SERICA
Reilin and I settled into our seats at the auditorium’s back. The opening ceremony, a performance by the Départent Arts Sensoriel, as well as the Dean’s opening address, had both already passed. The grand space, a ring of bleachers surrounding a central pit, was well lit by an orb of light at it’s do’s apex, the Corpusculaire, the sa feature that kept the skys above the campus cloud-free. It still received research today, predating the auditorium and the surrounding city of Scintille. Its beam was focused on the central pit, reactive to the proceedings around it.
The Arts Dostiques Départent Head, responsible for the École bonne, cuisinière, infirmière, and marchand, was in the middle of a prir on our dorm situation. From any vantage-point within the space, she could be seen at a conversational distance, her figure enlarged in the pillar of light above her head. Her na was Philomène Vierge. The wiry brunette was clad in sunflower yellow romper with white frills upon its chest, her make-up and nails were a rainbow of color, gesturing wide across the crowd, her appearance demanding attention as she waded through the banalities of curfews, respecting personal spaces, and consent.
"It should go without saying, but I will reiterate, if a classmate tells you to stop any form of interpersonal interaction, that is touch, immaterial pestering, and conversation, you are to imdiately disengage, at any point, for any reason. Please note, Carillon do monitor campus airwaves for the words "stop, quit," and the phrases "shut up" and "leave alone", if you hear those words, know you are no longer in a private space."
They could have included that in the acceptance letter.
I set them to mory, trying to recall if Reilin had uttered any of them during her washroom blathering.
She did, her ’shut up, shut up, shut up!" That must have triggered our senior visit...
Reilin seed uninterested, sitting beside , eyes set on the Corpusculaire’s rolling waves of color, teeth picking at her lip.
Well shit, how am I supposed to truth bomb soone in private?
Ainset hovered at my other side, half-translucent, working at her wire-like curls. Once set they held shape perfectly, she caught looking and gave a soft smile, then pointed to the front row, where Illia sat, picking at her nails.
"You will each share a living space with eleven of your classmates, as determined by this evening’s draft. Your bedchambers will flank said space. As the dormitory complex is located underground, flooding is a rare, but potential occurrence. In such an event, you are to assemble your entire [equipe] before surfacing in a calm, orderly fashion. There are failsafes in place to prevent loss of life from drowning, trampling is the greatest danger in such a situation."
I clenched my jaw to hold back a yawn. I already knew most of this. Dorms, The Donjon, were located underground to preserve natural space above, minimal comfort, maximum aesthetic.
As she droned, I took a mont to pick out faces in the crowd, ntally checking off nas on my list. I wasn’t sure how many of my personal picks would be able to secure admission and found myself a little disappointed. I only managed to spot seven, though my viewpoint wasn’t ideal, and there was still evening comncent to co.
"And now, it’s my honor to introduce Départent Head of the Arts Exploratoire, Aurélie Marcass!," Philomène paused at the ensue wave of applause as Aurélie approached the stage. She didn’t need an introduction, the sleek, blonde wolf-cut, flowing gold dress cascading over athletic curves, and red cape billowing off her left shoulder were unmistakable.
I stifled a squeal.
She showed up!
I abhored idol worship, but Aurélie was worth it. Reilin leaned forward. As students of the Arts Exploratoire, she was our war-horn, our calling, a paragon. I didn’t expect this, last I heard she was on expedition in the Silverwreath.
Cora why aren’t you here...
Our hands would be locked, shaking together. She’d lose her shit.
The Corpusculaire pulled to her visage, enlarging it in the air above her head. She bore an elegance cross-marked by scars that only served as highlights.
"Thank you, girls," her voice bood through the auditorium. Hand at her hip, she pald the handle of her leash, a gleaming wound length of black leather with nurous large gemstones set upon its length. One in particular shone bright blue.
Coup de Tonnerre, The Breath of Thunder.
That Esprit represented was the school’s greatest pride, a bound Esprit with the rank of Paige. A decade ago, the world thought it impossible.
I was going to miss this for a washroom fingerbang...
I thanked my senior savior.
"It fills with pride. So many familiar faces." she held a beat, amid cries of adoration, "A couple of you I even babysat, earning my tuition."
I would have missed this to work in a warehouse.
"Regardless of circumstance, every one of you exhibited excellence to arrive here. Know this however, none of you have arrived. Bloom is the crucible, not the blacksmith’s hamr, material deed impure must be discarded, replaced."
I gulped, the true weight of probation settling on my shoulders.
"This may sound like cruelty. It is not. Your hamr is the wide world. You will leave these halls steel or refuse. Arming a girl with a Bloom diploma, without the practical knowledge to follow through on its promise would be true cruelty." The Corpusculaire darkened, throwing the auditorium into the blue of the deep sea, a single shaft of light descending on our Goddess.
"I have high expectations."
She stepped a foot out wide, knee bent, heeled in gold, then dropped a shoulder, "Attente~!" she wailed, raising her eyes to the ceiling, hair pulling back like a pair of wings.
We all scread, and then, we were plunged into pitch black. Reilin’s hand found mine, linking her fingers. My heart stamred.
Then an oboe’s hum rose in the orchestral pit, dull, growing louder. I squeezed her back.
Crack! A blinding flash of lightning struck up to the Corpusculaire and it humd, cascading through a rainbow of colors before settling back to that dark blue. When my eyes adjusted, Aurelie stood ankle-deep in cloud, behind her, extending from the rolling fog, was the torso of a woman nearly thirty feet tall, heaving unsmoothed breasts, hair rolling like a storm-bank, skin blue almost black, light flashing within.
Ozone hit my nose, clutching Reilin so tight, amid the roar of the wind and the crowd and us. The room went frigid, Aurelie spun wide, twirling across the stage and began to sing. I couldn’t follow the words. They were wild, foreign, more wind and sky than breath. Her movents were fluid flashes of light, an enraged tornado working its way across the stage as Coup de Tonnerre writhed sensual to the rhythm of Bloom’s orchestra.
It was a prir. How a woman could claim a God.
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