Two thrusts its fist at me. I pivot, grab its wrist, and slam my classmate head-first into the water lapping at my ankles. I straddle its back and pin its wrist to its waist.

Two bucks and struggles, but fails to free itself. Its voice barely overcomes its splashing.

“I wanted to practice, Seven. This maneuver is outside routine.”

I release Two’s shoulder to catch its neck in my elbow. I sit upright, stretching Two backward with me. I press my hand against the forearm around its neck to add what would be strangling pressure.

“Do not request practice if you desire rehearsal,” I reply. “No opponent would allow you to execute a routine on it.”

Two punches and grasps at any part of me it can reach. Its splashing echoes off of the sparring chamber’s domed walls to fill the whole grotto. The early afternoon sunlight beaming down the craggy chimney would make the shallow pool’s surface sparkle; instead, Two’s thrashing about obscures the effect with foam.

Fred walks around the sparring chamber’s right corner and kneels at the shore behind us. “Come, now, Seven. We’re short on time, you’ve made your point, and Two’s embarrassed itself for long enough.”

Fred’s continuing self-distinction from me, and from the rest of our classmates, fascinates me as much as it confounds me. We all speak in the same brassy baritone voice, but Fred adds unnecessary melodic flair to its speech. Even now, as it stands and crosses its arms, a motion on its blurred form in my rear view piques my curiosity.

I release Two and rise. The shimmers of blue in the spaces between its plates become streaks as Two scuttles out from under me. I turn to set the focus of my panoramic view onto Fred.

I pause. Fred’s clarity of presence offers no clarity of explanation.

A knitted, black, orange-trimmed scarf winds its way around Fred’s neck. One tasseled end dangles in front of its chest.

I could ask a dozen questions regarding this new acquisition. They would likely all be as pointless as their answers would be redundant.

“Your accessory complements your form.” I inspect my arms as I approach Fred; golden arcane lights trace through the runes covering my chassis at their normal pace. The uniform black surfaces along my arm plates remain unmarred; my knuckle plates, of course, bear nearly-imperceptible nicks and dents from their repeated collisions with Two. With time and luck, I should have any minor damage Two received repaired before we reach our mission’s theater.

Fred caresses the end of the scarf. The two orange orbs of energy in its head flare for an instant. “Truly? The Head Warden’s mistress finished it yesterday.  I worry it looks rather… uncouth without accompanying clothing.”

Fred follows me around the bend from the sparring pool to the grotto’s common area. The dry, earthen floor is bare once again; Fred has finally sorted its collection of trinkets onto or beside a short, wooden bookcase against a wall to our right. These are items Fred considers “valuable to the cohesion and morale of our classmates,” such as the marble chess set that it and Four enjoy and a smattering of leather-bound books, many of which were ruined by their underwater journey. Almost all of the objects that escaped One’s first purge almost three years ago are here; not coincidentally, these are also the objects Fred best rationalized for keeping.

Across the room from the bookcase, in the second of three large alcoves, the rest of Fred’s collection rests on a pair of shelves bolted into the wall. Fred favors these mostly small objects. Its first acquisition, a crystal figurine of a tentacled flicker cat, sits in the center of the right shelf. Not even One could make Fred part from it willingly. Even though it is on Fred’s side of our adjoining wall, I would miss seeing the figurine, as well.

I pick up the black, suitcase-sized maintenance kit just beyond the threshold to my alcove. I turn to Fred.

“We are under no obligation to don clothing. Your own pleasure should be your primary aesthetic concern.” I walk toward the stream that divides the common room from the four alcoves on the opposite bank. “Should you desire a second opinion, I suppose Three or the Head Warden’s mistress would lend their assistance.”

Fred follows me across the algae-slicked, ankle-deep streambed. “Perhaps. But their favor toward me could be a biasing factor.”

I pause on the bank. Fred stops in the stream. The gently flowing water burbles against its blurry form.

I appreciate that Fred approaches me, even before Four, with its self-assessments and doubts. Moments such as this, which require a degree of novel analysis on my part, have become more frequent as of late.

“Would either of them lie to you?”

Fred lowers its head for a moment. It returns its gaze to me.

“I know you wouldn’t.”

That idea had not occurred to me. It was a supplementary answer, more related to some separate and unasked question, but Fred clearly believes it will suffice.

