Arthur Sturm stood stiffly against the warm, regally patterned wall. Across from him was a large redwood desk occupied by an elderly army general, likely in his late seventies. His many deep wrinkles stretched and warped with the movement of his jaw as he visibly pondered every detail of the documents he was diligently examining. After a drawn-out pause, he glanced up at the tensely-strung teenager.
“So…” the general began, tapping his pen to his chin, “you’re Leopold’s son, are you?”
The boy nodded swiftly, carefully keeping his bright, cerulean eyes forward.
“Interesting. One hundred and seventy centimeters and sixty-one kilograms. You certainly don’t live up to your father’s physical stature,” the general stated plainly.
His comment made the sixteen-year-old more anxious than ever. Attempting to calm his nerves, Sturm shuffled his feet and straightened his back out even more, raising his chin slightly as well. The old army officer, paying the boy’s fidgeting no mind, shifted his attention back to the open file atop his desk.
“Though…” he sighed, “I suppose that might have something to do with this abnormality, here. Two hearts pumping all day and night must take up a great deal of energy. They mustn’t have left much for your growing bones, son.”
Indeed, Arthur Sturm was born with two hearts. His prognosis as an infant was bleak. Though he had managed to survive seemingly insurmountable odds, his condition continued to curse him even into adolescence. From early childhood onward, he suffered numerous heart attacks. Though sometimes occurring completely unexpectedly, most of these deadly events were brought about by intense physical exertion. His pediatrician believed that Sturm suffered from a form of arrhythmia and that the more his heart rate increased, the greater the likelihood became that his normally synchronized heartbeat would falter, causing increased friction and eventual cardiac arrest. These episodes plagued the boy well into his teens before suddenly, and quite miraculously, ceasing to occur. Whether or not Sturm’s condition had truly stunted his growth, however, was uncertain.
“Well…” the general groaned tiredly, leaning back in his chair with a hearty stretch, “Your physical aptitude tests don’t lie, you’re certainly Leopold’s son… even if it’s hard to see the resemblance.”
He then placed his fingertips atop the file and spun the documents toward the boy with a flick.
“And believe me!” the general exclaimed through a chuckle, “I’ve certainly tried!”
The general tapped his pen downward on the desk, directing Sturm’s eyes toward the photo clipped to the paper at the top of the stack. Finally relaxing, Sturm glanced downward at the picture and was immediately taken back. General Vogel, famed hero of the Boxer Rebellion and the Great War, the venerated commandant of the Iron Knight Academy, had scribbled the Hurricane’s iconic mustache onto the boy’s likeness.
“What do you think? I suppose it helps a little, but I’m still struggling. You must get your looks from your mother.” Vogel chortled, pressing his tongue into his teeth with a grin.
Sturm, at a total loss for words, took a step back toward the wall.
“I-I guess I must,” he stuttered, still firmly gripped by the shock of this absurdity.
Vogel threw his hands into the air with a shrug.
“Well, it can’t be helped. At least that cap under your arm will make it easy to remember which one is Leopold’s son,” Vogel explained through a tired yawn.
Sturm took the cap in his hand and looked down at it. It was an officer’s cover from the war, given to him by his father on his seventh birthday. The leather visor was split through to the wool on the left side. At its peak was a stout-armed iron cross, similar but not entirely identical to the military award bestowed for extreme exhibitions of bravery exhibited during the Great War.
“You have my express permission to wear that with your uniform, once it’s issued to you. The academy uniform is essentially the same field grey anyway, so it’s all well and good,” explained the general with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Right,” Sturm eagerly replied with a nod, “Thank you, Mr. Commandant.”
Vogel simply smiled before closing Sturm’s file and moving it to a stack of folders on the right side of his desk.
“Alright, son. Head down to the hallway to the right. Follow the north wing all the way down until you reach the mess hall and wait there for the rest of your class.”
“Yes, Mr. Commandant.” Sturm once again nodded before turning and placing his hand on the doorknob.
