The Hero of a Thousand Deaths
Part One:
The Wolves Who Cried Boy
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CHAPTER ONE
Chattering voices sprayed excitement onto the steel walls of the Omega Class homeroom. Built like a miniature lecture hall, the pod-shaped classroom consisted of five rows of desks that descended to a low stage. Furnished with a stand, a projector, and a microphone, the stage was backlit by an industrial-sized projection screen––the kind you'd expect to see in any college lecture hall around the country.
Per usual, Ryō sat in the very back row by himself. His eyes were fixed forward on the stage where Professor Boris, the six-foot-five Slavic pack leader of the Omega Class, was approaching. The boy’s mind, however, was on Emery. I wonder if they will ever let her back in the main classrooms…
Emery was the only thing Ryō had been able to think about lately. Well, the only thing he'd let himself think about. The boy's infatuation had become a vice, a tactic of self-delusion. While the rest of Ryō's reality was as empty as the desk in front of him, picturing Emery was the one thing keeping him full.
Ryō took a subtle gander at all the other student’s desks. Emery was the only classmate not in attendance; the boy was the only student to not have a diploma waiting for him when he arrived. His desk was the sole one left barren, the others supplied with that fancy little document he had so yearned for over the last ten years.
To be fair, it was not exactly news to the boy that he wouldn't be graduating. Ryō already knew that––it was precisely what made attending this last homeroom session all the more painful and arbitrary. It feels like they're making me watch a documentary about my own inadequacy...
“Everybody quiet!” Boris's graveled voice strangled the room into silence.
The sudden quietness made Ryō churn in his seat, vulnerable. He quickly formed a little cave with his forearms and shoved his head inside the dark shelter. Making eye contact with another classmate, especially one of the boys, would have been a death sentence. And though drifting into a calm, painless death was a personal dream of Ryō’s, death by humiliation was the only thing still making him want to cling to life.
“As you all know, the field training mission starts tomorrow. Make sure to properly hydrate and eat all three meals, you will not have such luxuries in the coming days.”
“Yes sir!” Every set of vocal cords responded with militaristic deference, except Ryō’s.
In some ways, the boy was looking forward to everyone leaving without him. After all, he'd finally have some peace and quiet. At least once Ryō was all alone, he wouldn’t have to worry about being all alone. Being alone would become normal eventually, right?
“There are no further announcements. Congratulations on graduating, take your diploma and get some rest before the banquet at sixteen-hundred. Class dismissed.”
Seriously––that’s it?!
Ryō peeked out of his cave just as the raucous began.
SCOOT-SCOOT-CHATTER. Scooting chairs and commingling voices stampeded up the stairs in the boy's direction.
Ryō retreated back inside his forearm sanctuary, praying that none of the other students would acknowledge him. But alas, this was yet another amnesty the boy would not be afforded. One very particular voice spit some venom into Ryō’s ear as they passed him by–
“Loser.”
Ryō clenched his fists, biding his anger despite not having a tongue to bite. If the boy had never stood up for himself in the past, there was no way he was going to stand up for himself now. And that’s because they were right, he was a loser.
What I would do if only I had Emery’s powers…
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A single nightlight lacquered Ryō’s otherwise ominously dark room in a faint blue hue. The surprisingly capacious nature of the one-bedroom studio was certainly emphasized by how tediously well-kept it was. Upheld with extreme minimalist organization, the raw sterility of the boy's living quarters was palpable. This unnatural degree of cleanliness could only mean one thing when associated with a seventeen-year-old male: germaphobia.
Ryō had always felt rather ambivalently towards his bedroom. On one hand, the place was homey enough for him to spend most of his free time comfortably alone. On the other hand, all of the boy's classmates had become even more resentful of Ryō once he was moved to his present dormitory. Given that Ryō was the only Carlisle student to ever have been endowed with a single CGP staff bedroom, it wasn't exactly a shocking concept. His bedroom also happened to be at the end of the dormitory corridor, which segregated itself from all the lesser rooms like a pretentious king at the head of the table.
Clk-Creak. The sound of the unsheathing lock preluded the creaking open of the door.
A slice of fluorescent light cut through the shadowed midsection of the room. Ryō entered, shuffling inside. The boy shut the door behind him with gentle caution and––per what was strangely usual for the kid––waited in silence for his eyes to adjust. There Ryō stood, erect in the center of the dark room like an unwanted eighth-grade boner you have to coax down...
During this catatonic interlude, the boy’s attention was drawn to one of the rare sources of light in the room: a blinking red alarm clock. The electronic device flashed 12:00 a.m. on repeat, as though it had been temporarily disconnected in his absence.
