Her internal auto pilot returns her to her room in dormitory block in record time, everything since leaving Peach Trees a blur. She barely registers the blessed emptiness of the room before the door slides closed with a click behind her and her hard fought composure finally snaps, her quaking form collapsing back against the door and towards the floor with an unceremonious thud. Wrapping her arms tightly around her knees she buries her face in her arms and lets go, the sobs wracked of utter failure and disappointment shaking her petite frame. Every shred of hope evaporated in that moment and lay discarded in the disaster of her assessment, mingling in the rubble of spilt blood and charred ferrocrete. Memories of the terrifying years at the Institution, followed by the trials of the Academy, constant reminders that she was not strong enough, not fast enough, not smart enough, not everything enough and the imagined disappointment in the faces of her parents, long since dead. The twist of bile and sudden clamminess forces her off of the floor and rushing the short distance to their shared bathroom. Clinging to the sides of the commode her body painfully purges whatever it can, swirls of green and yellow bile making patterns in the water below her. She kneels there until the dry heaving ceases, crumpling onto her hands and knees on the cool tile.
She wasn't sure how long she had lay there before picking herself up. Splashing cold water on her face from the sink she thinks to rinse out her mouth and try to calm herself before stepping back out into the room. She knew what came next. She'd seen it happen a million times before. Those who don't pass assessment receive their notice a few hours after, if that, giving them instructions on the when and where to report to a housing block in the city. Pack your shit and get out, in short. She knew that was the fate awaiting her as she saw the red light blinking on the dataterm sitting on her desk, an awaiting message of her brutal failure. Knowing it and reading it typed out in such final, cold fashion were very different things and the latter she couldn't handle right now.
Peeling herself out of her, she now realizes, absolutely filthy uniform for the last time, she brushes off as much as she can and folds it per regulation and sets it on the end of the bed. She picks up her helmet and pauses, her fingers tracing over the hard edges as she closes her eyes and remembers his words from earlier. She finds herself now, standing barefoot in her room in nothing more than her tank and shorts, wishing for a bullet that never came. Perhaps it would have hurt less. Hurt less than this. She shakes herself out of the thought and sets the helmet on top of her folded uniform before reaching under the bed for the issued storage crate.
Focused on her task, more for sanity than efficiency, she looks down at the neatly packed yet sadly half full crate. The sum total of her life laid out in folded slacks and rolled socks, every item Academy issue save for one battered and torn photograph roughly folded in quarters and tucked carefully along the side of the crate. Staring down into the crate in her hands she doesn't feel the presence at the door before the quick rap-rap at the steel jolts her out of her own head. It takes her only a fraction of a second to push out and know who stands on the other side. The strained staples in her side ache as a new bile begins to rile in her gut.
Setting the crate down on the dresser she steps towards the door but stops short as it opens on its own, the click-hiss-shink revealing a now all too familiar and imposing silhouette. He hesitates if only a moment, as if reevaluating the situation, and she can feel him give her the once over from behind his visor.
"Anderson," she hears in his low gravely baritone as he steps into the room, making the space seem ever so much smaller. She can sense his eyes assess the folded uniform on the bed and the crate on the dresser but he says nothing, turning his attention back to her. It occurs to her that she's wearing nothing more than her skivvies but there's something about the way he looks over her, through her, that makes her feel so much more exposed than her lack of proper attire in the presence of a Senior Judge. This Senior Judge. His gloved hand moves towards his chest, sliding a battered shield of brass from beneath his vest. His thumb passes over it once, almost unthinking, as he holds it out to her.
"You're going to need this." He says nothing more and waits for what feels like an eternity before she reaches out and takes it from him. So very warm in her hands she looks down at the heavy shield, now nicked and scarred, emblazoned with ANDERSON. Confusion washes over her face as her eyes rise from the battered shield to meet those shielded behind his visor. The questions become stuck in her throat as he turns without so much as another word and he steps back into the still yawning doorway. He pauses once more and glances back at her over his shoulder.
"You should check your messages." With that the door slides closed behind him, leaving her standing alone in her room, her shield in her hands and the red glow of the blinking message notification pulsing behind her.
Lost in her frantic tangle of thoughts she loses track of time, bolted to that spot in the floor until her feet start to tingle like a thousand needles. The numbness fades to the prickling pain and she has to move her feet, carrying herself to her desk and sitting down. She watches the dataterm blink before working up the courage to reach out and press the entry key. One new message, from HQ, time stamped shortly after her departure from Peach Trees. She closes her eyes and presses the entry key again. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Open your eyes.
"Congratulations, Judge Anderson. Report to Office of Chief Judge, Barbara Hershey at 0600 for incident report review, debriefing, and assignment."