(Sorry this took so long! I've had work, a bunch of writer's block, and then problems uploading to the site when I had finally finished this chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Things are accelerating towards actual plot now. Nearly everything in this chapter is to start a plot thread that's going to be important later.)

April 2nd, 2987

Weather: all right

Mood: good

Music: White Stripes - Sister, Do You Know my Name?

Dear Diary,

Classes started day before yesterday. I'd actually managed to look fairly decent. First was Ms. Donovan's Inglish 101 class. She still pisses me a little with the whole vampire-poser act, but I have an idea. She already thinks of me as a kindred spirit. One day, probably towards the end of the semester, she'll ask me about my makeup or something. I'm not usually wearing much or even any of it, but people make that mistake all the time with my complexion. She'll ask me "vat my seecret ees." Lots of people do. And I'll say "oh, my secret?"

And then I'll show my demon form to her. It'll be classic.

So her class was in one of the larger classrooms in the Arts and Letters Building. It's a wide windowless room with three big semi-circular desks that have swiveling chairs attached to them. There were so many people that we didn't have room to spread out. I had a nearly-human mutant who smelled like a dog breathing down my neck on the left (and I'm not being mean) and a little rabbit person sitting in the next seat at my right. The rabbit was hyperactive, constantly hitting her chair with her foot and interrupting the teacher with little tidbits she thought would be helpful. They weren't, usually.

Ms. Donovan didn't make us introduce ourselves, thank Glob. It's a simple class. We just write essays. I can handle that. Besides, if I choose not to do Inglish as my "major," this class is required anyways.

Next was Foxham's World Literature class. I was disappointed that he wasn't doing
that thing he talked about in his office, Fowst or whatever, not until next semester. It sounds like that story Dad used to tell, somehow. I'm so curious about it.

In Foxham's class, we have chairs and desks of our own. Too many of them, sometimes on top of each other. The classroom was where they store all the spare desks and chairs, apparently. He gets shafted like that a lot.

In this class, we're going to read a bumtch of novels and shit from before the war. I have to get those from the textbook shop tonight.

Foxham asked me to stay a minute after class.

"So I see you've decided to pursue Inglish, at least to begin with?" he said, making it a question.

"I'm trying a couple of things, actually. But I always did like to read."

"I'm glad. I already said this during the lecture, but do feel free to stop by my office hours if you have any trouble or want advice or anything."

"Thank you, doctor," I said.

"And, Abadeer, since you're taking my fall class, I might have a book to lend you, if I can ever find it. "

"You really don't have to do that," I said.

"Oh, now," he said. "Now run along or you'll be late!"

The next class was Health, over in an adjacent building. None of it applied to me, but it gave me time to think, so it wasn't a complete loss. No one called on me or asked me to do anything, which was nice.

Then came "Pre-algebra," in yet another building. This is that kind of math that fucked me up on the entrance test, where they use letters to stand for numbers. We didn't actually do any on the first day, which was good, because all I could think about was running over to the garrison to apply for knighthood.

After math class, at about four-fifty, I opened my parasol, buttoned my shirt-cuffs, and stepped out into the western quadrangle. This is a big grassy field bordered by ancient trees, among which I picked out a sandalwood that must have been planted when I was something like young, criscrossed by where sentimental jackasses have carved their girlies' names into it. Being immortal gives you an appreciation for these things, I guess. But fuck, whatever gives it meaning to them. I just wish they weren't carving in it.

I found that I had a little magic left to float on, so I went up in the air a little ways and let the sound of fencing carry me over to the garrison, on the other side of a couple of buildings, and next to the chapel. It's a smallish building like a castle keep, and inside a massive, open door, two roughly human-shaped beings in armor were having it out with flaming swords on an indoor fencing pitch.

I wasn't lied to, these swords had some deep magic on them. I don't mean uncontrollably flaming like a big log you just pulled out of a fire, but a low, hot blue flame that made a deep rushing sound when they swung them.

