The mansion–my home–appears almost mystical in the light of the setting sun. Despite its size, the surrounding forest gives it an air of mystery, as though it were the home of a strange wizard. The house itself is built in a craftsman style, with large windows and an even larger garage (now my workshop). The exterior appears to be made of some sort of wood, although I couldn't tell you if it's real or not. The mansion has two main wings and three stories, with the top floor housing my father's own workshop. The top level is smaller than the others, and has a large circular window. Even from across the front garden, you can see the soft multicolor glow of my father's current crystal projects.

What had once been an open clearing had slowly been converted into a beautiful garden. Mary-Ann had taken it upon herself to plant and cultivate it after my mother's death. It has every flower or shrub I could possibly think of, as well as trees and other exotic plants, like bamboo. My favorite section is off to one corner–a koi pond overlooked by a weeping willow. I've spent many a day sitting under its branches reading or fiddling with scrap metal.

As beautiful as the sight is, I believe Mary-Ann had something else in mind when she began work on it. The garden is maze-like in its construction, with shrubs and bodies of water obstructing what otherwise would have been a straight shot to the house. My father also made his own addition. If I were to look into specific shrubs, I'd be able to make out the reflective lenses of cameras.

Detric waves to us from the front porch, his metal plating gleaming red in the dying light. Unlike Mary-Ann, you could never mistake Detric for human. His figure is quite imposing, with many components of his iron skeleton and joints on display outside his chassis. While his head maintains the vaguely humanoid shape, his eyes are hollow holes that glow robin blue with the light of my father's dynami. A metal grill replaces his mouth, and the voice that echoes from it is gentlemanly, yet slightly warbled by the echo of his head cavity. As one of my father's oldest creations, he doesn't stray far from the mansion these days.

"Welcome back, masters," he says, holding open the door for us as we climb the porch steps. I stick close to the edge of the stairs as I ascend–a habit that I had picked up many, many years ago. A shiver runs up my spine as the image of an outstretched hand springs to mind. "And I'm glad to see you're well, Mistress Dia. You gave us all quite a fright."

"I'm sorry I scared you all," I say, glancing at my father. "But as you can see, I'm right as rain now."

I twist my bracelets as I say it, just to make sure that my lifelines are still securely attached. As we enter into the foyer, I spot a large manila envelope sitting on the entry table. The usual odds and ends that can be found there have been brushed to the side, as though someone had made sure I would see it immediately. I freeze, my heart thudding in my chest.

"Well?" my dad says softly, nudging me forward. "Open it."

Butterflies hatch in my stomach, crawling along its walls.

What if I'm rejected? Do I just go to work at my dad's factory? I guess I could go into business for myself, but without accreditation I'll be limited in how many customers I can pull in–

A heavy hand rests on my shoulder. I turn to see Mary-Ann smiling gently at me, her eyes glowing pale blue.

"There's no need to be anxious," she murmurs. She shivers slightly as a particularly large wave of nausea rushes over me. I don't know why she felt the need to use her empath crystal–I'm sure my nerves are clearly written all over my face. "You have a bright future ahead of you no matter what happens."

I take a deep breath and scoop up the envelope, ripping the top off before I can decide against it. My family crowds around me as I take the slip of paper out, hands shaking.

"....Delayed?!" my father spits, taking the paper from my hands. "Dear Dia Krystallo, due to the unprecedented nature of your exam, additional time will be needed to determine your admissions status. You can expect a follow up interview on–excuse me?!"

He pulls the page closer to his face.

"That's today! Those stuck up–" he huffs in frustration, handing the page back to me. "How dare they decide on a date and time without consulting the person they plan to meet. Do they honestly think my daughter has nothing better to do than chat up the people that nearly risked her life? The nerve–"

"Dad," I say gently, pulling on his sleeve. I skim over the letter, settling on the time. "Dad, if this is true, they're going to be here soon–"

As though my words had summoned them, there's a knock on the door. We all freeze at the sound, the freshly opened letter slipping out of my hands and gently gliding to the floor. Before I have a moment to think, my father steps forward and rips the door open, his face a unique shade of beet red.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" he growls. "We just got home from the hospital, Lacee. The hospital."