Weird, Ryō thought, did I accidentally unplug it this morning? I don’t remember plugging it back in…
Having been an insomniac for the past year, it wasn’t irregular for the boy to experience lapses in memory or cognition in the mornings. He couldn’t remember falling asleep last night, only staring upward at his dark ceiling. That whole morning had been a blur of its own.
I guess I must have forgotten to reset the time. Ryō sighed, annoying…
Once flaccid and acclimated to the darkness, Ryō approached the blinking alarm clock. He was steadfast in resetting it to match the time on his watch. Once that ordeal was over, he moved on to a more important initiative.
The boy knelt beside his bed, reaching underneath it to remove something well-hidden: a boring green tote. Written in the scripture of a Sharpie-wielding ten-year-old, the tote was labeled:
Ryō’s Baby Teeth and Other Memoraobilliya.
Ryō remembered writing the label like it was yesterday. The boy had purposefully mentioned his baby teeth and misspelled memorabilia as a safety precaution. That way, if any of the other kids found his dirty little secret, they would quickly be primed to ignore it. For obvious reasons. Or at least reasons obvious to Ryō.
Clk. The tote clicked open when the boy tickled its sides. Inside were not baby teeth, but dozens of sketchbooks. Each pad heralded the same title:
Redd Strings: The Girl With Dragon’s Blood.
Like a historian preparing to handle an archaic tome, Ryō placed on a pair of handy nitrile gloves and carefully exhumed the sketchbook at the top of the pile. These coil-bound notepads were the boy's version of the Old Testament––his collection of ancient sea scrolls. And he treated them as such.
As delicate as delicate could be, Ryō flipped open to the first page to reveal the contents of a homemade comic book. The illustrated heroine of his secret graphic novel? That would be Emery, of course. This particular comic strip depicted a cartoonish superhero version of the girl––minus all the protective gear and plus a green-blue unitard––running from a hooded black figure. An odd red string stuck to Emery's back, trailing behind her for the villain to tug like a scarlet leash.
Ryō took a moment to admire his work. Not because he was proud of his exemplary artwork, but because the boy simply liked looking at Emery. And here he could do it judgment-free.
He flipped the page to the next scene where a new set of comic panels illustrated an action sequence. The top section depicted Emery cutting the red string and releasing herself from the villain's grasp; the lower panels depicted the girl escaping through the ground by using her blood to melt a tunneled route to the sewers below. Subtle erase marks made it evident that at one point Ryō had drawn Emery’s boobs significantly bigger and more sexualized. Judging by the revised nature of her bosom to a pair of respectable C-cups, the boy must have felt enough shame over his fan-serviced drawings to amend his original creative decision.
Blush speckled Ryō’s cheeks, a welcomed humiliation from swooning over his lifelong crush. Well, not lifelong, he supposed. Emery had only come to Carlisle School around the age of ten––the last of the students to be discovered and enrolled, or more colloquially: the last of the students to be kidnapped and enslaved. Many of the students went through a rebellious phase in their youth, but Emery’s was more of a default setting than a phase. Never once had she softened or settled like the rest of Ryō’s fellow students, or Ryō himself.
Although Emery was ranked with a threat level of Monster––which essentially translates to her being capable of mass murder on a level surpassing thousands of potential fatalities––the boy never really felt scared of her. For as long as he could remember, Ryō worshiped Emery’s strength, beauty, and intrepid courage. She had everything he didn’t. Strangely though, Ryō never felt the same type of repressed jealousy toward her that he did with the other superpowered students.
What Ryō felt towards Emery was like a cousin of jealousy minus the added layer of spite. It was a feeling that heated his cheeks and made him want to be around her all the time. The boy never quite understood exactly what this feeling was, but he had an educated guess:
This must be what being in love is...
Love never made an appearance on any of the Carlisle School syllabi, nor was it ever brought up in class or during psychological evaluations, so the subject remained a mystery to Ryō even as he found himself emerging into adulthood. He wasn’t alone in this. The boy doubted that any of the Carlisle students really knew what love was. They were allowed to see movies and read books, so maybe they had garnered some concept of the thing, but Ryō got the feeling that growing up as a caged weapon probably stunted one’s capacity to love. After all, they weren’t raised to love––they were raised to rise to the top as potential killing machines.
Despite this, the boy wanted love almost as badly as he wanted to be a superhero.
I wonder if Emery loves me too...
KNOCK-KNOCK. Someone rapped on the door, startling Ryō into activating his inner inflatable car dealership man––
THUD-CLATTER. He flung the sketchbook across the room like it pissed on his hand.
