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Thread: A Gentleman and a Scholarship

  1. #1

    Gotham - Closed A Gentleman and a Scholarship

    The ignition clicked, the car's engine rumbling towards gentle silence. Beyond the vehicle's metallic frame loomed the castellian form of Brentwood Academy, a stronghold nestled in the Palisades beyond the city limits, surrounded by manicured ground and rolling countryside, to protect and nurture the best and brightest of Gotham's young minds. At least, that was the theory, the justification that Gotham's civic government offered to excuse investing so much of its education budget in an Academy that catered - a few well-meaning scholarships not withstanding - to the offspring of Gotham's rich and famous, at the expense of the inner city schools that struggled to provide more than a threadbare education to the less fiscally endowed masses.

    Such things were as much out of sight and mind here as the city itself was, however. Brentwood was envisioned as a beacon of opportunity: a life raft for those seeking to climb out of the swirling dark waters of Gotham's shadow on a path towards liberation and greater things, before the maelstrom could drag them down into a futile life of crime or mediocrity. Corporations like Queen Consolidated and Wayne Enterprises did their best to uplift the best and brightest of Gotham's sons and daughters, offering scholarships to those whose minds and potential they saw as most tragically wasted in the city's public schools; but of course, their judgement was as corrupt and biased as any other institution on Gotham City. A worthwhile education for one's children had become a bribe, ensuring corporate loyalty from employees, and political accommodation from city officials. For the Wayne Foundation, its charitable efforts concealed something equally insidious: for every genuine case of benevolence towards a Gothamite child in need, another nurtured the latest generation of clandestine vigilantes, a secret reward for the illegal antics of America's latest teenage titans.

    Not all such titans were self-made, however. Raisa's hands fell away from the steering wheel, but her eyes faltered for a moment before they turned towards the boy seated beside her. Mister Queen had been frugal on the specifics surrounding the boy - specifics that seemed to have eluded him, as well. There was no explanation for how Oliver Queen's genome was woven into Connor's superhuman genetic code, and yet paternity tests and extensive scrutiny confirmed that it was. There was no explanation for how the boy came to be, how he came to be capable of what he was capable, or how it was that he knew what he knew; how it was that he had been grown, or manufactured, or engineered.

    It didn't seem to matter to Oliver Queen. It wasn't the first time he had adopted the mantle of fatherhood for a down on their luck youth that crossed his path, and it was unlikely to be the last. Perhaps it was empathy, seeking to provide for his fellow orphans in a way that his own guardians and custodians had never done for him. Perhaps it was more selfish than that, a theft of fatherhood to somehow feel closer to the parents that he'd never truly had the chance to know.

    Whatever it was, it was that assumed responsibility that had led them here; led to Raisa delivering Oliver Queen's latest ward to the doorstep of his alma mater. It was done with the best of intentions, favours cashed in to secure a Wayne Foundation scholarship that would provide Connor with the kind of education it seemed he had thus far been deprived of. Giving him his best chance, that was the pitch; and yet, for all that noble intent, it was not Oliver Queen who was here, bringing his son to Brentwood for the first time. The absence was branded as protection, a barrier to protect Connor from the repercussions of the Queen name, and from the attention of those at Queen Consolidated who might seek to incorporate Connor into their nefarious schemes if they new. An odd paradox: a desire to be there for his son, executed by not being there at the sort of time when Connor might need him to be.

    Raisa adjusted her features into a small, apologetic smile.

    "He would be here if he could be."

    A lie, or perhaps not. Perhaps Oliver Queen was here, lurking out of sight, watching from afar, forcing himself to endure whatever emotional cost came along with his choices. He was a far cry from the brooding, wounded soul he had been in the wake of his island exile, but some habits and patterns were hard to break.

    A hint of mirth crept into Raisa's smile, her voice dropping part way towards a conspiratorial whisper.

    "If you ask me, I think he is frightened of this place. Their parting was not exactly on the best of terms."

  2. #2
    In overt rebellion to the majestic stretch of building and land that rolled up on the periphery of his vision, Connor glued his gaze to the now-stationary road, ahead. Within the storm clouds of his private thoughts, he willed it to move. Apprehension was not something with which he was well-acquainted, but then, nor was looking like a total dork. They used that word on TV, like, all the time. They said 'like' a lot, too, in really inappropriate places. He didn't like it. All his short life, he'd taken refuge in cautiousness, suspicion, paranoia; this was something else. Through the butterflies and the gloom, Raisa's words cut with the bright flash of a knife, a smooth, weathered, antique buttering knife. Words were her butter. He was toast.

    "Frightened?" he repeated, with narrow-eyed disbelief, "It's a school!"

    He looked, at last. There it was: Brentwood Academy. It was big. It looked more like a palace than a school, with its sophisticated architecture - which, as Connor understood it, was a way of showing you had money, without showing off - its immaculate lawns, and countless looming windows. For the briefest instant, he dared to consider what mysteries lay within. His eyes roamed the grounds from the safety of the car. The difference from his previous home, the box room above Pete's Quick Stop, was breathtaking. There was no cardboard in those windows, and, if he had to guess, no paper-thin walls shored up with duct tape, or constellations in the ceiling made from bullet holes. His lips pressed into a thin line to keep him from smiling. Oliver had been in an unguarded hurry to get him out of that place. Connor could take care of himself, and he told him that. Queen didn't care. Maybe he ought to have been offended by all of this cotton wool he found himself wrapped in, but, honestly? It was refreshing to have someone give a shit, for a change. That was why he dismissed Raisa's first words with a shrug that had been carefully crafted to appear care-free. She made it sound important, like she knew what he was thinking, but what kind of asshole would you have to be to expect more from the man who owed you nothing, and had already given more than you deserved? He shifted in his seat with a discomfort that had nothing to do with the itchy new pants. He guessed he must be some kind of asshole, then.

    His departure from the Crows was sudden and unexpected. A distant relative had reached out to pluck him from Gotham's grimy underbelly, that's what he'd told them. Turk was inconvenienced, Mo understood, and Owlish gave him the kind of send-off he'd come to expect from the balding half-man: "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, newbie." Connor could've convinced himself there was good humour to be found, buried beneath all that hostility, but he'd be kidding only himself. Owlish was an asshole, and they were sure to find a similar asshole to replace him within a day. Turk was fair, never sentimental. He'd miss them, in a way, his fellow scumbags - they had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a family. A highly dysfunctional criminal family.

    And now? Now he had Oliver Queen looking out for him, the rich and mysterious agent of change, who knew how to take a punch, with his resources, and his connections, and his Raisa. She treated him like she cared, too. Yes, she was paid to care, but it was nice. She was also paid, however, to be an extension of Queen's merciless will, and she carried it out to the letter. That very morning, he had been presented with his first ever school uniform. And, despite all of his cantankerous objections, Raisa maintained course, cresting the tide of his ill-temper like a seasoned galleon in a storm. It was hell.

    A phantom itch prompted him to tug, once again, at the stiff collar of his shirt. Then, in the loaded silence, he took a breath, and attempted one last stab at resistance.

    "I'm taking the tie off."