“Keep the scarf,” I insist. “The remainder of your ensemble will follow.” I continue to the second alcove.

Two chops at the air, crouches, then stands to thrust an elbow upward. To my surprise, it arcs its other elbow down to shoulder height and drives its knee into some imagined head or torso. Two seems to have intuited some alternate attack combination after our bout.

I set the maintenance kit on the smoothed floor of its alcove. “Allow me to assess your damage, Two.”

It continues to attack and weave around nothing. “I function fine. You overestimate your strength.” It claps its hands low, then thrusts an elbow backward.

I lay the case flat and press the latches. “You overestimate the Commissioner’s patience.” I pull the lid upright. “How do you anticipate he would react if you entered tonight’s mission, of all missions, in anything less than pristine operating condition?

Two sweeps the ground with one foot, then pauses. It remains still, crouched and leaning onto its hands.

I assess the various vials pressed into the velvet-lined top lid of the case. None of these would be necessary after our sparring match. I pull up on the halves of the hinged shelves inside the case and swing them onto the kit’s edge. Beneath those brushes, needles, and scalpels lay a seven-by-five grid of pockets set into the kit’s bottom. To my dismay, the pockets each hold one of a mess of shaved, chipped, or otherwise partially depleted blocks of metal conformant. Only three blocks remain untouched.

Two pulls its leg close, rises, and, with a visible slouch, approaches me. I dismiss my annoyance, select a quarter-block and a small scalpel, and appraise Two.

Fred approaches. It stops behind me, just outside the alcove. “How bad is it?”

I cut a protrusion from the lump of conformant and spread the material over a few pocks on Two’s abdomen. “The damage is predominantly cosmetic.” The gray spots of applied conformant harden and darken to match the composition of the surrounding cerasteel.

Two steps away. “I told you as much.”

“The exception,” I continue, “is a thin cleavage on your face. I will reconstitute it once I repair your sparring chips and the half-dozen other injuries you have been neglecting.”

“It hardly affects my vision.”

Fred puts a hand on the alcove’s entrance. “Please, stop being difficult. We need to get you at your best. It’s not for our sake, but for--”

Fred turns its head toward me. Its posture droops.

“One has arrived.” Fred pivots on its heel to rush to the opposite shore.

Two follows without a word, just before another identical voice fills the grotto.

“SECA’s, assemble.”

I exchange the block and scalpel for a black vial and a needle, then leave the alcove.

One emerges from the entrance pool and marches up the stream. Its wet, silver-streaked form halts between me and our classmates in the common area. I prepare for one of the deprecating remarks it tends to make when any of us is tardy.

Instead, it turns to Fred.

“That scarf is a ridiculous distraction from this operation, Six. Remove it.”

Fred reluctantly unwinds the accessory. Once I take my place at its side, it whispers, “I wasn’t planning to wear it during the operation.”

I agree and understand, but say nothing. Unlike Three and Fred, I have not mastered the art of dampening my audio output without activating my cloak.

One sets its focus on each of us in turn. “Three, Four, and Five are moving into position with the Coordinator. The Commissioner wants us pristine and packed in the stables by the end of the hour.”

I hold up my tools. “Could we not use the covered cargo carriages for transport? I require more time than your schedule allows to complete Two’s repairs.”

One locks its gaze onto Two, then leans close to its face. One traces the crack from the center-left of Two’s forehead, over the visor slot. The frustration in One’s voice is more accusatory than concerned.

“How did this happen?”

I lower my hand. “Two requested combat practice, but it would not engage with me beyond the most rudimentary sparring routines. I believed it critical to compel Two to attempt new tactics in the controlled environment of the grotto.”

“Do you believe that leaving a crack in our classmate’s head is acceptable?”

Two sweeps One’s hand away and presses its own hand over the cleavage. “Stop worrying; my capabilities are unaffected.”

“I hope as much; this task cannot afford subpar performance on any part of ours.”

I add, “The best way to be certain is to allow me to complete your maintenance.”

“Perhaps we wouldn’t need to make this gamble if we just leave Two at the grotto.”

One, Two, and I turn our attentions to Fred. Fred fidgets in the stretch of silence, then continues.

“Two has the lowest assignment frequency of any of us. Hardly any combat experience, more trade tasks than even surveillance. I watched them spar, One, and I have to push Seven’s point further. I’m sorry, Two, but tonight’s operation is too important, too dangerous, for your participation.”