"Hello Chris," comes the cool reply. I sidestep my father and move to greet our very important and not to be angered guests, but the words die in my throat. In front of me are two people, each one's eyes boring into my very soul. "Is this your daughter?"

The speaker emanates an air of calm and collection, their storm gray eyes narrowed as they look at me. The severity of their eyes is contradicted by their close-cropped purple hair–it just barely touches their ears, and the blond of their roots is starting to show. They're somewhat short, and their crossed arms say they're here to do business–but they wear a mid-length black dress that hugs their body. Golden earrings in the shape of strings of runic symbols dangle from their ears, and golden chains hang from either side of the glasses, curving down and meeting behind their head.

Are they here to discipline me, or take me out for a night on the town?

I shake off my awe, forcing my lips to move.

"Y-yes, I am," I say, cursing myself for the tremor in my voice. "My name is Dia. It's nice to meet you..."

"Dr. Istori," they finish, extending a hand to me. I take it, trying to channel some strength and confidence into my hand. They seem to smile slightly at my attempt. "I'm the university head, as well as the dean of the research track. Your father and I go way back–we used to be in school together."

Some of the anger seems to flow out of my father and he sighs, scratching the back of his head.

"That we were," he mutters. "But it appears they've gotten a bit lax in their treatment of potential students. The Lacee I knew wouldn't have been so negligent."

"What happened is truly regrettable, but I don't personally have a hand in admissions," Dr. Istori retorts, glancing coolly at my father. They return their gaze to me, wincing a bit. "It's because of that failure on our part that I'm here tonight in person. We didn't want to extend the admissions process any longer than necessary, and I will be the first to apologize for any harm it may have caused. I hope our clinic took good care of you–free of charge, of course."

"It better have been. A bill would have added insult to injury," Dad says simply. He gives Dr. Istori one last withering glance, and then sighs and moves out of the doorway. "You're here for my daughter, and I won't stand in her way. Come in and make yourselves comfortable."

Detric and Mary-Ann wordlessly take his place, leading our two guests into one of our living spaces. I move to follow them, but my father stops me.

"If anything happens, you know where to find me," he says softly, pointing up. "Let me know if I need to have Detric or Mary-Ann escort them out."

"I'll be fine dad," I say, smiling. "I'll see you in a bit."

He grumbles one last time before lumbering off, hands in his pockets. Without any more interruptions, I follow my guests into the formal sitting room. A semi-circular set of windows adorns one end of the room, giving a great view of the garden. A fireplace is set into another wall, with a sectional couch and a few armchairs situated around it. This is likely the cleanest room in the house–no scrap metal, grease, tools, or paperwork to be seen. On the rare occasion that my father has a colleague visit the house, this is usually where he takes them.

Dr. Isitori is sitting in one of the room's armchairs, while their companion stands. As soon as I enter the room, both of their attention fixates on me. For a moment I wish that my father had stayed. There's something about these two that's intimidating.

"Come, have a seat," Dr. Isitori says, gesturing to a spot across from them. I try to appear confident as I stride across the room, but something about being given an order in my own home makes me wilt a bit. Once I'm seated, Dr. Isitori gestures to their companion. He's just as eccentric looking, but gives off a much more sinister air. "This is my colleague, Scout. He's the Dean of our H.A.T program at the university."

"A pleasure," Scout purrs. His stature is made even taller by the top hat he wears, which he angles towards me in greeting. It's an impressive piece–pure black, with a large golden chain circling around the base. The chain then falls off the side of the hat, ending in an ornamental golden gear about the size of a fist. It swings back and forth like a pendulum whenever he moves. The theme of black and gold is continued throughout his entire outfit. He wears a black tailcoat suit with golden ornamentals–golden buttons in the shape of gears, as well as golden gear cufflinks. His tie is a flashy gold color, which makes the white of the undershirt seem dull in comparison.