  3. #3
    The urge to smile tugged at the muscles in Raisa's cheeks, and she couldn't help but marvel at how ordinary Connor seemed at times for a boy of his age. Though information was scarce, Raisa's best understanding was that Connor had been manufactured, and that despite appearances he was - chronologically speaking - a mere infant at most. His head contained facts and knowledge, and while she might not have understood how, she could certainly imagine it being possible for those to have been placed there inside his mind. But a personality was something different. Connor did not act the way that one would expect from someone fabricated, not with the stiffness of an android or the simplicity of a child. He acted real. He acted exactly like a person was expected to act. That was a difficult notion to rationalise. Again, it was something she could imagine being possible, something a nefarious enough mind could design, and fake, but why would they? Whatever purpose had led to Connor's creation in the Cadmus Labs whose mysteries Oliver sought to uncover, why was it necessary for Connor to have these facets and attitudes? Why had they created a boy, rather than a man; and if they had sought to do the latter, but been interrupted, as Oliver speculated, why then was Connor's personality so complete in the meantime?

    It was a question that Oliver wrestled with, but for Raisa the answer was clear. It came not from science, or from understanding, or from facts, or implication; it came from her faith, and her belief in that which lay beyond the world that mortal minds could comprehend. Quite simply, Connor Kent had a soul. He seemed real because he was, circumstances of his birth be damned.

    She knew that was part of what Oliver wrestled with as well. For as long as she had known him, he was a person ruled by his heart. His choices were rash, and emotional, but they were pure. Even before he understood what Connor was, and what mysterious connection existed between the two of them, he had sought to help: not because there was anything to gain, and not because of any paternal obligation that he had not yet come to understand, but merely because it was the right thing to do. It had been the same with Roy, and with Mia. Oliver found himself with the power to affect change, to influence for the better the life of someone who deserved it; and he simply did. There was no hesitation, no overanalysis, he simply acted on impulse, and did what he felt was right. Thankfully, those impulses and instincts came from the whispers of a good soul; and if Connor had inherited that along with the Queen blood in his veins, then he deserved all of this. More than this.

    Raisa fought against the urge to smile, instead turning on Connor with a look so stern that it would have steered a comet off course and sent it skulking back to the outer reaches of the solar system; a look so stern that even Oliver Queen withered beneath it, on the occasions where he managed to earn it.

    "You will not," she insisted, leaving no room for protest, instead reaching across to pull the tie an iota tighter.

    She fell silent for a moment, carefully adjusting the angle, the lapels, a corner of his collar that had tucked up in a way it wasn't supposed to. "A uniform like this is about respect, Mister Kent." Her voice was soft and insistent, the kind of words that gently demanded to be heard and heeded. "Wearing it right shows respect for your school, and respect for yourself, and in turn it shows that you deserve for others to have respect for you. That is why soldiers, and Senators, and businessmen pay such attention to their appearance. They are not showing off, they are showing respect; showing that those they present themselves to are worth the effort."

    She glanced past Connor, and gestured to the building beyond.

    "Keep your eyes open in there, Mister Kent, for the students who do not respect the uniform they are wearing. They are the ones who do not respect or appreciate the opportunities that they have here at Brentwood, and that are not the ones you should seek to emulate. You are better than them. Better than that. Show that to everyone; and show that to yourself."

  4. #4
    With a single look, his last bastion of defence was scorched away. It was a feat not to flinch, the moment she reached out to adjust his tie. He dared not move, as the fabric coiled tighter around his neck, the subtext might as well have been emblazoned across the sky in neon lights. The indignity drew out like a life sentence: evidently, the breaching of personal space held no fear for a woman like Raisa Janež. While she worked, plucking and nipping at him like a delicate flower, he caught a scent of almond hand cream. It made the whole ordeal not entirely dreadful. Once she was done, her words took root, deep inside, wrapping themselves around each of his wary preconceptions until they were shaped into something new. He managed a grunt of acknowledgement.

    "I hadn't really thought about it like that before."

    In the silence that followed, he stared at his hands, his big, clumsy, dangerous hands. If she only knew. Connor was not proud of the life he lived, before today, of the company he'd kept, of the things he'd done. Maybe some drop of redemption could be squeezed from his work with Barbara, undermining the Crows, bringing their criminal dealings to light, but, really, that was all her doing. Being a spectator to someone else's decency was not the same as being decent. No, Connor Kent was angry. So angry, in fact, that he struggled to see the good things right in front of him. And that made Raisa special. He didn't deserve it. And, one day, she'd know. Raisa's kindness felt like a mirage: if he got too close, it would surely vanish.

    "Raisa..."

    Her name rose to the surface like a thought spoken aloud. While he attempted to piece together the puzzle of words he wanted to say, Connor stared out of the window, as if there was something captivating about the sight of a clean sidewalk - which, in Gotham, there was. No-one had ever really spoken to him the way this plain unassuming little woman had; she was a woman unburdened by prejudice, it seemed, who somehow saw fit to attribute qualities to him that didn't exist. He barely knew her, and yet, he felt this need to not be a disappointment. He wanted to tell her... explain what it meant... show his gratitude.

    "Raisa, I..." When he finally looked her way, he lasted all of 3 seconds, before averting his gaze, again, "Thanks for the ride."

    With a click, the car door opened, and he promptly evacuated.

  5. #5
    Raisa sat in silence, waiting patiently as Connor departed. She barely shifted in her seat as she watched him trudge towards the entrance to the school, only to reevaluate his stance mid stride, attempting to move with the kind of presentation of respect that Raisa's words had instilled in him. It was a manipulation in a way, she supposed, something to - briefly at least - cover over the harsh edges that Connor's life so far had left him with; harsh edges that might rub his fellow students the wrong way. It was bad enough to be the new kid, harder still to be one there thanks to a scholarship rather than familial privilege. It would be far worse if Connor's first impressions were made as his natural self; teenagers would find enough reasons to prey upon their newest peer without Connor's rugged attitude offering an easy target.

    It was on that front where Raisa disagreed most strongly with Oliver in the way that he approached his burgeoning relationship with Connor. If Brentwood Academy's latest student was not Connor Kent, but Connor Queen, his reception would be vastly different. That name would earn him leniency, or at the very least caution from his peers; a preexisting presumption of respect that would far outweigh anything that a well-worn uniform could provide. Of course, she understood Oliver's reluctance as well. He had more to consider, more to balance, than merely optimising Connor's best interests. A new Queen heir would attract attention, not just from Queen Consolidated but from the tabloids and media as well. Oliver had experienced the attentions of journalism in a way that Raisa never had; and if Oliver felt that sheltering Connor from their attention for as long as possible was the optimal course of action, then Raisa had to respect that judgement. He was the boy's father, after all; even if Connor was yet to discover that truth.

    She didn't flinch as the rear door of her sedan opened and closed, didn't even glance at the rear view mirror to identify the figure that covertly clambered in. Her hands returned to the wheel, and the gear shift, but she didn't spur the vehicle into motion just yet, affording her stealthy passenger with a few moments of discrete observation before she finally shifted from neutral, and began to pull away.

    "You don't want the world to know," she said aloud, weaving her way into the precession of vastly more expensive and impressive cars that had similarly deposited day students at the school. "That I understand. But why you hide it from the boy, that I do not. What harm is there in him knowing he is your son? What harm in knowing that the reason you care is not just a fleeting interest?"