“Oh, and Sturm…”
The boy turned back to face Vogel.
“Please send in the next candidate, would you?” Vogel requested as he tapped the next folder in his pile before letting out another wide yawn.
“Of course, Mr. Commandant,” Sturm answered before turning the doorknob and exiting the room.
Immediately to his left waited a line of roughly a dozen knight candidates. At the front of the line was a girl a few centimeters shorter than Sturm with pale blonde hair and deep emerald eyes. Her intricate, white, knee-length dress was complimented by her eccentric gold and ruby jewelry accents. However unique in her physical presentation, her powerful floral perfume proved far more notable. While pleasant for a moment, the overpowering scent became somewhat nauseating as it lingered.
“Stare on your own time. Lord knows you’ve already wasted enough of mine in there,” she suddenly snapped with a cold glare.
Sturm brushed off the girl’s attitude with a slight shaking of his head.
“The commandant says to head inside,” he replied softly.
“Oh, why thank you...” she scoffed sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she stepped by him and stopped before the door.
The haughty blonde again turned to face Sturm, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Though quite obviously the object of her ire, he was disinterested and attempted to start his way down the hall.
“Excuse me? Are you going to keep wasting my time?” she growled with a stamping click of her shoe on the tile floor.
Sturm looked back over his shoulder to see her, hand on hip, gesturing toward the doorknob. Quickly, he grew warm with embarrassment.
“O-oh...” he stuttered, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. Despite the girl’s unreasonable demeanor, Sturm immediately became uncomfortable over her drawing attention to his failure of chivalry. Although her aggression had distracted him, he couldn’t pardon himself for such a reason. After all, his parents had gone to great lengths to impart proper manners to him.
A dark-haired boy in line groaned audibly behind the girl in response to her ridiculous theatrics. Sturm stepped forward, exhaling through puffed, red cheeks as he took the knob in his hand and held the door open for the rude girl. She merely turned up her nose and continued through without a word.
“Should’ve just slammed it on her,” the boy behind her quipped, crossing his arms.
Sturm cracked a smile and shook his head before turning back and finally starting his way toward the mess hall. As he walked, his eyes wandered between the many photos adorning the walls between sporadically placed doors. Most of these images appeared to depict academy graduates during their time serving in the Great War and various smaller conflicts afterward.
A picture at the end of the hallway caught Sturm’s attention. It was his father, alongside the rest of Leopold Sturm’s legendary Great War-era Iron Knight team. The four stood in a row with the wooden supportive trench wall behind them. On the right end was Sturm’s father, towering above the group. Well known for his giant stature, the relative width of his shoulders found him often positively equated to the likeness of a gorilla. Between his physique and his bristle-like mustache, Leopold Sturm was quite the imposing figure.
To the left of his father was a young woman with light-colored hair whom he recognized from a few old photos with his mother. This was Erma; the team’s nurse and his mother’s longtime friend. While not an Iron Knight herself, she had frequently accompanied Leopold Sturm and his comrades to the front lines to provide potentially life-saving medical treatment, should the need ever arise. Though not gifted with any exceptional power or ability in the traditional sense, her medical prowess was second to none and, as such, she was celebrated as an important asset to her team. Unfortunately, she was among those who had lost their lives during the war.
Beside Erma, staring directly at the camera with the lenses of his gas mask reflecting the bulb’s flash was Johannes Fiesel. Once a revered and venerable combatant who turned the tide of any battle he was deployed to, uttering his name today was bound to spur forth an endless cascade of rumors and conspiracies. The facts regarding Fiesel were few and far between. Had you asked the average stranger on the streets of Berlin today what they knew of the enigmatic soldier, they’d tell you he was a first-class pyromancer, that he fought in the war, and was killed by the Hurricane after rapidly and unceremoniously succumbing to insanity on the battlefield. The particulars of his death were known only to his killer, and Leopold Sturm never spoke of these events in any great detail.