There are a few details that seem out of place, however. His shoes are black boots instead of dress shoes, and his gloves are fingerless and heavy duty–not unlike the ones I usually wear. There is a splash of color on his chest in the form of some sort of medals. His cane is also of interest. He seems to be in his mid forties, so I doubt he needs it–but it isn't entirely for show, either. The top of the cane is (of course) a well-polished golden ball. The shaft of the cane breaks the black and gold trend, as it's made of some sort of silver metal, likely steel. It starts off slightly narrower than the head of the cane, and then tapers off into a very fine point.

I get the feeling it would be painful to have that used against you, I note.

Scout's jet black hook mustache raises slightly as he grins at me, as though observing him is exactly what he wanted me to do. His wavy shoulder-length black hair is tied back into a short ponytail, displaying the single golden stud in his right ear. His eyes are equally black, as though he was born to wear this one particular outfit. I get the sense that he wears the same exact thing every day.

"You see, Lacee? You see how she sized both of us up? This one is observant," he says, leaning on his cane as he looks me over. "Now tell me, child. What's missing?"

"What's missing?" I echo, brow wrinkling. "What do you mean?"

He doesn't bother to answer, simply raising an eyebrow at me. Dr. Isitori has a bemused look on their face, and doesn't offer any help either. They both remain silent as I sweat, racking my brain for an answer.

What's missing?

I thought I had taken in all the major details in their appearances. I glance out the window, noting that they arrived via a private car–a rarity in the age of airtrains. They came here rather suddenly and knew where I lived... but that information would've been on my application. And then it hits me.

"Where are your automatons?" I blurt.

It's rare for puppeteers to be without them–especially a H.A.T agent. Automatons are their first line of defense.

"Ha!" Scout claps once, and then points at me with a wide grin. "I knew I liked you. That's exactly right. Where are our puppets? As for the answer, well. It wouldn't be very smart of me to answer you, would it?"

Dr. Isitori rolls their eyes in my direction, as though they sympathized with my plight.

"Let's get on with the reason for our visit now, shall we?" they say firmly. The formality in their tone makes me sit up straight, and I nod quickly. Scout scoffs and turns toward the window, scanning the garden outside. "I want to be the first to apologize for the interruption in your exam. Kindette Syndrome is quite rare, and our admissions team wasn't prepared for it. That is a gross oversight on our part, and we hope you'll forgive us for our negligence. From what I understand, you tried to warn the staff, and they brushed your concerns aside. They will be disciplined and better trained for next year's examinations."

"Thank you," I say uncertainly. "It means a lot. But... I feel like there's more."

Dr. Isitori sighs and nods.

"Unfortunately so. Breaking the crystal wasn't really an issue. They are rare and expensive, yes, but the university can admit when it was their own ill preparation that caused property damage," they continue. "The cost of repair will be covered entirely by the university. However, you entered into critical condition during what the university considers to be a standard test of ability. There are those on the admissions team who feel that your condition is too large a liability to take on, or that you may not be a good fit if you have no control of your power. I personally find this thought process grossly unfair... but that is the thought process of the admin."

My heart sinks.

"Are you saying that I'm being denied admission?" I ask quietly, gripping the arms of my chair.

"Not exactly. If it were so simple as a denial, you would have simply received a letter saying as much," Dr. Isitori explains, leaning back and cleaning their glasses. "We deny thousands of students every cycle; we're no stranger to tough decisions. Your case is somewhat unique though, and requires additional consideration. Your results on the written exam were exceptional–in the top five percent. That alone should guarantee you a spot.

"However, for the reasons previously mentioned, admissions is being... skittish. Luckily for you, your case has become something of a gossip topic. Your results were sent to the deans of the academy for consideration, and quite a few of them have developed an interest in you; including Scout and I."

"The administration is being idiotic to even consider rejecting you," Scout adds, glancing over his shoulder. "A candidate with such a high score combined with your raw power? What more could they want? Not to mention an aptitude for several different tracks."

"I'm not sure I understand," I say. "Am I in or not?"

"Essentially, yes. You're in," Dr. Isitori. Before I can celebrate, though, they hold up a hand. "With conditions."

I squirm in my chair, the nervous butterflies trying to force their way up my esophagus.

