He took her hand, a smile slowly growing on his face. "Of course." Stepping in front of Ari, he opened the oak wood door. "After you."
Inside was a class collectively looking at the door, mouths open. Whispers circulated. A beet-red Mr. Drake stood at his desk, arms crossed. Orion gave a small finger wave to the reddening man.
elsewhere
A boy sat at a dull metal desk, under a flickering fluorescent light. Not in front of an angry instructor, but in front of a tired counselor. The fluorescent light made the shadows under her eyes lengthen, and her sunken cheeks turn to deep trenches. A fake smile skittered over the bottom half of her face.
On the other side of the desk were a man and woman, each as harried as the counselor. The man, a bit rotund, clasped the hand of his tiny wife. A bandage covered the left side of his face. The woman was a tiny wisp behind him, the metal chair visible behind her emaciated body. Her limp strands of hair were weeds waving in a breeze.
The petite boy at the desk, with a shock of reddish hair and a puffy grey jacket, was not nervous.
The counselor tried to draw his attention with her dishwater coloured eyes. "You can't blame them for not telling you."
The boy looked up.
"Your parents only wanted the best for you." She steepled her fingers, and a sickly smile wobbled across her face.
He could see that the smile didn't reach her eyes. Her eyes told of sleepless nights, trying to make sense of a case that didn't make any.
All of their eyes spoke of sleepless nights. The fat man, of staying guard with an assault rifle next to him. The tiny woman, of cleaning every surface again and again until they all had scratches. The boy, of poring over the adoption papers and the medical records. Of rectifying every lie this couple had told him.
The boy knew. The boy had seen.
"Julian." The counselor's voice was fragile.
The name was the one he had responded to for sixteen years. It was the one the couple had given him. But what if it was a lie, like everything else?
The dainty boy was swallowed by a thick grey coat, with two big pockets at the sides. His hand was inside one at the moment, and so was a bent paperclip. It hovered inside, bent into a perfect circle by the force of his mind.
"They are not my parents." The boy gave a simple glance to the wispy woman, and she shivered. Her husband immediately grabbed her and tried to calm her shaking body.
Confusion crossed the counselor's face. Perhaps she was wondering what made the woman react so viscerally.
Was it odd? That this pair of competent adults were afraid of this tiny, skeletal child?
Her fingers tapped a manilla folder on her desk. A tic.
"Come to think of it, you didn't tell me what happened on Saturday night." Her smile quivered like a plucked string.
He remained silent, floating the paperclip in his jacket pocket.
The couple looked at each other, perhaps wondering what to say? Apparently, they decided on nothing, as they were quiet.
The taps increased in frequency. Her finger had a silver ring on it, with a shiny diamond. Looking further, he could see it was not diamond; but a cheap imitation. Behind her was a photograph of a little blonde girl, smiling with all of two teeth at the camera.
The counselor followed his eyes, and her face softened. As she touched the frame, the crows' feet around her eyes finally appeared. A genuine smile.
"That's my girl, Sarah."
She stared at the picture for a bit before looking back at the broken family. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed a bit.
"Anyway." She moved the photograph to the left of her hand, the frame misaligned with the edge of the desk. Quite bothersome. A quick psychic tap from the boy adjusted it.
"It doesn't matter now." Her smile reared its phony head once again. She swiveled over to the two adults, manilla folder in hand. She opened the folder and gestured to a few spots with a pen. "Sign here, and here."
"What?" The floating paperclip in his pocket fell.
The adults in the room ignored him.
Anger frothed inside of the boy- what right did they have to ignore him?
With surgical preciseness, he moved a psychic finger to the bandage on the man's pudgy face and prodded at the sore skin.
The fat man looked up at the boy, his attention acquired. "We... well.. me and your mother-" the boy's eyes narrowed, and the hand on the man's cheek pressed down harder.
The man paled. "-Me and my wife thought that, since you're quite old already... that maybe..." he squirmed against the invisible hand's pressure. "You can be.. by yourself."
The boy's eyes narrowed.
His words were slow and deliberate. "What the hell does that even mean?"
"Julian, dear." The woman squeezed her husband's arm, a safety bar to protect herself with. Her bony fingers left scratches in the skin.
"Are you suggesting putting me up for adoption?"
The counselor turned her chair to face the boy. "It's not adoption, per se, but a form of emancipation."
The boy ignored the counselor. "I'm 16- that's illegal."
The counselor, again, smiled at the boy. "It's already been discussed with the state."
"I didn't ask you." His voice was cold.
The couple shrunk deep into their chairs.
The boy stands, his face beginning to show some form of emotion. "I agree that I possess somewhat of a temperament, but-. "
The counselor opened her stupid mouth. "It'll be the best for-"
He outstretched his arm to the desk, and her head slammed into the cold metal. The picture frame fell and crashed on the cheap linoleum.
She lay, unmoving, in front of the couple.
The gong-like noise faded into oblivion. A thick red dribbled down the table, the only thing that moved.
The fluorescent light buzzed above.
The wispy woman screamed. She fell out of her chair, shaking and cowering and sobbing and choking on what little air she got.
"Please be silent," the boy said.
Her screams turned to loud, shallow breaths. An invisible hand covered her mouth, and at this, she was quiet.
The fat man simply observed the blood soak into the papers, like wine being mopped with a sheet of tissue.
The boy sat, fist pressed to his mouth; thinking. The wispy woman still attempted to hyperventilate, but she was only able to breathe through her nose.
With a psychic hand, he lifted the counselor's head. Below her, a small pool of blood.
A red crack ran down her forehead.
The man leaned back in his seat, as far away from the already purpling corpse as he could. For a second, he looked like he was going to burst into screams, too, but a glance from Julian stopped him.
