Eight years ago

Manhattan, New York

It was 1:24 PM when Otto was pulled out of class.

He remembered the time exactly because it was during Art; the whole class was coloring in drawings they had made the previous day. He didn’t mind getting pulled out of class – at first, he was excited for it. He didn’t really like Art, which was “a little odd” for a kid his age, he had overheard teachers mention to his parents a few times. Not concerning! God no, it wasn’t concerning – he was a perfectly healthy, normal eight year old, they always hurried to provide afterwards. He just liked reading books about science or doing math problems instead, whereas his classmates tended to prefer arts and crafts.

…He had poor grades in both Math and Science, but that didn’t stymie his enthusiasm. He would confidently raise his hand and blunder each and every question Mrs. Donnovan asked in class, knowing, knowing that he knew this one for certain. He didn’t, but man it felt good to try. If he didn’t raise his hand just because he wasn’t confident, what if that was the one he actually knew?

He was never confident in his answers, so it wasn’t like he could just wait on that.

Otto followed behind the woman who had come to get him – Mrs…something that started with a B, he thought. She was always around in the school, not a teacher or something as lofty as a vice principal, but someone with authority who brought kids where they needed to go. A trusted adult, one who had led him from class a few times before when counselors or “special” teachers wanted a chat with him about this or that. A trusted adult. That was probably her job title.

As such, the familiarity lulled him into a sense of dull momentum. That was the best way he could describe it; his body moved, and he didn’t need to think about it, but he wasn’t quite daydreaming either. He walked on the navy blue carpeted floor spackled with minuscule bits of white, yellow, and green, through beige walls adorned with artwork from the various classes and signs reminding kids of The Golden Rule – “Treat others the way you want to be treated!” A penguin with sunglasses implored him with a pointed fin and a grin while he walked past – and dim yellow fluorescents shone overhead.

He easily fell into the rhythm, and it was like his body told him, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this one. We’ve done this before. You can rest.” Otto kept walking on autopilot while his mind just sort of…drifted. His brain rested on clouds, drooping eyelids blinking slowly. If he hadn’t been in such a state, he might have noticed the jolted motions Mrs. B was making, or how oddly tense she was. She glanced in his direction every once in a while, as if he would run off. Why would he? This was pretty normal as far as he was concerned. He hadn’t been called out of class in a while, but it usually happened in Art. Just more evidence that the class was dumb, and he should be allowed to read about dinosaurs instead.

They reached the Office – if it had a more specific name, nobody used it – and blinked a couple times when he wasn’t brought to his guidance counselor’s room. He glanced in its direction and saw the door was open, and the man was sitting inside. Mr. Gallagher was young according to most of the teachers or faculty, but to Otto, he was still woefully old, which probably placed him at about thirty. His white dress shirt had a recent coffee stain on it, even splashing onto the fun tie he had worn today, which he was usually so proud of. It was a bunch of cartoon farm animals crammed together, the wool of a flock of sheep stained brown. His normally kind blue eyes were worried while he looked at his computer screen, and he bounced his leg nervously, something he routinely tried to coach out of the kids. His receding blonde hair seemed even further pushed back than usual, his forehead was pinched forward in an expression of perpetual concern.

Mr. Gallagher glanced up, maybe by chance, or maybe his brain simply registered movement as they began to pass by. Otto caught his eye, and the man’s mouth opened for a moment in surprise. He seemed about to say something, but instead, he forced a smile onto his face and gave him a quick nod and a thumbs up. It didn’t look the way it usually did. He stood from his chair and walked to his door. Avoiding the boy’s eyes, he slowly began to close it.

“Mr. Gallagher?” Otto asked, confused.

“Sorry, kiddo. I’ll…talk to you in a bit. I’ve got some – ah – work to do, right now.”

Mrs. B turned and noticed Otto wasn’t following, hurrying back. She reached out and grabbed his hand, dropped it immediately, and jerked her head for him to follow.

“Come on, Otto.” Mrs. B said in a voice that was a little too strained, with a smile that was the same. “Mr. Hargis wants to see you – needs to see you.” She corrected, clutching her tense hands behind her back before Otto could see her fiddling with them.

That gave Otto pause. “The principal?” He asked, as if there was another Mr. Hargis.

She nodded. “You aren’t in trouble.” She said, though her tone didn’t do anything to help his worries. He started to get nervous, walking up to the unfamiliar door. A metal placard that he had to look up to read said, simply, “Principal: Mr. Hargis.” The door was flanked on both sides with opaque glass, to where he could only barely make out a figure sitting at a table within.

