The Granfield

Confused glances passed through the cadets. Their parents hadn't told them about the war that had ravaged Mannerhaus for half a millenia; they hadn't been taught about the turning point in human history.

"The GRANFIELD, cadets. The reason you're here today; the reason we all are." At this, the sergeant paced back and forth in front of the screen-wall, and a projection lit up as the lights in the room dimmed. Behind him, a propaganda piece, one they had all seen at one point or another - recruitment of soldiers for the Hyperwar.

[Our brave soldiers have kept the enemies at bay for three centuries with the power of the AT-37 Mannerfield - with our edge on technology and our supremely trained soldiers, we will keep them at bay for three centuries more. Sacrifice for your country is not sacrifice at all, comrades, but a glorious token for the future.] A patriotic voice came across the speakers, and the Mannerhaus flag, a black cross on a gold background, was shown waving behind a soldier in a clean black uniform, his sash covered in medals and ribbons and stars.

"Major General Erfeld, the finest Ace to be produced by Anverheim's World. The GRANFIELD, cadets, protects you from any projectile at all. Arrows, guns, yes, but also missiles, lasers, plasma beams. You children will be invincible to anything and anyone - except other Aces." A proud smile, and a fond one, passed the sergeant's face. Maybe he was reminiscing, thinking about his own life in the army.

"Now, stand. We'll be sorting you into dormitories first, then assigning Provisional Ensigns - those will be your little captains."

At this, the cadets all stood, picking their caps up from the table and clicking their heels together. Each cadet wore the same uniform, male or female, and each uniform was the same crisp black used by all of Mannerhaus' GRANFIELD squadrons. A grey dress shirt and a black tie beneath the classic army-top, and a golden sash. On their sashes were silver pins of eagles beneath a semicircle clutching a claymore, the mark of the Granfield Corps, and on their left arms a patch with a similar appearance. On their right arms were the same patch depicting a single golden bar, the mark of a cadet in the force.

Among that small sea of cadets stood one relatively average-looking child - dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and a dark, gloomy face that kind of looked like he wanted to kick someone's shins - were about all that could be said about Will Franzen. To be fair, though, which cadet wouldn't want to take out anger at the moment? Three days ago he had been playing with friends by the beach, two days ago he took the test, and yesterday he was given a going-away party by his family, with the promise he would get to see them after the first four year training stint. In his head, though, a slightly different scene was going through his head, if it could be called that; it was really the same word, repeating itself over and over again.

{Finally.}