The Lesser One Chapter 3: The Meaning of Anima

The Meaning of Anima

The elevator doors open with a ding. We are far, far underground, with no way to know how deep from the buttons on the elevator. From how heavy the atmosphere feels, we must be very deep.

The room I step out into is tiled with large, white squares, from the floor to the ceiling many, many feet up. A glass-paneled command center sits halfway up the far wall. Inside it, I can just barely see Mason Irr. He meets my gaze.

The two men in black behind me walk to the right side of the room, where a small stage holds equipment and wires.

Dr. Irr’s voice booms from above. “We will test your physical traits first.”

A hole opens in the ground and a tube rises out. It is made from glass, with a sweeping metal arm that rotates at a constant speed. The arm stops, and the glass slides open.

“I am obligated to guide you through what is happening,” says Dr. Irr. “You will now be subject to a Psion Resonance Imaging process. Don’t worry, it’s not like an MRI. We don’t have to check for anything, like metal.”

I step inside. The tube slides shut. The metal arm rotates, slowly at first, and then faster and faster and faster. Soon it is just a blur around me. Warmth blossoms through my body. A heady feeling comes over me, like when inhaling too much oxygen.

After about two minutes the machine slows down, stopping after another thirty seconds.

The door opens. I step out, a bit unsteady.

“Now we shall test your spirit,” says Dr. Irr. “Please manifest your spirit indicator.”

I hold out my hand. I know what to do, even though I’ve never done it before. A blue light shimmers above my palm.

“Thank you,” says Dr. Irr.

A poster, like the ones at an optometrist’s, appears on the far side of the wall.

“What can you see?” says Dr. Irr.

A series of colors swirl around my vision. It’s a considerable effect, and I know I’m the one who manifested it. The poster is plastered in a patchwork of indicators—mostly shades of blue, but some red, some yellow, and some green.

“All I see are colors,” I say.

“Very good,” says Dr. Irr. “Please describe the colors and their shapes to me.”

“Um, there’s a big yellow triangle at the top right corner.”

“Um hm,” I hear, through the speaker.

“And there is a lot of blue. But it’s not all the same.”

“Yes, as expected,” says Dr. Irr.

“And there’s this … Black dot at the very center.”

Dr. Irr is silent.

“Is everything okay?” I say, after a torturously long pause.

“Please repeat your last observation.”

“A black dot,” I say. “Near the center.”

Dr. Irr is, again, silent.

The men in black at the control station are looking at each other, as if something is happening that is not supposed to.

“Very well,” says Dr. Irr. The poster slides back to where it came from. “You have performed well. As well as could be expected.”

“You aren’t going to make me do anything else?” I say.

“You’re an anima spirit,” says Dr. Irr. “There isn’t anything else your classification can do. Unless you want to try the other tests. I am obligated to perform whatever test you request. You know your power better than I do. However, don’t expect results.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say.

Dr. Irr steps out of a door on the side of the control tower. It appears he is standing on air; there is a little cushion of light keeping him aloft. He floats down to the ground floor and approaches me.

Smiling, he puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me towards the exit.

“I’m not supposed to interfere with your mentorship,” he says, “But I do want to know more about your specific color of Anima. It’s not really related to what you can do. It’s just that you are a curiosity.”

“Okay,” I say. “What’s special?”

“Just, well, your anima color,” he says. “I have never even heard of a blue anima before. Most animas are either red or green. One or two have been recorded as yellow. But I have never heard of blue being manifested.”

I shake my head. “I already know who I am going to choose to be my mentor.”

Dr. Irr looks a bit miffed. However, he seems to take it in stride. “May I ask who?”

“A man named Glen,” I say.

Dr. Irr’s face immediately sours. “Dr. Barrimore?” he says.

“Is that Mr. Glen’s last name?” I say. “Also, he’s a doctor?”

“Regrettably,” says Dr. Irr. He sighs. “Well, there’s nothing that I can do to influence your decision.” He stops, motioning towards the two men in black, who have returned to the doorway. “I will be seeing you in manipulation class soon, I presume.”

