Chapter Text
The Federation Defense Academy wasn’t beautiful. The campus was imposing and efficient, but that was all. Too clean, too severe, all polished concrete and metal. Every wall a blank slab of gunmetal gray, every doorway labeled in aggressive yellow stenciling. Nowhere to rest or meditate. The only other colors came from holopanels flickering with status feeds, warnings, or orders. That, and the sun.
In these early dawn hours, sunlight slanted through the upper windows and painted the endless dull corridors in stripes of gold and shadow, as if a careless beast had raked claws along the walls and floors. A touch of warmth that almost reminded Samus of her childhood with her birth family on K-2L from her earliest, softest memories. Before the sky burned and the earth was soaked in blood.
But this was nothing like home. Either of her homes. On Zebes, even in the deepest tunnels, there were spongy mosses that glowed dimly, breathing cool life against the rocks. The memory made her miss Old Bird’s study. It always smelled of feathers and hot mineral tea, faintly sweet. Here, the air tasted only of itself.
The datapad in her hands felt alien. Its smooth, cool glass was unlike the organic feel of Chozo technology, which always hummed warmly with latent power. The map it displayed was a stark, utilitarian overlay of the massive complex, a series of right angles and dead ends. As she followed its pulsing blue dot, footsteps echoed in the empty hall. The sound was loud, a flat, sharp clack-clack-clack on the polished floor that made her wince. Too loud. Too hard. Chozo architecture absorbed sound, respected the quiet. This place shouted with every footfall.
The early-rising cadets she passed all looked so similar, despite the variety of skin and hair color. It felt like being surrounded by automatons instead of her own kind. All dressed identically: the navy top with a four-pointed Federation star across the chest, tucked into black slacks and paired with plain, practical boots. Most strange to her was their hair - or rather, lack thereof. Every man shaved his head almost to the scalp. The women shared one of a few simple styles, none reaching past their necks. They'd shorn off their own history, their identity, to fit this mold. It was a deliberate severing of self that Samus found both baffling and a little sad.
She instead wore her home proudly. Her garb was a masterpiece, a parting gift made by Old Bird himself. It was crafted of a material Samus had no human words for, a fabric stronger than most light alloys, but as supple as silk. The color was a deep, iridescent blue, almost black, that rippled with subtle greens and purples when the light caught it. Cut in a style that was part warrior’s tunic and part ceremonial robes, it was practical yet graceful. It flowed with her every motion, silent and light, and highlighted the powerful, lean frame beneath.
Her own hair, long and golden like the sun she so rarely saw on Zebes, was styled as best she could approximate the way the Chozo would decorate their feathers for special occasions. A high ponytail, held by two strong feathers from Gray Voice - broad and dark, shot through with veins of silver. Two slimmer, more delicate feathers from Old Bird, pale and soft, were woven into the ends of the braids that framed her face. When the wind caught them just right, they would sometimes stir, and she could feel their spirits with her.
It was a style of beauty and meaning that she loved, but here, it was an unmistakable declaration of otherness. Samus drew stares from everyone she passed. Whispers followed in her wake. They were not hostile, but they were constant, like the buzz of insects. She was used to being different, a lone human child raised by bird-like sages, but each look was a tiny needle pricking at the hope within her that she might find kinship here.
She suddenly missed her family with a physical ache. Old Bird had been kind and full of wise words when she left. “Your heart is Chozo, but your blood is human,” he’d crooned, his ancient voice rasping with an emotion she couldn't name. “There are lessons in the flock you were born into that we cannot teach you. There will be difficulties, but you must know them to be whole.”
Gray Voice had been more direct, his presence as solid and grounding as a mountain. “You have our strength, our spirit. Do not let them take it from you. Remember who you are.” He had then lowered himself to press his forehead to hers, a blessing of protection. “But do listen. Learn to speak as they do, to move with them. Find the harmony in their ways, even if the melody is strange to you.”
Samus held back her tears at the memory, focusing on the path ahead. The datapad told her she had arrived. The door before her was marked 'QUARTERMASTER' in the same aggressive yellow lettering as everything else. It hissed open, revealing a small, cluttered office. A man with a thick, graying mustache and sour expression sat behind a metal desk, a half-eaten nutrient bar next to a stack of datapads. He did not seem to notice her, his attention on a holoscreen displaying what looked like a game or competition.
