After the third lap around the track, Rich knew that the green guy to his left wanted him dead.

Colored jumpsuits flashed in the sun, reflected the heat of a humid and glaring spring. It was already over a hundred degrees, and it was still April. The track glistened with the morning's rain, and more threatened, as dark clouds chased the sun.

The track ran a good few miles through the choking swamp alongside the Scioto river. Tons and tons of pollinating plants mixed with old contaminants from defunct farms, and spewed a sinus-searing blend through the air.

Respirators weren't allowed in the morning regimen. Already, several of the trainees were slowing down, wheezing, and a few were running with their eyes shut. Rich passed them dispassionately.

Three years ago he'd nearly died from toxic complications. Recovery had been long and hard, and he'd gotten a drug and exercise regimen that strengthened his lungs. That had helped him rebuild.

But once he'd figured out his course in life, he'd started exposing himself to the outdoors, building up what tolerance he could. He'd coded and sold small apps, used the money to take “camping” trips out in the uncontrolled green. It had been painful and he'd suffered, but eventually he'd adapted.

So he had little sympathy for the recruits that struggled with unexpected allergies and air that was a bit spicier than they'd been expecting. Unlike most of them, he'd done his research. He knew what was required. And he had no expectations whatsoever of any sort of fairness.

Which was why, alone on the track, he was the only jogger who was wearing black.

And it could have been the color that drew green guy's eyes. Most new recruits stared the first time they saw it, but he knew that sort of stare well. There wasn't anything behind it, and after the first lap it faded as they focused on trying to breathe.

This guy still had the same eyes for Rich's back that he'd had back on lap one. And he was snuffling, just like all the others.

Rich slowed his pace as a trio of red jumpsuits flashed, reflected in the sluggish water of the river. He let them pass, then slowed a bit more. If he falls back now, then he'll try something on the track, Rich thought to himself. But if he passes, then he's just scrutinizing me.

It would be stupid to try something during the morning regimen. There were eyes everywhere, and instructors moving through the run too. Even a few full-fledged agents with gold crosses emblazoned on their jumpsuits making the run... the Academy encouraged their participation, as a way of showing the trainees that physical fitness was important even after you were through.

But then, Rich wasn't dealing with a smart foe. Just a very powerful one.

The morning jog finished up without incident. After that it was back to the compound for sit-ups, pull-ups, and weights in the Dorfler gym. No air conditioning there, either, just some big fans up top that had probably been there for decades. Grunts and swears filled the air, as the trainees did their best to build muscle.

“Need a spotter?” Greg asked.

“Please,” Rich said, even though he didn't. He never pushed himself to his full capability in the gym. Or anywhere else that would be closely scrutinized. Not after the first attempt, back when arrived at the academy.

After the third set they swapped, and Rich made an excuse to get some water. He located green jumpsuit on the way back. The guy was talking to another green on the opposite side of the weight room. Rich nodded and moved on without giving him the slightest attention.

This one's smart enough to reign it in around the others. Could be a problem, he considered.

Greg took the water with a grunt of thanks, then wriggled out of the top half of his yellow jumpsuit before grabbing the bar.

“You know you're just gonna have to put that sweatbox on again afterward, right?” Rich told him.

“It beats popping another one of these,” Greg said, stacking extra weights on each end, biceps bulging like melons in a sack. “They're just too damn flimsy. I get a good flex on, and riiiiip, gone. And the provost charges way too much for replacements.”

“Maybe if you laid off the roids?” Rich teased.

“No chemicals, man. Just grade A Kansas beef.” Greg grinned, and started his set, pecs flexing under his t-shirt as he lifted.

Greg Walker was about as complicated as a potato. He like beer, guns, God, and girls. Not necessarily in that order.

He was also about as useless as a root vegetable when it came to anything involving technology.

Which was what had brought him into Rich's sphere of influence. He'd been one surveillance test away from flunking out, before Rich had offered to mentor him. Since then he'd turned it around... nobody would ever be asking him to help build a server or disrupt a nanohack, but he'd managed solid C's... which was all he needed for his field, really. Yellow meant the Ministry of Justice. Aside from some A/V work and knowing the “rights” available to prisoners in custody, advanced computing really wasn't a huge deal for his division.