The boy stood, expressionless. He pushed the chair in, elegantly, delicately. The man found his hand pressed to the back of the dead woman's head, smearing his DNA on the surface.
As the boy left, he gave one last look to the people who had raised him.
The willowy woman lay in a fetal position, her face turned away from him. He could see her shoulders tremble. The fat man wore a slew of emotions. Guilt, confusion, dread, submission, and, most of all, fear.
The boy liked it.
He shut the door behind him, the oak resonating in the empty school hall.
His oxfords clacked on the linoleum floor, and his hands made their way into his pockets again. They had kept secrets from him. They had lied to him. He would find answers.
A teacher with a robust body ran towards the room. The boy paled.
"Is everything alright?" He noted the boy's position to the closed door. "I heard screaming from here."
"Everything's fine." the boy wore his trademark blank expression.
His brows furrowed and he reached towards the door handle. It did not budge.
"Stuck," the boy said, with something like a smirk. "What a pity."
The statement widened the man's eyes in worry. He raised his leg, and before the boy could do anything about it, he kicked the door down. The doorknob clattered to the ground, and the door swung open.
The teacher was stunned.
A dead body lay on the desk, and a couple huddled together on the far side of the room.
He pressed the black button next to the light switch. The call button. Then his attention flicked to the boy.
Should he run?
The woman on the floor pointed a trembling finger towards the boy. "He-" the words were cut off by a psychic hand.
The teacher, again, turned to the boy.
He ran.
The teacher ran after him, of course.
The halls were a maze of twists and turns. Where would he run to? What would he do once he got there?
Two other staff members came into his field of vision. One of them was decked in green and a whole host of badges and carried something that could be a gun. The other looked menacing, but did not have a gun-looking thing.
"Stop him!" he heard the teacher say from behind him, and he saw the two other personnel block the only way out.
What was he supposed to do? Was there any right thing to do?
A pressure drilled into the front of his mind.
He heard some people scream, and he didn't know what was happening, and he had no control over anything, and that scared him, and he didn't like it.
The haze cleared and he turned around.
God, so much blood. Dripping off the walls, dripping from heads and from limp bodies. And from his nose, he realized, wiping the liquid off his philtrum.
He heard soft breathing.
The teacher sat in a corner, tears dripping from his eyes, and phone pressed to his ear. He didn't notice the boy, but kept talking into the phone in his soft voice.
Pressure knifed the boy's mind again. He clutched his head in his hands, the pain throbbing. "Shit."
The teacher looked up. "Please don't kill me," he breathed. "I have a... a wife, and kids..."
"Do me a favour: shut up," the boy said, holding his head. More blood rolled down his nose, and into his jacket.
The teacher nodded emphatically. It was a shame the boy couldn't enjoy this man's subservience, as he was in so much pain right now.
"Is that 911?" he asked, referring to the phone the man pressed to his ear.
The man nodded again.
The delicate boy was quiet, just holding his head. And then he kicked a nearby wall.
"I will murder anyone that walks down this hall." He doubted if he could do that, considering that he was suffering a psychic nosebleed of some sort. Even so, it was a nice threat.
More staff came running down the hallway. All uttered some kind of shocked scream.
The boy sighed.
--
The class was disturbed by all manner of screams coming from downstairs. It was likely just some rowdy seniors, returning from gym or something, but they gave Orion an uneasy feeling.
Another scream sounded.
He shut his eyes, deciding whether to investigate or not. But better safe than sorry, right?
"Excuse me, Mr. Drake?" Orion raised his hand.
The teacher looked up over his glasses, annoyed. "Yes, Mr. Tara?"
"Can I use the restroom?"
Mr. Drake scowled, then waved his hand dismissively.
Orion dashed to the bathroom, already feeling the other awaken. He locked himself in a stall, then transformed as fast as he possibly could.
A message buzzed over the loudspeaker:
"Your attention please. This is a lockdown. This is not a drill. Please get into your positions. Thank you."
Galaxy's eyes widened. What was happening down there?
He bolted down the stairs.
There was more blood here than he'd ever seen in his life.
There were about two bodies sprawled on the floor that were obviously dead. One had its head smashed in like a pumpkin, and the other's chest cavity was a mangled mess. It looked like a horror movie and felt like a dream. The rest of the bodies looked to be alive, but injured somehow. He saw faces he knew. The dean, with a broken leg. The security officer, with his arms twisted and bleeding. And the principal, with the remains of his head splattered in a pile around his neck.
Galaxy wasn't squeamish, but this was enough to set anyone off.
In the center sat a boy who looked no older than fourteen or so. The boy looked relatively unscathed, though he had a nosebleed. He cradled his head.
"What happened?" he asked, trying not to identify any more bodies.
"Please go." The boy's voice was quiet and cold. It sent a chill down Galaxy's spine.
"What do you mean?"
The boy blinked. He had a sprinkling of freckes around his button nose. "I ask that you depart this area."
Galaxy rubbed the back of his neck. Something wasn't right about this kid. "I'm not going to do that."
The boy stood up on wobbly feet. He visibly winced. "Then I order you to leave."
Galaxy almost laughed. This little kid? Trying to tell him what to do? "Look, kid-"
Pain shot through his cheek. "Ow! What the-?"
There was no one near enough to slap him. And he doubted that anyone here would be in the state to do so.
Galaxy stared at the boy, his eyebrows furrowing in a mixture of emotions.
The boy gave Galaxy a blank expression. "I order you to leave for the last time."
Galaxy was tempted to do so- to just walk back the way he came, and let this play out however it would. Galaxy's life wouldn't be in peril, and the police could deal with this kid how they wanted.
Life would be so much easier if he could just call Shadowbird whenever he needed her. Like a walkie-talkie kind of thing. He instead settled on a feeble "Shadowbird?" that he shouted in no particular direction.