  6. #6
    Oliver had been braced for it; he knew the conversation would rear it's head again eventually. Raisa had waited until he was most vulnerable, too: the exact moment when he was most likely to change his mind, watching the son he'd never expected to have walk into school alone. It didn't seem fair, not to Connor in isolation, and not by comparison, either. With Roy, starting school had been part of how they'd figured out their dynamic, Oliver just as unsure of how to be a legal guardian as Roy was about having one. With Mia, he'd been so present that it had become an annoyance, and as much as it stung to know how eager she was to escape from him, it warmed his heart at how normal that felt for a father and a teenage daughter.

    With Connor it was different, and try as he might, Oliver couldn't stop himself from trying to see it all from his side. Would he be jealous? Would he see the difference as a reflection upon him? Would he think he understood, misinterpreting the reasons as some distinction between the children that Oliver had "chosen", and the one who had been forced onto him?

    It was the answer to Raisa's question, the only consolation that came from how insistantly the thoughts plagued him.

    "If I tell him -" Oliver replied quietly, without his usual confidence and certainty, marred instead by a resigned sadness that matched how persistently his eyes continued to gaze out of the window at the uncomfortably familiar school. The knife twisted in his gut as he remembered his own first experiences of Brentwood, practically abandoned on the doorstep by an uncle who frankly didn't give a shit. Was that how Connor felt - abandoned? Was he inflicting the same injury upon his son that he himself had suffered?

    His eyes peeled reluctantly away, as the driveway from the school took a turn, topiary hedgerows blocking the main building from view. He turned towards the front of the car, but avoided the mirror, avoided the eye contact with Raisa that it risked.

    "- he'll think I care because I have to. Roy, and Mia, they know that I chose to care. They know it wasn't some involuntary obligation. Connor deserves the chance to know that too, and I don't want the truth getting in the way of that."

    Oliver's eyes shifted without permission to the mirror, catching the briefest flash of Raisa's eyes.

    "Don't give me that look," he shot back in protest.

  7. #7
    "I do not know to what look you are referring," with all the coyness of a cat who'd eaten the canary.

    Raisa fought against a smile, letting her gaze linger on the mirror for a moment longer. She disagreed with Oliver's decisions, yes, but she didn't challenge them to change his mind: quite the opposite, in fact. Oliver had doubts, painted across his aura as clear as day. That was unacceptable. Doubts served no one. He had chosen the path that he felt was right, and Connor deserved conviction on that front: every hesitation, every second guess, every falter diminished Oliver's commitment to that path, and indecision would only make things worse. If this was how Oliver chose to take these first steps with his son, then very well: but Oliver needed to be sure of himself, so that in due time Connor would be able to see that certainty as well.

    For Oliver Queen? If he had doubts, there was no surer way to bolster his confidence than have him explain to someone why he was right.

    A little flicker of warmth was added to the glance that was reflected back in his direction. "I am just the maid, Mister Queen. You do not pay me to judge."

  8. #8
    * * *

    Wally fidgeted at the top of the stairs, idly wondering if he'd selected the best place to wait. It made sense, right? Brentwood Academy's newest student was going to have to walk up those stairs when he arrived, and so that was the most sensible place for a Student Ambassador to wait in ambush. Not that this was an ambush, obviously, more of a welcome wagon really. Though, weren't welcome wagons supposed to have banners and things, or at the very least one of those signs with the person's name on, like limo drivers waiting at an airport? Maybe he should do that. There was still time, especially for him: a blink of an eye, and he could be back here with a sign before anyone even noticed he'd gone. But no, he thought to himself, suspiciously eyeballing the security camera above the school's main entrance, while at the same time trying to look like he wasn't eyeballing the security camera, that was irresponsible. He was meant to be using his powers for good, not convenience, and the risk of exposure was too high. Sure, he was faster than the frame rate on even the most high tech digital camera, but even if that didn't catch him, there was the rare fleeting possibility that one of the other students that usually spent all of their time ignoring him might catch a glimpse of lightning, or might feel the breeze as he sped away and back. And even if they didn't know that it was him, even if they just saw or felt something, next thing you knew there'd be rumours of metahumans at Brentwood Academy, and there'd be a full DEO lockdown and investigation, and that would put Kara at risk, and himself, and that might lead back to Barry, or even to Superman; and who knew what other secrets he might expose by being that careless?

    So, no sign. Definitely no sign.

    Oh, bitchsticks, Wally thought to himself, borrowing a profanity from the show he'd spent the previous evening binge-watching. It took a little persuasion to convince a computer to play things back at the kind of speeds that his enhanced mind was capable of processing, but after a week spent memorising every book on programming in Brentwood's library, he'd managed to code together a little work around, and was actually getting pretty close to his latest life goal of watching everything on Netflix. He had a short window before the service went and added more stuff, but based on his projections, this was the month where he finally got caught up, and then it would just be a matter of matching pace.

    But oh, right, the bitchsticks. Far too late, the realisation slowly dawned on Wally that he'd been provided with a name for Brentwood's new student, but had no idea what the guy looked like. It was a grievous oversight on the part of the faculty, absolutely, and if he'd had the forethought he probably could have blitzed the internet to find enough to at least recognise them at a glance, but he'd been too busy juggling about a dozen other things to have that kind of forethought. Damn it, Wallace, he chastised, but in this oversight he found an opportunity, to apply some of the detective skills that Barry had tried to instil during their time together.

    While true, statistically speaking there was a good chance that the new kid had passed him by already, Wally chose to believe otherwise, and set about scanning the crowd, piecing together the mediocre jigsaw puzzle of information that he knew about Connor Kent. He was here on a scholarship: that's why Wally was the student ambassador doing this meet and greet, rather than one of the fancy-pants rich kids. On the one hand, it made a certain amount of sense, pair a new student with someone who'd been through the same experiences, potentially had answers to some of the more likely questions, and all that; but at the same time, there was definitely a class thing here. The scholarship program was supposed to be about giving poorer kids in Gotham an equal chance, ensuring that smart minds didn't miss out on the potential for success and greatness just because the opportunities they needed and deserved weren't available to them; but those equal opportunities didn't extend to equal acceptance by the students. The rich kids knew who they were, they knew who weren't, and they were usually massive dicks about it. It was like Harry Potter, except with a bunch more Draco Malfoy pureblood Slytherin rich kid douchebags, and absolutely none of the cool classes. Okay so sure, the odds of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Brentwood was a little slim, what with magic not being real and all that - no matter what some heroes and villains claimed, there was definitely a scientific inspiration for their mystical mumbo jumbo, even if no one had managed to figure it out yet - but come on. At this point, Wally would have settled for some botanical approximation of herbology classes. But no, that kind of hands on, hands dirty sort of business was definitely not the sort of thing covered at rich kid school.

    Despite Wally's mind being off on a total tangent, parts of it still managed to operate and function towards the task at hand. A scholarship meant a less wealthy student, which ruled out all the Bentleys, limos, and Aston Martins, and probably anything that had a plate from the last few years. That left affordable sedans, hatchbacks, and those big van-car things that soccer moms drove; and thankfully, there weren't a lot of those. From that small pool of data points, Wally began to exclude all of the students whose faces he recognised - which was everyone; part of the blessing/curse of a lightspeed brain - and that left only one option.

