Chris’s eyes shoot open and he’s instantly sitting up, gasping for breath as Ignyter steadies him. He swallows, throat parched, and he’s staring wildly around as Ignyter tries to calm him down.
“Hey, hey,” His voice cuts through Chris’s panic and adrenaline rush. “Relax, kid,” He says, pushing something into Chris’s hand and when he looks down, it’s water. Chris drinks it greedily, tipping his head back until the last single drop is gone.
The water cools Chris down, lets him take a moment to collect himself. Chris shakes his head. “That was nuts,” Chris can still feel his chest buzzing with adrenaline, his mind vividly remembering the simulation. There were five tests, all of them pushing Chris to his physical limits.
“Yeah, sure did seem so,” Ignyter takes back the glass. “I’m not the one judging, just initiating, but you were good in there. You passed in my grade book.”
“How are the simulations made?” Chris asks, curiously. “By my own head? My own consciousness?”
“Nope. The serum indices your limbic state and it's the machine that determines your tests,” Ignyter says and takes off the patches stuck on numerous points of Chris’s upper body and head. “And these just send information about your pulse, your heart rate, blood pressure, and records your simulations.”
“Did you see all of it then?” Chris asks. “You were sitting behind the monitor.”
Ignyter nods and Chris rubs his face with a hand. “What happens here stays here,” Ignyter assures. “Except for the Commander.”
“Could I get a copy?” Chris says, pulling on his shirt. “I want to watch it.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ignyter promises and he taps his gauntlet, opening what seems to be a message. “Timothy’s still in the simulation. Stryker says Timothy doesn’t seem to be the fighting type,” Ignyter smiles a little at that.
Chris chuckles, fondly remembering how Tim is more words than actions back in Genecis. Tim was unmatched in verbal fights, proving himself just with memory and facts. Chris didn’t know how Tim knew, but Tim always fought his way. But in the slums, words reached deaf ears so Chris taught Tim some basic defense. Still, Tim wasn’t the action type like Chris.
“Nope,” Chris says. “Tim’s a thinker. Not a fighter.”
“He’s a genius,” Ignyter says and his voice is serious. Chris looks at him. Ignyter looks back at him. “I think Timothy knows that.”
“Tim is a bit of a show off,” Chris agrees. I always called Timmy a genius. Chris privately thinks. But I’m starting to think Tim is a genius.
Ignyter just shrugs. “Tim is a Nova alien information powerhouse,” He says. “Thieves, our techie, was hacking into your monitors and watches. There’s something missing in Tim’s monitor,” Ignyter grins at Chris. “I’m assuming you don’t know anything about it?”
Chris grins back, raises his hands up. “Nope,” He lies.
“Alright then,” Ignyter stands. “Want to go see Tim?”
It turns out, Tim is just next door. He’s still on the table, patches on his upper body and head like Chris had. Stryker looks serious, watching the monitor with such intense eyes that it makes Chris worried. He sits by Tim, watching his sleeping face as Ignyter goes to join his twin behind the monitor screen.
“What are you going through that’s taking so long, Timmy?” Chris murmurs. Worry prickles his skin like cold icicles. Ignyter had told Chris he’d been in there for about 24 minutes.
“...he’s been in there for 30 minutes now,” Chris’s ears pick up from Stryker’s voice. “His tests as you can see are just...unfathomable.”
Chris stands to his feet and goes over to where the twins are, peering to see. At first, Ignyter moves to stop Chris but Stryker grabs him, shaking his head. The twin moves for Chris to see and Chris widens his eyes, watching with a frown and his mouth hanging open.
“What is...he doing?” Chris slowly asks his focus on Tim in his simulation.
“I don’t know. He’s been sitting there for such a long time. And this is the first test in the simulation,” Stryker says.
Tim is sitting among a circle of broken televisions that are static on the screens and there’s a circle of holographic screens around Tim and he’s just sitting, fingers flying on each one of the holographic screens. Chris can’t even see what’s he doing only that there’s sweat dripping from Tim’s chin. His expression is stone-cold hard, a look Chris only recognizes Tim uses when he’s hyper-focused.
“You said the diagnostic test assesses our intelligence, endurance, strategy, and ability,” Chris says, watching Tim. “Is Tim being tested on intelligence?” It’s different from mine. So different.
Stryker shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
“Are you going to pull him out?” Ignyter asks and Stryker shakes his head.
“Let’s give him another 30 minutes and if he hasn’t finished whatever the simulation has given him, let’s pull him out,” Stryker says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Chris chews on his lip when three screens disappear in Tim’s simulation test. Tim’s not stopping any time. His movements aren’t pausing even for a second. Chris gets up to his feet and begins to pace, all while keeping his gaze on the screen.
He’s so quiet that he hears Stryker and Igntyter talk quietly to each other.
“With that sort of intelligence, you think he’ll make it to Elite?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s this Elite you guys keep saying?” Chris asks, hoping to distract himself. “Is it some rank?” It’s about time I get some of my questions answered. Chris thinks.
Both of them nod and Ignyter leaves it to Stryker with a wave of his hand. “It’s a rank; you got that right,” Stryker stretches, broad muscles flexing as Chris heard cracks of unmoved limbs. “It’s the only high rank except for you know, Vice-Commander, Commander, Advisor, etc. We’re a group of prodigious Fighters,” Stryker explains. “The regular Fighters are called Advanced. And before you reach the Advanced rank, you’re called--”
“Fledglings,” Ignyter interrupted with a grin beside his twin.
Stryker elbowed him. “No, that’s just slang Advanced and Elites use, they’re called Cadets.”
“How are Elites chosen?” Chris asks. Great, they have ranks. That speaks a lot. Really does. Chris sarcastically thinks.
“They’re usually chosen when an Advanced Fighter trainer, a Fighter who’s in charge of teaching Cadets, report to the Elite Head, the Vice-Commander, about a certain Cadet. ‘Oh, this kid’s abilities are this, this, and this…’,” Stryker makes duck mouths around the phrase. “And the Cadet is assessed physically, not mentally like you guys right now, and we decide.”
“Are they common?”
“No,” Stryker says, seriously now. “They’re not. We haven’t had one for five years. We’ve had a few amazing Fighters, but they were never good enough for Elite.”
“Tim’s made a handful of the screens disappear,” Ignyter calls, gaining both their attention.
“What makes you good then?” Chris continues. It doesn’t look Timbo’s stopping anytime. The kid always finishes what he starts after all.
Stryker laughs. “Well, actually, we’re one of the very first Fighters who was put into the Elite rank--it wasn’t established until 10 years ago, actually--and Ignyter and I joke we’re probably in it cuz we’re twins.”
Chris frowns at that because it sounds like an outright lie. He can tell by Stryker’s eyes. They’re not eyes of fond mirth, they’re eyes of something else. Something darker. But Chris buys it with a grunt.
10 minutes later, Tim wakes up.
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