The Foundry | Chapter Three
Chapter Three of The Foundry
The Foundry
Daphne
Chapter Three
Everything felt different for Echo, stepping onto Aeronauticus’ arena floor. The Boreálian crowd was the same as always, rollicking boisterously; people of Atreya a most passionate sort when in for a show. Those mammoth spinning rings and their formed armillary sphere around The Great Generator felt just as intimidating to have above. It was only herself that was different for the second time around.
Her chance to fly was a long ways out, as it was for all of her class. They were only present for the pomp of it all. Yet they’d have the best seats in the house, each of her peers taking position in line, upon the ceremonial dais built for this annual purpose alone, at one farthest end of the arena’s floor.
Names would be spared to the ears of the audience. Those curious to follow the development of a class of initiates would have limited means to do so; right to one’s anonymity was a choice to be made by each soul called to search out the title of pilot within Foundry structures.
Echo’s hair seemed to be a point of focus among the youngsters. Her lack of acknowledgement drew a groan from the crowd, as she’d known their images were being displayed on dueling arena wall panels. She declined to glance up at herself in that moment, as she’d felt her peers so eager to do; Echo almost always looked funny on camera, especially to herself.
Depths of emotion she’d felt in those moments on-screen were unlike any she previously experienced, except that once she had been right there before. Focused attention of so many upon Echo would force unmistakably powerful waves of empathy to roll over her. ‘I’m going to fucking go crazy,’ is all she was thinking. She wasn’t nervous. In fact, Echo hardly ever felt nervous anymore. Being brave was only fun to her now. There was nothing which made her embody a more holistic sense of freedom than to be in fearless pursuit of her heart’s desires; allowing herself to be seen after such time hiding in the shadows of self-suppression was a joy few others could match.
“This part fucking rules,” Echo half-shouted to be heard by Cameron sitting beside her, who conveyed trust in the estimation by that way she’d been grinning so widely, refusing to take her eyes from that display on the curved dome before them.
Echo found herself compelled to reach out and give them a squeeze on the leg—something drawn right out of her from the sight of their smile. It surprised even her when she’d leaned in closer and spoke into Cameron’s ear.
“You’re fucking gorgeous—you know that?”
Pleasure bloomed in Echo’s belly seeing Cameron beam at the landing of her words, as the simulated sounds of thunderous jet-fire exploded throughout the arena. There were thirty-eight active pilots in training and deployment at The Foundry, each singular force of war-faring greatness bonded to their own beautiful machine of war.
Cameron’s skin was rippling, the light amber fur of her kind caught in a tempestuous fluttering from the spinning rings of Galleleus above. Closeness to such speed and force was a fright meant to prepare Echo’s initiate class for all which was to come.
While that title of pilot was bestowed upon only those who had taken to flying a genuine warship, moving out of the simulated space where all would be demanded to prove themselves, all but two of these thirty-eight flying around the dome had yet to achieve the honor of being known a graduate. It was only Joce Remnance’s Silence and Simion Hareth’s Epoch earning that distinction before the beautiful blue moon of Atreya, and the mass of Boreál’s peoples, above The Great Generator in their fateful ceremony.
Each one of the heroes and their unique crafts fired from their hiding places amongst the ether at once, some haven of darkness surrounding Aeronauticus’ starry vantage, and at the very moment all visual projections upon the dome had ceased, each ship revealing itself most cunning by occlusion in such close and secretive proximity.
Streaks of fire, appearing for those within the arena alone, and in a multitude of colors, with lingering effects borne to their many wakes, burned a pattern of interweaving geometry which would leave an impression upon the mind and heart of every individual who found themself lucky enough to sit in witness.
Watching the blazoned trails of intricately utilized fury, feeling the buzz of Boreálian pride washing over her—catching those dreadful glimpses of Chiron’s terrifying size and refusing to acknowledge the spiritual implications it bore into Echo’s mind of her own insignificance—had been when she finally caught herself smiling too.
Echo wouldn’t admit it, but compulsive urges had her counting the warship’s numbers and allowing her classmates to see her obsession with grasping the pattern’s true mark by using her hands.
Cameron had reached back out then and squeezed her thigh too.
“Somebody’s missing, I think!” Echo had shouted before her last count began, failing to look over and see Cameron’s golden eyes glowing brighter for her.
Taking one more opportunity to count them out, especially considering they were carving such a complicated and interwoven pattern, Echo realized she was getting the same count every time.
“Thirty-seven,” Echo muttered without too much of a care for Cameron being able to hear. “There is one missing.”
Catching Cameron’s eye. Seeing that brightest glowing light within. Echo smiled widest.
“There’s only thirty-seven.”
The lineup of initiates was composed of high chins, puffed chests, and proud looks. They’d left the arena, itself now deep into a recorded immersion of epic visual compositions and soundscapes, highlighting Silence and Epoch’s final run on The Gauntlet along with all of the pilots’ escapades in simulation. Booming reverberations from both its furious war-sounds and accompanying musical arrangements, along with the screaming echoes of a peoples reveling the triumph of their heroes, were felt by the feet, and heard by the ears of them all.