    He probably could have guessed it, even without all the mental gymnastics. Take one look at the crowd of students arriving at Brentwood, and there was one who was obviously knew. They walked differently, less certain, less sure of where they were going. The uniform was new, too, in that first day of school way, not in that I get a new uniform each week because mama and papa are too wealthy for the trivialities of laundry way. And, well, he just looked like a Connor, y'know? There was a look of normalcy about him, nothing overly preened about his appearance, a hairstyle that was more function than style, eyes that weren't constantly on the search for the nearest person to judge and look down on.

    Wally chose his expression carefully - enough of a smile to seem friendly, but not so much that he seemed like a psycho; and a little splash of eyebrows to seem inquisitive - and bounded down the stairs with a pitter patter of shoes on stone, making no qualms about striding straight over.

    "Hi, you must be Connor."

    He thrust his hand out eagerly.

    "I'm Wallace West, but my friends call me Wally. I've been asked to show you around."

  9. #9
    It was a long walk to what Connor supposed was the main entrance to Brentwood Academy - it was certainly impressive enough, flanked by proud stone columns, with an ornate crest carved into each formidable cherry oak door - the walk gave him time to think. Too much time. Despite already spotting some students disappearing inside the school, dressed in full uniform, just like him, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something unmistakably odd about his appearance, and the others would sniff it out, right away. He became acutely aware of every movement; his smart new shoes scraped the path with every step, forcing him to lift his feet more when he walked, and, after having battled the urge to bury his hands in his pockets, instead they hung like dead weights by his side; he was an intruder in his own skin.

    He missed his hat. In a ruthless pre-emptive strike, Raise confiscated his beloved cap, the moment he climbed into the car. It was not melodramatic, in this case, to wonder if he'd ever see it again. Dipped low, the peak acted as a shield against probing stares and the need to make eye contact with strangers; Connor was forced to remind himself that it was extremely unlikely Cadmus Labs made a habit of infiltrating schools. And that was when he was identified by a stranger, who blurted out his name, and descended upon him, all handshakes and smiles. He stiffened beneath those fresh itchy fabrics, and swept a precautionary glance, left, then right. The hand was accepted, at last.

    "Hey," he said, taking note at once of the handsome knot in his tie, and the cleanliness of his shirt; the Raisa in his head gave a nod of approval. Wallace had approached him with confidence, which meant he was either sincere in his offer to help, or he was one of the popular kids that Barbara had warned him about. He had nice hair. Maybe he was one of those cheerleaders. Shit. Why didn't he watch Mean Girls when he had the chance!? Regardless of whatever high school faction he represented, Wallace was to be given the benefit of the doubt, and treated with respect for as long as he deserved it.

    "I, uh, appreciate the offer," he said, remembering his manners. Once again, the impressive scope of Brentwood Acadamy drew his gaze, turning his apprehension to wonder, "It must be pretty easy to get lost in a place like this."

  10. #10
    Wally's smile broadened. Step one was a success. He wasn't exactly sure how many steps there were supposed to be, but this first step, saying hello and successfully managing to not get told to screw off or some other more linguistically colourful alternative, that had gone just great. Step two was next, obviously, and that was a pretty solid slam dunk as well. Step two was icebreakers, and if there was one thing that Wally West was good at, aside from running real fast, solving complex equations and puzzles, and reciting from memory the names of all eight hundred and seven pokémon, it was anecdotes.

    "Oh man, you have no idea," Wally offered back. Now was the perfect moment to shove his hands into his pockets, shrug a little, and sway on the balls of his feet, but that was something he was trying to train himself out of. It was one of the reasons his Kid Flash suit didn't have pockets - that and aerodynamics, obviously - and he'd been trying to become more conscious of his mannerisms, the sorts of things he needed to indulge at the right moments as Wally West, but steadfastly avoid as Kid Flash, lest someone figure out that he was him. Instead he let his hands clasp loosely behind him - that felt less awkward than letting them dangle by his sides, or thread together awkwardly in front of his crotch - and pushed his weight onto his heels. Overcompensating, definitely, but at least it was a start.

    "When I first started here, I was supposed to meet someone for my orientation in Room 105. You'd figure that would be pretty easy to find, right? First floor, maybe, sandwiched between Rooms 104 and 106? That would make sense. But Brentwood? Brentwood Academy does not make sense. Turns out that there is no Room 104, because it got converted into extra office space back in the nineties, and Room 106? That's over in the Performing Arts building, which is definitely the kind of place that you'd expect to be going for orientation, but actually 105 is downstairs off the main corridor, on the way towards the canteen and the gym, because it would be stupid to expect that a damned school would be able to follow something as complicated as basic numerical order -"

    Wally caught himself. It was too late - far too late - to do anything about the runaway tirade that his mouth had engaged in, but he slammed the brakes on anyway, screeching to a halt like one of those movie scenes with all the metal-on-metal shrieking, and the sparks, and all that good stuff. With any luck, he'd managed to stop the thing that perfect instant before it smashed into the poor unfortunate victim that was Connor Kent.

    "Sorry, I have -" A hand gestured ambiguously towards his head. He stopped as soon as he realised he was inadvertently implying some sort of mental problems. "My mouth runs away with me sometimes. But yeah, it's definitely easy to get lost in here. You'll get the hang of it, though. At least we don't have staircases that magically move, or dorm rooms hidden behind enchanted paintings that require ever-changing passwords to get in."

  11. #11
    Wallace's story rolled over him like a verbal storm, he stood steadfast against the gales of enthusiasm, and divided his concentration between following the tale and keeping a straight face. It was not amusement that threatened to wriggle through the cracks of his composure, but bewilderment; the creased brow and troubled frown, or the surprised eyes with the gaping mouth. It came in only two flavours, and each was unflattering as the last. By the time Wallace was done, Connor discovered he'd only absorbed a small portion of the detail, and, to his dismay, realised he still had no idea where to find the infamous Room 105. He could only hope that it was a place that never appeared on his timetable.

    Beyond the galloping pace and tangential nature of his fellow student's story-telling, what struck him as most surprising was the dramatic change of tone towards the end, when Wallace related his apparent frustration at the school itself. He'd cut himself off, prematurely, and it was a tactic that Connor recognised in himself, no less. There had been no evidence of balled fists, no gnashing of teeth, or punching of holes in walls, but, even without any of his own trademark theatrics, he had to wonder if this friendly unassuming Wallace West suffered from anger issues, too. A tenuous connection, perhaps, but it was just enough to make this new ground feel a little firmer underfoot. He could feel a smile starting to surface, when his entire grasp of the conversation was derailed with a single sentence.

    Moving staircases? Paintings with passwords!? His thoughts came crashing down around him, creasing his face with confusion, pulling the corners of his mouth into that unflattering frown. Mystified, and also a little apprehensive of potential eavesdroppers, Connor leaned in, and said, "Is that... a thing?"
    Last edited by Connor Kent; Dec 2nd, 2017 at 09:23:28 PM.

  12. #12
    Wally's thoughts faltered, like a speedster tripping over an icy pothole and transforming into a tumbling snowball of fractured limbs and embarrassment. It was an oddly specific metaphor, but also a a painfully familiar one, and even years later, his once dislocated shoulder still ached in sympathetic memory of the fiasco. It hadn't been some foe that had thwarted him either, not Captain Cold, or Mister Freeze, or Icicle, or anything like that - just winter, and his own attentiveness. That was his true nemesis, the arch-rivalry that defined his exploits as Kid Flash. Batman had the Joker. Barry had Eobard Thawne. Wally had a brain that was just too fast for its own good.

