I once thought S1526 the most beautiful designation bestowed upon any one of the student body. She was of the oldest class in existence, that rank so battle-wearied that only a few members yet remained alive.

I remember her now, standing in the moonlit courtyard, the long, blackened fingers of one hand jerking and creeping delicately, like the legs of a frightened spider, across her naked shoulder. It was newly manufactured, a sybrium-hybrid metal replacement for the one she had lost just before returning from Austria. By itself, it was a hideous chunk of armor and cybernetic wiring; on her, the new shoulder was evidence of the tearing passions of the God-at-war, a perfect ruin pursing against smooth flesh.

Behind the corner of a building, I steadied myself. This was a difficult time for her, readjusting to the silence of the Northern Keepaway after a year spent on the front of the 8th Continental War.

She was already turning her head in my direction.

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