Warfare Augmented Intelligent Frame Unit

Chapter 41 - The Written Licensure Exams

Chapter 41 - The Written Licensure Exams

Today marked the most anticipated—or most dreaded, depending on your level of preparation—Saturday of the week. This wasn't just any Saturday; it was the day when all support units, from first-year hopefuls to seasoned third-years, who had applied for the licensure exams would face their first hurdle: the written tests.

My room assignment set me apart from my friends, leaving me isolated among thirty unfamiliar faces. The examination room had an air of sterile tension, with desks neatly arranged in rows. My designated seat was at the front, tucked into the rightmost corner beside a pale, scuffed wall that seemed to lean in just slightly, adding to my sense of isolation.

To my left sat another examinee, a fellow support unit—evident because he was male. He was short and scrawny, with a mop of bowl-cut hair that looked like it hadn't seen scissors in months. Round-framed glasses perched on his nose, magnifying his small, darting eyes. A perpetual smirk clung to his face, as if he were privy to some secret joke no one else could understand.

I set my trusty pencil down on the table, its tip freshly sharpened, the smooth wood glinting faintly under the overhead lights. My neighbor's eyes flicked toward me, and without a word, he pulled out his own pencil—a sleek, metallic-looking instrument that screamed extravagance.

Not content to stop there, he unzipped his pencil case and proudly laid out an entire arsenal of pencils, each one polished to perfection and arranged by size and color like they were pieces in a collector's showcase.

Not wanting to be caught unprepared, I reached for my eraser—a small, well-worn rectangle of white rubber marred with old stab wounds from pencils. It was a relic from my high school days, carrying sentimental weight far beyond its shabby appearance.

My neighbor glanced over, his smirk widening. With a theatrical flourish, he produced an eraser the size of his palm, sculpted to resemble a giant robot—no, a Frame Unit, if I remembered correctly. It had to be one of those limited-edition erasers kids scrambled to buy back in the day.

"Ha!" He chuckled, the sound smug and grating. "I'm so prepared for this written test, I'll rizz my way straight to that license. Good luck keeping up."

"Y-yeah, good luck to you too," I replied with a forced smile, nodding politely before shaking my head ever so slightly. The absurdity of the moment made it hard to take him seriously, but at least it broke the monotony of pre-exam nerves.

My nerdy seatmate radiated the quintessential aura of a bookworm. His appearance and mannerisms mirrored the classmates I had back in high school—the type whose towering intellect was only rivaled by their sky-high pride. It wasn't just his smug demeanor that got under my skin; it was the way his self-assured ego seemed to practically drip off him, pooling around his flared nostrils with every self-satisfied breath.

The tension in the room shifted as the proctor finally entered, carrying the weight of authority. "The test will begin in one minute," they announced firmly. "You'll each receive one sheet of scratch paper for your solutions in trigonometry and calculus. Answers must be shaded on the provided answer sheet."

The proctor moved briskly, distributing the tools of our impending mental battle. Scratch paper, answer sheets, and finally, a sleek tablet—the key to unlocking the questions—were handed out one by one. The tablets remained dark and silent, like dormant sentinels waiting for the command to spring to life.

"The written test starts now," the proctor declared.

As the words left their mouth, the tablets hummed to life, their screens flaring bright with the first barrage of questions. The quiet rustle of shifting paper and the faint clicking of styluses filled the room, an orchestra of exam tension.