The bell rang promptly at 8:37AM for students attending the United Military Academy of Excellence, and as always, Reagan was late. She slid into her jeans as she hopped around searching for something to cover her chest. Her hoodie was in the chair pulled from under the computer desk. It had the school's crest stitched into it. She tugged on it and popped around 10 mints in her mouth at a time. 'I don't even have time to brush my own teeth. Jesus,' she said to herself.
Her auburn hair was hardly brushed and she tripped over her untied boot laces, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as the aluminum door slid to a close behind her.
Professor Whitmore was standing near the edge of his desk as she walked in. The door sliding open and buzzing as she stepped in, announcing her tardiness and his annoyance with her. His foot was tapping and arms were folded. "Ms. Maxwell, I do believe you've just returned from dorm arrest due to your inability to remain punctual like the rest of these students, is that correct?" he asked.
Reagan wanted to argue but she was silent.
"Take a seat, Maxwell. I have a lesson to finish."
She sat near the door on the far right side of the class where she entered and stared up at the sunroof; passing Air Stream jets purposelessly floated through the sky. The name Hartway etched into the port side.
Hartway.
The overall decision maker in Sepada. No one dared to question him yet he was only seen in holograms during news conferences or television ads. This man who had just years before taken Reagan's entire family because they knew something. The memory was crystal in her mind.
She was barely 6 years old, sitting in her family's lounge chair using her smart pad to take her practice Military Intel. The entire country was forced to take one in school at the age of 16 to determine what college the teens would go to and after what careers they'd be responsible for in the military. Each time Reagan Maxwell would score perfectly and her parents would reward her by buying her something. Anything. Even junk was precious to her, she liked to turn everyday objects into things no one thought they could be turned into. But this time was different.
Reagan scored perfectly, again. She showed her parents, again. They congratulated her, again. But instead of a gift, the government police barged in. Everyone was questioned, except Reagan. She was locked in her room with guards flanking the sides of her door from the outside. Time passed, a lot of time passed. How much time had passed? Six hours, seven?
When it was all over everyone was gone. Her dad, mother, aunt, even her older brother Johnathan. The sad thing was, she knew it was for knowledge. Someone else flawed the plan and now her family had to pay. All in the same day, her clothes had been packed along with a small bag that had Washington DC embroidered on its front. Inside was one of her favorite inventions(a laptop that ran only on the power of magnets), a few snack foods, and her brothers hoodie to the United Military Academy of Excellence in the Cambry District of Florida. The boarding school she'd be attending until she had to take her Intel which would determine what career she'd take on later in life.
Soon thereafter, the bell for free period rang and the students filed collectively out of their lecture rooms. Not among the students heading away for the next hour and a half was Reagan. Prof. Whitmore was leaning on the desk Reagan sat in threatening to kick her out of the academy. "Is there anything you'd like to say about that, Reagan?" he asked rhetorically.
"With all due respect, sir, you can't kick me out," she answered.
"Excuse me?"
"Sir, I was put into this school for military excellence and apparently that's hard to come by. Not many people get accepted, let alone put into this school, and at the time, I was six and hadn't tested to attend any higher level schools. I'm this school's record and I'm sure that I would have taken the Intel a while ago if that weren't against the law. Now, Mr. Whitmore, believe me that I hate you with more of a burning passion that you hate me with and there is absolutely nothing you can do to get rid of me sooner. This is said to be the best school in all of the country,you kicking me out will just about prove your 'greatness'. Is there anything you'd like to say about that?" Reagan smiled and exited the class swiftly as Mr. Whitmore grew a dangerous shade of red.
The hallway, however, was a completely different story. She let her hair fall in her face as she collapsed in a corner near the vending machines, shaking with dread at what events had just occurred at the mercy of her own tongue. It took her a while to realize she couldn't breathe. A while to realize that her heart was constricting her lungs and that this was another panic attack. She curled up into a ball, eyes closed, on the floor. With everyone out of sight and teachers in class rooms or lounges she'd be alone until a bell rang twice.
"Slow and even," a voice said from somewhere.
She didn't respond verbally but her breathing slowed and she didn't feel as if she were choking anymore.
When did these start to happen anyway? When had her lungs felt the need to give up while her heart swelled inside its chest and why was it that the only thing that made her go back to normal was taking in more air than usual? The answer she never had but these attacks seemed to be regularly occurring.
A long arm draped over her to help her up and she couldn't help but shiver under the unusual warmth of it.
No, I'm fine, she wanted to say. She could've said it. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't talk still.
Once on her feet she finally opened her eyes to meet her rescuer-that-hadn't-really-rescued-her. "You'd think that you'd learn. Every time this happens you seem to forget everything, How hard is it to breathe, Reagan?" he said in a teasing voice.
Reagan rolled her eyes, "I'd like to see you go through that, Danny."
"My pleasure."
Daniel Greene was on the floor curled in ball laughing as he mocked her. Then he rolled over. As soon as he exhaled Reagan's boot was pressed down hard on his chest. "Try breathing now," she said harshly.
He tried. He really did, but he couldn't and in turn could've died. She removed her boot and helped him up as he steadied his breathing. "What do they teach you in Martial Mechanics, Reagan?" he asked as he rubbed his now sore chest.
"Nothing you'd be able to keep up with," she replied. "Its the highest class they have and I've been here almost 10 years"
This was something Danny always seemed to forget. That she had been living in the dorms with teenagers, learning with them, since she was six. "That's right, they're turning you into a killer," he joked.
"Exactly. I have to study... My Intel is tomorrow."
"Could I help? Mine is next year but-"
"Sure why not. My dorm in, like, 10 minutes."
They split down the hall and both took off in opposite directions. Daniel and Reagan had been friends since he joined the Academy at age 13, when most students enroll. At the time Reagan was 14 and training on a basic college level. Reagan was lonely and so was he. No one really talked to either of them but the day he saw her first panic attack and tried to give her the CPR he learned in his class that day was the same day that she kicked him square in his groin when she could stand and talk and breathe again.
"Play the oldies music again," he pleaded.
"Oldies?" she laughed.
"All that stuff from the early 2000's and late 1980's. Rock."
"Oh, that. I thought we were studying?"
"Music can play in the background, can't it?"
"Intel tomorrow."
Daniel sighed. "Okay, but isn't it on the same level as everyone else's?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, if you've already studied it then why study it again? That's a lot extra. It's a lot of work Reagan."
"The higher I score the farther away from here I go. I'll get to travel. All I want to do is travel and fix things. Like in Countenance, I already have an invention prototype to reduce the radiation."
"Countenance... That's way far away. You're gonna leave me," he said desperately.
Reagan sighed and avoided his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said.