He was soon revealed by Mrs. B opening the door, with Otto hesitantly following after. Two chairs were pointed towards a cluttered wooden desk with curved edges. Family photos hung on the walls beside a diploma, and an American flag was drooping down on a tall pole.

The principal himself wasn’t unfamiliar to Otto, but he had never interacted with him much. Despite being in the Office more than the average student, he probably saw him about the same amount. He spoke at assemblies – either planned events or impromptu ones for when they were being bad – he occasionally sat in and surveyed teachers while they worked when it was time for employee reviews, and he tried to make a habit of ducking in to say ‘hi’ every now and again. Which meant, somewhat frequently for the first month or two of school, and never again.

At the moment, he was sitting at his desk with his hands steepled. His brow was creased in worry, and it only sharpened when Otto entered the room. He was largely bald on top with only a few wispy strands giving the illusion of a head of hair that had once been present. He was a tall and thin man, and a pair of rectangular glasses rested on his nose. He incessantly fiddled with them, freezing when he saw Otto.

He cleared his throat. “Please, sit, Otto.”

He knows my name. He thought to himself with a twinge of worry. Why would he know his name if he wasn’t in trouble? What had he done – he had gotten mad and yelled at Jordan, but by Math they were back to being friends. He didn’t think the boy would tell on him, but it was possible.

He sat on the chair, looking up at him with big, worried eyes. Mr. Hargis met them and felt his heart twinge in pain – but Otto wasn’t worried for the reasons he thought he might be.

A few moments later, Mr. Gallagher entered as well. He looked at Otto, and to Mr. Hargis with a silent question. The man shook his head, and the guidance counselor grimaced. He took the seat to Otto’s right.

“Otto-“

“Did I do something wrong?” He blurted out. All three adults looked at him, and none seemed able to process what he said at first.

“I know I yelled at Jordan at recess earlier, but he wouldn’t throw the ball back to me, he was just tossing it up and down in his hand. So I got mad at him and yelled at him for him to stop hogging it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I said sorry to him after. We’re friends again.” The words came in a constant stream, rushing out until he was left breathing a little heavier. His eyes never left Mr. Hargis’ own.

The principal’s mouth worked for a moment in confusion, and an expression of guilt and sorrow crossed his expression. He shook his head.

“No, Otto. You aren’t in any trouble at all. It’s not- your fault.” He said gently. Mr. Gallagher looked away.

Otto’s face screwed for a moment. “Yeah it was. I yelled at him.”

Mr. Hargis shook his head. “That’s not why I called you in today, Otto.” He said. The boy waited patiently for him to continue, but it took him a moment to start speaking. When he did, it was slowly in a low voice, emphasizing every word so Otto might understand.

“We received a call earlier today. About your mother and father.” Otto didn’t respond. What was he supposed to say? He knew who they were. There were no questions to be made.

“They…” Mr. Hargis struggled with his words, looking away from Otto for a moment while he blinked rapidly. Otto’s heart began to drop, and he didn’t know why. Something was wrong. They weren’t supposed to act like this, they never did.

He cleared his throat and started speaking again. His eyes were looking just over Otto’s shoulder, avoiding the constant eye contact the boy usually forced onto his victims.

“We received a call from the police. There was a Supervillain attack at your parent’s work.”

Otto nodded slowly. On its own, that wasn’t anything too worrying. That happened – well, it didn’t happen all the time, but it happened enough that he wasn’t overly worried about it. At least once a year, maybe twice at most. Three was the absolute record.

He still didn’t understand why people hated what they did so much, but he had come to expect it. Nobody at school cared what his parents did; it was always random people on the news, or on the internet. He never saw the latter though, his parents didn’t let him on unsupervised, which was very unfair.

“Oh. Okay.” He said after an awkward pause. Mr. Hargis met his eyes again and blinked away, taking his glasses off and cleaning them on his shirt even though they were spotless. When he placed them back on his face, he cleared his throat once, twice. He sniffed hard.

“Your parents, Otto, they-“ His voice broke, and he grabbed the table hard. He heard Mrs. B making weird, wet sucking noises behind him. Mr. Gallagher was staring at a poster that said “Keep positive!” on the wall, stone faced.

“-They didn’t make it.” He eventually forced out. His eyes met Otto’s, glistening.

Otto felt himself go numb. It was like when he went on autopilot while walking – his emotions suddenly felt distant, muted. Like another person’s problems. His mind went to another place, one filled with clouds and softness. His brain rested in it.

