Ortahn was led by two fullmetal homunculi—as faceless as the doors of a pneumatic lock. And just as dispassionate and cruel. However, there was something similar within him, too: he had been enchanted, and a part of his mind felt as if it had been submerged in deep water. His emotions became distant, almost alien, but he knew they were there. Pain and rage were coiled into a tight, black ball inside him. The smell of ash and every single star on the Ministeress of the Outer Contour’s hat surfaced in his memory.

  Their steps echoed loudly on the metal floor. The entire corridor they walked through lacked the elegance typical of female creations, serving only a utilitarian purpose—a link between the building's modules. The walls were riddled with chain-spells, seeping through the metal like poisonous rust. The light came from clusters of dim light-lines crawling lazily across the ceiling.

  All sorts of nasty rumors, or rather myths, circulated about the S.C.A.R. (though everyone popularly called it "The Scar"). Parents used it to frighten their young boys into obedience. They said you could only leave The Scar as a soulless piece of flesh, a neo-homunculus. Ortahn didn't care—he had already become one. Now, he just apathetically observed what was happening from the depths of his consciousness, like a bystander.

  He was brought to a heavy door, around which a small crowd of men had gathered. At first glance, they looked like a pack of wild baresteethers: twitchy, loud, with aggression in their eyes. Ortahn felt dozens of gazes on him—contemptuous, openly hostile, appraising. The homunculi stepped back, and he decided to remain standing. It was less energy-consuming than collapsing to the floor like an overloaded trash bubble.

  "A new one," someone drawled. "They've dragged another fat-walker to our slaughterhouse."

  A ragged laugh rippled through the room. Ortahn didn't respond. A single unit emerged from the mass of men—a large, broad-shouldered man, almost Ortahn's equal in build, with a short neck and a flattened head, as if someone had tried to press it into his shoulders to hide it deep within his torso. Especially his haircut, as if someone had drawn a circle around his small crown and neatly trimmed all the black hair below it. His movements were sharp and unnaturally fast. The aunt's voice surfaced in Ortahn's mind, telling him about enhancer-mages. The body, definitely, was bloated with primitive but effective magic. He didn't interfere with the thought, and it faded.

  "Well, well," the big man drawled. "Look at that, a wardrobe on legs. A meat puppet. Heh. Nature gave you plenty of meat but skimped on the brains? Think you'll survive here 'cause you're fat? Don't think so. And you don't even have a woman to protect you, since you're here." (White flame, burning Viya to ash). "Hey, fat-walker, you mute or just too stupid to speak... uh... our way of speaking?"

  Ortahn remained silent. He wasn't going to prove anything to anyone. Especially not to some silly man. His entire future speech was in question. And his existence... Suddenly, a thought pierced him like the thorn of a torture spell: "Live."

  This internal piercing must have shown on his face, because a new burst of guffaws erupted (though these men seemed capable of laughing for no reason), and the enhancer, encouraged by the reaction, perked up and tried to catch his gaze with his own.

  "Woke up? Now that's the speed of thought! We were starting to think you were rude. Come on, greet your new senior comrades, or we'll have to take charge of your training," he glanced around, seeking support.

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  But no one supported him, not with a laugh or even a nod. They all just silently exchanged glances. The talker frowned, not understanding why, since he had outdone himself in this performance. It was in the midst of these great reflections that a transparent, bluish fist met the back of his head.

  "Ow!" he yelped and flew into the indifferent Ortahn.

  "I'm the only one who does the teaching here, Yaron," an imperious female voice rang out.

  "But I wasn't... Ouch, that hurts!" Yaron pushed himself away from Ortahn.

  "Don't speak, you moron. Just resist the urge to open your mouth," the woman who had appeared placed a finger from her living hand on his lips. "You're a man of action, not words, don't forget."

  She was a head taller than Ortahn, clearly enhanced by magic, not crudely like the men, but with an unnaturally slender and powerful build. Her right arm, up to the shoulder, was replaced by a prosthesis, inside of which a constellation trembled and shimmered from the impact, like disturbed motes of dust. Ortahn's mind, for some reason, noted that it was the constellation of Arkhonna. Behind her back, more magical arms, without constellations and unconnected to her body, slowly rotated in a circle, forming a kind of halo. The woman had her temples shaved in the old fashion of the Lordesses of Storm clan, and white hair fell down her back to her waist. Her right eye glowed with a steady orange light. The most unusual thing about her was that she wore a black man's vest over her bare torso and simple trousers.

  She waved a hand, and the heavy door retracted into the wall with a screech. The men began to flow inside, including Yaron, who throw Ortahn a disgruntled look. The woman took the newcomer by the shoulder (the artificial hand felt cold) and led him into the room. It was as if she knew Ortahn would never have decided to go in on his own.

  "Let me introduce you properly," she said dryly. "It won't save you now, of course... Your name is Ortahn, right? These iron blockheads always butcher the names."

  He didn't answer, and she took it as a yes.

  The room was simple and empty: a long hall with a low ceiling, filled with tight rows of massive, crudely made desks designed for large male bodies. The students had already taken their seats and were now continued to collectively assaulting Ortahn with their gazes.

  "This is Ortahn, your new comrade, girls," the woman introduced him in the tone of a saleswoman who doesn't believe in her own product. She even held him by the shoulder as if by the scruff of his neck. " He showed himself to be a telekinetic."

  "Well, I'm a real kinetic myself!" a drawling voice came from the back rows. "All the babes say I'm super-powerful."

  Loud laughter supported this dubious claim.

  "You, Karbo, couldn't touch a woman even under supreme mind control," the woman insulted him good-naturedly. "That's where your superpower lies."

  This amused the men even more.

  "Well, what are you standing there for like a statue? You should've worked on your titles if you wanted a longer introduction," she said to Ortahn and, with a swing, slapped him on the ass with her living hand, pushing him toward a desk.

  The slap raised a new wave of male amusement, and in Ortahn, it stirred the first coherent thought of the day: "Why is all of this happening to me?" The thought quickly dissolved into apathy. He walked to the first empty desk and heavily sat down on the chair, which creaked under his weight. Sitting on furniture made for men—wide and sturdy, but without a hint of elegance—was unusual. Though the chair was hard, he liked its honesty.

  "For the new girl, and for those who've managed to forget their curator in the span of a day," the leader of this pack closed the door, walked to the center of the hall in front of the desks, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her back-arms mimicked the gesture with each other, only one was left without a pair, and it remained levitating nearby, clenching and unclenching as if bored. "I am Tulila-daughter-Ekhta of the Lordesses of Storm clan. Former emissary beyond the Outer Contour. Especially for you girls, I will explain in more detail." She tapped her artificial arm, stirring the constellation within, and said with a smile that was entirely unsuited to memories of such a sinister place, "That means I was a spy in the darkest, wildest, and most hostile part of space. The Arkhonna constellation, to be precise. I'm not saying this to brag, but so you know who you're dealing with. It usually helps." She swept her gaze over the audience, lingering on Ortahn in particular. "Usually."