Kaf awoke from his dream again, drenched in cold sweat, breathing heavily as he stared into the thick, oppressive darkness. He didn't turn on the small night light by his bed and instead chose to lie back down. Even though he had only been here two days, he had already dreamed again of his hometown and his family. Strangely enough, whenever he was awake and trying to remember, those memories seemed veiled in a dense fog. As time passed, all his memories began to yellow and grow damp, eventually fading completely—like watching a black-and-white film from a distant past, filled with indistinct screaming faces.
"You had another dream?" The small voice came from the bed beside him. If not for the fact that everyone else was asleep, even slightly heavier breathing would have drowned it out. Kaf blinked uselessly; though he couldn't see, he knew who had spoken. Badia, the scrawny boy from the same village—his only acquaintance among the other boys. They hadn't come to this underground city alone; others had arrived from different villages and even other countries. After being lumped together and separated again, Kaf's dorm only included Badia, who spoke the same dialect.
"Maybe I had too many sweets today," Kaf said. "I forgot what I dreamed about."
"Me too." The creak of bedsprings came from Badia's direction. Though he couldn't see, Kaf could picture Badia curling up under his blanket—just like before, when the other kids were out playing and Badia sat quietly on the sidelines. He was too weak to play soccer and could only ride the swings. "What do you think these people want us to do?"
"I don't know." Kaf shook his head. Over the past two days, they'd experienced many things they couldn't understand. First, they were issued several sets of clothing for different seasons, ranging from simple T-shirts to heavy, elegant black coats. Then came a tablet and a pile of books filled with unreadable script, along with a locker labeled with their names. Boys and girls were housed on opposite sides of the plaza and only saw each other after waking up.
"Maybe they want to teach us how to read—like those foreigners who used to come to the village." Kaf regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Badia's mother had died at the hands of foreigners. She had been tied by her legs and dragged behind a truck—no one had seen her again after that. Kaf felt something was off but didn't have time to dwell on it, quickly adding, "I mean the ones without guns."
"Journalists," Badia said. "You think these people are journalists?"
"Something like that." Kaf licked his dry lips. "I want vanilla ice cream tomorrow."
"Are they good people?" Badia asked again.
"I don't think so." Kaf sighed.
The rules here were strict. They were required to perform specific morning exercises and all forms of prayer were forbidden. On the first day, they had been gathered and informed of this, but not everyone had obeyed. That very morning—if it was morning—they were woken to witness a public whipping. It was administered by the black-armored women themselves—two boys and three girls of varying ages were stripped and suspended, receiving two lashes across the back. Since then, no one dared to pray again. Kaf had learned through fragmented dialects and gestures that those five were sent to a hospital and had yet to return.
Their movements were also strictly limited.
High courtyard walls topped with barbed wire and guard towers surrounded them. Armed soldiers and searchlights patrolled 24/7. It resembled a prison, but there were no air raids, no invading troops or military vehicles, and they could sleep without fear. Most importantly, the food was abundant and delicious—every meal looked like it came from a high-end restaurant on television. It was a life they had never imagined. Sometimes, Kaf thought he might still be dreaming. Yet even such luxurious days couldn't bring true peace of mind. Even the smallest children understood: nothing is given for free, and everything given would one day be taken back—twice over.
Still, compared to when they had first arrived, most had relaxed somewhat.
They had no idea where they were, what the people in charge wanted from them, or how long this life would last. Since they couldn't resist, they might as well enjoy the present. At least for now, they had good food and television to watch. If fear was inevitable, they would wait until the day the ending came.
"Go to sleep. We have to run tomorrow morning."
"Good night, Kaf."
"Good night, Badia."
"You see this? What school still serves French lamb chops for lunch? And beef gravy—real sauce like they use in upscale French restaurants!" Solomon gestured toward Lorna, who was gnawing on a lamb chop in a way that would certainly enrage Athena. Her face was greasy, and a pile of bones and empty dishes was stacked high on the academy office's desk. Stephanie would be the academy's first principal, overseeing the children's education. Solomon didn't plan to tell her that her desk had once been piled with grease-stained bones. "Want a plate too?" the mage nodded to the android continuously bringing in dishes. "Don't be shy—there's always leftovers."
"At first, I thought…" Natasha smiled awkwardly. She had expected something quite different from her on-site visit—and indeed, it was—but not in the way she imagined. "I didn't think you were building the school based on Eton College's standards."
"Did you think I was building a concentration camp? Don't be ridiculous. This is Latin instruction! Crude Americans can only learn that at private schools," Solomon rolled his eyes in disdain. "It's those Americans—you've been hanging around them too much. They've rotted your brain. This is a special period. I followed a psychologist's advice to implement a gradual exposure plan to reduce their resistance. It's working. At least now most of the kids aren't waking up screaming at night. The sedatives and memory suppression potions help them sleep well. Once lectures start and they're assigned to different majors, they'll become the future of the Immortal City, filling its various departments and playing their roles. As long as they succeed in their studies, they'll go from refugees to scholars and warriors—the best among ordinary people. And what I've invested is time, money, patience, and a host of resources the outside world couldn't begin to comprehend."
"What kind of majors have you prepared?"
"Research division, internal affairs division, the Sisterhood convent, and combat division. Each major has its own subcategories, and each subcategory has further subdivisions. Besides personal interest, placement depends on teachers evaluating students' aptitudes. For example, only the top students in the combat division can enter the enforcement squad. In research, only the best can join the genetics lab. Some departments share overlapping education—like the Sisterhood's medical division, the research division's medical school, and the combat division's field hospitals all take courses together, though at different paces. Similarly, the combat division's vehicle operations course is taught alongside the Sisterhood's armored vehicle training. All divisions except for the Sisterhood's convent are co-ed, but every student must undergo military training—at the very least, they must learn to use firearms and melee weapons."
"Wow, you're copying the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy training model?"
"Yes, and you'll want to meet Agent Weaver—I went to great lengths to recruit her."
"What name are you giving the academy?" Romanoff asked. "It has to have a name, right?"
"Uh…"
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