First Impressions
"This is the officer academy?"
The building before me dwarfs the juvenile academy I attended just a week ago. It makes sense—unlike the juvenile academy, this place accepts not only those advancing from there but also general applicants. Plus, it's stocked with real PTs, AMs, tanks, and aircraft, not just simulators.
"No wonder it's huge."
Nodding to myself, I pass through the gate toward the pilot course building. Each course here has its own separate facility, and even school events are held by course to foster camaraderie. I get it, but a joint entrance or graduation ceremony wouldn't hurt. Tuition's free, we get a small stipend, certifications cost nothing, and meals are on the house. Despite the "academy" name, this is already the Federation Forces.
"Here's the pilot course building."
I confirm with my enrollment papers and spot the sprawling campus. Makes sense for a pilot course—PT training grounds need space. With a wry grin, I enter and head to the first-year classroom on the third floor, where all years' classes are grouped.
"Each year has one class, all on the third floor."
Inside, about ten students are already there, with half an hour to spare before class starts. Unlike the juvenile academy, we don't have assigned seats by attendance number. Still, I head to my usual spot by the corridor, front row, and greet a nearby classmate.
"Yo, I'm Axel. Nice to meet you."
"Hey. I'm Barison. Likewise."
He's quiet, sturdy—built like the reliable type who holds things together.
"Didn't expect just one class per year."
"Yeah, but it's a job with no worries about food. Can't complain."
"Hm? …Oh, got it."
"Exactly."
Barison's from a region lagging in reconstruction. I knew such places existed, but meeting someone from there is new. The war with the Inspectors left many areas in ruins. Reconstruction prioritizes urban zones, leaving rural ones behind. Jobs are scarce there, so people migrate to cities. The officer academy, with its near-free living, is a solid choice.
"Guess we've all got our reasons. Let's graduate together."
"Yep."
As we talk, more students trickle in. Fifty in total—ten per row, five rows. Roughly sixty percent male, forty percent female. I spot a few familiar faces from the juvenile academy's A and B classes.
"Here we go," Barison mutters.
I straighten up as the classroom door opens. A stern-faced instructor—probably the "drill sergeant" type—steps in.
"Attention. Congratulations on your enrollment. In these times, with the pilot course always short-staffed, I figured only eccentrics would join. But to think someone who graduated top of the juvenile academy would pick this path—quite the character."
His eyes lock on me. The stares from my classmates sting.
"Let's move on. Today, I'll outline your classes and training. After this, you're free to return to the dorms or explore the campus. But explorers, beware—this is a military facility. Wander into restricted areas, and you're on your own if you stumble across classified info."
Despite his gruff look, he's got some charm. Classified info at an academy, though? What, like deployment records?
"Now, about classes. Pilots are in constant demand, so we prioritize practical training. For the first six months: twenty percent academics, ten percent shooting and melee, fifty percent simulators, twenty percent real-machine drills. After that, simulators and real drills swap ratios. Learn the basics in six months, or you'll cause accidents when real training intensifies. General entrants, you're starting from scratch—work like your life depends on it. Juvenile academy grads, don't slack just because you've got a head start. This course operates on collective responsibility. If a general entrant screws up, you all pay the price. Teach them what you know to avoid that."
So that's part of officer training: juvenile grads teach, general entrants learn. Efficiency on both sides.
"Grades reflect this. After six months, you'll have simulated and real-machine mock battles, so don't forget."
Sounds intensely practical. I'm actually excited to pilot a Gespenst—something my past-life self could only dream of. Being reincarnated here wasn't my choice, but this part? A small thrill.
"Now, the basics of first-year classes are covered. This academy pays you to study, but rules are strict. Break them, and you face expulsion or arrest. Act with discipline. Class dismissed. Be here by 0830 tomorrow. Remember, collective responsibility—one person's tardiness screws everyone. Dismissed."
We stand and salute. Juvenile grads and some general entrants nail it; most general entrants lag by a few seconds. The instructor glares at them before leaving.
"So it begins," I mutter.
This must be the first step in teaching the general entrants.
"Axel, can you show me?" Barison asks from behind.
Glancing around, I see juvenile and general entrants pairing up, likely to avoid penalties from others' mistakes. Geneva's officer academy lives up to its storied reputation. I nod and teach Barison the salute and its timing. He picks it up quickly, making it easy on me.
"Thanks, man."
"No problem. I don't want penalties either."
I pat his shoulder lightly. He suddenly turns serious.
"Axel, not sure if it's okay to ask, but… the instructor mentioned a juvenile academy valedictorian. That you?"
"Yeah, that's me."
I thought it was no big deal, but the classroom erupts in murmurs. Only the juvenile academy grads seem unfazed.
"Why's a valedictorian in the pilot course? Don't most go for strategist or four-star courses?"
"Well, yeah, but… how do you know that?"
That kind of info isn't common outside the juvenile academy's bubble.
"I'm enrolling here. Did my research."
Fair enough. I didn't think much about it, having set my sights on the juvenile academy early.
"Ever since I was a kid, I was hooked on Burning PT. Decided to be a pilot before I even entered the juvenile academy. Turns out, I've got some talent for it."
That explanation calms the buzz. Time to head to the dorms, maybe? Just then, the classroom door swings open.
"Hm?"
A guy steps in—meshed hair, sharp eyes, stoic expression. Wait, isn't that—
"Sorry to interrupt. I'm Kyousuke Nanbu, third-year pilot course valedictorian. I'm here with some announcements."
…Seriously?