Brock followed the Director out of the meeting room and into another one of the Yggdrasil’s ubiquitous wood-paneled hallways.

“What’s the World Council?”

“An unfortunate necessity,” the Director grumbled nastily under his breath, and Brock almost tripped. He’d never heard Director Shimada use anything other than a precise and cultured tone of voice before. The Director looked over at him and waved a hand as if to dismiss what he’d just said.

“They represent the various political factions of our culture, each of which has a different idea on what we should be doing with Sekkies. It’s my job to figure out the best compromise between what they all want and keeping everyone safe.”

Brock took a second to think.

“So, does that mean you’re in charge?”

“Not exactly.”

The Director stopped in front of a blank section of wall and made a complicated gesture with his fingers. A coruscating portal appeared, and he motioned Brock through it.

There was a moment of discontinuity, then Brock emerged into a small waiting room with white stone walls and a black tile floor polished to a mirror sheen. A pair of mahogany doors set into one wall was the only visible exit, and it was empty except for some scattered low couches set around rectangular tables. The Director appeared next to him, and the portal snapped out of existence. He continued speaking as if there had been no interruption.

“It is more accurate to say I have absolute control over our response to Sekkie-related events and policy, but in exchange, if I anger enough people with my choices, they can band together to replace me with someone else. Some days, it is quite the precarious tightrope.”

He pulled open the doors, and a babble of raised voices filled the air. Brock thought it sounded like they were arguing about something. The Director looked back at him.

“It seems as if this is one of those days. Try to say as little as possible, Brock. We are not without friends, but it is very likely the Conductor has at least one person on the Council. It’s what I would do,” he finished in a barely audible voice as he stepped through the doorway, Brock trailing on his heels.

The room they walked into was a massive affair of more of the same polished stone, a vast alabaster dome stretching overhead carved with decorative columns and arches that reflected so cleanly on the mirror-sharp floor it looked like they were standing on a lake of black glass. Rows of mahogany benches covered in crimson padding stretched up in a horseshoe of stepped tiers, evenly spaced armrests dividing them into wide seats. A milky-white crystal orb, at least twenty meters in diameter, hovered without visible support over the center of the floor, even in height with the topmost benches, but barely halfway to the top of the domed ceiling.

Almost all of the seats were filled with various figures gesticulating wildly at each other, an even mix of humans, elves, goblins, orcs, fairies, pixies, robots, and other, stranger things. Many were standing and shouting down at the central floor area, where a stocky woman with white hair in ceremonial green and gold robes was waving an ornate staff back at them, occasionally shaking her fist at the loudest ones. A plain wooden table with two chairs was set off to the right side.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

It felt, Brock thought, eyes focused forward, like a fancier version of the sand-floored arena he’d been tested in just the other day.

The cacophony increased in volume as some of the people in the benches spotted the Director and began pointing at him and Brock. Within a minute, every face had turned towards the two of them, and the noise rose to an almost unbearable level. Just when Brock thought his eardrums were going to burst, the white-haired woman swept her staff through the air like a scythe.

“Silence.”

Her voice was soft, but it cut through the din like a knife, and instantly there was no sound other than Brock and the Director’s footsteps on the glossy black tile. Confusingly, the people in the benches were still gesturing and moving their mouths, but as they realized nothing they said was being heard, they sank back into their seats, many of them red-faced and glaring. Several made rude gestures, and the woman glared back at them before tapping her staff on the floor.

“As the appointed Representative for today, I have been authorized to maintain decorum, and decorum we shall have! Take your seats.”

As they got closer, Brock still resolutely staring forward, he saw there was a thin gold ring inlaid in the ebon floor, in which the woman was currently standing. Tiny runes seemed to shift and flow along the ring, though only when he wasn’t focusing on it. Looking at it made his head hurt, so he turned his attention to the people in the benches, then nearly stumbled. He reached out and plucked the Director’s sleeve.

“Uhhh,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice from echoing in the cavernous silence, “why are they all dressed in high school uniforms?”

“It’s a Sekkie thing,” the Director whispered back, his lips unmoving. “They think school councils somehow run the world, and one of the Akumas set a global enchantment to enforce it. We’ve been trying to break the compulsion for hundreds of years, but it is annoyingly persistent. Unfortunately, if we want to govern, we have to play along with the ridiculousness. Each school is a political faction. They’re given a, uh, limited choice of decor.”

Brock stared out at the various styles of uniforms. The largest contingent, taking up nearly a quarter of the seats, was wearing high-collared black jackets with gold trim that made them look more like a military group than a band of high-schoolers. To their right was a slightly smaller group in loose white suits covered in stylish blue designs, and a thin wedge to their left was composed of garish red long coats draping hideous orange pants tucked into heavy red combat boots, sneers and scars covering a motley crew of brutish faces. Various other styles dotted the rest of the gathering in small groups, including a collection of delinquents studded with piercings dressed in multicolored crop-tops and black and blue plaid miniskirts, and a small cluster near the top appeared to be made up entirely of mascot outfits.

“Huh.”

The Director came to a halt next to the table just outside the gold ring, and offered a brief bow to the stocky white-haired woman, who bowed back.

“Class Representative.”

“Director Shimada. Please, be seated.”

The Director motioned Brock to the table, and they each pulled out a seat. Brock sat down on the unforgiving wood, and his chair legs screeched in the silence as he pulled himself closer to the table. He gulped nervously. In the gold ring, the woman raised the staff again, and turned it in a quick circle. The cloudy orb overhead swirled, then sharpened into a display of Brock and the Director, and Brock stifled a gasp. The clarity was like looking into a perfect mirror, way sharper than any television he’d ever seen.

“This special investigative session of the World Council is now called to order,” the woman announced in a loud voice. “Let us begin.”