. I shiver as I pass underneath one. He knows I hate being cold. I yank a pair of gloves from the weapons shelves against the left wall and walk back to the mat. I bounce for a second, finding my balance, and then slide on the gloves.
I tilt my head to the side until my neck cracks, an anxious response, Dad tells me, but I do it to remind myself that I’m tough. Dad waves me forward with his hands. He likes me to take the first jab, so he can tell me what I did wrong and then test my blocking ability by demonstrating on me. Any other day, I’d go along with it, but I don’t have time for this today.
The sooner I finish training, the sooner I can get to Jackson.
I flip forward and switch kick, aiming for his face, but he grabs my foot, spinning me around so I land hard on the mat. I bounce up and jab, not letting him stop to demonstrate, and end up clipping his jaw. I cringe, unsure of what he’ll say or do.
Dad nods in approval. “Nice work. Never give the opponent a chance to have the upper hand. Go again.”
I punch once, twice, three times as Dad blocks each hit, while my mind drifts again to last night. Jackson is an Ancient. A boy from school is an Ancient. Even now, I can’t wrap my mind around it.
The only Ancient I’ve ever seen is Zeus, their leader, during one of the televised addresses. And yeah, he looks human enough. I guess I assumed they looked human, but were actually something else, like they were projecting the human form. Some sort of illusion, like everyone says. But Jackson is very real. And if Ancients actually look and act just like humans, then maybe there are others at school. Maybe they are around us all the time, watching, analyzing—preparing to attack. And maybe that’s the real reason we train so hard. I’ve often wondered why Engineers need so many Operatives. Of course we’re told they maintain civil arrest throughout the country, though there are rarely uprisings, especially now that food shortage isn’t an issue. We all know that we’re training as a precautionary measure. It isn’t something they hide. But still, I always assumed we trained in case they attacked, not because they were already here.
A shudder creeps down my back. I have to corner Jackson today. This isn’t something I can keep from my dad for long.
“Are you listening to me? Where is your head today?”
“Sorry.” I shake all thought from my mind, wishing I’d grabbed some coffee or at least an energy shot. Tomorrow I’ll get up on time, but I know better than to ask for a break. I have ten more minutes to go, fifteen if I can’t get my act together.
“Start the sequence,” Dad says.
I bounce on the mat and tumble backward in a series of flips to give me the distance I need to do the sequence. Dad widens his stance, rotating his arms forward to get into position. He won’t hit me—well, he never has—but this look, serious and deadly, always makes me think he will. It’s no wonder he was top seed, top Operative, top everything. Part of it was because he wasn’t a legacy like me, but I think it’s also just who he is—driven, always a step ahead. Even though I’m the legacy, the one legally born to be commander, I’m not sure I’ll ever have the determination he has.
I sigh, wishing I could fight someone—anyone—other than Dad, and run across the mat, dive into the air, and then flip again and again until I’m in front of him, in motion before my mind can slow me down. I spin and kick. Throw punch after punch. My teeth grit together.
I push harder and harder, Dad blocking each move, but I refuse to give up. I shake the last of sleep from my body and continue to fight without thought or worry, until Dad throws up his right hand, his signal to stop.
He steps up, towering over me. “Good, but not good enough. You need to close the fight in under five. To pass Op training, you’ll
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