ℭ𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔞 𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔱𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢
Location: The Trial's Space | Mentions: ---
Clara had been doing so well at being invisible.
She'd pressed herself against the wall, made herself small—or as small as a six-foot-tall woman could manage—and watched the others introduce themselves with the kind of easy confidence she'd only ever read about in books. The pale one's sister, CC, had summoned an enormous flaming sword that made the air shimmer with heat, laughing and calling her brother an edgelord like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Cadester? Is that his name?"
Clara's fingers tightened on her bracelet. "They're all so—"
And then the short girl had moved.
Not toward the center of the room where the others were gathering. Not toward the simulation that was building itself around them in wireframes and holographic fog. She had moved toward her, and Clara's entire body had gone rigid with the instinctive certainty that she'd done something wrong, that she was about to be called out for taking up space she hadn't earned—
The pat on her back was gentle. Encouraging.
Clara's breath caught in her throat.
The girl smiled at her, an actual smile, warm and without agenda, and then bounded back toward the group to absorb everyone's attention with her dramatic introduction. Murphy—she'd said her name was Murphy—had done an actual front flip and landed in a pose that should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't, summoning weapons wreathed in fire.
But her touch lingered on Clara's shoulder blade like a brand. When was the last time someone had touched her like that? Like she was a person worth encouraging instead of a problem that needed solving? "Don't cry," Clara told herself fiercely. "Don't you dare cry right now."
She blinked hard, once, twice, and forced herself to focus on the others. The woman in the red hood had summoned a wicker basket from a burst of raven feathers. A girl with pink hair, Lee, had spoken with calm conviction: We won't fail. I believe in everyone. And then someone named Clive had started walking upside-down on clouds, calling himself Enma, his shirt hanging down to expose—
Clara looked away quickly, heat rising in her cheeks.
And then CC's gaze had swept the room and landed directly on her.
"Giant amazon of a woman," her mother's voice supplied helpfully. "Look at you, taking up space like you own it."
CC's expression wasn't cruel, though. Just... curious. That easy grin still in place as she'd mentioned nicknames, and Clara's mouth had gone dry because she didn't have a hero name, not really, she'd just been calling herself—
The simulation completed before she could finish the thought.
The assessment chamber dissolved, replaced by night air and moonlight and the smell of warm asphalt. Police cars flashed red and blue in rhythmic pulses, casting strange shadows across a warehouse that loomed like something out of a nightmare. Clara stumbled slightly as the ground beneath her feet shifted from smooth steel to cracked pavement, her new height making her center of gravity feel wrong in ways she still hadn't adjusted to.
An officer with gray hair and a clean mustache waved them forward. Real enough that Clara could see the creases in his uniform, the way his hand moved with the weight of actual authority.
"This is it," she thought, and her hand moved to the hair stick tucked into her braid before she could stop herself. This is where you prove you're not going to ruin everything.
The other recruits were already moving, already coordinating, one of them introducing people to Mr. Callum. Elias, nervous with something called Hrunting. Juniper with her healing lantern. Kira with twin blades and a predatory confidence that made Clara want to both hide and stand in front of her at the same time.
And Sarah, apparently, who was already bothering the holographic police officers instead of preparing for whatever was about to happen.
"Someone needs to—" Clara started to think, and then stopped herself because who was she to think she knew what anyone needed? Back when she was first undergoing tests, Dr. Brandt had explained, very gently, that her combat sense was "underdeveloped" and she would need 'significant tactical guidance in the field.'
Translation: You have no idea what you're doing.
But Murphy had patted her back. CC had noticed her and not looked away in disgust. Lee believed in everyone, which maybe, possibly, could include her.
Clara pulled the hair stick from her braid.
The transformation took three seconds but felt like three hours. Her spine elongated with a sensation that wasn't quite pain—more like stretching after sleeping wrong, but everywhere. Her legs multiplied, human limbs encased in opalescent plates and reshaping into powerful equine haunches covered in armor and white fur that gleamed silver under the moonlight. Her hoodie and jeans dissolved into something else—not armor exactly, but clothing that adapted to her new form, leaving her torso humanoid while her lower body became entirely horse.
She couldn't help but gasp before asserting herself, and her hands shook as Argent manifested fully in her grip. Twelve feet of silver-white lance, perfectly balanced, the horn of the Unicorn made weapon. It should have felt natural. She'd practiced this transformation dozens of times in empty fields. But everyone was looking, and she was suddenly six-and-a-half feet tall on four legs, and she took up so much space—
"Clara," she said, and her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder this time, though it still felt like she was shouting into a void. "My name is Clara. I can—"
"What? What can you do? Charge in a straight line and hope for the best?"
"—I can protect people," she finished, and it sounded pathetically inadequate compared to CC's flaming sword or Murphy's acrobatic confidence or Red Riding's quiet competence.
Her hooves struck the pavement with sharp metallic sounds as she shifted her weight, trying to find a comfortable stance on four legs instead of two. Argent's point dipped slightly before she corrected it, holding the lance in a two-handed grip that probably looked amateurish to anyone who actually knew what they were doing.
The police officer was still waving them forward. The warehouse loomed. Something bad was in there—that's how these things worked, wasn't it? Hostages or criminals or monsters, something that needed stopping.
Clara's gaze swept across her teammates—were they teammates now? Is that what this was?—trying to figure out where she should position herself. Where do I go? What do I do? Someone tell me what to do.
But no one was giving orders yet, and the silence stretched, and Clara realized with mounting horror that maybe she was supposed to do something instead of waiting for permission.
"I'll—" she started, then stopped. Started again. "If there are people in there who need help, I can get to them fast. I'm faster than—than I look."
Stupid. Obviously you're fast, you're half horse.
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