She cleared her throat softly and pulled out a small data slate, the same kind Old Bird had given her to study the Federation's 'Common' language. It was sleek and black, warm to the touch, and it projected its information with a soft, blue light. She placed it on the desk. The man’s eyes flicked over to the slate, then back to his screen, a slight frown on his face. “What's this?” he said, his voice gruff and impatient.
The sound was ugly to her ears. All hard noises and no music. She'd practiced her Common with the language files from her slate for weeks, but the clipped, direct consonants and flattened vowels felt wrong. Crude. Her own tongue, shaped by the clicks, trills, and complex tonal shifts of the Chozo language, struggled to form the sounds. She understood it, but speaking it felt like trying to shape water with a hammer. "My documentation." That word felt clumsy in her mouth, too many hard sounds. "And assignment." She gestured to the slate, trying to convey her meaning without saying more.
The Quartermaster's chair protested with a loud groan as he turned, finally giving her his full attention. His eyes, a washed-out blue, swept over her. "What's all this?" he waved his hand vaguely at her entire being. "Costume party ain't 'til graduation."
Samus blinked, processing the words. Costume party? She understood the words individually, but the combination made no sense. She decided he was confused about her purpose here and addressed that directly. "I am Samus Aran. My enrollment was accepted." Even her own name still sounded strange in this tongue.
"What? New recruits were processed a couple months ago. And what the hell is with your accent?" He leaned forward, taking in her appearance again. "You don't look like any recruit I've ever seen. You look like you should be in a... I don't know, a xeno-studies exhibit or somethin'."
Samus felt a prickle of frustration. She had expected a challenge, not this small-minded confusion. Drawing on the endurance Gray Voice had taught her, she took a small breath before responding. "This explains." She gently pushed the slate forward again.
With a sigh of theatrical annoyance, the Quartermaster grabbed the slate. He squinted at the glowing characters on its surface, his thick thumb scrolling with clumsy swipes. "Hmph. You claim you've got special admittance approved by... Admiral Dane? Righhht. Let's see." He turned back to his screen and began typing, his eyebrows furrowed, and after a few moments, they shot up. "Well, fuck me sideways," he muttered, so low Samus almost didn't catch it. "Didn't figure that old warhorse would be one for pet projects." He looked back at her, his sour expression now mixed with a grudging sort of curiosity. "Why's an admiral willing to pull strings for a recruit?"
Samus did not know many specifics, especially not of this admiral. It was Old Bird who had handled the communications with the Federation. She could only tell him what she knew. "My family arranged for me to learn here." Calling the Chozo 'family' felt incomplete. Both an overstatement and an understatement, but she knew of no better Common word.
The man snorted. "Your family arranged it. With an Admiral." He leaned back, the chair groaning again. "Some family ya got. You a colony governor's brat or somethin'?"
Samus' chin rose a fraction of an inch. She did not know what that was either, but the tone was insulting. "My family are Chozo." Her voice was full of unmistakable pride.
"Chozo..." The man rubbed his chin briefly and looked up before returning his gaze to her. "Those big bird people? The ones that vanished decades ago?" One eyebrow raised. "You saying you were raised by ghost stories?" He gave a short, harsh laugh. "That's a new one."
"They are not ghosts," Samus said, her voice dropping slightly. It was the first note of real anger she'd allowed herself to show. "They are cha'voth." The Chozo word slipped out before she could stop it. It meant 'the honored ancestors,' 'the revered elders,' a term of deepest respect. The rolling vowels and sharp clicks were a relief to her tongue, like coming up for air.
The Quartermaster stared at her, his face blank. "What?"
She struggled to find a translation, "They are... the First. The Wise." The words felt flat and inadequate, like describing a symphony by listing the notes. "They live." She stressed the last word, her eyes locked on his. She would not allow him to reduce her entire world, her entire family, to a forgotten myth.
The man stared at her for a long moment, really looked this time, not at her clothing or hair, but at her. His skepticism warred with the intensity of her gaze and the conviction of her voice. "Alllrighttt," he said slowly, drawing the word out. "Sure. Would explain a few things about ya." Another sigh came from the man, a sound she was beginning to associate with human bureaucracy. "Well, either way, no denying the top brass. Means I gotta deal with ya."