    It wasn't a pothole that tripped him this time though; more of a plothole, or a knowledge hole, or some other kind of pesky breach in the fabric of Wally's understanding of reality. There was no denying the fact that Wally was a nerd. In fact, he wasn't just some mere mortal of a nerd, he was a nerdish god. When your mind could devour an entire book in the amount of time it took a normal person to make a sandwich; when you could binge watch the entirety of BBC's Sherlock while waiting for one of your female friends to come back from the bathroom; when you could complete a homework essay in the blink of an eye, but had to then wait periodically for the words to sluggishly appear because the word processing software's buffer was full; those kinds of factors left you with a lot of time to indulge in all manner of different interests, and Wally had indulged in pretty much everything. He was the arch-nerd, no fandom unexplored, no content unsampled, no ship unshipped. It was easy then - no, normal - for Wally to find himself referencing something that flew over the head of who he was speaking to. But some things were safe bets. Some references you could rely on; some cult followings were universal. Until now, he had counted Harry Potter among them. But now?

    For a split second, Wally studied Connor's features, searching for the micro-expressions he'd read about in the batch of criminology texts and papers he'd been skimming through for fun a few weeks ago. Opinion was divided on whether any of the information was valid or not, but Wally liked it. It was another weapon in his arsenal, something else to pay attention to, something else to occupy his mind and hold it at bay from speeding off during those times when he needed to slow down and focus. He studied them now, searching Connor's features in the blink of an eye for signs of deceit and deception, for indications that Connor might be screwing with him, as it seemed the vast majority of the student body was inclined to do. Wally found nothing, not even the faintest hint of anything disingenuous; just some poor kid who didn't have a damned clue what Wally was saying.

    In an instant, Wally felt sorry for him. It wasn't that this boy was somehow sheltered from the unifying awareness of Harry Potter that seemed to bind huge swathes of the internet together: it was everything that unawareness implied. What else was Connor sheltered from? What other experiences and literary discoveries had been denied to him; or had he denied himself? Was he one of those people who turned their nose up at books, and if so what would it take for Wally to repair such a heinous character flaw? In an instant Connor transformed, no longer a new student in need of Wally's literal guidance, but rather some cave dwelling Neanderthal in need of reprogramming to better align him with the rest of the human race - in other words, a challenge.

    "Not here," Wally replied happily, skidding sideways around Connor's knowledge gap in a mental equivalent of the sweet stopping move of Barry's that he'd spent literally days practising in the privacy of an abandoned warehouse in Keystone. "So don't worry about that."

    Immediately, Wally swerved the conversation in a new direction. People often talked about how cars were able to turn on a dime. It had always struck Wally as weird: he understood the premise of the idiom, that something had such a small turning circle that it would fit inside the radius of something very small, like a coin; but it was one of those stupid linguistic absurdities, like trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle, far too surreal for his liking. Even so, the English language lacked a better alternative; so it was on a dime that Wally changed the trajectory of their conversation, swerving off in an utterly new direction.

    "So, where are you from?" Wally asked, hoping the forward momentum would allow any awkwardness Connor felt to be left behind in their dust. Not that Wally kicked up dust - unfortunately; and not for lack of trying - when he ran, and certainly not when he talked, but it was one of those idioms again, and Wally had learned to just roll with them. "I'm from Keystone City, over in Kansas. A friend of mine -" He hesitated for a nanosecond, trying to connect the dots between Kara, her cousin, and the Ma and Pa she'd once told him about. "- has relatives who own a farm near Smallville, and their last name is Kent. Don't suppose you're related?"

    It was a stupid question, obviously - as if the world was that small! - but at the very least it was an opportunity for Connor to speak again, and hopefully this time it would go a little better than the last.

  13. #13
    "Smallville?" Connor repeated, tasting the word for any hint of fiction. It sounded made up, but then, so did plenty of places. He shrugged it off, "Nah. No family out there."

    A flicker of a smile was offered in consolation, to both shoot Wallace's question out of the sky, and to rise up as a barrier between himself and any further probing. Behind the smile, though, he wondered. Kents in Smallville. It was nothing, really. Just another question mark anchored to the end of the words that had haunted him since he first blinked himself to life inside a test tube: Who am I? Queen. Kent. Queen. Kent. Absently, his fingers rose up to toy with the cold metal tags pressed against his chest, only to fondle his fancy new tie instead. Remembering himself, and his current situation, he cleared his throat and ploughed forth, into his own practiced fiction:

    "I'm from a small town in San Juan County, Colorado. Middleton. It's 9,793 feet off the ground."

    With a nod, Connor punctuated the extent of his own knowledge of his supposed home town. Resources were scarce when it came to the humble unincorporated community of Middleton, Colorado. And, despite the shortage of information available to him, it was admittedly a pretty fun fact he'd just sprung on his new... he shouldn't call him friend, yet. His new... Wallace. His first Wallace, in fact. He was a nice guy, it seemed. Like, really nice. And that left him conflicted because there weren't many genuinely nice people in the world; Barbara was nice, once she'd stopped attacking him with her taekwondo wizardry, and Oliver was nice, but that had taken them a broken nose to get there, which left Raisa. At least there was nothing unusual about her. Ok, so maybe this Wallace was one of the good ones. It didn't mean Connor had to trust him with his life or anything.

    They passed through the heavy wooden doors, and stepped into a spacious hall, peppered with stone busts and framed paintings. Already, Connor could feel his eyebrows embarking on an expedition up his face. His nose twitched, then, at the invasion of a pungent smokey new aroma; he was reminded of his trip to the library, the day after its floors were revarnished. Up ahead, a corridor, where the grey morning light plunged in through tall windows, giving the glossy wooden panelling an understated gleam. Again, that sophistication. When they stepped into the long corridor, they were greeted by the thunderous applause of a hundred distant footsteps; Connor faltered in his step, and locked his jaw like a vice.

    "This place," he said, splitting his grimace into a grin, "It sure is something."

    A turn on the spot allowed him to drink in the details of the ornate vaulted ceiling, while bracing himself for the aural onslaught to come. Finally, his eyes fell on Wallace, again, "So, do you like it here?"

  14. #14
    ...off the ground?

    Wally was glad that this Connor kid - was it okay to call him 'kid'? Normally that was something older folks said to younger folks, just to emphasise the age difference and put the youngsters in their place. Maybe it was valid, but that all depended on how old Connor Kent was. It was a close one. They were in the same class after all, so that put their ages in the same ballpark, unless Connor had been bumped up a year or something, and no offence to Mr Off The Ground, but he didn't exactly seem like the sort to have that happen. If Wally didn't get to skip a grade, there was no way.

