Bright eyed and bushy tailed were not the words one would use to describe how Peter rolled out of bed the next day. The only thing bushy about him was his hair and his eyes were more bloodshot than bright. He had woken repeatedly during the night, haunted by dreams he couldn’t recall yet still left him unnerved. He rolled off the side of the bed and onto the floor with a thump. Laying there, staring at the ceiling. Hoping to go back to sleep. His alarm sent a merry jingle through his mind, one that would be pleasant to wake to on any other day, and he levered himself up on his elbow.

“Bah,” he spat. The taste of chlorophyll lingered on his tongue. “Next time I’m just going to go hungry.”

Across the hall he could see a light shining under his mother’s door, so he assumed she was already up and moving about. Climbing to his feet he started pulling on school clothes and lacing his shoes. He headed to the kitchen, swished his mouth out and grabbed a pair of breakfast bars. “This’ll do.”

His mother still hadn’t made an appearance, so he knocked on the door as loudly as he dared and mumbled a goodbye. The clock in the corner of his vision informed him that he really needed to get moving or he was going to miss the buss. Big loss that one, the thought ran through his head, but if I’m going to out Bully I need to get to school and take that exam.

Still not trusting the elevator controller he took the stairs, sliding on his butt down the bannisters to save time and effort. He managed to flub a few of the landings, slamming his shoulder into the wall opposite, but it was a small price to pay to avoid death in a cramped metal box. Even with the accelerated descent, the bus was just starting to pull away from the kerb as Peter arrived at the stop. He slammed the heel of his palm against the Perspex window, trying to get someone’s attention, to get them to stop the bus. “C’mon! Somebody let me in!”

His cries went in vain. Peter watched the tail lights of the school bus disappear into the distance. Tears welled up in his eyes and a lump formed in his throat. The muscles in his legs gave out and deposited him on the gutter, lying across the footpath and blocking the pedestrians trying to make their way along.

“You look like you could do with some help, buddy.” A blurry face appeared above him. “Do you want a ride to school?”

Peter blinked the tears away, resolving the blur into the face of his father. “Dad? What are you doing here?”

His dad held out two motorbike helmets. “Helping my son get to school on the first day of exams?”

Wiping his face on the hem of his shirt, Peter shook his head. “But, um, but it’s morning? I thought Mum said you weren’t coming home until you’d finished at work?”

“I guess I’m finished then,” his dad helped Peter to his feet. “You know how it goes sometimes, crunch time at the end of a project.” Peter could see his dad looked as tired as he felt himself. His dad’s clothes were rumpled like he had slept in them and smelled like he hadn’t changed all weekend. “I made it home in time to take care of my boy though, didn’t I?”

Peter nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. He stuffed his head into the spare helmet, wrinkling his nose at the weird smell inside it. Even though he had only just put it on, the padding felt clammy yet strangely warm. “Thanks Dad. I really appreciate the lift.”

They walked to where Peter’s dad had parked his bike, the engine plinking as the metal cooled. It was a mean looking machine, more engine than frame. Peter’s dad flung his leg over the bike and held out his arm to assist Peter on behind him. “Ready to go?”

Peter nodded.

The engine roared to life.

The trip to school took a fraction of the time it usually does, buildings and cars passing in a flash. Peter leaned back and flipped a rude gesture to the cameras of the school bas as they overtook it. The helmet muted the worst of the engine noise, turning it from a full throated scream to a pleasant grumble, almost soothing in its own way. Peter’s throat unclenched slowly as they approached the school, replaced by the growing pit in his stomach. As much as he wanted to stick it to Bully, the plan scared the pants off him at the same time. By the time they pulled up in the carpark the pit had become a cannon ball.

“Thanks again, Dad.” Peter pulled off the helmet and handed it over.

“Any time,” his dad shouted over the engine. “See you at home.” He peeled out of the park and into traffic, the front wheel lifting slightly with the acceleration.

Peter meandered through the school yard, unaccustomed to being to school this early. He checked his clock and saw that the bus wasn’t due here for another ten to fifteen minutes at least. The whole place had a deserted, almost abandoned feel to it, with only a couple of other students around, drifting aimlessly. Directionless. Lost.

Peter’s own meandering path took him across the sports field on the way to his locker. The morning dew glistened wetly on the grass running track and hung in droplets from the chain link fence that surrounded the shot put pad. Climbing the concrete terrace the school used as spectator seating took Peter’s breath away and he found himself panting as he reached the top.