“Ryō? Are you in there? I could never tell because your lights are always off.”
Thank God, Ryō thought, it’s just Lara. With a composing sigh, he got to his feet.
“One second!” The boy called out to the woman behind the door before retrieving the tossed notebook and placing it back inside its green den.
Ryō shoved the tote into the oblivion of his underbed then headed for the door.
Clk-Creak. The boy opened the door to reveal Lara. She was already coercing him with a roguish, I’m-about-to-ask-you-to-do-something smile.
Regardless of her avid pestering, Ryō was always fairly pleased to see Lara. The woman was the one person in all of the CGP and Carlisle School that the boy trusted in a personal sense. Lara was like an older sister to him, and at times like these, a pesky one.
“Soooo," Lara teased Ryō, "Guess who’s still sick?”
Another trademark Ryō sigh.
“Ms. Wilkins?” He asked, banal.
Lara punched the boy in the shoulder, a little too hard. Ryō winced and grabbed his arm, "Ow."
“Sorry Ryō, sorry,” Lara apologized instantly, and with genuine guilt. "Did that hurt?"
“No, I said ow because it felt good.”
"Ryō, I'm so sorry––"
"I was kidding." Ryō waved Lara off, stepping backward before she could violate his personal space anymore, "It's fine."
“I'm sorry, Ri-Ri...” The woman continued her unnecessary overcorrection, “But, uh––anyway, you don’t mind filling in like you said you could today, right? I have to get all the other Omega Class kids ready for––”
Ryō interrupted her, “Graduation, I know. It’s fine, I could do it.”
“You’re the best,” Lara smiled, giving him a much gentler punch to the shoulder this time.
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At first glance, the CGP Junior Heathens classroom might seem like your average crayon-zealous kindergarten classroom. But, like everywhere else in the Carlisle School, there was a hollowness to it. A warmth was missing, or perhaps a soul. This was most telling by the fact that one might expect a group of unattended six and seven-year-olds to be bouncing off the walls or chattering amongst themselves, but the Junior Heathens classroom was deathly quiet. All the kids carried empty faces, though their micro-expressions read of despair, fear, and anxiety…
Clk-Creak. The opening door triggered the Pavlovian children into exhibiting their best upright postures.
When Ryō entered the room, the tension in the air dropped like an anvil. There was a not-so-subtle sense of relief amongst the class that the person standing in the doorway was not their intended instructor. The children all watched eagerly as their substitute teacher awkwardly gestured a greeting before strolling up to the whiteboard and writing his name in red marker.
“Hi everyone, my name is Ryō.”
Ryō waited in silence for the kids to address him, but they didn’t. He was clearly unprepared for this.
“Well, yeah okay..." The boy searched for something to say, "So––as you can see––Ms. Wilkins is still sick and can’t come in today.”
Several actual sighs of relief could be heard around the room. One of the little girls even smiled. In a matter of an instant, levity and a lack of authority had softened the energy of the students into a state of buoyancy.
“So,” Ryō continued, “I thought today we could do some review of the core curriculum and focus on the CGP quiz you guys have coming up– does that sound good to all of you?”
No response. Okay then…
Ryō proceeded to write in bold letters in the center of the whiteboard:
C.G.P STUDENT RANKINGS
“Can anyone tell me what rank you all are?” Ryō asked with as much enthusiasm as his serotonin-deprived brain could muster.
The smiling little girl raised her hand proudly, “We are Junior Heathens.”
“Correct! Good job,” Ryō congratulated the girl by writing her answer on the board beside an encircled #1, “What was your name?”
“Nana!” The little girl announced like she was blowing bubbles.
“Nana,” Ryō repeated quietly to himself, “Good job, Nana. Now, can anyone tell me the rest of the rankings?”
This time, no voices or hands were raised.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Anyone?”
He wasn’t going to get a response. Oh well, the boy thought. Ryō recalled how intimidating it was being a Junior Heathen; a lot of these kids had recently been separated from their communities. Even if many of them didn’t have real families prior to enrollment, they at least had identities.
“Okay I can help you guys out this time, but try and say the word aloud with me after I write it,” Ryō invited the kids to participate, scribbling down the following diagram onto the whiteboard––
#1) Junior Heathen #2) _________ #3) __________
#4) __________ #5) __________ #6) ___________
The essence of a so-be-it shrug mumbled around the room. A freckled red-headed kid with a bandaged nose gave Ryō a smug, forced sneer just as the substitute instructor poised his marker on the empty space of the #2 ranking. Something about the kid’s face ate at Ryō. It reminded him of the scorned expressions he'd received over the years from his own classmates. A few hushed snickers reminded Ryō that even these young kids probably knew him as the only student at Carlisle School to be powerless. Most of all, this moment reminded Ryō of how much he hated himself––of how no matter where he went, he couldn't escape the words:
Loser.