He stood up, groaning as his joints popped, and Samus was struck by his lack of grace. He moved with a stiff, rectangular motion, his body designed for filling a uniform and little else. He waddled over to a large metal locker set into the wall, the door hissing open to reveal rows of identical stacks of clothing. "You want to be a cadet, you dress like a cadet. Nice as that robe thing looks on ya, can't have you...'cho'vathing'... around in whatever it is. Here." He pulled out several vacuum-sealed packs and dropped them on the counter with a series of dull thuds. "Three sets of standard cadet uniform, PT gear, and undergarments. You're uh.. pretty tall for a woman, so I guessed large. If it doesn't fit, get 'em tailored."
Samus looked at the bland, functional packages. One crinkled noisily when she touched it. "These are not needed. I prefer my clothing."
The Quartermaster gave another bark of a laugh. "And I'd prefer a promotion with a transfer to a beachfront office on Earth, but that ain't happenin' either." He leaned on the counter, his voice low and serious. "Listen, kid. This is the Federation Defense Academy. We make soldiers. The uniform is part of that, so you wear it. End of discussion." His eyes traveled up from the clothes to her face, lingering on the braids and the feathers woven within them. He snorted. "You'll need to get your hair cut and get rid of the feathers too. No personal effects."
Samus froze, her hand still resting on the sterile plastic package. A cold knot formed in her stomach, tight and unfamiliar. The uniform she could accept - it was a temporary skin, a tool for learning. Her hair could be regrown, but... her fingers instinctively went to one of the braids, touching the smaller feather from Old Bird tucked at the end. It was smooth and worn from years of his preening, a piece of his very being that he had given her to carry into this strange new world. A piece of home. To remove it felt like a violation. Like he was asking her to tear out a part of her soul.
"No." The word was hard as forged metal. She met his glare without flinching, the anger she’d kept in check now rising in her chest, hot and sharp. Find the harmony in their ways. She could not. "I will not remove my k'rell," she didn't know a Common word for something so sacred, so personal. "It is a part of me. It is my family."
"No?" A blotchy red started to spread across his face. "That's not how this works, cadet. You don't get to pick and choose the regs you like. You take the whole package or you get out."
Samus didn't move. She just looked at him, her face a mask of calm. Inside, a storm was raging, the Chozo teachings of patience and harmony warring with a hot, protective surge of defiance. "I will not dishonor my family for your ch'kt." The Chozo phrase for 'mindless rule-following' slipped out before she could stop it. "They are more important than your… 'regs'." She mimicked his clipped, ugly syllables.
A long, tense silence filled the small office. The Quartermaster stared at her, and his expression wasn't just sour - it was genuinely hostile. "Listen here, you little shit," he began, his voice rising. "You might be some special pet project from on high, but in this office, you're just a cadet. And you'll follow the same regs as every other cadet. That means you get rid of that shit. You understand me?"
Samus didn't flinch under his glare. Remember who you are. She had not come here to be broken down and rebuilt into something she wasn't. "I will wear your uniform," she said, her voice steady. "I will learn. I will fight for this Federation. I will not dishonor my family. My k'rell stays."
"You really wanna have an insubordination charge on your record and spend a night in the brig before you even find your bunk?" He leaned in closer, his breath sour.
"So be it." Samus said simply. She had no idea what a 'brig' was, but from the context, it was a place of punishment. She was confident she could endure whatever trials it involved.
A new voice cut through the tension, smooth and cold as ice. "Is there a problem here, Barlow?"
Both Samus and the Quartermaster turned. A man stood in the doorway, framed by the harsh light of the corridor. Where the Quartermaster was a lumpy sack of resentment, this man was a sharpened blade. His face was lean and severe, with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. His hair was as regulation-short as everyone else's, but it was styled with a precision that spoke of discipline. The blue, white, and gold uniform he wore was immaculate, pressed into sharp creases, and a golden bar on his collar glinted in the dim office light. But it was his eyes that held her. They were fixed on her with an unnerving intensity.
The Quartermaster snapped to attention - the blotchy red in his face rapidly replaced by a spreading paleness. "Sir! Commander Malcovich, sir. No problem, sir. Dealing with a new cadet refusing to follow uniform regulations."
"Cadet Aran, is this true?" The commander’s voice didn't grate on her ears like the quartermaster’s. There was still no music, but it had a clean, sharp quality to it. Precise. Intentional. All the ugly, wasted sounds were gone.