    But anyway, Wally was glad this Connor maybe-kid wasn't some kind of supervillain. If he were, his superpower would be tripping Wally up, and that was pretty much nightmare nemesis territory. It took a few nanoseconds of deliberate concentration to realise that Connor was talking about elevation, about his home's height above sea level; rather than it actually being an admission that he came from some sort of flying city like the Jetsons or something. What followed was another few nanoseconds of pause, this one invested in disappointment. A flying city would be so cool. So sure, the logistics would be a nightmare, you'd need some kind of practical antigravity technology that didn't tear a hole in physics, or one hell of a powerful set of turbines or something; and sure, technically science said that was impossible, but you know what? Science also said that Wally was impossible, and he was fairly confident that he was in fact a real person doing real things. Science was only right about stuff until it was wrong; that was the whole point.

    But that hadn't been what Connor was getting at. He was just offering up some kind of trivia about his home. A pretty random and weird piece of trivia, granted, but then British people always talked about the weather, so maybe that was just something that folks cared about back in Middleton, Colorado. Maybe it was a point of pride or something, like that movie with Chief O'Brien and Mr Fantastic where they made a hill in Wales a tiny bit taller so that the English would decide that it was actually a mountain.

    His eyes narrowed imperceptibly for a split microsecond. Was this Connor kid secretly British? It would certainly explain how weird he was being.

    Regardless, while Wally had been busy wasting point three microseconds thinking about all kinds of tangents, Connor had already moved the conversation along, and spun their trajectory back to talking about Wally. That was a blessing and a curse. Wally didn't like talking about himself, but he was also incredibly good at it, usually by accident and while being totally oblivious. His friend with family in Smallville had once pointed out that maybe that was the reason his love life was in such dire straights, and so Wally constantly reminded himself to let others speak, constantly peppered people with little questions that would provoke them into doing the talking so that he could spend a culturally appropriate amount of the conversation listening. It was a good thing, Wally knew that, but at the same time it could be incredibly boring. Not because learning about other people was boring - far from it! Wally loved knowledge, regardless of the source; he was a veritable Johnny Five when it came to craving input and information, and knowledge about people was usually way more fascinating than anything books or the internet could tell him. Problem was, people talked so slow. It wasn't that he needed people to speak at lightspeed the way he did, even though that was clearly the most efficient way of having a conversation, especially if your brain was awesome enough to keep pace with it; it was more the rate at which people actually said stuff that mattered; that ratio between the number of words they said, and the number that was actually enlightening. Wally knew for a fact that he could spend half an hour with even a base model computer with a half-decent internet connection, and find far more out about a person than he could in a whole month of conversation.

    Of course, Barry had to go point out that technically that was kinda weird and stalkery, and an invasion of privacy, and all that stuff; and so the slow way was Wally's only recourse - and not even one he could engage in right now, because stupid Connor had gone and outsmarted him again with his nefarious villainous ways. Wally fumbled for a response, considering his options. A short answer, perhaps, to steer the conversation back to Connor? But no, that might just give him the impression that short answers was all that's acceptable, and the last thing Wally wanted was to undermine that enlightenment ratio even further.

    An honest answer, then? But that too came with a problem, because Wally didn't have an honest answer; not one that was ready, at least. It wasn't one he could muster together quickly, either. For all Wally's speed, for all his rapid thought, when it came to emotions everything ground to a halt. Speedsters didn't quite understand how everything about them worked, but Wally had a theory, that if the crux of their abilities came from compelling the molecules and energy fields of their body to move faster, then a speedster's rapid thought just came from compelling the electrons in their synapses to fire faster, the chemicals in their brains to shift and change at faster rates. If that was the case, then processing emotions, overcoming grief, getting over a broken heart or a love unrequited, all of that should have been faster too - except it wasn't. It was almost like emotions were different, almost as if they had an energy of their own that a speedster's power wasn't able to manipulate.

    That left Wally to deal with his emotions like a mortal. Slowly. Agonisingly. Wally's usual response was to run away; to flee from the thoughts; to fill his head with so much else that they didn't get the opportunity to surface. Did he like it here? At Brentwood? At Gotham? Did he like being half a continent away from home? Did he like leaving everyone he knew and loved behind? Did he feel that the shift, the transition, the opportunity to carve out a little independence away from the shadow of Barry Allen was worth that exchange? Did he secretly worry that this situation was all false, that Barry had sent Wally away just to be rid of him, not to give him this new chance? That the opportunity to dress in red was a consolation for Barry's efforts to thrust him out of sight and mind; make him Batman's problem, Gotham's problem; let Central City be rid of him?

    It wasn't what Connor was asking, but that was the problem. Slow down enough to think about those kinds of things, and suddenly a whole horde of them grabbed hold at you, wrapping around your thoughts like the clammy necrotic hands of shambling zombies. Shambling emotional zombies, of grief, and doubt, and fear.

    Wally blinked, and they were gone, his thoughts speeding into the distance on a path that passed by arbitrary calculations, and benign recollections of historical facts. The tiniest sliver of consciousness turned itself to a more restrained and confined interpretation of Connor's question.

    "Some of the rich kids are real jerks, and there's a bunch of weirdo traditions and ways of doing things that honestly I just don't understand. But not everyone and not everything is like that. It's nice here. Everyone is either here because they want to learn, or because mommy and daddy is paying a fortune for the privilege. A school like this gets good teachers, good resources, good equipment; and the grounds? Man, wait until school ends, and you get to walk back out those doors and see the sunlight peeking through the trees. Wait until you see the sunset reflecting off the Gotham skyline before it disappears behind the school. I can't even begin to imagine what it'll be like when fall hits its stride, or when winter gets here. There's a lake on the grounds; I heard some of the other kids talking about how last year they found some scientist from the university to help make sure that the whole thing froze safely, and they turned the whole thing into a skating rink; offered that as an alternative to phys ed for the kids who wanted it."

    Wally's voice trailed off, his mouth settling into a wistful smile as it stilled itself.

    "Do I like it here? Hell yeah I do. I miss home, and it's not easy being a scholarship kid surrounded by all these rich kids, but man, the food alone is enough to make up for that, and that leaves everything else as a perk."

  15. #15
    They were walking, again. That sluggish convenient walk that went hand-in-hand with trying to give someone your undivided attention, while attempting to push forward. Connor wanted to believe that Wallace knew where they were going, he had to trust there was a plan, but, at the same time, he found himself wondering how anyone could talk so much and do anything else, at the same time? He was like some sort of social superhuman, and that made conversation easy - chiefly, because Connor was not doing the talking. All of the other sounds, the clap and scrape of shoes on wooden floors, the thudding of doors, the clatter of pencils, the rumbling of pages, the shrieks and barks of laughter, and the storm surges of conversation from every class room, it all faded into the background, like the ambient hum of a ceiling fan, while Wallace spoke. His answer was illuminating.

    It was curious that the first thing he'd elected to share was the fact that some of the kids were jerks. Suddenly, friendly talkative Wallace West was painted in new shades of colour, the murky browns and greys of bullies who encroached upon his own vibrant self-portrait. Even now, in the placid and prosaic environment of a school corridor, he could feel the red beast stir, inside. He spoke of the standard of resources and facilities that would be available, too, and that was an exciting thought, even if Connor had no basis for comparison. Wallace's enthusiasm was infectious. He found himself smiling, a little taken by the way his verbose tour guide waxed lyrical about the sun, and the trees, and the skyline; no-one had ever spoken to him about those kind of things, before. He remembered his first sunset, it was like everything had stopped, and the sky seemed to radiate this warmth, and kissed everything with soft reds, yellows, oranges, and pinks, and, for just a few moments, Metropolis looked its very best; he remembered standing on top of the park bench, climbing a tree, just to follow the trail of the setting sun, until its last embers vanished into the sea. In the blissful aftermath, he looked around for a friendly face to share in the moment, but Metropolis, it seemed, had other plans: no-one stopped, no-one cared. Connor loved the sun. Perhaps, in Wallace, he'd found a kindred spirit.