For all its misgivings and alternate suggestions, this is the closest Fred has yet come to a direct contradiction of an order.

Once, one of the Commissioner’s elven lieutenants countermanded One in the field. The Commissioner later sent Two to the home of the lieutenant and her spouse with a considerable consolation package. For its worth, though, none of the Commissioner’s forces has disregarded One’s authority in the decade since.

The silver energy coursing through One’s sigils increases its flow. I have no intention to discover if One could discharge a blast powerful enough to sever the limb of a classmate.

I slide between One and Fred. “Your concern is valid, Fred; but Four, the Coordinator and the Commissioner have certainly analyzed as many relevant scenarios and variables as they could. Why would they include Two if it were ill-prepared?”

Fred focuses onto the ground, then at me. “The nature of tonight’s task may have compromised their objectivity?”

This conclusion is not disposable.

The task ahead of us is to ensure the Commissioner’s safety during his meeting with the Chief Executive Officer of Daishen Alchemical Solutions. Unlike a growing number of the Commissioner’s contemporaries, the Alchemist applies her own alchemical talents directly to her company’s research and development efforts. The open-market products she creates or distills from magical sources are famously potent, but the company’s illicit innovations were what warranted the Commissioner’s attention thirteen years ago.

The Alchemist’s bottled fire has eradicated the bodies and buildings of many who opposed the Commissioner’s will. Her vapor vials once allowed the Commissioner to lead a small task force into the center of the Menagerie to steal an entire exhibit of beasts from the oceans-away nation of Shéallonys. Her so-called “minding mints” helped confirm and expose two separate embezzlers within the DiRossi Shipping and Courier Service.

But now, because of an old oversight, the Commissioner has decided to dissolve this mutually lucrative association.

Two grasps Fred’s shoulder. “If the Commissioner deems me ready, I am ready. How can you not trust the plan?”

Fred clasps it hands over the sides of its own head. “It doesn’t matter if I trust the plan once it collides with the unexpected.”

One pulls me away from Fred and steps into my place. “We have wasted enough time with this debate. Six will replace Four as the Coordinator’s sentinel, in accordance with the plan. Four will join Three and Five to provide overwatch, in accordance with the plan. Two, Seven, and I will escort the Commissioner to his meeting with the Alchemist, in accordance with the plan. Are our directives clear?”

Fred turns its head to the gurgling stream. “Yes, One.”

“You are dismissed to the garage to await further instruction. Seven and Two, remain for additional information.”

Fred walks into its alcove. It drapes its scarf across the top shelf so that its tasseled ends dangle at equal lengths. Fred enters the stream. It lowers its head toward me, shrugs, and dives through the entrance pool.

When the waves cease lapping at the stream bed, Two returns to its place in line. One stands closer to us.

“The Commissioner has informed me of a change in our parameters. Our primary concern is to accompany him and observe his interaction with the Alchemist; we are not to interfere without the Commissioner’s explicit command.”

This is odd. The Coordinator is not one to alter weeks of planning mere hours before an operation.

Two speaks more defensively. “What if he is rendered incapable of authorizing our response? How are we to provide his security if we are bound to his reactions instead of our own?”

“The Commissioner has decided to handle the matter personally. Our presence should be enough to dissuade the Alchemist from any rash actions.”

This explanation seems insufficient.

One points at me. “You believe you can repair Two to full combat readiness by the time we arrive in the Mystic Prefecture?”

“If the roads are stable and the driver competent, I should be able to restore the totality—”

“Bring the tools you need. We must depart ahead of schedule if we intend to travel in a covered cargo wagon.” One pivots on its heel and marches into the entrance pool. Two follows without any word or hesitation.

I follow, as well, surprised by One’s abruptness. One rarely approves operational changes such as transport so late in preparation. I would be certain that the Coordinator would disapprove of this change, too, were it not for his own late adjustment to my team’s expectations.

I stop at the stream bed.

One said that the change had come from the Commissioner, not the Coordinator. Would it have dismissed Fred so bluntly before discussing our new parameters otherwise? What need for secrecy should any of us, or potentially all of us, not be aware of?

Perhaps Fred is correct. The nature of tonight’s operation may have compromised the objectivity of our leaders.