Clink.

Clank.

These sounds of metal striking on metal overwhelm the chatters from the living spaces of the Village, which are otherwise the only intrusion from the monotony of silence that has been blanketing the environment—heck, the whole world, most probably.

This open lot—which presumably used to be a tennis court, as evidenced by a few mowed-down rusty steel poles around the perimeter, with frayed, interlocked, browned white strings still attached to them—serves as the rangers' training site. It's about a quarter-kilometer walk away from the living spaces, located so, in order for the unconcerned citizens to be kept away from the dangers of what we do here.

Today, especially, is sword day.

The rookies, myself included, are being schooled by the inducted rangers on how to properly carry and use this weapon in times of crisis, starting with the mandatory orientation in distinguishing the pointy end from the handle, as if that isn't obvious, even to people who haven't watched a single episode of Game of Thrones.

Commander Michael Horton, the head of the United States Secret Service—or should I say, the former head of the now-defunct Secret Service—is overseeing the process by making sure that only the qualified and willing are drafted, that the trainers are teaching only what is necessary and that petty brawls among hotheaded men, such as what happened a while ago between a few recruits, never happen again.

Thankfully, he is a Jeor Mormont and not an Alliser Thorne.

Which is a pleasant surprise considering that his son, Gabriel Horton, a.k.a. one of Alexander's cronies, the ginger—yes, I have learned both their names now—resembles not the personality of the respectable Lord Commander of the Night's Watch but of the bitter, mutiny-initiating character from the show.

The apple sometimes does fall farthest from the tree.

I've also been told that Commander Horton is an exceptional agent, with immeasurable loyalty, valor, intellect and gun expertise. It sucks that I'll never get to see him in action with a pistol, nor will I be coached by him in using one myself.

As it appears, guns aren't the preferred weapon choice here. Nor are they even a weapon choice, per se.

It's already my second day in training and my fourth watching them drill, but there has never been a 'gun' day, nor has there been any kind of firearm in sight at the dug-up weaponry near the president's quarters.

Maybe they were all discarded, since they're pretty much useless in this war against the Antes, or so I've been told. Because, apparently, shots of ammunitions made from lead and other regular metals can't even wound or, much less, kill an Ante. Only a particular metal called Omer, a sharp-as-diamond element which is quite rare—the same material these blades are made of—has been proven to annihilate them.

So, rather than be used against the troops' advantage, their guns may have been thrown away at sea or destroyed.

"Now, we switch places," Commander Horton tells everyone, with confidence—but not cockiness—in his utterance, as is expected of a man with such dignity. "The attacker will now play the defense and vice versa."

"Wait!" shouts someone with a very familiar voice.

The exclamation distracts everybody's concentration, just as we have already assumed combat position.

And I happen to know one other person besides Ashley and Sasha who enjoys and craves this much attention:

"Alexander!" Commander Horton calls out, marching away from us to meet the smirking bastard. "What are you doing here?"

"And where do you think you're going with that blade?" Brad asks him, practically shouting with his right hand serving as amplifier.

"I'm joining you, guys," Alexander answers, matching Brad's volume, as he approaches the battalion with a sword held upward using his two hands, like how an exorcist is portrayed clenching a crucifix during demon possession reenactments in those horror (fake) reality television shows. "You know, for training."

"Ha! This isn't a game or some cosplay, Moore," Brad quips with just enough sarcasm to throw him off his high horse. "And that shit ain't a prop or some toy—not like a fucking lightsaber you're obviously so deprived from playing with as a kid."

Some of us men snort and a select few are roaring with laughter at the snark, while the rest—the cowards, in my opinion—are devoid of any reactions, trying to conceal their inner satisfaction at the villain being taken down with a taste of his own medicine, which apparently doesn't happen very often.

It appears that most of the citizens here remain under the stranglehold of the Moores, even after the republic's collapse three years ago.

"I know, twat," Alexander hits back, his eyebrows closing in together to form creases in between, provoked. "I'm done with child's play anyway."

The asshat looks around and finds me, before giving me a knowing grin (and is that a wink?) like he has plotted something and is warning me about it, the last thing he said suddenly hinting some sort of a double entendre, which doesn't seem good.

"Well," the commander interrupts, putting the asshole's sword down, "does your father know you're here?"

"What does he care?" Alexander snaps, just out of the blue. "I'm not Nate."

It seems like the asshole has some daddy issues, an unexpected complexity to his otherwise two-dimensional personality.

Interesting.

And just who might this Nate be?

The president's other, non-prodigal son?

The legitimate child we didn't know existed in the Arthurian legend?

"I'm an adult. I don't need his permission," he continues, the mere mention of the word father obviously pushing a button in him.