    But, how to know? Connor wasn't born yesterday, and while, admittedly, it wasn't that far off, he knew enough about guys to know you couldn't just ask a dude if he wanted to sit and watch the sunset with you. Baby steps, he reminded himself. First, he'd have to convince Wallace he wasn't a rich jerk - which he wasn't, but it wasn't like he was one of the smart ones, either - no, it sounded like he was some sort of abnormality, in the absence of rich parents, Connor was a charity case, there by the good graces of some other rich person, and, somehow, that felt worse. With a stab of anxiety, he found himself wondering how long would it be before Wallace and the other kids saw him for what he was? This was a bad idea. He should never have left himself get talked into-

    "Food?" His eyebrows gave a surprised leap, as if he'd just recalled the existence of things like steak, pizza, and barbecue chicken, and the smile returned in full, "That's good to know. When it comes to meal times, I take no prisoners."

    It was said with pride, like a mission statement, and was followed up with the next, most obvious, question:

    "Hey, do you guys have burritos, here?"

  16. #16
    A burrito. Standing in the lobby of one of the most expensive private boarding schools on the eastern seaboard, and his first instinct was to ask about burritos.

    Wally decided that he liked this Connor kid. In actual fact, he had already decided as much prior to now, but this moment reaffirmed it, cemented it, and froze it in carbonite. Burritos were a delicacy crafted by the gods, as far as Wallace West was concerned. Growing up in Kansas, his culinary experiences had never been all that adventurous. Ma did all the cooking; Pa liked his food exactly the way he liked it, no variations; and that was that. It had been Aunt Iris who'd taken him for his first burrito, swooping in like some wondrous flame-haired angel to liberate him from dietary mediocrity. She'd made out like it was no big deal; just an aunt and a nephew hanging out. She'd never understand the wonder, the majesty, the life changing significance of that first bite of wrap wrapped spicy Mexican goodness.

    It had been a rare commodity at first; but the Speed Force had changed that. Eating to excess transformed from indulgence to requisite, and the trip that had only been possible from the passenger seat - yes, the passenger seat, Aunt Iris had been awesome enough to let him sit up front as well - turned into something he could achieve in the blink of an eye. But he restrained himself. He saved it, cherished it. A treat, a reward, a banquet befitting a fledgeling hero every time he rescued Central and Keystone Cities from the brink of villainous destruction.

    Part of him was glad of the answer to Connor's question. While the food here at Brentwood Academy was of the standard the wealthier students were accustomed to, there was a certain repetitiveness to it, a certain pattern that became monotonous for someone like Wally. It worsened with Wally's own dietary complications; every use of his powers demanded a meal unto itself, and Brentwood had no accommodations for his indulgence. Every supplement came from his personal stores, or from errands run into the city; and there were only so many places that Wally could visit quickly and discretely without raising too much suspicion. Tacos, burritos, quesadillas, and every possible permutation thereof - they were the rare break to the bland repetition, the sparkle of special that assured his stomach that he didn't hate it.

    "Not at the school," Wally replied. The answer was sombre, mournful; but respectfully so. "But there is a Taco Whiz just on the far side of the bridge that I could run out and -"

    He stopped himself, tripping over his tongue and screeching to a verbal halt. Thoughts of melted cheese and the crunch of crispy shells had undermined his common sense and better judgement, leaving him vulnerable. Connor Kent's supervillainy strikes again, it seemed.

    "- I mean, when we get the chance to head off campus, we can totally swing by and pick some up. The school runs a shuttle bus down to the ferry at evenings and weekends, in case any of the boarding kids want to head into Gotham."

    His brow furrowed slightly, idle curiosity creeping into his voice.

    "Are you gonna be staying in the dorms, or do you live somewhere in the city?"

  17. #17
    "Uh... I don't know yet." He shrugged before he could stop himself, "I have a place in the city, right now."

    Even as the words tumbled out, he sounded unsure of them. It wasn't a lie: he did have a place, and, granted, it wasn't his place, but it was a marked improvement over the room above Pete's Quick Stop. Mal was a good guy, and had done a lot in a small amount of time, just to accommodate his new lodger. If he was being honest, Connor could see himself being happy there; he could help around the garage, they could go for burgers at Jeff's, and spot each other on the bench - there probably weren't a whole lot of people who could keep up with Tank Top, after all. Yeah. He liked crashing at Mal's place, but that was exactly the problem: Mal was a good guy. He deserved his space, and Connor hated the idea of him being an imposition, when another option was on the table.

    "And this place..." Hands plunged firmly inside his pockets, he turned stiffly on the spot, rigid from the weight of all the ornate grandeur around them. He considered their surroundings. Outside of Gotham Library, he'd never seen a place like it, and like the library itself, it felt like a place for books, and paintings, and polished marble, a place for the educated; he loved his library, but he could never see himself living there. The same was true of Brentwood Academy, and it showed on his face, which creased with uncertainty. Even the expectant look on Wallace's face filled him with doubt. He was a nice guy, certainly different from anyone else he'd ever met before, but at least he had the whole conversation thing figured out. In lieu of an eloquent expression, he offered another shrug, "I don't think it's me, you know?"

    Of course, Wallace West did not know. How could he? They'd only just met, but, by the way he spoke about the rich and privileged students of Brentwood, it was clear that he was not one of them. So, he had to understand on some level, right? Then there was the other thing. The thing that no-one could understand. He felt the features on his face starting to rearrange themselves into the look that Raisa had warned him about, but, contrary to her claims, he did not brood - it was his thinking face. Still, he took her unspoken advice to heart in that moment, and returned Wallace's curiosity:

    "Do you... crash here? Like a, uh, a boarding student, I mean."

  18. #18
    I don't think it's me.

    The words had been uttered with a shrug, but they might as well have been delivered with a sledgehammer. That feeling that you didn't belong, of being an outsider, of being unworthy of your surroundings and your opportunities? Some would say that it was hardly unique, an essential component of the teenage experience; but Wally knew better. He knew better than to try and compare and contrast: his experiences and Connor's existed solely within the confines of their own minds, so there was no metric by which to assess whose was worse; and there was no point to it, no value. Loneliness, suffering, sadness; it wasn't a competition, and Wally could empathise and sympathise without needing to imagine where it ranked next to his. For Wallace, it was a different kind of isolation, perhaps. He was a metahuman, a status that would see him ostracised if it was ever exposed; but more than that he was a speedster, blessed and cursed by a power that defied scientific explanation, with abilities and perceptions that changed the way he experienced the world around him. He was apart from everything, as if he interacted with the world through water, everything slowed and blurred and muffled. He could engage, he could focus, but it was a struggle, a constant effort.

    Barry had learned how to overcome it, how to keep himself in the moment, how to experience every moment with Aunt Iris. It had been an icky conversation, but also one that had given him hope - and if that was true for him, then maybe it was true for Connor. Hope was fleeting, and illusive, and that was why it was so important, so essential, to grab hold of it and never let go.

