Chronicles of Requiem I: Chapter One, “The Watchful Eye”

Kani Lockere awoke to the same characteristic screech of an alarm that had been her usual wake up call for the past five months, and no matter the exposure it seemed that she was wholly incapable of blotting out the noise; it resonated off the metallic walls that encompassed the sleeping area, the brilliant metal work that could capture the faintest light from dim, overhead fixtures and project it nearly around the entire room that housed fifty-seven recruits, could also be completely indiscernible from the absolute darkness once all light had been removed.

Her boots hit the floor with a heavy set thump, the metal plating inside them ensured it was a burden to run at full speed and let alone walk without tripping over oneself. ‘If you can’t deal with a little weight, what good will you be when shit hits the fan?’ The Instructors had screamed into them within the first couple hours of putting the boots on, complaints were in short supply after that, in the very least they were out of earshot.

A chorus of other thumps followed suit, Kani was only about half a second faster than everyone else, but while they were still groveling over their poor sleep, she was already on the move. The fatigues provided were always the same: dark black, no insignia and no rank, nothing to tell the superiors apart from the recruits. They liked it that way, she always assumed, having everyone hesitant about who to talk to and when they should talk if it ever came to that.

Kani herself had never had much difficulty telling them apart, it was a look in the eye that gave everything away: it wasn’t hard to tell which of these men had killed before, and which hadn’t so much as laid eyes on a firearm, let alone fired one.

While she slipped on the fatigues, pulling the baggy bottoms to a snug fit, it occurred to her that there was one person that did not quite fit her analysis: Recruit Issy. The name was not intimidating, in fact there was nothing about him that struck her as impressive. He was of average height, barely taller than her and she was only in her sixteenth year. When all the recruits had arrived, his hair was unkempt and a long, tattered black mess; once buzzed down to an acceptable degree, his expression and face managed to be even more average. The type of man that, had he put any thought into his appearance at all, he might have come off as handsome; if he smiled at all, maybe even more so. It didn’t seem to be his forte, not by a long shot.

His skill was just as average as his looks, he was neither amazing or hopeless. If anything, he had proven reliable during the few exercises that Kani had worked with him on. It was his eyes that threw off any assumption that she could make, the dull way those grey-blue eyes glazed over everything, as though everything were beneath his focus and he was entirely unable of caring. They did not appear battle-hardened, but there was something else there… something she did not like.

By the time Kani had made her way to the edge of her bunk and stood at attention, her eyes darted across the room to the only other silhouette already there and waiting, from the height and rigid stature she could only assume it was Ronald; the Platoon Leader, the best of the recruits. He was everything a story book needed him to be: a brilliant minded tactician, devilishly handsome, horribly arrogant, prideful and as devoted as Kani was. She never enjoyed his company, she preferred the quiet Issy over the boastful Ronald, any exercise—any War.

One by one, the remaining fifty-five stepped in line and stood proudly, all unmoving as the blaring alarm died out and the flickering lights above steadily illuminated.

The Instructors came in not shortly after, all men glorified in combat that did not bat a lash at race, gender or color; if they took an issue with you, it was either because you were doing something terribly wrong, or they were just bored.

They got bored quite frequently these days.

As unmoving as she could be, Kani allowed herself to look them over, the same as she did everyday that passed like a strange cycle she had yet to break.

The tallest of them was Instructor Swiderski, a man that was more beast than man. He did not bear a beard, as per regulation, but his face was finely sculpted and linear, dark hair that was slightly unkempt on top. The tight lines of his face, the hard beady eyes that could bore through a recruit without much difficulty. He was lean and muscular, not the sort of man that one would think could overpower anyone, but she had witnessed him at least a dozen times toss the massive Ronald over his shoulder as though he were playing with a toy. There was a certain eerie, unsettling skill to his persona that she didn’t want to acknowledge, but he asserted it without so much of a nod.

The other man was a familiar Instructor Thomas, a far more simplistic man if there ever was one, blonde hair, shorter by a head than Instructor Swiderski, but always willing to prove that his size was nothing of a factor; this man was short and terribly conniving, he devised ways to confuse recruits that even the whole haven’t begun to realize—he trained them to be smarter than the ones they were supposed to kill, of course that meant putting them through a whole new kind of hell.

The third man Kani had never seen before, the stranger man was in stark contrast to the duo Instructors they had seen so far; he was fat, no other way of putting it and entirely out of the conditioned norm. His boots were unbloused, his uniform dirty and appearance unbecoming; she could’ve swore she spotted a second chin bouncing as he began to speak, flaps of muscle and skin working together.

“Recruits!” He bellowed loud enough for them to hear, Swiderski and Thomas glancing at him like an unwelcome pest in their midst as he spoke. “We three are proud to finally give you lot the opportunity to prove yourselves, to rise above… and achieve something even greater.” He said, beginning to squeak past with the skid of his boot along their line, before Thomas stepped in front of him; cutting him off, dead center.

“Here is the deal, Recruits. We are having the Forty-Fifth Annual Platoon Games, and it just so happens our Third Platoon is against Instructor Mendolia’s First. The Winner will proceed from there.” Thomas spoke with confidence, as though Third had already won.

It wasn’t until that daft silence passed over that someone finally spoke up, out of turn and in a manner completely unforgiveable.

Issy was the one that spoke, a timid voice that carried volumes. “And what do we win, Instructor Thomas?” He said slowly, each word hung on.

“You win… the right to live. This is a real combat environment, and anyone that dies… well, I don’t need to tell you what happens when you die, do I?”

(Author's Note: The first chapter in the first book that is currently in the process of being written.)