“Are they dead?” He asked. It seemed like a pertinent question; ‘they didn’t make it’ was vague, and he hadn’t heard the phrase that many times. Usually it meant they were dead, though.

Mr. Hargis looked at him like he had a third eye, and the words jerked Mr. Gallagher from his stupor long enough for him to glance at Otto in concern. Mrs. B was still making noises behind him – he realized now she was probably crying.

That makes sense. He thought to himself. People died. It’s very sad. I’m sad.

“They- yes, Otto. I’m sorry for not being more clear. Your parents… they passed away.” He cleared his throat. “The police will be here soon, just in case. Mr. Gallagher is here in case you want to…talk, and your grandparents are on their way to pick you up.” He adopted a more businesslike tone the longer he went on and the more normal the events he was describing became. Otto looked at him with confusion.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“They’re picking me up?” He asked, “We haven’t even had English yet.”

Mr. Hargis’ mouth worked for a moment. “I’m – I don’t think Mrs. Donnovan will mind.”

“Okay.” Otto said, even though that wasn’t really his concern. He slid off the chair and stood up. He nodded politely to each of the adults in the room. “Thank you for letting me know.”

He turned and walked to the door. Mrs. B awkwardly shifted out of the way while blowing her nose, and he took a seat in the waiting area, feet dangling. The door closed behind him, and the adults all looked at each other.

Why didn’t you say anything? Mr. Hargis’ muffled voice came through the walls. Otto heard it even though they were trying to be quiet, their voices sharp hisses that wriggled through the gaps in the door. His feet swung back and forth, hands gripping the cold metal frame of the chair while he sat on the cushion.

What was I supposed to say? He took it – well, I think. Mr. Gallagher replied.

There was a pause. No sounds came through the door other than an occasional sniffle and nose blow.

He must be in shock. Mrs. B said, her voice wavering. Poor thing. I can’t imagine…

It’s terrible. Mr. Hargis said. Of course it is. No child should have to go through that. He… you’re right. He must be in shock. He seemed to be trying to convince himself of it.

There was a pause as Mr. Gallagher hesitated.

He has always been a bit of an odd child. He eventually said, voice quieter than usual, as if suddenly aware of the possibility Otto could hear them. You’ve seen how he gets, sometimes. It’s like his head drifts away, but his body stays. It’s all one word answers and blank stares.

The words went in one ear and out the other. His brain in that realm of clouds stirred and started to return, and he against it. He tried to stop listening, to not overhear their words. It was comfortable where he was. He didn’t want that to change.

He doesn’t look sad, far from it. Usually he has a smile on his face. He’s just…detached.

The conversation died down in the other room, and Otto concentrated entirely on the swinging of his own feet, taking comfort in the repetition. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but eventually, the door to the Office opened, and two people escorted by school staff walked inside.

One was a police officer. He had pale skin, a gut that pushed out against his tucked in dark blue shirt, and a bald head was revealed when he took off his cap and held it to his chest. Despite being out of shape, he still had thick powerful arms Otto read his badge. It said, “Officer Madison, NYPD.” When his eyes met Otto, he paused.

Otto recognized the other person immediately.

His grandfather perpetually wore an old army hat, stitched in dozens of places where it ripped or caught over the years, repaired faithfully by Otto’s grandmother. He wore khakis with brown dress shoes and a white button up shirt, and brown suspenders, covered by a tan coat. His face was weathered by lines and tanned from work in the sun. He wasn’t as in shape as he used to be, but beneath it was a core of solid muscle and grit from years upon years of continual labor. His jaw was set hard.

Otto was afraid of his grandfather, sometimes. He wasn’t a man to laugh or smile often; his father said he came from “a different era of men,” whatever that meant. Functionally, it meant that while his grandmother enjoyed spoiling him with treats and hugs, his grandfather took a more…practical approach. He showed Otto different parts of his lengthy garden, tasked him with assisting in pulling weeds or planting zucchini, squash, or whatever it was he was growing that year. Every time he and his family drove upstate to visit, his father inevitably spent most of the time helping with the garden, and his grandfather felt Otto should help out.

“It builds character.” He said to Otto’s dad once, “The boy should know what a hard day’s work feels like. Lord knows he won’t feel it down in the city.”

Otto’s dad would inevitably sigh and shake his head, but he wouldn’t push back. So, Otto would help out however he could, which wasn’t much. He didn’t do a very good job, but unlike with to his dad, his grandfather never yelled or got upset with him. He patiently explained “proper” weeding techniques, how and why they were planting the way they were, pointed out rabbits, squirrels, and birds that scampered by –explained why it was a problem they were getting in – and would lift Otto to pick cherries off the tree in their yard.

