Ingenious

Chapter II

The common mess hall is a flurry of activity. It's mid afternoon. Golden rays of sunlight stream through the rows of transparent slits located atop the impossibly high walls of the impossibly large canteen, battling against the eye offending brightness of the fluorescent bulbs above our heads. So, of course it's crowded. It's the lunch rush. Well, 'rush' being a relative term. People, fellow cortex soldiers, move with a controlled slowness that can only be described as military. The way they maneuver around the circular tables with the practiced finesse of running an obstacle course, the way they wait in the winding cues, metal meal trays in hand, with eyes forward, appendages unnaturally still, as if standing at attention, and the manner in which they eat, seating posture straight, masticating with speed, concentration and intensity, as if enemy crafts are hovering above them, waiting for the opportune moment to descend swiftly and take their food hostage.

The veterans are a lot more relaxed, though. They are the majority around the room, easily distinguishable if you look hard enough, slouching ever so slightly as they sit, their voices, moderately louder by comparison to that of my kind, the recent graduates, not yet fully accustomed to the liberties that come with no longer being a trainee. After standing patiently and quietly in line for what feels like an eternity, Laureth and I find a table. She has been chatting incessantly since we broke away from the line, words flowing from her mouth like water from a burst dam. Laureth doesn't do very well in situations where she has to keep silent. I can't help but smirk. The lunch line must've been torture for her.

"... I mean seriously, Naviwa, I can't believe you just let him cut in front of you like that." She continues, plopping down soundlessly in the seat across from me. "You're way too nice."

I look up from the steaming pile of mashed potatoes on my tray, wondering what she's going on about, until it clicks that she's referring to what happened in the line a few minutes ago.

"Oh, that. He had been in front of me in the first place. It's no big deal." I wave it off dismissively, stainless steel fork in hand.

"Pushover."

I frown. She's being oddly judgmental today. I open my mouth to respond but am cut off by a familiar voice.

"Who's a pushover?"

We both turn to see our friend, Uriel, a wide grin spread across his peach colored face in greeting. He wastes no time in sliding into his usual seat beside Laureth, the mop of sandy blonde hair atop his head bouncing slightly as his tall frame shifts to find a comfortable position.

"The only pushover at this table, obviously." Laureth begins, just as I say, "How was your day, Uriel?"

His emerald colored eyes spark with enthusiasm as Laureth's widen in horror, seemingly demanding, what have you done!? My eyebrow quirks in response, a smug feeling tugging on my lips, you brought this on yourself.

"Funny you should ask, today wasn't that eventful actually. Just your regular day in the CSDG," my eyes catch on the insignia of his uniform shirt, the vermilion symbol glowing proudly in the mishmash of sun and fluorescent light, "you know, out in the city, saving lives, preventing trouble, the usual." He takes a sip from his cup of water, eyes locked on mine, imploring me to implore him to continue.

"Do tell." I say, and I have to bite back a grin at the look on Laureth's face.

Lucky for her though, Uriel's prepared retelling of the day's events die on his tongue once all three of us notice the distinct lack of background noise. The mess hall is never quite noisy, but this silence, punctuated by a certain awed reverence, is definitely unusual. I turn my head in several directions in search of the cause for this strange reaction.