Chapter Text
The air on Athenis IV smelled of damp earth and cut grass, a scent Recker Eans would forever associate with farewell. His family's light transport, a rusted slate-gray vehicle, seemed even smaller and more frail before the immense adamantium gate marking the main entrance to Prodigy Academy. The structure rose against the sky, a colossus of permacrete and armored glass that eclipsed the modest civilian buildings of the district.
His mother, Lyra, hugged him with a strength that surprised him. "Write," she whispered into his hair. "Every chance you get. Even if it's just a line." She paused to look into the green eyes he had inherited from her, stroking his cheek. The teenager, who would normally be a little embarrassed by such affection from his mother in public, this time tried not to get emotional over this goodbye.
His father, Torin, offered a firm handshake, his gaze serious under his broad forehead. "Be the man we know you are. Obey. Learn. The Emperor watches over the brave." He did not say "come home." On Athenis IV, being selected for Prodigy was an honor that transcended family. It was an ascension, an engraved destiny.
Recker nodded, his throat tight. “I will, father. I will serve the Emperor,” he replied firmly.
The man nodded, proud that his only son had been accepted to become a Princeps. To be the pilot of a Titan was one of the greatest honors in the ranks of mankind. “The Emperor protects.”
“The Emperor protects,” replied the future cadet as he cast one last look at his parents, before turning around and walking towards the gate. With his backpack slung over his shoulder, containing the little he was allowed to bring (a change of civilian clothes and his datapad), he crossed the threshold. The sound of the transport driving away was swallowed by the echo of his own footsteps in the main lobby.
He was not alone. A steady trickle of teenagers, some accompanied, others already alone like him, filtered through the gates. He watched them with disguised curiosity. A boy younger than him with close-cropped hair and an expression of absolute determination. Another who kept adjusting his glasses, muttering to himself. Yet another, large and broad-shouldered, who looked upon the heights with disdain. A mixture of origins, united by the same uncertain destiny.
Holographic instructions, projected by silent servo-skulls, directed them towards a line snaking down a side corridor. The destination: a window with a sign reading "Primary Registration – Administratum." The line moved with the speed of a dying glacier.
Recker sighed. It wasn't his first time dealing with the Administratum, and it seemed this academy would be no exception. From here, he could see they only had two service counters operational. Didn't they have more staff for a day like today?
Ahead of him, a boy of slender build, with curly black hair and a nervous face, was fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "Titanica for you too?" Recker asked, breaking the ice. Recker was quite sociable, usually the one who laughed the loudest in his group of friends, the one who liked to keep the party going.
The boy startled as if he'd been shot. "Ah! No, I... Astra Telepathica. My first psionic screening was last week. It was... intense." He spoke quickly, his blue eyes scanning the surroundings anxiously. "Princeps? That must be... big."
"That's the hope," Recker smiled, feeling a genuine pang of excitement. Talking to someone who wasn't his parents or his local instructors was new. "I'm Recker Eans."
"Wesley Kimmel," the other replied with a genuine smile. "Glad you didn't run off when you heard I'm a psyker," he added.
Recker couldn't help but laugh. "You're not the first I've met. I have an Astropath uncle. I don't... I don't see him often." In fact, the last time was when he was quite young; he barely remembered the man, and his father didn't often speak of his brother. Although he did recall the man was affable.
"Oh, I hope to be a Primaris Psyker," the other boy replied as the line shuffled forward one step.
"Well, they only train Primaris here, right?" Recker asked, now with some doubt.
Wesley nodded. "Yes, they're the ones who work with the Astra Militarum."
"Well, technically, Navigators also work with the Astra Militarum." Behind them, a boy with impeccable posture and a civilian uniform that looked freshly pressed observed everything with a critical air. He had black hair cut almost to the scalp, a very military look.
Wesley turned to him. "Navigators work with the Fleet," he corrected.
The other boy seemed to suppress a sigh. "And the Fleet very often transports the Imperial Guard and has overlapping hierarchies with it," he replied with the typical know-it-all tone.
Recker thought that Wesley was actually right and the other boy was just trying to save face. However, instead of confronting him, he decided to be more diplomatic.
"What's your name? I'm Recker and this is Wesley," he said with his classic good humor.
The other boy stood at attention. "Asa Butterfield, fleet captain cadet-aspirant."
The boy in front of Recker turned around; he had long brown hair. "And I'm Mason Thames, and I'll be an aspirant paratrooper without a parachute if this damn line doesn't start moving faster."
The remark made everyone laugh, and they talked a bit more to kill time while waiting for their turn.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Recker reached the front. Behind the reinforced glass window, a man from the Administratum moved with a slowness that bordered on offensive. His face was a mask of eternal boredom; his fingers, thin and pale, tapped on an ancient-looking data-slate with a click-clack that sounded like breaking bones.
"Name," said the voice, flat and without echo, through a metal grille.
"Recker Ale Eans. From Athenis IV, Hesperides District."
The clerk's eyes, obscured by a pair of bio-optic magnifying lenses, scrutinized him without really seeing him. He typed. Waited. The data-slate spat out an opaque plastic card. "Eans, Recker. Identichip 994-38-921994-KL. First-year Cadet. Collegia Titanica." The card was warm to the touch, freshly printed. On it were his name, his civilian code, his rank, and his unit type.