“Hey, ah... Royal?” Someone asked from behind.

Rich turned, vaguely surprised someone had managed to sneak up on him.

He relaxed when he saw who it was, a thin kid in orange who had shown up last week. He'd been cheerful, chatty, and was most definitely not here to kill anyone. Rich nodded to himself, satisfied. His internal threat sense wasn't at fault. What was this guy's name again?

“Carter, right?” Rich asked.

“Oh! Yeah, that's me, Ben Carter.”

“Richard Royal,” they shook, and Rich noticed the weakness of the guy's grip. He actually winced when he drew his hand back, and Rich felt a twinge of regret for failing to adjust.

“I was wondering something, and I thought maybe it'd just be best to ask,” Ben said.

“Bet I know his question,” Greg said, looking up and starting his next set.

“No bet,” Rich said. “Go on, ask. I don't mind.”

“Thanks! So why are you wearing black?”

“I would have won,” Greg grunted.

“I know,” Rich said. “Okay Ben, you know the color code, right? The way that Waverly assigns each division its own color?”

“Well yeah, I'm not just wearing orange because I like orange,” Ben snorted. “Makes me look like a hunter. I'm not that rich.”

“Yep, orange for prudence, yellow for justice. Thing is, all of those divisions map to one of the seven virtues.”

“The what now?”

“You know the seven deadly sins, right?”

“By heart. I'm from Indiana. Our preachers look at Dixie and think “Eh, they're too soft.”

“Right. See back before our church was what it was, the existing churches decided that there were seven virtues.”

“Um.” Ben hesitated.

“No, it's cool,” Rich told him. “This isn't on any of the forbidden lists. It's all out there if you go digging, it won't get you flagged.”

“Okay...” Ben nodded, slowly. Rich knew he wouldn't go digging. Trainees were watched carefully their first week, and it wasn't worth the risk. If Ben wanted to emphasize prudence, then he probably wouldn't dare to ask about this again for at least a few months.

So Rich continued. He liked enlightening people, teaching them, and this was probably his one chance to educate Ben on the subject. “The problem was that people disagreed on which seven virtues they were.”

“And what did the bible say?”

“Well, our bible wasn't around then. The Last Testament hadn't been... given to us by God at that time, and not all of the older scriptures made it into the true bible. The old and new testament don't talk about them much. So the thing of it is that there are different sets of seven virtues. The ones that Waverly Academy uses are called the seven heavenly virtues. But there are still other virtues around if you know where to look for them.”

“Okay...” Ben gnawed his lip. “I'm having trouble figuring out which sin prudence is the opposite of.”

“That's why it's problematic. Not all of the ideas of the virtues directly oppose the sins, and vice-versa. I mean sure, temperance is probably the opposite of lust, but what about faith? What's that oppose?”

“Heathenism,” said Greg, as his arms wobbled. Rich firmed his grip on the bar, helped his friend get it back to the holder.

“Except heathenism isn't a sin,” Rich said. “Maybe you could call it pride in denying the one true God... but there's room for argument there. Probably was a lot back in the day. The priests of the time liked to argue about everything, some of them even got paid for it.”

“That still doesn't explain the black jumpsuit,” Ben pointed out.

Rich looked him over again. He either had a really good poker face, or he was honestly clueless.

The Ministry of Prudence mainly drew folks looking to get into disaster prevention, wilderness reclamation, and bodyguard duty. Greg seemed rather small for those very physical specialties. Why had he picked orange?

Putting the speculation aside, Rich continued. “Because there are other virtues. In this case, black represents humility.”

“Humility? Well yeah, that's a good thing to have. I mean, everyone needs some, right?” Ben squinted. “But how are you going to get sorted? Which division are you going into? There isn't any Ministry of Humility.”

“I know,” Rich smiled, as he took Greg's spot, and his buddy racked'em down to his usual weight. “I'm going to see who wants me after I'm done here.”

