"Officer Armand, please, take a seat."
The superior officer gestured to the chair across from his desk. Armand lowered himself with a steady posture.
A moment later, five files slid across the polished desk toward him.
He studied them for a beat, then lifted his gaze.
"I've gone through the trouble of sorting the diamonds in the rough from the plain stones," the superior said, settling back in his chair.
He tapped a remote, and a holo-screen flickered to life above the desk.
"The first one—Tomas Reyes. AKA Tinman.
Ego Form: Anvil Heart.
Catalyst: Anger.
Anchors: Flesh and Pulse.
Stage: Seeding.
Age: Twenty-Five.
Well trained for field support and also one of the best close-quarter specialists of his set in the academy… Family background… underwhelming."
The projection resolved into a modest office.
…
A young man slouched on the cushion opposite a woman with a notepad.
"Mr. Reyes, what do you think your future looks like?" The therapist asked.
"Like a rocket ship."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Well, I'm bound to shoot into the sky sooner or later. But the way I burn, I'll probably crash back down and light up the ground on the way." Tomas grinned, plucking a nut from the bowl at his side.
"You're remarkably confident. Not many speak so casually about their own death."
He leaned back. "You're the therapist, what do you think my future looks like?"
Her smile was polite, practiced. "Mr. Reyes, my profession doesn't deal in predictions."
Tomas gave a sharp snort.
She glanced at her notes, flipping to a fresh page.
"How would you describe your relationship with your father?"
Tomas's grin returned. "Well, he's dead now—so we argue a lot less. Still a dickhead though."
The holo paused there.
…
"As I said," The superior officer murmured, "Lackluster."
Armand's eyes contained questions.
"The boy's father is still alive. An Egomaniac working for the Federation, stationed somewhere far away from the planet."
With a nod, Armand reached for the next file.
"Next—Sera Doss. Alias: Nan.
Ego Form: Mirror Chain.
Catalyst: Jealousy.
Anchor: Mind.
Stage: Seeding.
Age: Twenty-Four.
Role: Junior cognitive interface specialist, field-certified."
The superior officer pressed another button, and the holo shifted.
It was the same modest room, with the same cushions. But now, a young woman sat where Tomas had been. Her posture was straighter, and her expression almost eager.
…
Miss Doss," The therapist began, "did you find the academy to be a place you'd want to return to?"
"Yes," Sera replied quickly. "The people there were… lovely. Instructors, classmates. It'll be hard to forget them."
"How so?"
She tilted her head and her eyes lit up with something more than nostalgia. "Well, for the most part, their lives are as miserable as mine—maybe worse. I'm more at ease with people I can… relate to."
The therapist noted something down and asked, "Your file says you have a family. Would you say you love them?"
"I absolutely do! They're my rock. As the eldest of four, I've got a duty to take care of the little ones."
"But you feel more comfortable among your academy peers?"
"Of course." Sera's tone was airy, but her words weren't. "I could bear killing another Egomaniac out of jealousy. But my family? Never."
The therapist's pen paused. "Your record also says you enjoy helping others—volunteering for tasks others avoid."
"It's amazing what people tell you once they trust you." Sera's smile widened. "Their gossip… it soothes the jealousy in me."
The video froze.
…
The superior sighed.
"She might sound like a psychopath, but that's her catalyst speaking. In truth, she's one of the hardest workers I've seen from a younger generation." He remarked.
"That's the problem, sir. They're all wet behind the ears—no real field experience—" Armand began with his voice laced with frustration, however, his superior cut him off.
"You take the cards you're dealt, Armand. After that stunt you pulled with the Slayman case, the higher-ups wanted you out. Hell, they nearly came for my badge when I defended you." He leaned forward with stern eyes. "Your past speaks volumes, but if you fight back or pull another reckless move, they'll stop forgiving it. And they'll take your badge."
The well-aged man drew a steady breath, exhaling the tension as he settled back into his chair. "Now. Let me finish."
Armand gave a muted sigh. "Yes, sir."
"The third, Agnar Mensah. Alias, The Tick.
Ego Form: Clockwork Mask.
Catalyst: Fear.
Anchors: Breath and Mind.
Stage: Seeding.
Age: Twenty-four.
Role: Recon and timing specialist, movement cadet."
The holo shimmered, shifting again.
…
"Mr. Mensah," the therapist's voice was cautious, "Your file lists an unusually high number of phobias."
Agnar shifted on the cushion, rubbing his thumbs together. "Yes…?" His tone was almost a question.
"You do realize that… even for an Egomaniac whose catalyst is Fear… this level of anxiety is abnormal."
