The Los Angeles Lighthouse | ✔

Chapter 9: The Training Blues

I don't remember going to sleep.

But at some point, I must've stumbled through the hallways, flung open the door, and collapsed in the heap of a blankets binding me to the mattress. The pillow's cover is wet. Cold and soaked, sticking to my still dripping hair as I attempt to untangle myself from the net of sheets. I stifle a yawn, a drowsy haze weighing down my limbs; my vision blurs into focus. What is it with this place and yellow? The bed, the curtains, the shirt of which I can't recall putting on all boast of the soft color.

"Marks! Get your natibus out here."

The banging on the door abruptly stops. Quinton's distinctive bold blue shoes disappear from behind the base of the doorframe. A suppressed groan slips through gritted teeth. Ah yes, I'm in folklore land. The tips of my toes brush against the floorboards, lingering there before being joined by my heels. I depart on the long voyage from the bed to the dresser.

Knuckles rap against the door again, slapping the dazed look off of my face. "I'm not joking, man, we gotta go!"

"C-coming!"

I yank open a drawer and throw apart its contents in a desperate attempt to find something—anything to wear. Everything looks the same. The same styled pants, shirts, shorts, socks... undergarments... shoes—they're all the same! The only difference is the slight variance of shades of grey and yellow resulting in the drawers most closely resembling a soccer mom's pinterest.

The door shakes with another frustrated fit of knocking. "Marks!"

I jump. The dark grey top I'd been examining slips from my grasp, collapsing on the floor. I pick it up, tug it on, and blindly reach for some form of shorts. The door opens. I stand, slumped against the doorframe, hair a mattered mess and missing a sock.

"Interesting choice," Carter says, gesturing beneath my waist. I glance down. Blink. Dang it. Of all the shorts in the dresser, I had to grab the neon yellow. Way to go, me.

"Let's just go."

"One sec." Carter stops, sweeping her bob into a short ponytail. She offers a hair tie to me. "Here. Your hair's around my length--a bit shorter. You'll need it out of your face."

She rolls her eyes at my hesitance. "Stop being a wimp and take it."

I scoff, but do as told.

The training room is a few floors below the dorms. Thank whatever God(s) exist in this world—or that of Somnium? Somnium.—but we take the elevator. Which, by the way, goes to each of the twelve floors. Every one of them. There is literally no point to having stairs. Like I get it: you guys like to exercise and make grand entrances. But I don't. Next time, I'm taking the elevator.

There is no hallway to the training room. There is no door. No warning. The elevator doors slide open and BOOM! you're there. Honestly, I'm half surprised a spear wasn't hurtled my way upon entry. None the less, as soon as I step out it feels as though I'm stepping into some high end police training facility. Mats cover the ground, grunting and groaning as the soles of bare feet dig into their surface. I follow Quinton and Carter to the shooting range off on the right.

An impressive collection of weaponry including knifes, bows, something that looks like a cross between a scythe and a rifle are all nailed upon the wall. A particularly large battle axe catches my eye. I stand there a second too long, far too distracted to hear the loudening squeaks of the mat. A broad shoulder knocks me to the floor.

"Hey!" I snap.

Ace doesn't glance in my direction. "Don't get in my way next time." He huffs, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, and shoves his apparent sparing partner, Paxton, forward. Pax keeps his hands firmly tightened around his opponent's forearms, a playful smile perched upon his lips as he's forced back farther. They remain locked in place.