"Alright, son," Commander Horton concedes, his regard wandering off from him. "Let's resume the training, shall we?"

"We shall," the rangers answer in unison.

I look around, amazed by the amount of discipline (most of) these men have.

"So, if all of Ross' prophetic visions are true—and I'm not saying that they aren't, Mr. Thomas—then, we'd have a shot at locating and infiltrating the Ante headquarters—or the Centrum, as they call it—and kill that fucking king of the monsters," the commander speaks, as he commences his pep talk. "But in order to prevent the possible casualties from being actual casualties, we need to train long and hard, each and every day, until we're skilled enough to face them with confidence and put up a goddamn fight."

The guy apparently has an extensive experience in leading—and in public speaking commitments, no doubt—that he gets all our spirits up that easily, as evident in the way everybody is nodding to every fragment of a statement he makes.

"Now, who's ready to serve the ugly beasts a plate of the ultimate human vengeance?" he throws the question to his audience.

"We are!" responds everyone in attendance, complete with a couple fists in the air—including Alexander, who I know on a different occasion would be a total sourpuss.

"We may not have their razor claws and psychokinetic supernatural abilities," the commander continues while circling the area, "but what we lack in physical faculties, we sure make up in spirit, correct?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Alright. Let's get to work. Everybody, assume position."

Brad pulls out his sword, and I follow.

"Alexander, son, find a sparring partner," the commander tells him.

Every one of us looks at him blankly, with not one displaying any kind of enthusiasm to be paired with him, and then looks away.

Well, good luck with that, asshole.

I especially don't see your boys here.

Searching the area and seeing everybody already partnered up, Alexander sighs before calling the petite guy with the kinky hair, who's like fourteen, "Hey, nigga!"

The lad and his sparring partner both goggle at him, their eyes almost the size of a quarter, surprised with the racial slur, which is so uncalled for.

"Yes, you dork," he shouts, pointing his sword towards him. "Come over here and spar with me. Tell the fatty to sit this one out."

I must say, the asshole sure has his own standards of selection.

He chooses not just by color but by size.

He must have confused the old principle with picking on someone half his size.

"On my mark," Commander Horton prompts, "ready, set, attack!"

And attack I go.

Like some psycho.

Hollering as I fuel every strike.

Just like in football. Just like the old, simpler times.

The idea of being in a competitive situation always causing my adrenaline to spike up.

And I'm determined to thrash Brad this time around, since he disarmed me when he was in my position. Twice.

No, thrice. Or was it four times? I honestly can't tell.

I'm really determined to win, and I might just, seeing as I'm making him tread backwards strike after strike after strike after—

"Woah! Woah! Woah!" Commander Horton sounds off with alarm, grabbing my attention mid-strike. "Yield! Yield! The boy is yielding, Alexander. That's enough!"

I look at Alexander and see him motioning to still hit the poor lad with his sword, despite Commander Horton's orders and the latter's obvious gesture of surrender: kneeling with his blade held overhead, using it as shield from the former's continuous, sadistic blows.

Wow, this guy has cruelty in him too.

Arrogance and cruelty in one person? Well, that's a record.

A record fitting of an effective antagonist.

"Can't you see you already have him on his knees?" the commander raises his voice, scolding him. "This kid isn't some Ante beast which we'd never allow any surrender. He is one of us—an ally, for Christ's sake. Clearly, you should have arrived sooner for the briefing to have known your limitations."

"Okay, I'm bored," Alexander expresses, throwing his weapon to the dusty ground. "I need a better partner. Anyone?"

With my regard fixed on the scene, another sound of metal dropping to the ground pulls me back to my own business.

Shit.

Brad disarms me. Again.

Fuck my flimsy concentration.

As I pick up my sword, the mishap seems to have caught Alexander's attention like a killer shark sensing some blood in the water. He then walks up to me, with his classic I-own-the-world gait in full effect.

"How about you, Thomas?" he asks me, his face even more smug than before, wearing his victory of almost slaying someone in a sparring session for no clear reason as an accessory. "Wanna spar with me?"

I would say, go fuck yourself, dipshit, but I know that outright rejecting a challenge from a Joffrey Baratheon clone will definitely make his head bigger, like, ten-fold, with him thinking that no man in this world—which isn't a lot, by the way—would want to mess with him.

And I'm not afraid facing off some illegitimate heir-apparent man-child.

Especially not in a competition.

After all, I have a feeling that he is a Joffrey Baratheon of a sword fighter too.

I would love, more than anyone, to take him down a notch or two.

"You know, I would, but I already have a partner," I reply, knowing all too well how it feels to be ditched by someone for somebody else.

"Well, I'm sure sweet Brad won't mind me borrowing his friend. Right, Brad?"