“Who wants...” Ben stared at him, eyes full of confusion. “That's not how it works. You pick the division you want to go for, and the instructors guide your progress, tailor your courses to where you want to end up.”

“Yeah. That's the way Waverly wants you to do it,” Rich nodded. “And it's fine if you know where you're going to end up.”

“So you don't know yet? This black is just a temporary thing?”

“That's where it gets a little complicated. By the time I'm out of here it won't matter where I want to end up,” Rich smiled. “I'll either have a job or I'll be dead.”

Ben laughed. He stopped laughing when neither Rich nor Greg joined in. “Um... sorry. I thought that was a joke. I don't understand, I guess.”

Rich finished his set, and held the bar steady while Greg took it from him. “It's fine. The academy doesn't mind the odd color, I talked it over with them before I put it on.” That wasn't entirely an accurate statement. Many of the professors were hardcore traditionalists. A few of them had graduated from Waverly, and still wore their department colors. But the people who mattered were on board, so the rest of them could pound sand.

It had done a minor number on his grade point average, but only a small one. He was grateful for that, actually. It made him less conspicuous.

Ben chatted a bit more, just enough to be social, then headed back across the room.

Rich lay back on the bench for a bit, then beckoned for the bar once more.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Rich slid his eyes back toward the ceiling, and kept his voice low. “Do me a favor, and look his way in about two minutes, just a bit. Tell me if he's talking with a green guy.”

Greg eased the bar into his hands, and Rich pumped iron, keeping his breathing even and steady.

“Yep. Green guy,” Greg confirmed.

Rich closed his eyes. “Damn. He's a smart one.”

An intake of breath. “Already?”

“Looks like.”

“You want me to—”

“Not here.”

“Right, right.”

And that was why Rich couldn't use Greg to handle this problem. The guy was a smart one. Greg was simple. Not bad simple, not stupid simple, he just saw the problem and went to fix it, then worried about fallout as it came.

He was a lot like someone Rich had once known. Minus a few scales.

A shadow of pain flashed through his mind— remnants of therapy past, memories long since overwritten as false, hallucinations from sickness and stress. Rich closed his eyes....

...and Greg caught the bar as it wobbled. “That's enough, man.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Rich said, and sat up as Greg returned the bar to its place.

And just in time, too, as bells tolled from the main chapel.

“Shit. No time to shower,” Greg groused.

“Come on,” Rich told him and sat up, throwing his towel over one shoulder.

This was a new thing that the Ministry was trying. Except that it wasn't, not really. But bringing that up could get a guy into some pretty hot water.

The theory behind it was that when the faithful were called to prayer, everyone should wrap up what they were doing and get to an appropriate place, to give God a solid ten minutes of their most precious thoughts.

And so Rich headed to the chapel with everyone else in the gym... and everyone else on campus, for that matter. The gym was relatively far from the chapel, though, and he could tell at a glance that the place was too packed for the late-comers to find space. So along with the rest of the stragglers, he knelt on the grass, did his best to ignore the blazing sun overhead, and closed his eyes.

He'd just started to pray, when there was movement, behind him.

Here? Now?

He could almost feel the green guy's gaze on his back.

More shuffling.

No way he's this stupid, Rich thought.

But here the guy was, creeping up on him.

Another rasp of a shoe on the ground, loud in the silence. Too loud.

Why would he...

Clarity struck him, then. He's sounding me out. Trying to figure out how perceptive I am. Whether or not my obliviousness has been an act. If I don't react, then he'll know I'm on to him.

Rich shifted around, opened his eyes and glared. “You mind?” he whispered.

“Sorry,” Green guy grunted back.

He wasn't much to look at, not really. Sixteen, seventeen, the age of most of the freshmen at Waverly. Thin, probably with muscles under that jumpsuit, and neatly-cropped black hair. His nametag read “Cole.”

Rich nodded, and Cole folded his knees, closed his eyes. Rich looked forward again, and resumed his prayers.

And that was that. Twelve minutes later, he was back in the locker room, showering in the stall next to Greg. Green guy was nowhere to be seen, and no one was paying him any more attention than usual.

“That guy's going to be a problem,” Rich told Greg. “He's cautious.”