“Oh. My. God. Ye canna let a man be at peace can ye?” The grating scottish accent made Peter flinch. Sitting in his wheelchair on the top step was the very person he had been looking for, and dreading finding. “Can ye no a least die quietly? Somewhere else for preference?”

“Ah,” Peter started, then stopped, unsure how to address the person in front of him. “Um, Woz?”

“It’s Warren to you.” Warren didn’t even look at Peter, preferring to stare out over the fields the way a veteran would regard rice paddies in Vietnam. “Why are ye botherin’ me? Can ye no see ah’m dree’n me weird here?”

“Couldn't you do that in the bathroom or something?” Peter pulled a face.

“What?” Warren snapped around to look at Peter. “No, dumbass, it means facing your fate.” All but a trace of the accent dropped from his voice. “Look, what’s your problem? I came out here to be alone for a bit without my sister ahnging about like a bad smell. Just a while to myself, remembering the good times. You’re messing it up, so you’d better have a good reason.”

Peter plonked himself on the top terrace beside the wheelchair with a sigh. “The truth is, I was hoping to see you today. I… I guess I should apolgise.”

“You guess? You’re a jackass online and a jackass in real life.” Warren began to unclip the brakes on the chair.

“Wait!” Peter pleaded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but I’ve got a lot going on right now and I’m completely screwed and I really need some help. Please.” Peter remembered something. “I can make it worth your while.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Warren redid the clips on the brakes. “Ah’m listening.”

“I am, like, screwed nine ways from Sunday. Bully’s got something over Pham and he’s going to get her to hack my exam and take my scores and make them his or something.” Peter explained as he dug around in his backpack. “And worse, there’s an imp infestation under Averton that will probably let the succubus bypass the wards and take over the town. Dani and I need someone strong to open the door in the steam tunnels and help to clear them out.” Finding what he was looking for, he pulled out the hip flask. “I know I said I could do it on my own, but I was wrong. Stupidly, incredibly wrong. If I give you this, will you help? With Pham and with the imps?”

Accepting the flask, Warren unscrewed the top and took a quick sniff, looking around furtively to make sure they weren’t observed. “Ye gods. Ye dinna ken what ye’ve got there, do ye?” The burr had returned to his voice as though it was never gone. “Tha’s the good stuff. Ye got yersel’ a deal. I’ll meet you in the tavern tonight, and I’ll have a word to Pham about the tests. Do ye have a plan in case she can’t refuse Bully? No’ many as can.”

“Sorta,” Peter zipped up his backpack and slung it on his back again. “I’ve been working with the tradesmen, and women,” he added hurriedly, “in Averton. They’ve taught me all I need to know to pass the Shop A and B exams today. My plan is to ace the test so well that it’s obvious that Bully couldn’t have done it. It’s not a great plan, but it’s all I have.”

Warren unclipped the brakes again and turned his chair around. “Ye’re right there. It’s no a great plan,” he began to roll away, then paused. “But, ye know wha’? It might just work. Come on, assembly’s in a minute.”

Feeling like he’d passed some sort of test, Peter followed Warren to the school assembly hall. Most of the rest of the school had already taken a seat on the varnished wooden floor, arranged in their classes by school house and year. The holograms of the faculty were projected onto the stage at one end of the hall in front of a screen showing a slideshow presentation that could only have been an adult’s idea of what a teen would find inspirational, and an actual teen just finds embarrassing. Peter left Warren at the back of the hall with the rest of the differently abled students and joined his class. What followed was quite possibly the most boring series of speeches ever given by a school faculty. Even exemplary students were glassy eyed by the end of the assembly, less dedicated ones simply gave up and napped, heads resting on their book stuffed backpacks.

When the torture session wrapped up, the room assignements were projected on the big screen over the stage. Instead of the usual room for a given subject, every desk in every classroom had been shifted into a grid with a desk’s space between. Students testing for different subjects were arranged in the grid such that no two students taking the same test would sit next to, in front of, or behind each other. It was supposed to deter cheating. Maybe it even did, for the less dedicated cheaters.