To his surprise, the young man farthest left was someone unknown to the boy. The man stood, leaning back against the wooden trench supports, holding a model 1898 rifle adorned with an abnormally long scope in his hands. He wore a 1916 pattern helmet and the typical field uniform of the era. Curiously, his right eye was shut tight in the photo, perhaps resulting from an unexpected camera flash.
Set into the bottom of the frame was a small brass plaque engraved with the group’s famous moniker; “Wyvern Team”. For a moment, Sturm’s imagination ran wild. What name would be assigned to his team when the time came? Would the world one day come to know it as they knew his father’s? At once, the wonder of an unknown future was dispersed by an unwelcome inquiry.
“You’re still out here? Do you always stand around staring mindlessly at whatever catches your eye, like some sort of game fowl?”
Sturm spun around to face the familiar feminine voice of his heckler. As expected, it was once again the blonde who had made a scene moments prior.
“That was fast,” said Sturm, glancing down the hall toward the line of candidates outside Vogel’s door and then back to the girl.
She smiled sarcastically and ran her fingers through her long, somewhat wavy hair.
“Well, it wasn’t as if they would refuse me. The commandant is a proper Prussian noble and the old stiff clearly knows talent when he sees it,” she explained as a pompous grin crept further across her face.
Sturm said nothing and returned his focus to the photograph on the wall. The girl crossed her arms in annoyance before stepping up beside him and leaning in to get a closer look at the picture.
“What’s so special about this one, anyway? Do you fancy this woman or something?” she mocked, irritated that Sturm wouldn’t allow her to divert his attention.
“No, I just-”
He was unable to finish speaking before the girl abruptly cut him off.
“Oh, I get it…” she purred with a knowing smirk and narrowed eyes, “You’re a wannabe, aren’t you?”
Again, Sturm didn’t speak but raised an eyebrow in response to her assertion.
“Don’t play coy with me. I see that cute little hat tucked under your arm. You are a fan of the Hurricane, right?” she pressed on with a self-assured giggle.
Sturm’s eyes widened, stunned by the allegation that he was in some way attempting to mimic or otherwise pretend to his own father’s image.
“Look, I don’t mean to shatter your precious dreams or anything,” she taunted, tapping her glossy red nails on the glass covering the photograph, “but you’re never going to be anything like the Hurricane. At the most superficial level, he’s a giant and you’re… most certainly not.”
Though she had no idea that she was speaking to Leopold Sturm’s son, that didn’t change the fact that her words still stung to some degree. Sturm’s father certainly served as a great inspiration to him, that was true. However, he was under no illusions that he would someday be an equal to the most powerful human in contemporary history. Still, despite his countless hospitalizations and the almost daily life and death struggle he endured as a small child, it was clear that many of those around him had set high expectations. After all, how could the son of the great Hurricane be a fragile, defective disappointment?
The girl had struck a nerve, but Sturm wasn’t about to let her bait him into an argument on such an important and otherwise exciting day. Deciding to ignore her harassment, he shrugged nonchalantly. Aggravated by this gesture, her eyes flashed with anger as she placed a hand on her hip.
“Going to pretend you can’t hear me? Whatever. Forget the strength, I doubt you’ll even be able to grow a mustache.” she growled.
Why does it always come back to the mustache? Sturm thought to himself.
While the two had been going back and forth, another boy from the line of candidates had walked past them and passed through into the mess hall. The girl sighed dramatically before grabbing Sturm tightly around the wrist and hastily dragging him off, down the hall, and toward the door.
“Come on, turkey. If we don’t find a seat soon, we might not get one at all,” she groaned impatiently.
Though his initial instinct was to resist, Sturm swiftly relented out of indifference and followed her toward the large double doors of the dining area. With a little luck, Sturm hoped, the arrogant girl might find someone else to harass while they awaited the next stage of their orientation.
ns 15.158.61.50da2