“So you're saying I won't get shot at this time?” Greg asked.

“Can't make any promises.” The last guy hadn't been able to find any good opportunities to jump Rich, so he had gone for the “mad shooter” approach. It would have worked, too, if Rich hadn't had several subordinate programs watching his movements.

Rich still wasn't sure what kind of escape plan the guy had in mind; he hadn't seen any way for the shooter to escape alive.

But then, given the foes he was up against, it was possible there wasn't an escape plan.

Morning classes went fast. Lunch passed without incident. Afternoon classes were quiet.

Everything was ordinary, up until the point he got a notice from his monitoring program that someone had entered his dorm.

Rich sat bolt upright, drawing a few stares from his fellow students in the civics lecture. Professor Scanlet's lectures weren't that exciting. Rich made a show of rubbing his eyes, as if he'd been dozing off, and the few bored students who he'd surprised nodded and went back to their notes.

Quietly, Rich went into his Echo mental interface and tapped the cameras... and got his second shock.

The view was blurred and garbled. Blurred in a way that only meant one thing.

The intruder was using a visual suppressor.

Rich closed his eyes. This would get logged on the network. Quietly he started terminating and wiping evidence of the rider programs he'd snuck into the dorm monitoring system... regardless of how this turned out, he didn't want them found.

Dinner was back in the cafeteria, and Rich sat there, picking over his meal. If he stuck to his Tuesday routine, he'd head back to his dorm soon, for studying and recreational reading. He didn't have any excuse not to do so.

Glancing up, he found Cole studying him from four tables away. Confused, Rich looked back to his meal.

If Cole was here, then who had broken into his room? Had Cole gone in, searched the place, and left?

Abruptly Rich got up, dumped the few bits of food he hadn't eaten in the trash, and headed back to his dorm. He paused as he left the cafeteria, glanced in the mirror opposite the door to see if Cole was following.

He wasn't. He was chatting and laughing with his neighbor.

An accomplice, then?

Once he was within a few hundred feet of his dorm, he activated the camera he'd put under his bed. This close to the device, the electronic traffic was unlikely to be detected by the academy's firewall.

The visual distortion was still there.

Pausing, he circled around the dorms for a second, looking to his room.

The curtains were drawn, like he'd left them, but the lights were on.

Standing there, in the hundred-and-ten degree moist heat of spring, Rich honestly had no idea what was going on.

If this was Cole's move, it was a damned confusing one.

If it wasn't...

It's not always about you, a little voice whispered in the back of his head.

When you looked at it that way, it did seem odd. The visual suppressor had been running for over an hour now, assuming constant usage. There was no way the academy monitoring staff hadn't noticed that.

Feeling his paranoia ease, Rich touched his hand to the building's door lock, entered, and found his way to his room. The door opened...

...revealing a middle-aged man in a blue suit, sitting in his desk chair.

It was a man he hadn't seen for years. A man he half-hoped he would never see again.

“Hello, Rich. Come in and sit down. It's time for your assignment.”

The silvery disk of a visual suppressor glittered on the desk. Nothing else in the room seemed out of place.

Rich nodded and headed to his bed, taking a seat on the mattress. “So it's time?”

“It is,” the man confirmed. What was his name? Rich had known him for all of a day or two, three years ago.

It had been a very hectic day, but the details of it were seared into his memory... some of them, anyway. Some were blatant hallucinations, and he had to be careful what he trusted, there. But after a moment, he recalled the man's name.

“Agent Cutter,” Rich said. “I assume you're speaking for...” he let the word hang in the air.

“Our mutual benefactor, who shall remain nameless,” Agent Cutter confirmed. “It's Alvin, by the way. Or just Cutter. You're two years in, you've earned that privilege.”

“Cutter, then,” Rich nodded. “Just so you know, there have ben a few attempts on my life. I'm expecting another one here soon.”

Cutter frowned. “I knew of the past two. I'm not aware of any current activities on that front. This could be a problem, given the nature of your job.”

“Which is?”

The agent's next words chilled Rich to the bone.

“We need you to play a game for us. We need you to go back to Generica Online...”