“Actually, I’m not going to help you out.” Ryō placed the marker down.
A few of the children grumbled grievances amongst themselves, but their substitute instructor paid them no mind. “There are six total ranks for domestics in the CGP, does anyone know what the next three promotions are after Junior Heathen?” Ryō beckoned the class with authority, “I know one of you knows the answer.”
For a moment, no hands went up. Then, Nana’s shot in the air.
“Nana.”
Nana smiled a proud smile and stood tall in her seat with crossed hands, “When we turn ten we get promoted to Heathen. Then when we turn eighteen we get promoted to Vassal… then… then…”
The train skidded to a halt. Nana had to think harder on this one. Her eyebrows contorted and the vein on her temple swelled as though she was trying to squeeze the answer out of her brain. Ryō attempted to lubricate the process and prevent her head from exploding by mouthing the first letter, “E”.
“Equestrian!” Nana rifled off.
An honest laugh crept out of Ryō. He already liked this little girl, and he hoped she would have an easier time here than he ever did. “Close,” the boy said, “The answer is Equerry.”
Nana looked defeated, which Ryō quickly sought to ameliorate. “That was an amazing job, Nana. It took me until I was ten years old to have any of this stuff down.”
“Isn’t your class supposed to graduate today and become Vassals?” Ginger Bully Kid #1 barked out.
Ryō debated not answering. “Yes, yeah. My class is graduating today but…" Red blush made it obvious that the teenager was sizzling with embarrassment, "Yeah, they’ve decided not to promote me yet, which is…”
Some of the class snickered before Ryō could navigate a way to the end of his sentence.
“Fine…”
The snickers only grew in volume once Ryō had managed to complete his sentence.
“Are you the adult kid from the older class who still doesn’t have his powers?” A black kid with a faint French-African accent sneered. This boy just happened to be the seat partner and right-hand man of Ginger Bully Kid #1.
Jesus, now I’m even getting bullied by people who aren’t even four-foot-tall yet. Ryō's cheeks burned. The Junior Heathens had quickly gone from shy and innocent victims of a black-wing government’s agenda to normal six-year-old bullies in a matter of five minutes. The boy glanced around to see that half of the class’s shoelaces were improperly tied or left untied completely. I am literally getting bullied by people who still can’t tie their own shoelaces...
“Y-yeah, that would be me…” Ryō acquiesced, “How’d you hear about––”
Before Ryō could finish asking his question, Ginger Kid Bully #1 decided to stack on the shame, “I even know what my powers are and I’m six.”
“Great. That’s good for you,” Ryō disguised his desire to remove the kid's head from his shoulders using a plastic, forced smile. The substitute instructor hastily tried to move things on. “Anyways, why don’t we go ahead and do some more terminology review,” Ryō said while scribbling on the board––
C.G.P.
“Does everyone know what the CGP is?”
The class shrugged and groused amongst themselves, keeping a keen side-eye on Ryō like a band of meerkats.
I swear to God; if none of them answers––
“The people who took us?” Nana asked once it was quiet.
Hard answer to say yes to, so Ryō instead chose to affirm the little girl's answer with a small nod, then follow up with another question, “And does anyone know what the CGP stands for?”
Prolonged silence was Ryō's cue to write the answer on the whiteboard board and explain. “CGP stands for Columbus Genome Project,” he stated before swiftly underlining the 'Columbus Genome' portion.
Columbus Genome Project
“The Columbus Genome is the special little piece of our DNA that gives us our powers––”
“Except for you,” Ginger Bully Kid’s friend Right-Hand Randall interjected, laughing impishly at his remark.
Ryō was beginning to lose his bearings. Caught somewhere between feeling brutalized via humiliation and being incentivized by anger to commit a micro-genocide, the teenager clenched his fists and found himself in internal rant mode.
Why the fuck am I stuck here with these fucking kids who don’t even respect me when I should be fucking graduating…
“Is it true that there’s a monster girl in your class?” The sweet Nana asked more out of fear than as a symptom of early-onset gossip disorder.
Ryō decompressed with a sigh; air seemed to release out of every joint, hole, and tuberosity in his body. “Emery isn’t a monster, she is ranked with the threat level of Monster––have you guys not learned about threat levels yet?”
The class shook their heads to give a collective, no.
