By the time classes ended, Lyra's head felt like it might explode from sheer information overload. School had been easier back when she could just store data in her archive — not when she actually had to learn it like it mattered.
The hallways leading to the dormitories were sterile — all grayscale lighting and soft mechanical hums. The System preferred clean, orderly spaces. Comfort was not the point.
Her assigned room: 117-A, Tier 3 Residential Quadrant.
A soft chime accepted her DNA signature at the door.
Inside: four walls. One bunk. Two desks. A small shared console. Neutral white light and an old cooling node that wheezed whenever the temperature dipped.
Functional. Like everything else here.
A system ping echoed as she entered.
[ELECTIVE SLOT: SELECTION DUE IN 30:00 ST]
[VIEWING OPTIONS…]
She flopped down on the lower bunk, visor flickering to life as the choices blinked across her interface.
[Elective Options – Rank D– Eligible]
> Intro to Reclamation Botany
> Reclaimed Literature: Voices Before the Flare
> Crafting from Salvaged Materials (Shared Workshop)
[Selection must be finalized before end of day. Failure to select will result in auto-allocation.]
Lyra groaned. None of them sounded useless, but none exactly screamed "field advantage" either.
Grow fungus. Read dead people's books. Build bottle-spears out of junk.
Lyra hesitated for a moment before tapping the last one.
If the world was going to kill her, she might as well learn how to build something out of its ruins.
[ELECTIVE CONFIRMED: Crafting from Salvaged Materials]
[Workshop Assignment Pending…]
She tossed her visor onto the desk and lay back on the lower bunk with a sigh.
That's when the door opened.
Someone stepped inside — carrying a small bundle of neatly folded clothes and what looked like a handmade paper flower.
Her boots were slightly scuffed, not System-issued, and she wore her uniform sleeves rolled up like she'd already decided it didn't suit her.
She paused in the doorway, studying Lyra.
"Oh," she said brightly. "You're real. I thought maybe they'd stick me with an interface shell for efficiency."
Lyra sat up. "Nope. Just low-ranked and irritable."
The girl laughed — a genuine, unguarded sound.
"I'm Sorrel," she said, setting her things down on the top bunk. "Rank D. Just barely."
"Lyra. Same."
A moment passed. Then Sorrel pointed at the metal desk near the wall.
"Mind if I use that one? It has better light."
Lyra shrugged. "Go for it."
"Thanks." She smiled again, softer now. "I like natural light. Or the closest this place gets to it."
She unpacked slowly, placing small, odd things on her shelf — a string of glass beads, a small charcoal sketch of a cat, a folded origami crane made from recycled interface paper.
"You made all those?" Lyra asked, before she could stop herself.
"Yeah. Most of them. I try to keep my hands busy. Helps me remember we're still people."
"People in boxes."
"People with fingers that can still fold things," Sorrel said. "That has to count for something."
Lyra stared at her. There was no bitterness in her voice. No sarcasm. Just stubborn, unreasonable hope.
"You're not a fan of the System, are you?"
"I'm not a fan of being told survival is the ceiling of human experience," Sorrel replied. "I want more than that. We used to build parks. Write poetry. Make dumb birthday cakes."
She paused.
"I don't want to reclaim Earth just to rebuild it into a colder version of this place."
Lyra didn't reply immediately. Instead, she glanced at the salvaged materials elective on her visor again.
Maybe she'd chosen right, after all.
A knock broke the quiet hum of dorm life.
Sorrel tilted her head, glancing up from her desk where she was carefully knotting recycled thread into a bracelet.
Lyra didn't move.
Another knock. This time followed by a muffled voice.
"Hey! Room 117-A? here's a cohort gathering down in Commons C. Nothing formal — just introductions, drinks, and figuring out who's tolerable."
Sorrel looked up from her desk, eyebrows raised. "Guess that's our social summons."
"No thanks," Lyra said without looking up. "I don't do pep rallies without exits."
"Come on," Sorrel urged, already slipping on her boots. "You survived two system instructors today. You deserve a glass of flat synth-juice and awkward introductions."
"That's exactly why I'm staying."
Too late. Sorrel grabbed her arm, all warm enthusiasm and insufferable hope.
"I'm dragging you for your own good."
Commons C was less a party space and more a repurposed mess hall, dimly lit with overhead glows and the dull thump of bootlegged bassline someone managed to smuggle in through a hacked speaker drone.
Roughly thirty students had gathered. Most hovered in cliques — by previous academy ties or shared language filters. The walls were lined with tables stacked with reconstituted nutrient wafers, and someone had somehow made a banner out of shredded interface strips.
WELCOME TO SECTOR 9 ACADEMY, BABY
(nowhere to go but up)
Lyra stood near the wall with a cup of something vaguely citrus-flavored, watching the chaos.
"It's weird," Sorrel mused beside her, "seeing people be people in a place designed to strip that away."
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Even system drones need downtime."
That's when he spoke.
"This place is a joke."
The voice sliced through the low buzz of conversation.
"They put potential candidates like me with… this?"
Everyone turned.
It was the same boy from class. Slick, sharp-faced, with the posture of someone who'd never been told no by anyone who mattered. His name tag blinked: CADEN VARS. His rank: D+. Slightly higher than most.
"I don't care what the System says — merit's fine, but background matters. If you think you're going to compete against legacy-backed candidates with a few salvage classes and good intentions, you're delusional."
Someone near the refreshment table stood up — tall, broad-shouldered, is tag read TALEN IVE, also Rank D+, but without the blinking overlay that signaled legacy data..
"Name doesn't earn you survival," he said flatly. "And in the field, no one cares what your family donated."
"Spoken like someone whose bloodline didn't donate," Caden shot back.
The tension snapped taut.
Lyra didn't move, but her grip on the cup tightened.
Sorrel leaned in. "Ten merit credits says this devolves into a shouting match."
"Five says someone throws a rehydrated rice brick."
"Deal."
Talen stepped forward, calm but simmering.
"You think they'll upgrade you because of a surname? You think Earth gives a damn?"
"I think people like you confuse effort with value," Caden said. "Effort's not rare. Results are."
That silenced the room.
For a beat.
Then a third voice chimed in — cool, lazy, from the back.
"Can't we wait until after orientation before ranking each other like it's a pre-flare cage match?"
Laughter broke the tension.
Sorrel exhaled. "A voice of reason. Shocking."
The rest of the night stumbled on — awkward small talk, quiet rivalries, and subtle system pings monitoring emotional spikes. No punches were thrown. Yet.
On their way back, Sorrel nudged Lyra.
"Fun, right?"
"Like watching a system error in real time."
"Well… at least we know who to avoid in group assignments."
Lyra didn't say it out loud, but she agreed.
She was starting to realize this place didn't just test survival skills — it tested who you became while surviving.