Chapter 2: Ideals and Reality

"Finn, what's your plan after graduation?" Mark asked with a sly grin, his tone dripping with mock concern. "You can't keep playing Cosmic War all day—it's not like you can eat pixels. You're not seriously thinking of joining the military, are you?"

Finn glanced at his childhood friend and nodded. "I'm considering it. Nothing's set in stone yet."

"God, you're treating the game like real life!" Mark dramatically clutched his forehead, as if he'd just heard the world's worst idea. "Those USE mechs aren't toys, man. They're a grind to operate, and there's no future in it. Plus, us regular humans can't compete with the Evantians' physique."

Finn stayed silent. Mark was right—it was a harsh truth. The year was 2215 AD, and the world was split between the old human Earth Federation (USE) and the Evantian Free Alliance (NUP). It was a tale as old as time, predicted in countless sci-fi flicks: cloning was banned, but genetic engineering marched on, driven by humanity's fear of mortality. Thus, the Evantians were born—self-proclaimed "new humans." They looked like us, but their bodies were stronger, more resilient to disease. Their brains? Not much different—mind enhancement was trickier than space travel. Still, the gap was clear. The fastest human could sprint 100 meters in 9.7 seconds, and that was elite. An average Evantian? They'd breeze past that, with the best breaking the 9-second barrier. The divide was growing.

In the fifteen years following the Evantians' rise, chaos ensued. War erupted, and both sides clashed for half a century before realizing it was a pointless drain. History books on both sides labeled it a "farce"—the Fourth World War. Post-war, humans formed the USE to govern Earth, while the Evantians established the NUP, centered on the moon. Officially, the NUP was under USE jurisdiction, but it was a tangled web. Humans had bases on the moon, and many Evantians lived on Earth, mostly in Oceania. Fifty years of integration hadn't erased the friction, but they'd learned to coexist. Blood ties, after all, were unbreakable.

Wars always sparked innovation. In the past five years, humanity had leaped into an unprecedented space tech revolution. Starships zipped through the solar system, hauling minerals from distant planets back to Earth and the moon. For interstellar warfare and exploration, antimatter-powered ships were king. But for ground combat, Mobile Suits—humanoid mechs—were the backbone. Nothing adapted to terrain like a human pilot.

Mobile Suits were an Evantian invention: giant, pilot-controlled machines. With their superior physique and reflexes, Evantians maneuvered them like extensions of themselves. Outnumbered, they'd relied on these mechs to hold the line. Now, both the USE and NUP leaned on them heavily. Mobile Suits could handle any planet's surface, and rumors swirled that space-capable versions were in the works—top-secret, of course.

Over time, even regular humans could pilot them, though their performance lagged.

"Look, high school grads don't have many options," Mark sighed, his tone softening. "I won't stop you from enlisting, but at least try for military academy. Otherwise, you'll be stuck in logistics, never even touching a mech."

He meant well. Mark wasn't into Cosmic War, but he'd seen Finn play—guy was good. Still, to Mark, Mobile Suits were just high-tech cannon fodder: cool in theory, grueling in practice, with little reward. Like infantry in ancient wars—expendable.

Finn shrugged. He wasn't clueless. Exams just weren't his thing. In this era, military academies were brutal to get into, especially the Big Five—where the elite of the elite trained.

Take this: if Finn enlisted straight out of high school, passed the tests, he'd start as a grunt. Years of hard work might get him into a mech as a corporal. With luck and a few medals, he could hit captain by forty. But grads from the Big Five? They entered as lieutenants, rank alone enough to make others green with envy. The top students? Straight to starship command as majors—a rank most mech pilots would never sniff.

That was reality. Mech pilots were the grunts; starship crew, even the janitors, were officers.

Finn took it in stride. Everyone had their strengths. He'd rather be a gritty mech pilot than a starship jockey. But the academy… that was a sore spot. He wasn't dumb, but those exams were sadistic, and theory bored him to tears.

"Relax, there's still half a year," he chuckled, brushing off the weight of it all. "I'll take my shot, win or lose. What about you?"

"Me? No grand dreams of glory," Mark smirked. "I wanna be a journalist—entertainment gossip, preferably. Sneaking shots of celebs. Don't worry, when I'm famous, I'll hook you up with free scandal pics!"

They laughed, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Youth was for chasing dreams, no matter how wild. Finn knew Mark's knack for digging dirt and his sharp writing—perfect for tabloids. Different paths, but they'd been brothers for over a decade. Finn aimed for the academy; Mark, for liberal arts.

After parting ways, Mark's words lingered, stirring a flicker of hope in Finn. He wasn't in a rush to head home. Magnetic cars zipped by—sleek, but out of his price range.