"Yes, your highness," Brad retorts, well, Brad-style. "He's all yours."

"Awesome!"

And like an actual child who is excited to play a game, Alexander dashes away to pick up his sword and returns with it, producing clouds of dust arounds us.

I tighten my grip on mine.

"Alright. No more of your outbursts, Alexander, understood?" the commander warns, seizing my new partner by the upper arm. "And when the other person says 'yield', please hear the damn thing."

Alexanders nods, his gaze on me never faltering.

A gaze that looks like he's about to eat me.

Savage and hungry.

Demonic.

"Give me your best, okay, fairy?" he quips in a husky, near-whispering volume as we orbit each other, awaiting the commanders' signal. "Don't hold back just because I'm, you know, new to this whole fighting thing."

"You bet I will," I respond, realizing exactly what he's doing.

Too bad, I'm wise enough not to fall for his reverse-psychology trap.

"Also, don't go fake-epileptic on me," he goes on, desperate in trying to get inside my head and spoil my focus.

Well, if there's one thing I admire about this guy, it's that he's a fast learner, using my susceptibility to distractions against me.

Unluckily for him, I'm a fast learner as well.

Never let this guy fool you, I tell myself.

"Remember, that's not a valid ground for declaring this a draw; I'm still going to beat your raggedy ass if that happens."

I laugh inwardly at the thought and at the desperation in all this rambling.

Beat me?

If this is a trash-talking tournament, then maybe.

And I may not be the Jon Snow (yet) in this joint, but I'm definitely no Samwell Tarly, so you have your work cut out for you.

"Alright, you two," the commander cues. "Ready, set, a—"

"Hold on, hold on," a voice as penetrating as a siren but as calming as running water—if that somehow makes sense—interrupts.

I should've guessed, and it low-key sucks that I haven't, but it is President Moore, basically entering the scene the way Alexander did.

And I can't believe I'm ever going to say this about them: like father, like son.

The Moores and their penchant for grand entrances.

"Oh, Mr. Pres—" the commander attempts to speak, before being gestured to hold it by the president, like some remote-controlled android.

"Don't mind me," President Moore says to Commander Horton and to the crowd. "I'm only here to silently observe. Please, do continue."

"Alright, lads," the commander voices, reclaiming our attention. "Now, attack!"

Before my nervous system could even sort out the signal, Alexander goes for his first wallop, his blade nearly hitting my shoulder have I not blocked it with mine.

I break it off, pushing his sword away.

He forces another, howling like an aggressive mental patient terribly needing a shot or two of tranquilizer as he does so, and I block it just the same.

Funny how it seems like he deserves my old nickname now more than I do.

We continue to do the same choreography—hitting and parrying, over and over—before he switches things up and tries to skewer me by the belly.

Psycho, indeed.

I make a sharp pivot to the left, narrowly missing the blow.

He goes after me, and I continue to retreat.

The sound of everybody's cheers in the background blends with the music of two blades dancing, resulting in a muddled symphony that screams brutality.

The kind of symphony that swallows you.

One that turns you into your nefarious alter ego.

Into the psycho.

I feel the beads of sweat around my forehead getting more profuse with every quick heartbeat. They begin to trickle down my face, even across my eyelids, as soon as I find my footing and begin my assault.

I pound at him with my blade, the atmosphere overcoming me.

I serve him another strike, and another, and another, with no plans of stopping until he either drops to the floor, surrenders or both.

It seems that neither is he planning the same, as he counters every one of them with quick, pungent swings, making our swords vibrate.

With our weapons stuck in a deadlock, he elbows me by the eye, making me recoil and giving me a short bout of dizziness.

I lose balance and fall to the floor.

Shit.

This fucker really knows nothing about playing fair.

I glance up, my vision still hazy, and see him looking into the crowd, his hands stretched out and his face beaming as if savoring the victory he hasn't earned yet.

I realize then that this is my chance to finish it up.

With my sword still in my grasp, I stand up and smash his; the force sends it flying to the side, nearly hitting a few men.

I spin around, all the way to his back and hold him at gun—er, sword—point.

"Any last words, my friend?" I ask him, feeling a little smug that I get to make the last laugh after all.

"C-code white," Alexander answers, his voice breaking as if death is truly nigh for him. "Code white! Code white!"

Code white? I interrogate myself, confused.

What is that supposed to mean?

While racking my brain for what condescending message those words could stand for, a shrill voice blares from the distance. "Mr. President, Commander, everyone..."

Of course.

Another intermission.

"What is it, Coraline?" President Moore inquires, worry spreading across his face like fire on a piece of paper. "Did your crops die again?"

"We're under attack!"