And the armor was fantastic too, old vanadium-steel plate armor from the Imperium of Baltimore or a damn good replica, painted dust-white and worn over newish, well-made leather jerkins. The shields had a red field and an open book that said "tredecim luces lucentes in saeclo tenebroso." I knew some of those words, once upon a time. My memory is good, but over hundreds of years and dozens of battles with the stuff...

I noted that one of the fighters had spurs on, and one did not. That's familiar enough-they have some kind of system of earning your rank. Out in Iowa about seven centuries ago, the King would give you your spurs and make you a full Knight after your first battle, or if you beat him in a duel... we had a problem with people buying their knighthoods and getting away with it because their families were old and rich, though. It's likely enough the same deal here on both counts.

The one with spurs scored a beautiful touch on his opponent. "Game over," he said, in a thundering voice. He'd apparently seen me, because he took off his helm, revealing a scaly green face, and said "another candidate! Come in!" The other fighter slinked away.

I floated into the fencing room and touched down.

He was one of those things... what did Simon call them? "Frap boys?" His armor had three runes painted on one side of the breastplate, and even I know what that means. He belongs to one of these three or four "houses" that each have a runic name. They're like very tame street gangs, but they usually claim to be running the place. Simon thought they were morons.

He sat down behind a desk next to the pitch and put his heels up, which took some doing in spurs.

"Well, bitch, you're here to try out for one of the spots. Don't tell me I'm right, I know I am," he said.

I hated him immediately. "So, like, do I get to fight you now or is there some dumb phazing or whatever first?"

"Whoah, like, you got to pay to fight Sir Julian," he said, putting way too much emphasis on the S in 'sir.' Forked tongue, I guess.

"How much? And if I win do I get a spot?"

"One hundred silver, and yeah, maybe, bitch. But you won't. You're skinny. You'll tire quick and I'll get three strikes in before you land one."

"So, are you like, the boss around here."

"Pretty much."

"No," a much older voice behind him said. A very human-looking mutant man with three eyes and long white hair and beard stepped out from a side door into the fencing room. He wore a chainmail shirt and old-fashioned tights. "Julian," he chuckled, "I said try out candidates while I was taking coffee. I didn't say you could have my job."

The frap boy got up sheepishly and the three-eyed man sat down.

"Name?" the man said.

"Abadeer, Marceline Vetiver." For some reason, they always want you to say it like that for official purposes.

He leafed through some files. "Ah, yes. Abadeer... daughter of Hunson, am I correct?"

"Y..yeah."

"He tried out back in his day. Wasn't very good!" the man chuckled. He never spoke, he chuckled. "But you, you sound to be a different story. Administration is paying half your fee, given your combat record."

Wait, my father came here? I thought. "You know my record?"

"A partial combat history was sent up when we requested your immunization records, apparently. From Candy Kingdom, correct?"

"Yeah. Do I still have to fight Julian?"

"Sir Julian," the snake-man interjected. The old man swung around and glared at him with three eyes.

"No, you have a harder task. You must fight me," the old man said, not chuckling.

"Why do I get the feeling you've been doing this for as long as I have?"

"Oh, I'm a few decades younger, Ms. Abadeer. Isn't that something?" he chuckled. "But yes, I'd suspect we've both been swinging a sword about nine hundred years now, isn't that right?" he said, chuckling again heartily.

"Yeah."

So I paid him two pieces of gold, which was still fifty silver, last I checked. He picked one up and said "give me the rest if you lose. This is going to be a challenge, and it's not every day I get one."

So then Julian, clearly futting pistaf, takes me to the armory in stony silence and helps me find some armor that fit. Thing about the Baltimore Imperium was, they weren't sexist. Not only did you have women fighting, you had armor for women that wasn't... y'know... endowed. If you take a metal breastplate and hammer it out on either side like you see women wearing in the movies, it becomes really ineffective as armor. The breast-plate should have depth, so a woman can actually fit in it, but it should be smooth all the way across or it'll break right in two if someone hits it with a mace. Ideally, it shouldn't look that different from men's armor.