A strange impulse to bow her head, to show deference the way she would have to Gray Voice before a spar, prickled at the base of her neck. She fought the urge, but her posture straightened and her shoulders pulled back. "Yes, sir," she replied, copying the honorific the quartermaster used. It felt correct somehow. "That one." She gestured with a subtle tilt of her head toward the quartermaster, "He demands I remove my clothing and my..." She paused, about to use the Common word 'feathers' for his understanding, but an instinct, a nudge from the flow, told her to test him. "...my k'rell."
There was no confusion or irritation on his face at the word. For a brief moment, his eyes shifted to the feathers woven into her braids, then back to her eyes, and there was a brief flicker of recognition. "Barlow," the commander’s voice was quiet, almost gentle, "please remind me of uniform regulation 8, subsection C."
"Sir?" Barlow blinked.
The commander's face was impassive. "Do you require remedial training on the regulations you are meant to enforce?"
Barlow's face paled further. "N-no, sir. Of course not, sir." He cleared his throat and squinted at a screen on his desk, his finger jabbing at it. "8, subsection C... 'Exemptions for standard uniform and grooming protocols may be granted for sincere religious, spiritual, or cultural observances, provided such observances do not interfere with the performance of duty and the safety of the wearer or others.'" He finished, his voice trailing off.
Commander Malcovich gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Fill out an exemption request form on Cadet Aran's behalf. I trust you can accomplish this without further difficulties."
"Yes sir." Barlow said, his voice subdued.
The commander turned his gaze back to Samus. "Do not let this interaction give you the impression that all regulations are negotiable." His gaze was piercing. "Or that there is any favoritism at play. You will be held to the same, if not a higher, standard than your fellow cadets. Your path here will not be an easy one."
That, she understood. It was what Gray Voice had told her. "I understand, sir," she said. The 'sir' still felt strange, but necessary with this man.
Commander Malcovich gave a curt, final nod. "Barlow, ensure Cadet Aran has everything she requires to report for duty. That includes all necessary appointments that respect the parameters of the exemption. Do not make me return here."
"Yessir. Understood, sir." Barlow said. He looked like he had swallowed something sour, but he kept his voice neutral.
Commander Malcovich's attention shifted back to her. "Your barracks assignment has been uploaded to your datapad, Cadet. Report there. Stow your effects. Change into your uniform. Your first class begins at zero eight hundred hours. Do not be late."
The Commander's gaze lingered on Samus for a fraction of a second longer, a look she couldn't decipher, before he turned and walked away. Samus watched him go, the tension in her shoulders slowly uncoiling. He was as different from the Quartermaster as the wilds of Zebes were from this sterile tomb. He reminded her a bit of Gray Voice - they had a similar stillness, an immense gravity that didn't need to be announced.
The Quartermaster's voice, sullen and begrudging, pulled her attention back. "There. Done. Exemption filed. You can keep your feathers." He shoved a thin, rigid rectangle of metal across the counter. "Here's your auth-slate. It's your ID, key to your room, and chow pass. Don't lose it."
Samus picked up the metal slate. Like the data pad, it had no sense of life within it. "Chow pass?" she repeated the unfamiliar phrase.
He rested a cheek against his fist. "Food," he said, sounding tired. "In the mess hall. You get three squares a day on the Federation." He then turned back to his console, his fingers jabbing at the screen. "You've also got med-bay appointments later today for your immune boosters and a haircut with a stylist who apparently specializes in 'cultural accommodations'." He said the last phrase with dripping sarcasm. "And that's everything, you're on your own now. Get out, you're holdin' up the line, and I got important work to get back to." He then pointedly looked back at his holoscreen, which flicked back to life with the brightly colored game he had been watching before. He picked up his nutrient bar and took a noisy bite, the crunch echoing in the small office.
She looked at the empty space behind her. There was no one there. Her brow furrowed slightly. What a strange, pointless falsehood. She didn't bother to confront the man further - the hot surge of anger from moments before had cooled to indifference. He was of no more consequence now than a rock in the path. She had what she needed.
The door hissed shut behind her, sealing him and his noise away. A stream of people now flowed through the previously empty corridor, all moving in the same direction. Cadets. A flood of blue shirts, black slacks, and shaved heads all moving with a single, unified purpose. They were like herd animals she had seen on Zebes, all moving as one body, driven by an instinct she didn't share.
Her datapad told her to go the opposite way, toward the east wing. She stepped out against the current and began to make her way down the corridor.