Thank God. Relief swarmed through Ryō’s veins like a plasmic jacuzzi––this was surely an opportunity to hijack the attention back onto the board and off of himself.
The boy proceeded to scribble another markered list onto the whiteboard:
#1) __________ #2) _________ #3) __________
#4) __________ #5) __________ #6) Monster
“So,” Ryō offered some insight, “Threat levels are decided by a CGP committee. The highest-rated threat level is Monster. The lowest is Marsupial…”
The substitute teacher markered the answers in as he continued, “The second lowest is Fox… then Wolf… then Bear… then Dragon… and finally... Monster.”
#1) Marsupial #2) Fox #3) Wolf
#4) Bear #5) Dragon #6) Monster
Ryō admired his work. A perfectionist at heart, his penmanship was immaculate. The spacing between each letter? Perfect. But no one gave half a shit except for Ryō.
“Which one are you?” Nana raised her hand and her voice simultaneously.
Dammit. Ryō knew where this was going. Even if Nana’s puppy-dog eyes had no idea that they had just jet-lasered him an eight-foot grave with legroom, the boy sensed his impending fate.
“I am rated with a threat level of…” Once again, he debated lying. Unfortunately, this was just something Ryō couldn’t lie about––even if it was a group of 6-year-olds he'd be lying to––
“Marsupial.”
A cyclone of laughter whipped around the room. Ryō, the bright red eye of the storm, found himself checking the clock.
This is about to be the longest three hours and twenty-one minutes of my life...
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The Carlisle School banquet hall was structurally not too dissimilar from the Hogwarts one. Long rows of pew-like tables spanned out before an intimidatingly elevated stage that housed the school staff. In seemingly every other way, however, the Great Hall of Carlisle School was the antithesis of JK Rowling’s vision––colorless, zapped of magic, and devoid of tradition beyond hierarchical subservience. That’s not to say the grandiose, high-ceiling space wasn’t impressive, it was just soullessly impressive.
An undertone of nervous energy and indistinctive chatter scored the ambiance. The theater of students heralded the type of respectful buzz that you’d expect from a private religious school assembly. It was obvious the staff commanded the same level of respect (fear) as blood-thirsty nuns, watching over their pedagogical progeny like a pride of lions. Though they grazed a safe distance from the cubs, the pack leaders remained keen, ready to reprimand anyone foolish enough to question the hierarchy of the pack at a moment's notice.
The Omega Class students were in the process of being called up to receive their commemorative graduation penchants. Despite being designed to disguise nearly two decades of unquestioned subordination as a grand accomplishment, these lavishly designed ribboned medallions were comically reminiscent of the ones awarded to Luke Skywalker and Han Solo for destroying the Death Star. Uncontainable smiles creased the faces of every student but one––the girl strapped to a wheelchair in the back of the room with her mouth propped open by Hot Wheels car jacks. Someone had parked Emery at the very rear of the hall, facing the staff, likely so they could keep an especially close eye on her throughout the ceremony.
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP. Claps hurried one student off the stage for the next to arrive. Standing on the stage ushering the event was none other than Eve, the leather eyepatch-donning Director of the CGP. Strapped inside a pantsuit like a politician in devilish form, the seventy-year-old woman dominated the space in her vicinity with surging immortal energy that belied her eligibility for senior discounts.
“Aaiju, please come up to the stage and accept your medal of Vassalhood,” Eve spoke immaculately into the microphone, her preternatural speaking ability on full display.
Something was entrancing about the woman’s diction and elocution. From the tone and octave of her voice to the precision of pacing between each syllable, Eve's delivery was parasitic in its captivation. Hell, it wouldn’t be surprising to learn that the CGP Director intricately trained and practiced enunciations for each syllable every morning with noise-canceling headphones on. To be fair, Eve's appearance was equally as vital to her preeminence as her speaking ability was; the woman bore an uncanny resemblance to the alternate universe where Princess Diana was also Captain Hook, and you couldn’t tell which personality she leaned into more.
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP. An orchestra of claps acted as a promenade for the petite and infectiously adorable––yet oddly muscular––Inuk girl departing her seat.
Shy, Aaiju bowed her head, waving to her roused classmates with both hands as she made her way to the stage. At the very same time, a tiny creak echoed from the entrance of the banquet hall...
Crkkk. Ryō ever-so-quietly slithered through the elephant-sized doors.
Nobody could be bothered to acknowledge the boy's presence as he scanned the room for a place to sit. That is until he met eyes with Lara. Surprised, the woman silently gestured to Ryō, mouthing the words, 'I’m surprised you came'.