"I suppose so. But having as many phobias as I do isn't necessarily a bad thing. It could mean that I love my livelihood enough to avoid things that could end it as it is."
"Perhaps. But that leaves you at higher risks of your anchors fracturing, even your Ego itself could fall apart."
Agnar's lips twitched into a crooked smile. "Out of all the fears I carry, that isn't one of them."
The recording paused.
…
"Agnar is… a special case," the superior admitted. "He carries a cold aura, a fragility in the surface but beneath it, potential that the Federation is keeping an eye on. If properly guided, he could become a force to reckon with."
Armand skimmed the boy's file again. He found himself unexpectedly intrigued.
Before he could comment, the holo shifted once more.
"The fourth: Nyla Okoye. Alias, Button.
Ego Form: Shimmering Loom.
Catalyst: Shame.
Anchors: Mind and Breath.
Stage: Seeding.
Age: Twenty-Three.
Background: Logistics graduate, junior operations officer—potential for field work."
The recording began.
…
"Miss Okoye," the therapist said, "Your records note you were raised in an ancient cultural tradition. How do you feel those customs stand against our modern norms?"
"Not much of a match," Nyla chuckled. "By now, I'd be married and probably pregnant or already become a mother of two if I were indulgent."
The therapist allowed a short laugh. "Science agrees your body is in peak condition for childbearing. Strong genes, strong offspring. Your culture isn't entirely misguided."
"I never said it was. Culture is culture. But I'm also Nyla. I have ambitions beyond pleasing my parents or their traditions."
"Hence your choice to join the Academy?"
"Exactly, I awakened as an Egomaniac young, and I wasn't about to waste that."
"Your family is wealthy. Very wealthy. Do you believe that privilege will help or hinder your future path?"
Nyla's smile sharpened. "Depends. Either way, I'll do as I please."
The holo froze.
…
"Her family owns properties on Earth, the Moon, Mars—hell, even in a handful of other solar systems. So yeah, they have a lot of money. And no, she didn't pay her way in. Everyone I picked for you was chosen on merit."
Armand slid the file back across the desk. The folder skidded, briefly distorting the frozen hologram hovering above the table before it snapped back into place.
"On merit?" His voice carried a bite. "Sir, that's just a normal cadet. You know how I feel about working with non-Egomaniacs. They'll only drag the team down. They don't think the way we do."
His superior leaned forward. "What? He's human, and so are you. Are you saying you wouldn't work with me either?"
Armand pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know exactly what I mean. I can stomach the others, but not this boy."
"Did you actually read his file?"
"Yes—"
"No, you didn't." His superior officer cut him off with a flat stare.
"The fifth recruit and perhaps the most valuable asset on your roster. Narvel Anderson.
Callsign, Viper. Age: Twenty-Two. Junior Operative Officer, licensed for the Kestrel MK II Tactical Exoshell (K-EX) / V.S.O. (Velocitronic Sidearm/Rifle Operator) Certified. No Ego Form however, he has an Acquired condition. Savant Syndrome – extreme pattern recognition, probabilistic modeling, and adaptive cognition…"
He let that hang for a beat. "Armand, if we exclude your years of experience, the boy is more qualified for this command than you are. He could apply for captaincy and win. And yet, you want to refuse him?"
"…Sir." Armand's protest caught in his throat.
The words didn't come. Narvel's record was undeniable. He hadn't even bothered to read the boy's file past the missing Ego entry. That alone had soured him against it.
He exhaled slowly. "I understand his qualifications, but what makes you so sure he'll be the most important member of my team?"
"Watch."
The superior pressed a button and the hologram shifted.
…
On the recording, Narvel Anderson sat opposite the same therapist the others faced. But unlike the rest, he wasn't polished for the occasion. Sweat slicked his black curly hair, his workout shirt clung to his chest with droplets tracing down his temple.
"I apologize for the state I'm in," Narvel said evenly.
Yet nothing about his voice or expression conveyed apology.
"Not a problem Mr. Anderson." The therapist folded her hands. "I like to encourage my clients to visit my office in their most comfortable states. As long as you're good with it, I'm fine with it."
Narvel gave a curt nod. However, his eyes didn't waver.
"Miss Peru, right?" He asked.
The therapist tilted her head as a polite smile curved her lips. "I don't recall introducing myself."
"Neither did I,"
The silence that followed was thick.
Miss Peru studied him, trying to parse intent from posture, tone, the almost casual rhythm of his breathing. The longer she looked, the less she felt in control of the session. It was as though the young man's presence tugged her into a mire, a well of unreadable depth.