“Of course he loves Otto.” His father said to his mom once when she questioned it, “He just shows it differently. He never gets mad or frustrated with him, even if he does something wrong in the garden.” He smiled a little and shook his head. “It’s like seeing a different man than the one I grew up with.”

She had begrudgingly accepted that explanation. A truce of sorts was established, until they got their new jobs. After that, the visits got scarcer and scarcer, until Otto thought he hadn’t seen his grandfather since last year.

“Otto.” His grandfather said in a gravelly voice when he saw him. He ignored the officer who he entered with and walked over to Otto who jumped down from the chair to meet him.

He put a strong, calloused hand on Otto’s shoulder. He smelled like he always did; rich soil and a slight spice from whatever bodywash or deodorant his wife bought him. Otto kept staring straight forwards, and the police officer approached to join them. School faculty lingered on the edges, standing in doorways, observing but unwilling to walk closer.

“Hey there,” He said with a smile. “I’m Officer Madison. You must be Otto.”

Otto blinked once and looked to the officer, nodding slowly.

“Come on, Otto.” His grandfather interrupted, pulling him along by the shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

The officer looked startled and hurried to follow. “Sir, we need to talk-“

Otto’s grandfather turned and gave him a glare. “We can talk outside.” He said, turning the glare onto the various onlookers in the office, who glanced away or ducked away when it fell on them.

“Let’s go, Otto.”

He nodded along, following his grandfather out of the building. The hand on his shoulder never left, a constant comfort.

They walked outside, and past the doors of the school, the familiar sounds of the city struck him. His grandfather grimaced at it and shook his head, guiding Otto towards his car parked out front. It was an old Volkswagen that he was quite proud of, but he didn’t know enough about cars to care. They approached the car and stopped before entering. The police officer caught up and nodded to them both.

His grandfather grunted. “Go ahead.”

Officer Madison cleared his throat and looked at Otto. “Should he ah…go in the car, maybe?”

The hand on his shoulder tightened, and his grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “They’re his parents, aren’t they? Anything you say to me, you say to him too. He deserves to know.”

The officer hesitated, but nodded after a moment. Otto’s eyes were distant, resting on his badge while he read it over and over.

“I’ll keep it brief, Mr. Schmeling. Feel free to interject with any questions. “

“Earlier today at approximately 11:38 am, NYPD was notified to a supervillain attack upon the Jorran Embassy by a series of explosions. We…don’t know their exact motives yet, but tensions recently have been high, as I’m sure you’re aware. Shelter in place procedures were adhered to by the employees of the embassy, Karl and Amelie Schmeling included. The local hero on duty, the A-rank Dylan King – alias Ice Fist – intercepted the perpetrator. During the ensuing battle, among others, Karl and Amelie Schmeling were both confirmed deceased.”

He delivered the statement in a stilted manner, clearly uncomfortable by Otto’s presence from the glances he sent in his direction. Even more unnerving was that as soon as he started speaking, the boy’s brown eyes locked onto his own like heat seeking missiles, never wavering.

Otto’s grandfather looked sharply at the officer. “What do you mean, ‘during the ensuing battle?’” he asked. He released his grip on his shoulder and took a half step towards Officer Madison, who looked up at the imposing man with hesitance.

He looked one more time to Otto, who never stopped staring. He sighed and looked back to Otto’s grandfather.

“The saferoom on the first floor collapsed, causing the casualties. At first, we thought the villain’s explosions did it, but they weren’t nearly powerful enough unless given ample time, which he was not. He was intercepted almost immediately upon his attack. We believe…the current running theory - of the NYPD - is that one of Ice Fist’s skills which rapidly decreases the temperature of the area around them was used recklessly, weakening the supports and walls of the room, causing the brittle material to collapse under the stress of the repeated explosions.”

Officer Madison continued speaking, but Otto tuned it out. He and his grandfather began arguing, drawing looks from passersby on the sidewalk, but he didn’t care. He felt distant, cold, processing the information given to him, but he was having trouble. It…didn’t make sense.

I know Ice Fist. They’re on commercials between my cartoons sometimes. He’s cool; the skill he gets his name from is a pair of super strong ice gauntlets that covers his arms when he fights. I didn’t know he had a skill that made his surroundings colder.

Why didn’t he save them?

“When did he get it?” Otto asked. Both adults paused arguing to look at him.