And I think it was men's size 1 1/5 armor that I ended up wearing when I came back downstairs to face the old knight. It was a bit tall for me, but I know how to compensate. Julian put a sword in my hands and muttered something like "g'luck, bitch. Three strikes wins."

So I faced the old man across the pitch. He'd put on armor while I'd been gone, and now he waited with a flaming sword. I saluted him in the old Iowa way, three flourishes and then a Roman salute. It flamed when I held it up for the last part.

He saluted me another way, but just as dignified, like he was doing the old Christian thing (crossing yourself?) except with his sword, finishing up with a Roman salute.

We charged. I brought my sword around into the top left quadrant and though I'd hit him before he could parry.

Like lightning, he blocked it, hard enough to make my sword recoil in my hand. Then he came up with a fucking fantastic riposte, swinging sharply down to catch my left leg.

I caught it, and gave up a little ground to put both swords between us.

He wrestled with me, trying to get his sword around to riposte effectively, but I kept it dead in front of him.

This seemed to go one for a while. I noticed that he never blinked with his third eye. I mean the one on his forehead.

Then I jumped up in the air and made a sudden feint. He tried to strike me in the right side, and I was able to parry and riposte. I got the first strike in to his left shoulder.

"Good, good," he chuckled. "Record that, Julian."

We each backed off a pace and then re-engaged. I decided to try to disarm him, because I'm nearly sure I'd win by default if I did.

I caught his sword with mine in the middle of his swing and tried to wrench it from his hand to one side.

He laughed, and let go with his right hand, and kept the sword in his left. He got in two good strikes while I tried for a good position to try again. I eventually stopped trying to disarm him and got in one more strike.

So it came down to this. Like, the moment of truth, I guess.

We each backed off and then re-engaged.

And I got him with a sudden strike to the lower left abdomen.

Wait, what? I thought. He let me win, of course. I was a little disappointed.

We each took off our helmets. He flipped me the gold coin I paid him.

"No," I said. "You already waived half." I flipped it back.

"Didn't I say double or nothing? Maybe I didn't."

So then he took me up to his office. It was, like, a room with two chairs, a low table, and some incense burning, but he called it his office.

"Well, you've got one of the qualifications down pat," he said. "I let you win, of course, because of my knee. I could have fought you forever and either of us might have won, but I'd be in a wheel-chair for weeks."

"So what are the other qualifications?" I asked.

"After your first semester, 3.00 GPA or better, and you have to take orders well."

"From Julian?"

He chuckled. "From someone worse, maybe. Or not. Certainly not from him, he's what you'll be if you comission, and people like him don't promote."

"No, I wouldn't imagine they do. I never promoted anyone like him if I could help it."

"Nor me. But given your prior experience, are you sure you're alright being a grunt? There are thirteen of us and you start practically at the bottom, with Julian and one other. That can't be easy."

"No, I never learned it. Like, that's why it's important, Sir..."

"Howell."

"Sir Howell. I need to learn to take orders now or I guess I never will." It was hard to say.

He chuckled.

Then he got out a piece of paper and handed it to me. "Think about it for forty-eight hours and come back to me."

I took off the armor in the armory, and I noticed that Julian's silence had less of an edge on it.

So I'm somehow still not sure. Why wouldn't I join the Knights? I didn't realize it at the time, but there was no question of other candidates when I talked to Howell in his office. He'd chosen me for the spot, but had I chosen?

I'd get payed. That's good. I might die, and I might have to take orders from an idiot. Eh, that's not great.

Maybe this is why I'm not an adult. I hesitate entirely too much. Or do adults hesitate more? Ugggghhhhhh!

So I went to see Foxham. He had tea ready, and he had that book for me. It was called "Doctor Faustus."