Ryō replied with a meek shrug. Taking account of the boy’s dejected confusion, Lara signaled for him to set up shop in the back next to Emery, much to his delight. The teenager tried to hide his burgeoning excitement, but it was steadfast in brightening his cheeks.
Yes-yes-yes-yes-YES.
Ryō cleared his throat and straightened his spine, doing his best to suppress any visual signs of elation and instead put on airs of coolness. This endeavor ultimately made him look more constipated than nonchalant.
Okay, now just walk over and sit next to her like a normal person––wait, no! You idiot––don't sit next to her, that would be weird. Sit...adjacent to her.
The boy had just enough social aptitude to take his seat two chairs over from Emery, whose kaleidoscope eyes analyzed him the whole way.
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP. A round of applause shook the banquet hall when Aaiju was officially crowned with her Vassal’s medal.
Ryō’s eyes may have been on Aaiju, and his hands may have been slapping together like two moist fish carcasses, but his focus was most certainly on not looking at Emery. Truly anything could have been happening in front of the boy and he wouldn’t have known it, his entire vision stuffed into his blurry peripherals. Whenever Ryō was around Emery, the whole atmosphere seemed to cave in on itself with gravity pushing him toward whatever direction the girl was in. Even if the rest of the room was the sun, Emery was his moon.
When Aaiju descended off stage in the opposite direction of where Ryō and Emery sat, the boy decided now would be as good of a time as any to finally snatch a full glance at his Queen of Hearts––who happened to be open-mouth glaring at him when their eyes met.
Fuck. For an instant, Ryō was frozen. His expression? Pure terror. His eyes? Petrified and wide.
The boy managed to break the invisible death grip Emery had on him, flinging his attention to the ground between his knees.
She was already looking at me...Thoughts sprinted through his head like a cocaine marathon. Does that mean Emery wants to talk to me?
No… But maybe––no… Should I say––no. Don’t say anything. But what if…
“Uh-u-luhkme-a-lot,” a liquified version of words squished out of Emery’s agape mouth.
Was that her trying to talk? No... But––no, that was all in my head... But, just to be sure, why not give her a quick side-eye?
Ryō built up the courage to stop thinking long enough to take a second gander at the girl––she was unmoved, gawking at him like a still-shot of the screaming Predator from the hit 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger film, Predator.
Shit. Before the boy could escape this optical stalemate, Emery spoke up again:
“Uh-u-luhkme-a-lot.” Another round of almost-words.
Despite the girl staring right at him, and there being no one else in speaking distance, Ryō pointed a thumb toward himself to make wholly sure that the person Emery was trying to communicate with was him. Me?
Ryō's uncertainty only served to confuse Emery. She raised her eyebrows, gesturing to him: what?
“What?” Ryō panicked and immediately asked the girl's question back to her.
Emery wiggled her head side-to-side: never mind.
“And last but not least, your senior class president... Lou!”
CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP-CLAP. A full magazine of applause fired off as Eve beckoned the infamous class president to the stage.
In perfect synchrony, Ryō and Emery diverted their attention onto Lou with surprisingly similar sharpened glares. Standing at well over six feet tall, Lou was Ryō’s lifelong Chinese rival. Not a rival in Chinese class, or a rival because he was Chinese––nor was that an insinuation that not all rivals who start out Chinese will stay Chinese––Lou just happened to be Chinese. And also a genius dickhead with a knack for trying to one-up Ryō in every way, and succeeding.
Every muscle in Ryō’s body stiffened when Lou ascended the stairs to accept his award. It stung the boy, seeing someone like Lou thrive in the space he so desperately yearned to have the opportunity to suffer in. Maybe it was envy. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was nothing more than honest hatred. After all, the voice that the boy had heard spit, “Loser,” into his ear that morning––yeah, that was Lou.
Ryō’s eyebrows cut a series of jagged ravines in his forehead as he watched the haughty class president bow to receive a special medallion from Eve. Unlike the other students, Lou's graduation medal was strung to a purple ribbon rather than a red one: a marker of his superiority as class president. Once the award weighed over his heart, Lou unearthed a beaming white smile. Heaven itself seemed to have materialized as dentures in the guy's mouth, shining a daming light on the boy whose only solace was the shadows where his inferiority could hide.
Goddammit, his teeth are perfect. Ryō grumbled, his envy stirring him to grit his own set of average teeth.
Eve invited Lou to grab the microphone, gesturing at it with both hands. The young man graciously accepted the invitation. Instead of diving into a speech, Lou used the silence to force a humble moment. He admired each of his classmates in the crowd––except for Ryō and Emery––with a cocky half-smile and nod, delaying before finally speaking up.