"What is the Dies Irae?" the teenager asked as he stuck the card to his chest.
The man stopped to look at him as if he were stupid. "The simulated Titan to which you will be assigned."
Then, with the same funereal pace, the man swiveled in his chair, pulled a rectangular package wrapped in opaque plastic from a huge cabinet with hundreds of identical compartments, and slid it through the window. "Duty uniform. One change. The laundering and maintenance regulations are in the booklet you will not read. Room 47, North Wing, Floor 3. Your roommate has already been assigned. The welcome ceremony is in two hours in the main auditorium. Do not be late."
Recker grabbed the package and the card. There was no "good luck," no "welcome." Just the bureaucratic transaction, cold and complete. It was his first real contact with the machinery of the Imperium: efficient, impersonal, and immutable. Recker noticed the clerk took his time announcing for the next boy to step forward after he had walked away.
Burdened with his belongings, he ventured into the academy's corridors. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the endless hallway, flanked by busts of heroes whose names he did not yet know. He felt the gaze of other lost cadets like himself, all following the green holographic arrows blinking at intersections. The uniform package smelled new, of stiff fabric and antiseptic.
Room 47 was a Spartan box: two single beds with thin mattresses, two metal lockers, two simple desks, and a narrow window overlooking a training yard. The air smelled clean, of disinfectant, of no one.
He dropped his backpack on the left bed and opened the uniform package. The gray of the Collegia Titanica was darker than he had imagined, almost the color of a storm cloud. He ran his fingers over the coarse fabric, feeling the raised embroidery of the cog-tower symbol on the chest. Then the door opened.
It was a boy. Tall for his age, with curly blond hair and an expression that was neither hostile nor friendly, simply appraising. He carried a similar backpack and the same uniform package under his arm. His eyes, a grayish blue, swept the room before settling on Recker.
"I suppose this is shared," he said, without preamble. His voice was deeper than expected. He seemed more mature than Recker, perhaps a bit older.
"Looks that way," nodded Recker, attempting a friendly smile. "Recker Eans."
"Walker Scobell." The other boy dropped his backpack onto the empty bed and let the uniform package fall on top of it. His gaze swept the modest room with disdain, as if already finding it deficient. "From Espandor."
Recker knew of Espandor by name, another world in Ultramar. "Titanica too?" He immediately felt stupid for the question; they were roommates and he had the same uniform.
"Obviously." Walker opened his locker, found it empty, and shut the door with a sharp bang. He began unpacking his backpack with efficient movements. An awkward silence settled, broken only by the rustle of fabric and metal.
Recker, determined not to start off on the wrong foot, grasped onto the one thing they had in common. "Did you always want to be a Princeps?" he asked, while storing his own datapad in the nightstand drawer.
Walker stopped moving his things for a moment. He turned and leaned against the locker, crossing his arms. "It's the ultimate war machine. The most powerful weapon a human can pilot. More powerful than a ship, more lethal than a regiment." He spoke with absolute certainty, without a trace of the dreamy emotion Recker felt.
It was a great definition of what a Titan was. Perhaps it was an exaggeration to say it was more powerful than any ship, but Titans were undoubtedly THE war machine of humanity on the battlefield.
"Yeah, that's... incredible," said Recker, excited to find a point of connection. "Back on Athenis, I saw a whole maniple pass by when I was little. Warhounds and a Warlord, 'Fury of Terra.' The ground shook. People cheered. It was... I have no words. Since then, I knew I wanted to be up there. To protect, to be that wall." Recker's eyes shone as he remembered that magical moment when he saw the enormous Titans, feeling the ground rumble beneath them. That day, Recker knew nothing could compare to a Titan. Except the Emperor, of course.
Walker watched him, and for an instant, Recker thought he saw something in his eyes—a flicker of what might have been understanding, or perhaps impatience. "To protect," Walker repeated, his tone neutral. Then, his expression hardened a degree, his gaze becoming more distant, as if looking beyond the room's walls, towards a horizon filled with smoke and ruins. "I aim to be up there to rain fire upon the enemies of mankind. To ensure that what they sow is the only thing they will reap. Ashes."
The difference wasn't just in words; it was in temperature. Recker's enthusiasm cooled in the face of the cold, vengeful intensity of Walker's statement. It wasn't the noble ambition of a defender; it was the destructive, justice-thirsty hunger of an executioner.
"Ah," was all Recker managed to say, feeling the first thread of camaraderie had tangled into something more complex. Perhaps this whole cohabitation thing was going to be a bit complicated, but he was sure he could end up having a good relationship with his roommate.
Walker averted his gaze, effectively ending the conversation. "We should get changed. The ceremony will start soon."
As Recker put on the gray uniform for the first time, feeling the coarse fabric against his skin, the excitement of the moment mingled with a new, slight unease. He had arrived at Prodigy Academy. He had his uniform, his identichip, his bed. And now he also had a roommate whose dreams, though aimed in the same direction, seemed fueled by a fire very different from his own.
The path to becoming a Princeps had begun. But now he understood it would not be a solitary path. He would be bound, for better or worse, to the cold, determined shadow of Walker Scobell.