Training of the Elite Unit

When I get back to the base—before Matteo starts me on the program—he says:

Matteo: “I’m putting you on a four-month training regimen. You’ll learn to handle your physical power and unlock and use your personal technique—your magic. When it’s over, you’ll join your platoon like everyone else. Think of a platoon like a class; everyone’s sorted from weak to strong. Each platoon trains differently. If you get stronger, you can move up. I’m telling you this so you don’t stand around looking lost when you get there.”

Kiyoshi: “Don’t worry; I’ll already be in the strongest platoon.”

Matteo: “About that—you don’t have a platoon yet. It depends on how these four months go.”

Kiyoshi: “Hmm… good. Then I’ll do my best.”

Matteo: “Good. Let’s hit the training room; there’s a lot to teach you.”
(He makes a bunch of weird little gestures on the way.)

— I really can’t stand this guy. Is he ever serious?

— While Kiyoshi continues his four-month program, Ayame —

Turns out my platoon is Platoon B. There are five total—E, D, C, B, A—with ten people each. Not bad; I’m in a good spot.

While I’m looking for my classroom, I run into the guy Kiyoshi sparred with. Rory. Maybe we’re on the same floor—maybe he knows where it is.

Ayame: “Hey, hi. Which class are you in?”
Rory: “Class A. Do I know you from somewhere? Did we cross paths during the exam?”
Ayame: “You probably know someone from my team. That’s all.”
Rory: “Who would that be?”
Ayame: “Kiyoshi Kazuki. You sparred with him.”
Rory: “Hah… so you’re one of the losers from that guy’s team. How’d you end up in Class B?”

Ayame: “Watch your mouth. Keep it up and I’ll report you.”

Rory laughs.
Rory: “You’ll report me? HAHAHA! You’re funny.”

As he keeps pushing it, someone grabs Rory’s shoulder. Blue-haired kid—average height. Rory whips a punch around; the blue-haired kid slips back.

Rory: “Hands off, Smurf.”
Blue-hair: “Bullying a girl, huh… Your soul’s just trash.”

Rory: “Come show me who’s trash.”

Right before it blows up, the exam proctor—Rodney—cuts in. His voice is hard and threatening:

Rodney: “CUT THE FIGHTING. Or I’ll beat the living daylights out of all of you.”

Both of them snap to attention.

Rory & Blue-hair: “Understood, sir. Won’t happen again.”
Rodney: “Disperse.”

I’m frozen on the floor, shaking. Rodney offers a hand.

Rodney: “You alright, Ayame? Go on to your class.”
Ayame: “Sir, sorry— I don’t know where it is.”
Rodney: “Alright, I’ll show you.”

He brings me to the door. I thank him and step inside. In the next row sits the blue-haired kid from before.

Ayame: “You got scolded because of me—sorry. What was your name again?”
Blue-hair: “Don’t worry about it. I fight for anyone who needs it. I’m Kelvin Morgan. You?”
Ayame: “Ayame Chiharu. Nice to meet you.”
Kelvin: “Likewise.”

While we’re chatting—exams, the Unit, colors—the instructor walks in.

Caitlyn: “Hello, everyone. I’m Caitlyn Gloria, head instructor of this class. If you have issues or reports, you come to me. Understood?”
Class (in unison): “Understood, ma’am.”
Caitlyn: “Not ‘ma’am’—‘commander.’”
Class: “Understood, commander.”

In the first lesson everyone introduces themselves—short and simple.

Most colors in class are mid-tones. One or two people have slightly dark; one of them is the blue-haired Kelvin Morgan. He looks strong; his color is Blue—like his hair.

At recess he comes over.
Kelvin: “If that guy bothers you again, tell me.”
Ayame: “Okay.”

We spend the first week and a half in the classroom. Key topics. Today’s is alien powers.

Caitlyn taps the marker on the board and turns to us.
Caitlyn: “Listen carefully—this matters. Alien powers are similar to ours.
Reds use fire. Blues use water. Browns—easy to spot; they’re tanks—huge, ten to twelve meters tall sometimes.
Gray is different: assassins, very stealthy—watch for them.
There are no green aliens.

And then there are the humanoid ones; they’re the most dangerous. Most of them have two or more elemental powers. Do not fight them with fewer than five people—you’ll die.
If it’s humanoid and it has an element: withdraw immediately. Report to a Black-rank commander. Do not fight, do not contact, do not be seen. Write this down and don’t forget it.”

A kid in the back raises a hand.
Student: “Commander, if it has no element why are we still retreating?”
Caitlyn: “Because it absolutely has a personal technique—magic—and they’re leaders.”
Same student again:
Student: “Do they have commanders?”
Caitlyn: “They do, but not like us. Among them, the strongest is the commander. Anyway—that’s it for today. On your way out, pick up armbands by color; mind your shade. I’m out.”

A table is set up by the door. Everyone slips on their color band.
Mine is Green — Medium. The fabric’s cool against my wrist; the rhythm of Platoon B feels a bit clearer now.