The men in black shuttle me into the elevator. They are silent.

“So, um, where am I going next?” I say.

The man on my right looks down at me. “The written portion of your examination.”

“Oh,” I say. “Should I have studied?”

The man on the right shakes his head. “This test is designed to be fair. No studying is required.”

The door to the elevator opens. We are on the fifty-first floor. The elevator’s upward momentum had barely registered in the time it took to ask my questions. My ears hadn’t even popped.

I step out of the elevator into a plush hallway lined with striped wallpaper. At the end is a pair of doors that appear to have been taken straight out of a high school.

The men in black open the door for me and hold it as I step through. As it closes, they bow, backing away. The doors click shut.

“Greetings, Mr. Red,” says a female’s voice, behind me. I turn to see a short, childish-looking woman wearing a white lab coat. She smiles at me.

“My name is Dr. Bordagard. I am the psionic physics professor here at Ixtham Academy.” She points to a piece of paper on one of the seats in the front row of the classroom. The chairs are those single-unit desk-chair combinations that I know all too well.

I sit down in the chair with the paper. It is blank; all I can see is the back side of the packet of papers.

“This is your written examination, doubling as both your assessment score test and your entrance examination to Ixtham. You must score at least a seventy-five percent in order to be allowed into Ixtham. How high you score above that will determine your placement among the classes. Ixtham has no grade levels; like a college, it is class and credit-based.” Dr. Bordagard flips open a booklet and begins reading the directions; the same sort of standardized fluff that proctors read before every state test. How to bubble, reading everything fully, fifteen minutes per section. When she is finished, she motions to me. “You may begin.”

The first section is all math problems, with a focus on word problems. Instead of relying on previous mathematical knowledge, they are more based on raw analytical ability. I don’t have to use a single memorized formula. As I work, I experience little distractions of flowing color swirling around my peripheral vision. I know it has something to do with my Anima Spirit; I don’t know what it means, but I am sure that it is trying to tell me something.

I don’t have the tools to interpret the flashes, however. I do my best to ignore them. They are quite distracting, though, and I barely manage to finish the portion before the time is up.

The next portion is reading comprehension; the next, analytical reasoning. There is even an essay portion.

The strange portion comes last. It is a series of questions based on my “manifestations;” questions such as: “Are you suddenly able to read minds?” or “Do you feel like information is coming from somewhere specific?” or “How much more powerful do you think you are, physically, than you were before your awakening?”

I answer all these questions to the best of my abilities. No, I can’t read minds. Yes, I am sensing things I haven’t before. No, I don’t think I am any physically different than I was before.

When the time is up, I sigh, leaning back in my chair. Dr. Bordagard takes the booklet and places it on the podium. She pulls up a seat across from my desk. Holding a tablet, she positions her touch pen above the screen.

“Let me ask you first. How brave do you think you are?”

I pause. “I don’t know.”

“Please answer to the best of your ability,” says Dr. Bordagard. “Even if you aren’t sure, answer how you think you would feel or react.”

“I’m not very brave,” I say.

“It’s good that you’re honest,” says Dr. Bordagard. “How well can you handle pain?”

“Not well,” I say. “I don’t like getting hurt.”

“No one does,” says Dr. Bordagard. “Let me be more specific. If you lost a hand in combat, would you be incapacitated?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Again,” says Dr. Bordagard. “Answer to the best of your ability.”

“I …” I think. “I’m split. Half of me says that I would freak out, the other half says I’d keep fighting.”

“Good,” says Dr. Bordagard. “A very measured answer.” She makes some notes on her tablet. “Next. If you discovered that someone in your party was stealing drops, what would you do?”

“Probably report them to the party leader,” I say.

Dr. Bordagard nods. “Next. Your party member has been killed by a particularly strong monster. I know with your ability, that you don’t have much of a chance going up directly against a powerful monster. What, in your mind, is the best choice of action?”

I think for a moment. “I would fight to save them. But I don’t know if I would be brave enough in the moment. I don’t even know how I would be able to help, with my spirit.”