"Since you showed such interest in Faust, I thought I might let you prepare ahead of time for my fall class. This is the play that inspired the other play I quoted to you. You might find it very interesting."

"No, Doctor, I can't..."

"Of course you can't. It's against the rules. Do so anyways," he said. "I know a little of your heritage, Ms. Abadeer, and these things interest you for a reason."

"Does everyone here know my dad?"

"Listen," he said in a hushed there are things we're not supposed to talk about. Your dad, and Charlie... um... I can't."

"I understand. I'll find out eventually, I suppose," I said.

"You do that," he said, and looked at me sympathetically.

"Hey, doc," I said. "Here on the book it has a little shield with three books that say 'veritas.' That means truth, right?"

"Yeah. It's Latin. It's the coat of arms for Harvard, one of the great universities from before the war. The Knights' coat of arms is based on it."

"That's what I was about to ask," I said. "What does that say in Latin?"

"Tredecim luces lucentes and all that? Erm, how would I render that? 'Thirteen lights burning in a dark age?' 'Thirteen shining beacons...?'"

"Oh, wow. That's... kickass. Well, thanks for lending me this," I said, holding up the book.

Would it be childish to say I finally decided to join the Knights partly because of their cool motto or slogan... deal? Well, I'm here to grow up, and it's definitely a work in progress. I'm joining.

So I've had one day off and one day of regular classes since then. I did turn in my papers at the garrison, but I haven't had to report for training yet, and nothing much has happened in class. The rooming situation... well, I'm free to sleep either at the garrison or at the dorm room the school assigned me. Both are futting problematic.

My roomate in the dorm room has personality-way the flip too much of it. I don't know what kind of mutant she is. She looks human, but not from any of the tribes I used to know, like Tom and Finn's people or those dudes with the face-paint. Maybe she's a fluke.

She's just moved in and already has all these posters up-some of them have packs of wolves running by moonlight, some of them have boy bands, and she covered nearly every surface on her side of the room, including the ceiling. Aight, that's all forgivable. I had that phase.

But she talks my ear off. Boy bands, boy bands, boyfriends, soap operas... it never ends.

I'm lying on my back thinking about homework (not doing it, but thinking about it), and trying not to seem impolite, while she's going on about this, that and the other.

Eventually, as if finally tired of her own voice, she started asking me questions. She wanted to know what bands I'm in to-so I listed them in no particular order-the Dead, the Stripes, Nirvana, the Big Fuckers, Red Room, Bauhaus, Joni Mitchell...

And she looked at me as if to say who the hell are they? Then she says "Sorry, girl, you're weird."

Now listen. There's "weird" and there's "weird." And there's also "weeeeird" and "weird." There's a lot of them, in fact. I can wear plain old "weird." It looks pretty damn good on me. But there's one particular intonation that certain young people put on that word. It means "outside my comfort zone" or maybe what Lemondude means when he says "unacceptable." Exactly what Lemondude means, in fact.

(It is fun to say the way he does. He has a better soprano range than I do, though.)

And it's what these teens say when you step outside a fairly narrow range of common experience and culture. And if they apply it to you, not something you like, there's seldom any recovering from it. You're uncanny, outside the limits and you don't get another chance.

Look, I've hung out with young people for a thousand years, and they all say it. Sometimes the word is different, but the intonation is the same. I used to say it myself, before I realized how big the world is and how many hats I'd worn.

So no, it's not just that Melissa Bankley (that's her name) is a chatterbox. It's that it took her all of one conversation to start judging the things I like, and that's one step away from judging me. Either one might be easier to swallow, but the two together? Not only do I know that the person on the other bed is judging me, I'm constantly reminded that she's there, and I have to listen to her.

Then there's the situation at the garrison. I slept there last night. We have bunkbeds, and I have to bunk under Herr Julian.

Dillemma of a lifetime, really.