“Looks like we made it,” Lou smirked.
Oh fuck, he’s giving a speech. Ryō couldn't bear seeing what he was about to hear, so the boy turned back to face Emery. Facing this fear was far easier than facing the reality that the only person he ever truly hated officially had everything he ever truly wanted.
Judging by the girl's facial expression, Lou was probably Emery’s least favorite person to ever exist too. Ryō had no idea why Emery would hate Lou as much as he did. Then again, the guy was a pompous asshole with a kiss-ass teacher’s pet attitude that represented everything Emery stood against.
On second thought, it makes a lot of sense that Emery hates Lou. A weird warmth bubbled in Ryō's chest; the girl's hatred matched his hatred, and that somehow made the boy love her even more...
Feeling Ryō's gaze, Emery turned to face him.
Oh crap, she's looking at me again. The girl's universe-devouring eyes had Ryō in their crosshairs, freezing him in place. He wanted to look away, but the boy could tell there was something she wanted to tell him.
What is it? Why is she making that face? What does that face mean?
Emery tucked her chin and used her head to gesture towards… her breasts?!
Heat throbbed in Ryō's ears. His heartbeat radiated through his entire body, pulsating against his temples and stunting his ability to think straight.
“Guh-rab iht,” Emery gleeked on Ryō’s face a little when she tried to speak.
Ryō was so shocked that he didn’t even wipe the spit from his cheek. Entranced, his gaze shifted back and forth between Emery's face and her chest in a loop. Since the girl wore a white robe akin to a martial arts gi, only several inches of her bare skin ever made an appearance at any given moment––and what was visible was mostly collarbone. Not sexy to the average human eye, no. But to Ryō, this was the furthest he had ever gotten with a girl.
“Guh-rab iht."
The boy blushed harder upon a second provocation, reverting into his shell.
“I-I’ve never done anything like that before…” Ryō twiddled his thumbs and shifted his starry gaze elsewhere, “It would be my first time.”
It took Emery a hard five seconds to realize what was going on in Ryō’s head...
"This moment felt so far away for so long," Lou's speech paraded in the background like a band of mosquitos. "But now look at us––we're here."
Once she did, Emery appeared to almost laugh, rolling her eyes, but the fear of being caught severed the girl's ephemeral joy at its bud.
“H-no.” Seeing that her speech alone wasn't offering much in terms of communication, Emery started accenting her mumbles with facial expressions, “Leh-ter.”
“Letter?" Ryō contemplated out loud, "Did you say, letter?”
Emery jolted from the volume of the boy's question. The girl affirmed Ryō with a silent nod, but her eyes screamed at him to lower his voice. Ryō was oblivious, digesting each facial expression. Then in a snap[, the vicarious paranoia set in.
Oh crap––did I accidentally yell that out loud? Shit...
Ryō frantically surveilled the room with a swivel of his neck. Is anyone watching?
Nope. All eyes were on the douchebag victory speech.
The boy cast his attention back onto Emery and gulped––like actually gulped, not just metaphorically. He raised one quivering hand in the air and extended it out limply as if about to perform a magic trick, slowly drifting it towards Emery’s bosom.
Oh God…
Ryō closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath, and reached inside…
Euphoria. Emery had an undershirt on, so it's not like he touched any skin, but this was it. This was his moment: Ryō had officially hit first base with a girl. Or at the very least: Ryō picked up a bat for the first time.
Stop––concentrate.
The boy's fingers quickly found the intel Emery had sent him inside Desert Chest Cave to retrieve. Ryō slid the envelope out, its crinkly paper shuddering against the fabric of Emery's uniform as he birthed the thing from oblivion.
It is a letter!
Elated, Ryō immediately went to the envelope, nearly instigating a conniption fit out of Emery.
“Weh-ate! Oh-pfen aht home," she incoherently ordered him.
The boy was adapting to Emery's open-mouth throat dialect. “Oh, okay. I’ll open it when I get home.” He said, swiftly stuffing away the envelope.
Emery couldn’t hide her dual relief and pleasure at Ryō finally understanding––and the letter finally being out of sight. Her cheeks even colored a little. Ryō supposed that the girl's newly rouged face could be explained by the egregious amount of protective gear she had on.
I guess she must be pretty hot under that thick robe...
“The last decade has been one of growth, togetherness, and unity,” Lou ambulated the stage with a pretentious cadence.
Don’t togetherness and unity mean the same thing? Idiot. Ryō scoffed to himself.
“I also want to give a special thank you to my right-hand woman, my best friend, and hopefully the mother of my child..." Lou poised his eyes and index finger at someone in the crowd, "Aaiju.”