Dr. Bordagard nods. “We have a system in place that regulates this kind of situation, so that everyone knows what they are supposed to do, that maximizes the effect of their abilities. After your test results come in, we can discuss what your role in a conflict crisis is.” Dr. Bordagard seems to think for a moment. “With your power, you might not actually have to fight anything.” She taps a few times on her tablet. “Last question. Do you have any sort of objection to any aspect of being an adventurer?”

“No,” I say, in a heartbeat. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

Dr. Bordagard smiles, putting away her tablet. “Good. You should be emailed your results, both of the physical and written exams, by tomorrow afternoon. The next adventurer draft is one month from now. For the time being, you can attend Ixtham as a trial attendee. However, your course load will be limited. Until you find a guild to host you, you won’t be able to reap the full benefits of this academy.” She stands up from her seat across from me. “Go home and have a nice rest. You’ll probably start attending the day after tomorrow. I can tell from how you worked that you most likely passed the written portion of the exam.” She bows slightly and walks out of the room.

The two men in black pass through the door and approach me.

“Lets go,” says the man on the right. They lead me out of the room and into the hall, down to the elevator.

When it opens, I see Jane Bossman. She is leaning against the elevator wall, her hands crossed above her stomach, wearing street clothes. She barely seems to notice me. The two men in black stand between me and her before I get a chance to say anything. I open my mouth, but after a glare from the man on the left, I close it.

Jane eyes me, her mouth curled downwards. Her eyes are ice cold. As soon as the fast elevator reaches ground floor, she stands in front of the doors like she is eager to leave it. The doors open and she strides out.

“You better be ready,” she says, without looking back at me.

I turn to the men in black to try and understand what she meant.

The one of the left glances at the one on the right. Left man in black nods. “Ms. Bossman is the practical class instructor at Ixtham.”

“And there isn’t a drill sergeant in any army in the world who is as tough as her,” says a voice, coming from the entry hall. I turn around.

A strikingly bald man meets my gaze, smiling broadly. He extends his hand. I hesitate.

“My name is Glen,” he says. “I heard about you from Jim, and I wanted to see you for myself.” He grins. “I heard from Dr. Irr that you already decided on me to be your mentor.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m flattered. But first I have to know: do you really want to be the best that you can be? It will be a long and hard road, and you’ll want to quit many times. You can’t, though, after you make your first and final decision.”

I nod. “You’re an anima spirit, right?” I say.

Glen nods at the two men in black. “Randy, Blaze, I can take it from here.”

The two men bow and walk away. Glen waves at me. “Come. Let’s get a drink at the Half Moon. On me.”

We walk out of the building and through the streets to the alley where Half Moon hides. Walking through the door, I catch sight of Jim, who smiles broadly.

“Hey, Glen,” he says. “You find him?”

Glen motions for me to sit. “I did,” he says.

Jim eyes me. “How did the assessment go?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m going to get the results back tomorrow.”

Glen smiles. “I have great faith in you.”

“Why?” I say. “You just met me!” I sit down.

Glen lights a cigarette and examines it before puffing once. He leans one arm on the bar, the other hand holding his cigarette. “You found this place. It’s not supposed to be discoverable by people who don’t have fate on their side.”

“Fate?” I say.

Glen puffs his cigarette. He turns to Jim. “Jim? Can you explain?”

Jim nods. “Yes. This bar has a spectral shroud surrounding it. Only people who have a recommendation are able to remember this place’s existence. Otherwise, the memory fades from their mind like fog on a warm spring day.” Jim’s mouth perks up. “Very few people are able to discover this place on their own.”

“What does fate have to do with that?” I say.

Jim shrugs. “It’s just a myth surrounding this place. Some prophecy a drunk medium gave a decade ago.”

“That drunk medium was Alfred Kingsman,”
 says Glen.

Jim shrugs.

“Alfred Kingsman!?” I say, my eyes widening. “He came here?”

“He was a regular, actually,” says Jim. “A lot of famous people are regulars here. You just haven’t met them yet.”

I have a question I really want to ask. However, I don’t feel like I should.

I ask anyway. “Does Jane Bossman come here?” I ask.