"Just tell the girl, Lacee. She looks like she's about to soil herself."

I balk, and glare at Scout. Status and caution be damned, I can't believe he just said that. He just laughs at my expression, and turns away again.

"The university can hardly ignore the opinion of both the university head and a government sanctioned official, so they have granted you conditional admission."

Scout pulls a large manila envelope out of his suit and hands it to Dr. Isitori. They then hand it to me, and continue speaking as I open it.

"We keep our orientation processes a strict secret from candidates, so I'm limited to how much I can explain at the moment–but there is a secondary selection process after acceptance that determines which tracks you qualify to enter," they continue. I rip open the envelope and slide out the paper, skimming it as they talk. My eyes land on the words just as they tell me the condition. "Your condition for entry is that you enter into the Human Automaton Taskforce track, and complete orientation activities honestly and to the fullest of your ability. That is, you must not handicap yourself to avoid selection into the H.A.T track."

It feels as if my entire world is falling apart in front of me. I force myself to take deep breaths, fighting back the burning in my eyes.

The military track? I have to enter the military if I want to go to school there? I don't understand.

Scout has turned to face us again, and is keeping a careful eye on my reaction.

"I-I'm sorry," I start, looking between them. "I'm grateful that I'm being offered admission at all, really... but the only reason I wanted to attend AA is for the engineering program. There's no purpose to me going if it means I have to give that up."

"Who said you had to give up engineering?" Scout caws, grinning at me. "It's unusual, but it is possible to enroll in two tracks concurrently. It'll be hard, that's for damn sure. You'd have to work twice as hard as the average student. I have a feeling that it wouldn't be an issue for you, though. You've got what it takes."

"But aren't H.A.T students required to take up positions in the force after graduating? I don't think that'd be a good fit for me," I insist. I shrink back into my seat as Scout strides over, his pendulum swinging with every step. He stares at me, a crazed gleam in his eye.

"That's true. After graduation, all H.A.T students are required to serve five years in the taskforce. However, there are benefits. Being in the H.A.T track waives all your school fees, for example. And we have incredible benefits," he starts. He glances through the room's glass doors and into the rest of the house. "If you want to leave your rich daddy's nest and stand on your own two feet, it isn't that bad a deal, is it?"

"There are also positions within the H.A.T that don't involve policing or warfare," Dr. Isitori pipes up, glowering at her colleague. "The combination of engineering and H.A.T would make you ideal for servicing taskforce partner automatons, for example. If I recall correctly, you said in your application that you wanted to 'change the world, one automaton at a time.'"

Hearing the head of the entire university quote my stupid one-liner wants to make me die inside... but they also don't seem like they're judging me.

"Taskforce automatons are specifically built and trained for combat–but that also means they suffer much more wear than civilian automatons, as you can likely guess," Dr. Isitori says, giving me a knowing smile.

If I wanted to help automatons, that would be one of the best places to do it. Although...

One look at Scout made it obvious he didn't share my concerns for automaton welfare. And this was the head of the department.

"Why does H.A.T want me?" I ask, looking at Scout. "Is it just my power? Because if that's the case, you could just get two or three students that actually want to be in your taskforce, and they would perform just as well as me. Not to mention the reason I'm being denied my admission is because of the inherent risk to my health."

"There she is," he exclaims, looking absolutely delighted. It's not a good sign when someone's delight makes you feel uneasy. "I was wondering when your spunk was going to show itself. Good questions, as expected."

He starts to pace the room, tapping his cane on the floor.

"You alone could command a whole puppet squadron. But you're right–we have enough agents that replacing you would be child's play. However!" He spins and points his cane at me, making me freeze in my seat. The point is very nearly brushing my nose. Dr. Isitori jumps up, looking very much like they're about to slap the Dean of H.A.T.

"Scout," they warn, eyes flickering with a yellow light. Their threat doesn't faze him, and his grin simply grows wider.

He's insane.