Caitlyn clicks the marker one last time:
Caitlyn: “Final note: every alien has regeneration. Speed varies by power; some knit tissue in seconds, some in minutes. So don’t turn your back because you think it’s down.

The only reliable way to neutralize them: shatter the core.
Think of the core as a heart—an energy node. Break it and the alien dies—regeneration stops.

Tactical cliffs notes:

Red/Blue: Core usually along the chest line, impact-sensitive; use single-axis strikes.
Brown (tank): Core is deep; crack the shell first (micro-series or lock), then finish.
Gray (assassin): May use invisibility/illusions; stabilize first (chain locks, narrow corridors) before the core.
Humanoid: Core may be masked; under five fighters is forbidden. If you can’t identify it, break contact and alert a Black-rank commander.”

She writes in huge letters: “Regenerates → Break the Core.”
The room goes quiet. I write the sentence twice more in my notebook. My Green—Medium armband hugs my wrist; my pulse is steady. Understood.

After the third week, they open the training field for powers. Lines glow, sensors come online. They split us into teams; sparring drills begin.

I’m paired with Kelvin (Blue — slightly dark). I’m Green — medium. Roles are clear: Kelvin strikes; I support.
My job: hold balance, fix errors, pull the fallen up. His: break the field and open a finishing window.

In the first round two come at us. Kelvin slicks the line with water; their feet slide. I go in with micro-shield and joint stabilization to soften contact—no core, just a stop.
Kelvin sees the opening and takes a single-axis entry: shoulder—wrist—PATT! First one on a knee. The second slips while backing off; I collect and put them down clean. The instructor’s head dips in approval.

As the rounds go on, Kelvin hits harder, and I recover faster. Rule is constant: no collateral, full control. Our formation works: Kelvin opens; I secure.

Ayame: “Looks like we’re doing well, Kelvin. Everyone’s watching.”
Kelvin: “We are. Your backline support is really good.”

I still can’t handle compliments; my face warms. I whisper:
Ayame: “Th-thank you.”
Kelvin smiles, shrugs. “Anytime.”

Training spars continue; in class we keep studying alien weaknesses. At the end of month four, we’re told someone new will join the class. I don’t know who.

Caitlyn: “Alright, folks, we have a new member. Come on in, Kiyoshi.”

Kiyoshi?! I thought he was in Class A…

— Back to Kiyoshi —

Matteo: “Well, look at you… made it to Class A.”
Kiyoshi: “Of course I did. No one in this base tops me.”

I grab my stuff and head for Class A’s door. The moment I step in, I lock eyes with Rory—it doesn’t even take ten seconds.

Rory: “You little punk, how did you get into Class A?”

That’s when I snap. I know full-power control now; I lock output to 100%. Twenty meters between us—one second and I’m there. I line the punch on a single axis and drop it.

THUUM!
Rory drops on the spot.

In the hall, red lights flash:
[PROTOCOL VIOLATION: Full-power contact in training area.]

The penalty is clear: they bump me down to Class B. Can’t say I care. Matteo grabs me by the collar.

Matteo: “You idiot. Why are you throwing a full-power punch at someone in your own class? Were you trying to kill him? Being Black doesn’t give you infinite leeway. Watch your moves.”
Kiyoshi: “Better a lower class than sharing a room with that jerk.”
Matteo: “Can it. I’m taking you to Class B. Move.”

I follow. At the door, a voice from inside: “Enter.” I step in. I spot Ayame—but introductions first.

Kiyoshi: “Hey, everyone. I’m Kiyoshi Kazuki. My color is BLACK. Nice to meet you.”

A murmur rolls through the room: “Black? Whoa, first time I’ve seen one…”
There’s an empty seat behind Ayame—only familiar face here—so I take it. As I sit, a blue-haired kid (Kelvin) gives me a long, measuring look. Hard. Calculating.

— Don’t let him be a Rory… I don’t want to have to knock someone out again.

Class starts. Caitlyn talks, writes on the board. My eyelids get heavy. I lay my head on the desk; eyes close.

THUNK!
Something taps my forehead. I look up: Caitlyn’s staring at me; she’s thrown her marker.

Caitlyn: “Hey. Don’t sleep in my class, you clown.”
Kiyoshi: “Apologies, commander.”

I spend the last ten minutes wide-awake. It’s all things I already know; my ear isn’t on the lecture. The bell rings. Ayame turns to me.

Ayame: “Weren’t you in Class A? Why’d you come to B?”
Kiyoshi: “I beat up Rory. Got penalized.”

Ayame bursts out laughing. Just then the blue-haired kid turns.

Kelvin: “Kiyoshi, right? How do you know Ayame?”
Kiyoshi: “We were on the same team in the exam.”

I chat with Kelvin a bit. Not a bad guy—measured, direct. The day ends. I head home. The four months went well; I can control my power completely.

“But there’s one problem.”