The buzzing atmosphere fell flat as if cut from a string. Everyone, especially Aaiju, froze when Lou said that last portion. The petite indigenous girl covered her face with her hands, sorely embarrassed.
Lou, realizing he had made a mistake, hurried to amend himself by overexplaining. “That last part was a joke. Well not really a joke, but I meant it humorously. You guys should have laughed but you didn’t.”
The crowd was deathly quiet. Lou, for once, was trapped in the judgmental headlights usually reserved for Ryō, and the boy couldn’t have been enjoying it more.
“Anyways,” Lou cleared his throat and collected his dignity, “I also want to thank all of you. To thank you for being the best instructors, classmates, and friends a guy could ask for.”
This time the whole room rallied behind him, erupting into applause. A saving grace for Lou, the class president took this storm of cheers as his cue to finish the speech while he was on top, “I look forward to starting the first mission of our CGP careers with all of you tomorrow. Thank you!”
Oh yeah, Ryō remembered reluctantly. They leave for the Vassal field trip tomorrow. No one knew what the trip entailed other than it would be––surprise––in a dangerous remote location where their survival could not be promised.
Eve mouthed a thank you to Lou and took over the mic for him, “Everyone give Lou and yourselves a round of applause!”
Claps shook the air, but Eve quickly cut off the very applause she had called for.
“Remember, my friends: tomorrow begins field training. It is not an official mission unless you pass according to Boris’ standards,” the woman gestured a hand at the stoic and fat Ivan Drago sitting beside her, “then you will not be able to start taking third-party missions. So, everyone, rest up. Make sure to get some good sleep tonight and don’t celebrate too hard––your work as proud Domestics of the CGP has only just begun. Thank you.”
Cheers rang out at a deafening decibel. Ryō’s hands weren’t clapping though. Rather, they were clenched into fists.
I should be going on that field trip...
Just as the boy's intrusive thoughts had mounted an offense and threatened to suffocate him into submission, a silver lining appeared in his playbook.
Wait a second, Ryō thought to himself. He peered over at Emery, who––like him––was the only Omega Class student not to be decorated with a Vassalhood medal. Does this mean Emery is also not graduating? Or going on the field trip?
A morsel of joy returned to Ryō. Perhaps this was fate. With all the other students leaving for this field trip, he’d finally have an opportunity to get closer to Emery––and more importantly, confess his love to her.
No, no, no. Ryō joggled the idea out of his head. There’s no way she likes me like that.
The boy shot himself down. We never even talked before I grabbed that envelope out of her boobs, so why would she like me?
Ryō's self-esteem was so low that he couldn't even indulge in the daydream where the envelope contained a love letter. The possibility of someone liking him was such a foreign concept to the boy that he didn't even consider letting himself buy a passport.
Wait a second! An idea suddenly brightened the whites of Ryō’s eyes.
Maybe they'll let me wheel Emery back to her dorm! Should I ask her?
Emery felt the boy's silent adulation and glanced over.
“Uh, hey Emery…” Ryō bided whatever balls he had on him to ask her the big question.
BADUMP-BADUMP-BADUMP. The boy's heart pounded like a Cherokee drum, his mouth drier than the Sahara Desert. But Ryō couldn’t let this chance go––it might be his only opportunity to spend time with Emery in the foreseeable future.
Thus, the boy dropped his inhibitions to the side and let the words fall out, “I was wondering if I could maybe wheel you––”
“Alright, time to get the Scarlet Squirt back to her man cave!” Lara’s voice sliced through Ryō’s sentence and soul simultaneously.
Noooooo. Ryō was devastated. And confused. The Scarlet Squirt?
Lara noticed the expression on Ryō's face and inherently sensed what the puzzlement was all about.
“What? We have nicknames for all of you.”
In one swift motion, Lara kicked the parking brake down on Emery’s wheelchair and spun the girl around so the woman could speak to Ryō mano a mano.
“You really should finish that newsletter before they all get back, Ryō. I think it would mean a lot to them to get one last copy of your newsletter before they start being shipped out all over the place.” Lara's older-sister energy was unmatched in its blissful ignorance.
“Nobody gives a shit about my newsletters. I’ve been the only person in the yearbook club for the last three years and not once has anyone said anything to me about them,” Ryō growled with contempt. Deep down, the boy wanted to make this month’s newsletter––he just didn’t want to make it for them. And by them, he meant Lou.
Lara nudged Ryō's shoulder and tried softening him with a winking grin, “I give a shit about your newsletters.”
God dammit, Lara…
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