The classroom Peter found himself in for the first session was clearly the domain of the marine biology students. Old fishing nets hung from the ceiling with plastic fish in a range of interesting shapes and colours zip tied to them. He doubted many of them still existed. As much as the Greenies had tried to get the government to take action all those years ago, it had been too little, too late. Fortunately some of the more forward thinking of the European countries had saved samples and were trying to restock the oceans with clones, but the day when the venture could be called a success was a ways off yet. Peter frowned, wondering what the marine bio students even study, assuming what he heard on the news was true. Eh, not my problem, he decided and put it out of his mind. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

A member of the staff walked in with a pile of papers and laminated sheets. She handed the paper to the student at the desk closest to the door to pass out to everyone and then placed a single laminated sheet on each desk, obviously checking that the number on the top of the sheet corresponded to the layout she had been given. When the student, whom Peter had never knowingly met before, passed him his paper he scanned it over but it was just the basic “student number at top, list of multiple choices to select from” exam sheet he had used for every other exam since grade one. When the staff member arrived, however, the sheet was placed face down on the desk. On the exposed face was a simple direction: do not turn over until instructed. Ok, fine. Keep your secrets.

When all exams and answer sheets had been distributed, the staff member left the room and the hologram of a teacher appeared. Again, it wasn’t one that had taught Peter, but he knew of her, Ms Debney, a science teacher. “Students, in about five minutes you will be given the instruction to turn over your exams. Once the exam begins there will be no talking. There will be no bathroom breaks. You each have a mechanical pencil with the appropriate lead in it. You will use that and no other to mark your answer sheets. The pencil is stocked with spare leads. In the event that you use all the leads and require more, raise your hand and they will be provided. You have from the time you are instructed to turn over your papers until eleven thirty to complete the exam. If you finish early you may stand, place the test on the desk at the front of the room and depart.” Ms Debney spoke mechanically, like she was reading from a script.

Which she probably is, Peter realised.

“If you depart,” the teacher continued, ”you will not be permitted to re-enter the room. For any reason. Do you understand? If so, say ‘yes, I understand’. If you have any questions, raise your hand an I will attempt to answer them.”

There was a chorus of “Yes, I understand” from around the room. Nobody raised their hand. They had been taking tests like this their entire lives.

“Now, you may begin.” Ms Debney’s hologram stood attentively at the front of the classroom, but everyone was acutely aware that the walls had eyes. They turned over their exams with a rustle, and soon the only sound in the room was the rough scratching of mechanical pencils on paper.

Peter, on turning over his paper, had needed to suppress a giggle. The more he read the questions posed, the harder it had been to contain his mirth. This is almost word for word what Grale was talking about! Schweet! He blazed through the test, marking the answers with confident strokes on the answer sheet. He finished so fast he went over the exam a second and third time, not believing it could have been so easy. Eventually he gave up looking for trick questions or hidden meaning or any of the expected teacher tricks and stood, dropped his answer sheet on the desk and left. I guess I’ll head to the library and get some reading in.

After a couple of chapters and a leisurely lunch, Peter returned to the assembly hall with the rest of the school to find out his room assignment for the afternoon exam. No rambling speeches from the principal this time, just a short reminder about staying inside the school grounds after your exams if you were waiting for the bus that everyone promptly resolved to ignore.

This time, the room was spartan to the point of being bare. Peter looked around as he waited for the exams and answer sheets to be handed out, trying to guess what the room was usually used for. The walls were plain institutional off-white with nothing adorning them. Nothing on the ceiling but the lights and fan. He gave up and listened to the teacher assigned to this room read the same spiel Ms Debney had, but with even less enthusiasm.

“You may now begin.”

Again, Peter turned over his exam paper and had to struggle to contain his elation. Every question on the page either directly or indirectly reference the training he had received from Averton’s smith. Peter turned the page over, in case there was a second sheet with harder questions on the back. Just the one line. Do not turn over until instructed. He tried rubbing the page between his hands in case there was actually two pages, just stuck together. Nothing happened, it was just the one laminated sheet. It CAN’T be this easy? Can it? Peter marked his answer sheet quickly and definitively and handed it in, leaving the classroom feeling like he had done something wrong.

No sooner had he walked out the door when guilt twisted his stomach. Oh no. What if this is how Bully’s doing it? Getting them to give me an easy exam so he looks better? What if I’m walking into his trap? He turned around, almost took that step over the threshold of the room, and saw the teacher’s hologram look him dead in the eyes. Fear and guilt warred in his chest as he hovered, unwilling to take the step, unable to back out. The test was there on the desk. All he had to do was pick it up and it would be a fail.

But that would be too obvious. Deliberate failure meant another beating. It would be reported to his parents too. They didn’t need more reasons to argue. The moment passed and the disapproving stare of the teacher tipped the balance. Dejected, Peter slouched away.

I guess I’ll just have to hope for the best, Peter mused as he made his way to the library to await the end of the day.