Jim’s face becomes inscrutable. He turns to Glen.

Glen shakes his head. “Jane is a strict non-alcoholic. She’s never had a drop in her life.”

“This is a bar, after all,” says Jim. He pauses. “You are the first minor who has found this place on their own, though,” he says. “I don’t know what that means. You can keep coming here even if you don’t drink anything.” Jim pauses. “But only if you agree to be Glen’s pupil.”

“I agree,” I say, without hesitation.

Glen looks slightly taken aback. “Are you sure?” he says. “I can be a real driver. You might want to quit after what I’ll put you through.”

I shake my head. “I’ve been wanting to be an adventurer for my whole life. I would never quit.”

Glen slaps me on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

Jim looks happy. “Here,” he says, passing me a cup of the same orange juice he gave me before. “On the house.” He winks. “Last free one you’ll be getting here.”

“Is this place expensive?” I say. “I don’t have any money.”

Jim looks at Glen. “Are you going to give him the same offer?” he asks.

Glen tils his head, seeming to think for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. “You seem smart enough.” He pauses, then looks at me. “You’re not opposed to being a research assistant, are you?”

I nod vigorously. “I can help!”

Glen smiles, though his expression has a tint of sadness to it.

I look at Jim for an explanation. He exchanges a meaningful glance with Glen. Then, Jim sighs. “Glen has been looking for an assistant for a while now. He’s tried three others, but they’ve all left him.”

“Why?” I can’t help but ask.

Jim exchanges another glance with Glen.

“Glen’s research isn’t exactly … Orthodox,” says Jim. “Not many people agree with or even understand what he’s trying to do.”

“What is he researching?” I say.

“Circle-spirit interaction,” says Glen. “Specifically, how the addition of a spirit circle to a low-class companion spirit will change their usefulness and effectiveness.”

Jim nods. “The culture right now is very proprietary regarding spirit circles. The people with the most powerful companion spirits get the most powerful upgrades. Since they’re so rare, their use is husbanded.”

Glen sighs. “I keep trying to tell people that the increased versatility afforded by the options powered-up low level spirits give will be worth the expenditure.”

Jim shrugs. “No one believes him. He barely has any funding, and that only because the dean of Ixtham is fond of him.” He sighs. “Glen is kind of an outcast.” He pauses. “And, truthfully, I wanted to introduce him to you because I knew you would be the perfect test subject. You’re probably the weakest adventurer given the job title in several years.”

That assessment hurts. I don’t know what to think about it.

Jim seems to realize the impact of what he has said. “I don’t mean that your value isn’t the same as anyone else,” he says. “Plus, I sense a very high amount of psions flowing out of your nodes. But there’s not much meaning to that. It possibly indicates some hidden potential, but without a reliable way to awaken it, we can only hope for a freak occurrence.” He sighs. “As you are now, your value to the adventuring community is purely as a statistic.”

I understand what this means. I am the lowest on the ladder. I won’t have much opportunity given to me.

Working with Glen is my best chance. I turn to him. “I want to work with you.”

Glen claps my shoulder. “Good. I can be ornery at times, but I want to say that I have hope in your potential.”

I smile. “I’ll try my best.”

Jim turns to Glen. “Your usual?” he says.

Glen nods.

Jim begins making a cocktail out of a strange-looking fluted glass.

“So I’m really that weak,” I say.

Jim motions to Glen. “If you want, he can make it clear for you. He is a doctor of spectral studies, after all.”

Glen shrugs. “Your spirit is one of the more common manifestations of what is known as visible-spectrum recoding. It involves the restructuring of the perceptive experience, which can manifest as a new kind of information being visible to the individual.” Glen pauses. “Basically, you can see unseen things.” He flicks his now-ashen cigarette. With the same motion, he reaches for the cocktail that Jim has just passed to him. “Red anima allows the user to see distributions of power. An example would be knowing exactly how many volts are running through wire. Green anima allows users to slight differences in nature. An example would be being able to tell the chemical composition of a liquid. However, anima users do not know how to interpret what they see after they are awakened until they either learn or are taught. Thus, their ability is useless without inordinate amounts of training.”