“Oh god, dude,” Echo said out of the side of her mouth towards Cameron with no time to elaborate. A hissing decompression marked the moment, and Echo had chosen not to react, instead remaining grounded in that little composure she could muster, fellow initiates devolving into a near riot of awestruck fandom.
Every pilot who’d just shown out for the people of Atreya, each having crafted their own warship; a spirit-bonded companion of starborne flight—passing the needed trials of simulation, proving their worth, and allowing their mech’s construction to become reality—would forever walk with the earned-pride of knowing their place.
It was apparent in the way they strode past the crowd of those who’d wish for nothing more than to stand beside them.
Echo wasn’t looking, holding herself in reserved self-honor. Glancing over to Cameron, Echo found relief they’d not fallen into such fawning childishness beside the rest of their class. Yet in that moment, they’d shown a reaction to something seen past her, which told of some out-of-the-ordinary happening.
That fear look was gone, and Echo turned to see him then. Alan was right before her, stopped, staring towards her with his jaw hanging wide. His eyes were softer than she’d ever seen them before, and he looked healthier than he ever had before, feeling better in sensing of his spirit than before; cleaner somehow.
“Oh no,” Echo let out—realizing in a moment that she might be painting a target on her back—not wanting to be seen as having any advantages to her peers, wishing to find more communal comradery than her first time around where she had been the odd one out.
She hadn’t had a choice as Alan picked her out, his renown drawing her peers’ attention to her, pacing right up, stepping away from his partner—Prisilla—who appeared less than pleased. That one despised Echo for the way she knew he felt about her.
Alan came right up and gave Echo the biggest hug he could. It was touching, no matter the consequences which might come of it on either side.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he’d spoken into Echo’s ear, before noticing Cameron.
There was shortest flash of hurt in his eyes—along with an empathetically felt ache in Echo’s chest—yet a kindest smile forming upon his lips. Alan stepped back then, allowing his glee to shine as he found acceptance that his friend was back; that it meant a lot to him.
“We’ll talk soon,” Alan said before returning to his perturbed chosen. Deigning to discount any in the moment towards Pricilla’s hurt pride, taking back his place in the prideful parade of pilots. Alan seemed to find a lightness to his step which was quite plain to see, as Echo found a blushing upon her cheeks most noticed by her peers.
Cameron and Echo barely had the chance to get to know each other a bit before the ceremony. Still, she was aware Echo was a rarest second effort, and there were attachments remaining in both her heart and mind.
“They’re a friend,” Echo affirmed, feeling the weight of her words conveying a depth behind that truth, still knowing she meant it, and that she wouldn’t sacrifice her own best good for anyone again—if she could manage it.
The remaining pilots had passed quickly, at least in retrospect, and to Echo’s perspective, having been on a high from that reconciliation going better than she expected. Alan wasn’t Echo’s type—but he was handsome and privileged—it was a compelling thought; she had spent intimate time with him before, and it was the birthplace of a fitting synchronicity in pleasure making. “I’d probably fuck him again,” Echo was thinking.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” she informed Cameron. “He’s cute, but he’s a stim junkie, and I don’t really go for guys.”
Echo was proud of her intentions, and found a smile gracing her, finally breathing easily.
That was when she’d come, trailing far behind the rest of the pack, not anything but five times the self-grandeur carried by the step of those other pilots—that last one—the odd one out; number thirty-seven.
Echo almost knew what was happening before it had. Time had slowed as her heart began to do those strangest things. It wasn’t some empathy from being noticed. Echo was only feeling herself from moments ahead, when she’d finally done what she had next—turning to glance at the final woman exiting The Foundry’s hangar.
Rory Tyrell was not a sight she’d been fully prepared to see. It hurt worse than imagined. Those false walls of defiance towards a hope of reconciliation had crumbled immediately in Echo.
“Oh—that fucking bitch,” Echo said loud enough that Rory probably heard; Cameron definitely had.
Something clearly happened to Rory’s other, but it didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She was smiling, and Echo just knew it—they had seen her—it had been them on that balcony in the ballroom hiding a heartful resonance.
To witness Rory, alone, walking in such strength; facing that same challenge Echo once had of conquering The Foundry without another, which she had found unbearable; for that to be done with the signature Rory Tyrell nonchalance; things felt awfully complicated inside the woman so newly returned to The Foundry.
Rory strode right past without sparing a glance, and there was no way they hadn’t known exactly where Echo had been standing; she was the tallest person there.
When Rory had gone, and her classmates’ eyes felt stuck to her; Echo was feeling no less than panicked. She’d finally turned back to Cameron. They seemed a bit more concerned about Rory than Alan.
“We’re not friends.” Echo informed her.
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