Zachary Rawlins - The Academy

Vladimir waved one hand lazily at the thing, and for a moment, the rings of letters around him flashed and increased the speed of their rotation. Above them, the monster shrieked and wailed, and the sky burned. Vladimir looked disappointed, and then waved his hand at the creature once more.

As far as Alex could tell, nothing happened.

“Fuck,” Rebecca said quietly, slumping down against the retaining wall behind them, Alex sprawled in her arms, almost sitting in her lap. He felt languid and weak; he could barely even move his fingers, and worse, he was hearing the scream more and more clearly, despite the barrier. “That didn’t work at all. Vlad is getting feeble.”

“Okay, asking nicely doesn’t do the trick,” Vladimir observed. “And Rebecca’s got her hands full. Guess it’s down to you, Michael.”

“I hate doing this stuff, you see,” Michael said to no one in particular. “But, since I’m already up, I might as well put this to rest.”

Michael raised his hand again, the light around him gathering and pulsating up from inside, the air around him charged with static and rippling, his skin dark in contrast to the vivid lines that ran across it.

At first nothing happened, and the Horror managed the first few dissonant notes of a new shriek. Then it’s body rippled, first expanding outward as the pressure swelled within warped the flesh, followed by a massive contraction that pulled everything back toward the center. For a moment, the amorphous body flexed and struggled, racked and twisted by the contrary momentum that pushed and pulled at it. Then it detonated, with a wet sound and a muffled but powerful explosion, one that rattled the roof of the building and resonated with Alex’s chest, the wind whipping around the barrier that surrounded him, held close to Rebecca’s chest. He could hear damp thuds as chunks of the monster battered the wall of golden light around them.

“This is really fucking gross,” Rebecca observed, watching the amorphous pieces of undifferentiated tissue splash against the barrier. “You alright, Alex?”

She smiled down at him, but the boy was fast asleep, his head curled up in her lap, his breathing slow and shallow. Rebecca looked worried for a moment, and then shook her head. She reached down to brush the hair away from his eyes, looking at Alex with a mixture of affection and pity.

“Sleepyhead,” she said softly, as if it were a warning.

“We’ve only had a couple sessions together,” Renton said, “because Michael keeps teaching him solo, or having one of the student instructors work with him one-on-one. I think he’s only been with the general class a couple of times. I don’t get it. Why are you asking me? You and Ed are in homeroom with him. Don’t you see him in class?”

Anastasia and Edward shared a look, then Edward gave the smallest possible shake of his head and Anastasia shrugged helplessly.

“It’s no good,” she said despairingly, “he hates the class, and he’s so far behind that no one can really do anything about it. He stares off into space during lectures, on the days where he doesn’t accidentally nod off. In breakout groups, he doesn’t say anything or he asks inane questions, over and over, and then complains that he doesn’t understand the answers. Trying to talk to him in homeroom is pointless.”

Edward nodded, and then returned to attempting to feed scraps from his lunch to one of the tamed Weir that lay around Anastasia’s feet underneath the dining room table. Great black monsters wearing tooled metal collars designed to prevent transformation, she’d tamed them in Norway when she was twelve, back when she’d been more concerned with appearances. Capturing and taming a wild Weir had been something of a tradition a century or so earlier in the Black Sun’s history, and Anastasia had very concerned with tradition and symbolism when she was younger. She didn’t bother with such things anymore, but she’d since become devoted to the two wolves, respectively named Donner and Blitzen by her younger sister, and had insisted on bringing them to the Academy with her.

As the future head of the Black Sun, Anastasia had her own small cottage reserved for her on campus, large enough to house the servants and the security staff that such a position entailed. The Weir were confined by Director’s orders to the cottage, or else Anastasia would have brought them everywhere with her. Edward seemed to love them, whereas Renton appeared to hold them in slightly greater distaste than he did everything else around him.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Renton said, his forehead creased with effort, trying to recall anything of use, “he’s not too terrible, for someone who hasn’t done any of this stuff before. He has long arms, so he’s got decent reach, but he doesn’t hit very hard. Wrestles for crap. Gets tired quickly, takes lots of breaks.”

Anastasia shook her head, motioning for the hovering maid to clear the table of the remains of lunch. Renton and Edward had eaten roast chicken and potatoes with salad, while Anastasia had picked at an appealing looking but ultimately disappointing vegan ratatouille that she vowed to later discuss with the chef. She was certain that it didn’t have to be so boring.

“This isn’t what I’m after, Renton,” she said crossly. “I’m trying to get to know him, not trying to figure out how to beat him up.”

“One day in class he had some trouble with sparring with a girl,” Renton said, after some thought. “There was kind of a scene, till Collette, that Algerian chick, she planted his ass a couple of times. He seemed to warm up to the idea after that.”

“So he’s a boy who doesn’t like to hit girls,” Anastasia said softly, “what a revelation, Renton. That helps a great deal.”

“I’m sorry, Ana, I said that I don’t know,” Renton objected, his face reddening, “what do you want me to say? It’s a combat class, for Christ’s sake! It’s not like we sit around chatting about our childhoods or something. Look, Ana, you want somebody to figure the kind out”

For a moment, Anastasia and Renton glared at each other, like two children holding a staring contest. They were still that way when Edward unexpectedly broke in.

“You should try Vivik or Emily,” he offered in his quiet, high-pitched voice that Anastasia still hadn’t gotten used to, since he’d spoken so rarely in the two years he’d worked for her, “they talk with him the most.”

As Anastasia paused to consider. The Weir who wasn’t refusing to eat from Edward’s hand shoved its snout into her lap, whining, and she petted it absently while she thought out the various ramifications of the situation.

“Okay,” she said slowly, as the wheels in her head turned, “I think I’ve got an idea. Edward, could you find Margot and bring her back here? She and Vivik have a class together this session, I’m fairly certain. Vivik might not be inclined to share with me, but I doubt he’ll be so reticent with Margot.”

Edward nodded, dropped the scraps on the floor, gave Anastasia a quick bow and then was on his way.

“What about Emily?” Renton asked, looking at her expectantly. “If you want, I could see…”

Anastasia shook her head, staring into the eyes of the black wolf whose head lay in her lap.

“No need. I have other errands for you to take care of. I’ll handle Emily myself.”

“Is it really so complicated?” Margot shook her head. “Okay, one more time — the Academy controls the source of the nanomachines, so if the cartels want to activate new Operators, then they have to abide by the Academy’s rules, hence, the Agreement. For any activation that doesn’t result in death, one student at the Academy.”