"Numbers mean nothing. It's that brain of yours that I'm interested in," he says, tapping my nose with the end of his cane. He then drops the tip back to the floor with a heavy thunk. "In all my time teaching you brats at the H.A.T, I've never seen a student suggest attacking a puppeteer directly. Themselves, no less! We need that sort of novel, out-of-the-box thinking within our ranks. So no more of that fixing-puppet bullshit. I think you'll find that once you start learning how to control and utilize your power, that you enjoy being one of us."

"Scout, so help me, I am going to fire you for endangering a student," Dr. Isitori hisses. "Leave. Now."

"Suuuure you are," Scout drawls, smirking at them. "But I've said my peace. I'll leave as you command, oh great headmaster."

Scout tips his hat to me again, and turns to leave, cane tapping a rhythm on the floor.

"Come."

The air shimmers at Scout's shoulder, and an automaton appears, as if out of nothing. My heart shudders in my chest as I wonder just how long it had been there, and how close to me it had been lurking. The thing looks truly monstrous towering over its puppeteer. It's covered in some sort of synthetic gray fur and looks not unlike a werewolf from old bedtime stories. It stands on its curved hind legs, the glint of steel claws gleaming from all four of its massive paws. Despite its size, it moves silently as it pads after its master, ducking its canine head to keep from hitting the doorframe. My eyes remain glued to its back until it exits the mansion, ambling across the garden.

"I apologize for him," Dr. Isitori sighs. "He's rather... eccentric, but I assure you he would have caused you no harm."

"...Right," I mutter. I shake my head slightly, willing the image of the wolf-like automaton out of my mind.

"Now that we can speak freely, I feel I must offer my condolences for this situation you've been put in. It's entirely unfair, but I'm afraid my hands are tied. The state has shown great interest in you, and I'm not in a position to oppose them," they continue. "However, he is right in one aspect. Learning to control your power may be helpful to your health, as well as open additional doors for you."

I nod, turning my bracelets over in my fingers. I wonder what it would be like to be free of them? Is it even possible? I suppose it is if I had enough automatons... but I wouldn't be comfortable partnering with that many. It just doesn't feel right.

"As it is, I see two options for you," Dr. Isitori says gently. "You could take this offer, and receive the best instruction out there on two different subjects. It would mean working for H.A.T for a few years, but that sort of experience may do you good. Or, you could continue as you are. From what I understand, you already have a good reputation as a mechanic, and your father is an excellent teacher on the subject. You might not have a shiny piece of paper, but I doubt it would harm you in the long run."

I pick up the offer letter again, scanning the details for myself. Was renting myself out to the military worth admission? On the bottom is a line for my signature, as well as instructions on returning the document.

"You don't have to decide now," they say, standing up. "Give it some thought–you have three days before orientation."

I stand with them, extending my hand. They shake it, giving me a warm smile.

"Thanks for coming to tell me all of this. I appreciate it," I tell them.

"It's the least we could do."

I walk Dr. Isitori to the front door. As they step outside, a giant bird descends from the sky and lands beside her, cawing. I blink and look again. Although night has fully set in, the light spilling through the front door is enough. The chassis on the great bird-like automaton casts a pale blue reflection, intricately engraved feather patterns making its way down and around its winged body. Its neck is much longer than that of a bird's, and its head is clearly robotic. Beady eyes glow a light purple as it cocks its head at me, its long pointed beak opening and closing as it studies me. Dr. Isitori looks over their shoulder, chuckling at whatever expression is on my face.

"Come now Ifred, it's late. We need to get back."

Ifred–who I assume is the automaton–squawks at me, and then flattens itself to the ground. Dr. Isitori climbs on its back. Once its passenger has secured themselves, the automaton stands up. It towers over me.

"I hope to hear back from you soon," Dr. Isitori says. From up there, their eyes are obscured by the glare of their glasses. "My contact information should be in the offer letter. Oh, and let your father know that we still have a professor position open, if he's interested. Until next time."

The purple glow of Ifred's eyes becomes more powerful, encompassing the two of them in a purple nimbus of energy–not unlike that of an airtrain. The technical part of my brain identifies it as the work of a telekinesis crystal. Ifred lifts its wings and raises its head, letting go one more mighty squawk before taking off, soaring into the night sky.