Officer Madison looked down at him with an attempted smile. “Sorry? Get what?”

“The skill. He used to only have the ice gauntlets. When did he get that one?”

Otto’s grandfather looked to the officer with sudden intensity. The man withered under the glare.

He began to croak a response, stumbling through it.

“I- We believe that this skill was a… recent development, hence the reckless usage. They don’t have the proper mastery over it to utilize it in a crisis situation, and are being reprimanded-“

“He was experimenting with a new skill while there were lives on the line?” Otto’s grandfather almost yelled, stepping forward with rage. “And you thought to cover for him?”

Officer Madison bristled. “I wasn’t covering for him, the details weren’t relevant to-“

“My son is dead because of him.” He said, his voice cold and grinding. The officer flinched.

“I-“

“Get in the car, Otto.” His grandfather said, stepping around to get inside himself. He dutifully followed, getting into the back seat and buckling in. Officer Madison tried following, but every attempt at speaking was utterly rebuffed. His grandfather drove away from the school and didn’t look back.

He kept driving when his parents would normally turn towards their apartment, and he didn’t stop. After a few minutes, he thought to speak up.

“Where are we going, Papa?”

He glanced at him through the rearview mirror.

“I’m taking you home. Upstate. You’ll be living with me and your grandmother now. She’s clearing a room now.” He paused and added after a moment:

“We’ll get your things later. Right now…we’re leaving.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He watched the city pass by in the window. Soon, it was gone, replaced by suburban homes, and eventually, the countryside. Green New York in the midst of spring bloomed beyond the windows. The trip passed in silence, his grandfather only occasionally turning on the radio to get updated on the score of the Red Socks game. They were losing.

Otto’s eyes were fluttering closed by the time they reached his grandfather’s home. He lived in a quiet neighborhood filled mainly with other retirees, families who had children that grew old enough to move out and make lives for their own in other parts of the world, Otto’s parents included. It was sleepy, and Otto’s grandfather liked it that way; he had known his neighbors for years, given them vegetables from his garden and been given baked goods or help in return. It was a friendly community, if an insular one.

The two story house was old with flaking red paint surrounding white accents on the windows and supports. The driveway and patio dominating the front, while the backyard he knew was equally dominated by his grandfather’s garden. He saw the pathway leading to it beside the cherry tree, while a massive willow was nestled between the driveway which split around it like a rock in a river.

His grandfather parked the car and Otto followed him out. The sun was beginning to set, but it would remain in the sky for a deceptively long time now that it was spring, lingering.

Otto walked inside after his grandfather and took his shoes off at the door. They entered into the kitchen, a large oven set into the far brick wall with a long dining table in the center. Beige linoleum tiles made up the floor, each inscribed with a pattern he had never really paid much attention to. Brown cabinets and white countertops. The faucet dripped.

Straight ahead in the next room, Otto heard the news from the television on. It was the news, and he caught snippets.

“…devastating scene in upper Manhattan as the Jarran Embassy is in ruins. The windows are shattered, its stone foundation broken by a combination of concentrated blasts, and sharp temperature shifts weakening the structure. Hero Ice Fist is currently under scrutiny for his actions during this attack, while the GHA are digging in their heels…”

It was turned off. Otto hadn’t realized he walked to the entrance until he saw his grandmother sitting on the floral-print couch, a pair of crochet hooks currently pulling a small quilt taut over the armrest.

She was a small woman, diminutive compared to his grandfather. She wore circular glasses that were so powerful they made her eyes distorted through the lenses, something that always made him laugh when he saw it. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore a soft sweater with jeans. She looked at him with a sad expression.

“Come here, Otto.” She said softly. He was pulled towards her almost beyond his own volition, sitting on the couch beside her. She gently pulled him closer until his head was resting against her shoulder, and she began stroking his hair, whispering to him.

“It’s okay, Otto.” She said quietly. “We’re here. It’s okay.”

His mind snapped back to reality. The grounding of his grandmother pulled his brain from the realm of clouds and back to his body, and the emotions hit him like a train. His blank visage cracked, his face twisting in sorrow.

And then, finally, the tears came.

“It’s okay.” His grandmother whispered. Her voice was shaky, but she took a shuddering breath and kept stroking his hair.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

She repeated it in a constant refrain, and her hand on his head never stopped moving.

I’m sorry. He wanted to say. I’m getting your sweater wet. I don’t want to get my snot on it.

The words wouldn’t come. He cried and cried until his body couldn’t take it anymore, and he passed out in her arms.

His grandfather carried him to bed.