Morty (who has endured more than enough jokes about the nickname but it's still better than Mortimer) is not deluded enough to think that his chances of survival are good, but they're....alright. 

The Oakland enclave isn't wealthy; he'll be going in at a significant disadvantage, even compared to the nearby kids from Sacramento, who he's actually met and even trained with sometimes. And judging by the stories, New York is even more ridiculous. Still, they can afford power-sharers, and some mana storage beads, and his parents - both accepted to the enclave on maintenance track after their own Scholomance years - scrimped and saved to get him the best-quality clothing and equipment they could afford, mostly from that one fancy camping store for rich mundanes, all lightweight and durable and as thoroughly warded and enchanted as they could pull off. 

Unfortunately Morty hit a growth spurt at thirteen. He's been on a godawful diet for the past six months and avoiding weightlifting - which sucks ass, it's the best way he's found to grind mana - but his body very firmly wants him to be built like a pit bull. So Destiny, who's tiny, is carrying most of his equipment, and both of them have less personal allotment than they'd hoped for. 

His affinity is for moving things. Inanimate things are easiest; he can use spells that summon objects to himself almost trivially, and he can levitate things at a distance, and when he throws projectiles they never, ever miss. Animals and people are a lot harder. Mals, he can't do at all. He's probably going to go for artificing track, because lots of people will want enchanted daggers that never miss on a throw and that they can call back to their hand. 

Induction falls at 11 pm, local time, so it's only the youngest of his younger siblings who can't stay awake long enough to see him off. He hugs them before they go to bed, and reads to his 5-year-old brother and his 3-year-old sister. His 11-year-old sister and 9-year-old brother and 7-year-old brother are all there for his final weigh-in. Only the youngest cries. 

Morty is the oldest child, and so he can tell them that it's going to be all right, and they don't have any personal counter-evidence of this. His mother doesn't cry, just frowns at the scale and then, after a moment's thought, gets out a single roll of Lifesaver candies. Tucks it into a pocket of his camping backpack. "Save it, love. For a day you've really earned it."