    "I do!" Wally replied, enthusiastically. He didn't know Connor well enough to be sure of the best strategy. It would take a process of elimination to figure that out. First, the salesman approach. Back before he'd become super-fast and super-awesome, back when he was only regular levels of awesome, his dad used to impart little nuggets of wisdom about his career. You've got to sell it, son. Don't just praise the product, love the product. Make them feel as if you'd spend your very last dime on one, because you can't imagine life without it.

    "Oh man, it's so great," Wally continued, subconsciously echoing Connor's stance, hands digging into his own pockets. "They have this whole rule and policy thing about matching appropriate students for the dorm rooms. Part of it is probably just code to make sure none of the rich kids have to share with any of the scholarship students, but they also want to cut down on drama and friction, so everyone gets matched up with someone they're gonna be compatible with. I guess maybe I just enrolled too late or something though, because I get a room all to myself. It's pretty awesome, there's so much extra closet space, no one to complain if I stay up reading or if they don't like my music choices -"

    He let out a contented sigh.

    "Don't get me wrong, having a roomie would be awesome. Who wouldn't want that kind of friendship, right? It's great, though. The atmosphere, that feeling that everything is taken care of, no chores, no nagging parents? If you aren't sure about fitting in, you should try staying a few nights. This place is daunting at first, but once you get used to it? It's like a hotel, except with less pretentious adults clogging up the place."

  19. #19
    From the moment he started talking, Wallace radiated enthusiasm like sunlight; his words crested and rolled like playful ocean waves, brilliant and azure, boiling, hissing, frothing, in perpetual motion; it was impossible not to be swept up by it. Connor struggled to suppress a smile, even when the opening salvo of "I do!" leapt out at him like bright-eyed puppy. Sometimes, his hand was raised for tactical cover, others, his head would suddenly dip, as if he'd found something interesting on his shoe - the last thing he wanted was for Wallace to think he was laughing at him, even if he was, because it wasn't like that. Who even spoke like that? Back in the Narrows, guys spoke like their throats were made of wire wool, and spat words at each other like sharp objects; when Wallace spoke, each sentence had its own melody and rhythm, and the warm timbre of his voice was unpolluted by, what Connor had come to recognise as, the ubiquitous cynicism and distrust of your everyday Gothamite.

    He leaned against the nearest wall, and listened, hands still buried inside his pockets. For the most fleeting of moments, he could've been back in the grubby kitchenette, behind the shop, listening to Turk and Mo dissecting the latest Guardians game. At the mention of compatibility, his thoughts stalled, as he attempted to imagine the kind of person with whom the school would consider him to be a suitable match. A decision like that required the kind of snap judgement that could only be based on first impressions, and, historically, Connor Kent was not known for his strong first impressions. The other points, he weighed in turn, attempting to divine links between the things that were important to Wallace and important to him: there were few. Extra closet space was wasted on him, the only time he read was in the library, and his music tastes were limited to a selection of loud and thrashing metal on his second-hand QPod, which he experienced exclusively through a pair of tinny earphones; when it came to music, Connor had only one rule: the louder, the better.

    Connor had always taken care of himself, until now. It was not easy, handing over control of any aspect of his life to anyone else, let alone a band of faceless school teachers. Oliver's interventions, on his behalf, had been just enough to keep him on the right side of comfortable. This was crossing into No Man's Land, and he struggled to share in Wallace's positivity. Chores held no fear for him, either; he worked for his keep with the Crows, and helping Mal broke the monotony of the day. If there were no chores at Brentwood, what would he do with himself, when boredom came so easily? And, as for parents, he didn't have any of those, nagging or otherwise. Their experiences were drawing them apart, putting gulfs of difference in the small space between them. Shit. Connor hadn't even been to a hotel, before. Maybe they weren't compatible, after all.

    With a rumble of laughter, a group of boys appeared, they were tall, at least one as tall as him, with smart haircuts and pristine shoes. If Connor had to guess, they were of a similar age, and yet they carried themselves with the poise of, well, someone like Oliver Queen. The smiles evaporated as they zeroed in, closing formation, and every pair of eyes tracked his way. There was a coolness, a hostility, even, to the way they looked that suddenly had Connor standing upright, hands unsheathed from his pockets, until they passed by, and out of view. Once the tension bled from his muscles, he returned his attention to Wallace, and offered him an apologetic look.

    "I don't know, man. I kinda like my space. You seem like a good guy, and I'm-" Down the corridor, a tin pencil case crashed onto the floor, disgorging its contents with all the clamour of an unloading garbage truck. Forcing his clenched teeth apart, Connor managed, "Can we go someplace quiet?"

  20. #20
    I kinda like my space.

    This wasn't a trip this time, this was an invisible forcefield directly in his path, that Wally barrelled into full-force. It was an odd expression that. Barrelled. Motion wasn't something you normally associated with barrels, not these days. They were static. Full of booze. Perched behind bars, or in the basements of floofy rich people who thought it was so fancy to have alcohol in such large quantities, when in reality all they were doing was buying in bulk like a regular thrifty person. It wasn't until you read or saw The Hobbit - Wally had done both; the latter at a regular cinema at regular speed with regular people, and that was an agonising few hours of his life that he'd never get back - that you started to understand the metaphor. Maybe it was supposed to evoke the idea of barrels rolling down a hill, under inertia, out of control; but Wally had always imagined that as being an unsteady and unstable affair, nothing at all like the idiom suggested. Barrels in a river, though? Hurtling down rapids, everything inside bashed and battered about without mercy? That felt apt. That felt like now - like being tossed off a waterfall, and then smashing into pieces on the rocks below, dashed asunder like an overconfident goldfish.

    It hadn't been conscious, but somewhere in his stream of insistence about how great it was to have a room all to himself, part of him had begun to realise that maybe it wasn't so great after all. It made him different. Weird. He lacked something all the other kids had; a cruel twist of fate given how most of these kids seemed to have pretty much everything. That same part of him had barely even wondered, barely even dared to hope that he might be able to spin this around, to leverage Connor Kent into becoming the roommate he'd been denied. What better way to guarantee a friend? What better way to feel a little less lonely in this strange school in this strange city, surrounded by strange people who all kept their distance from Wally because he was a different and wrong kind of strange?

    His heart sank a little, emotions racing along at the same hyperspeed that everything else about him did. The five stages of grief raced past, acceptance settling in as he bounced off rock bottom, seizing that reflected momentum to hurl him forwards and back into the conversation.

    "Uh, yeah, sure!"

    Wally pulled on his Australian boots, and wrestled the pleasantness and optimism back into his voice with all the determination and confidence of Steve Irwin wrestling an unruly crocodile. He'd got ahead of himself, as per usual, and had lost sight of a simple fact: he had a job to do, to show this new kid around and help him settle in. If the new kid wanted quiet? Then sure. It was his responsibility to deliver.

    He made a show of glancing down at his watch, one of those fitness gizmos that he'd started wearing just for the sheer comedy value of seeing how many steps he took on an average day. Currently it was set to calories burned rather than the actual time, but that didn't matter; he had this whole deal scheduled out anyway, it wasn't like he needed to actually see the time, just seem like he had.

    "We've got a few minutes before Home Room. How about we check out the library?"

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