I nod vigorously. “So what can Blue Anima users see?”

Glen shakes his head. “I have never heard of blue anima manifesting. And I’m probably the chief expert on this subject, at least in the United States.” He shrugs. “So you could be seeing anything.”

“I have to ask,” I say. “Why was I assigned to be an adventurer despite my spirit?”

“Anima users have some use in an adventuring party,” says Glen. “They perform slightly above average in the thief party role. Though they perform horrendously in all other roles.”

“Probably because being more aware of your surroundings make you a better thief class,” chimes in Jim.

Glen sips at his cocktail. “Right. So the choice of whether or not to assign the adventuring job class to an anima spirit depends on the current need for manpower and the individual discretion of the judge who awakens you.”

“Every thief who is an anima user means one more useful adventurer to add to the front lines.,” says Jim.

“Thieves are …” I say. “Okay, I guess.”

“I would say they are the most underappreciated class,” says Jim. “Even though they get paid less and don’t have a share in the kill bounty, they are still an essential part of any adventuring party.”

I sigh. “So that’s it? I’m weak. Do I even have any potential?”

Jim shrugs. “Your psion aura is very strange, but I don’t know if that’s good or bad. And, you’re a never-before seen anima color. A curiosity. But besides that …”

“With my help you will at the very least be able to survive Ixtham for four years,” says Glen. “I can guarantee that.”

I stand up. “I probably have to go home now,” I say.

Glen nods. He hands me a business card, plain white. “That has my number, my office address, and my email. Come to my office the first chance you get, and I can start advising you on how to approach schooling at Ixtham.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Glen smiles. “And don’t worry. You’ll be getting paid to be my lab assistant.” He pauses. “Just not much.”

I bow and leave the bar.

On the way home, I daydream about my success as an adventurer despite my low power level. I dream about suddenly receiving enough power to become the best adventurer in the world. Even though I know it will never happen, I find some measure of satisfaction from it.

After getting off of the subway, I head home.

However, as I arrive at my neighborhood, I see someone.

Aaron. He is standing at the streetlamp about a block down from my house, along my usual route, as if waiting for me. He catches sight of me. As he starts moving, three bulky men wearing leather jackets studded with metal peel away from the walls of the building beside them and approach me behind Aaron.

I stop. Aaron continues to approach me. I try walking backwards, but the street is behind me and the light is the wrong color. I stop at the edge of the curb.

Aaron gets within striking distance.

A phantom fist flies at me from where Aaron will be in two seconds. I dodge the phantom fist instinctively, and Aaron’s actual punch swishes a foot from where I had been two seconds before. Stumbling, my back runs into a lamp post.

Aaron kicks me in the gut. Even though I see the same blue phantom, this is one attack I can’t avoid.

The three burly thugs surround me. One of them cracks his knuckles.

“You ruined his life,” he says, motioning to Aaron. “Now we are going to ruin yours.”

“Wait, wait,” I say. “What did I do? Aaron is the one who—”

One of the thugs slams his fist into my sternum. I double over in pain.

Aaron leans close to me and says, almost directly into my ear: “I heard you got into Ixtham.”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, I just took the entrance exam—”

Aaron grabs my chin with his hand. “You destroyed my life,” he says. “I’m going to destroy yours.” He flicks a switchblade open, and he dramatically licks the edge. His eyes are glazed over—he is probably high. “I wonder what I should write on your forehead?” he says.

The other three men, the thugs, look like they are enjoying this.

As Aaron repositions himself to get a better shot at engraving my forehead, I see a phantom blue mark appear at his side. I know he is going to let the pressure on me up in just a few moments—there.

I punch with my newly freed hand, sending Aaron reeling. He drops his knife.

Following the blue phantom, I dodge through the grasping arms of the three thugs and book it. The phantom is leading me somewhere. I don’t know where; I am following it blindly, hoping it leads me to salvation.

I am not a very fast runner. I can sense, behind me, Aaron and his three thug friends gaining on me.

I might not make it. I throw the last of my energy into my sprint and hope that salvation I am waiting for comes soon.