Page 2 of 3 FirstFirst 123 LastLast
Results 21 to 40 of 46

Thread: A Gentleman and a Scholarship

  1. #21
    "The library?" Connor was confused. He imagined the pair of them taking leave of the school to visit Gotham Library, where he'd introduce his new... Wallace to Barbara, they could have grande americanos with cream, for Connor and Wallace. It was an exciting prospect that left him conflicted between his desire to show Wallace his favourite place in the city, and his obligation to take full advantage of this new opportunity he'd been given, this fresh start. He imagined the look on Oliver's face when he discovered he'd skipped his first day of school, the look on Raisa's face... The creases of confusion transformed into regret, and then:

    "Wait. This place has its own library?" Surprise shifted into a lopsided, but very impressed, grin, "Shit. Lead the way!"

    It was the first spark of genuine enthusiasm he'd felt since arriving at Brentwood Academy. Sure, Wallace was a nice guy, but he had to be: he was his tour guide. But the idea of there being a library at the school itself was enough to chase away some of his doubts. Gotham Library had become his refuge from the chaos of the city, and all of the sights and sounds that waged war against his senses every moment of the day; the walls where thick, and its ceilings high, and there appeared to be this literally unspoken agreement between all who visited to just keep the noise down. He could happily sit for hours, sometimes reading, but mostly just pretending to read, while he watched people going about their business, being normal. And in some way, perhaps by proximity or mimicry, it made him feel normal, too. In the library he was safe, sheltered from the madness of crowds, but, more importantly, he was sheltered from himself. What a relief it was to discover that he might experience the same sense of security in this alien environment.

    And Wallace, true to his word, tour-guided the hell out of their journey. Not a single bust went unidentified - doctor of this, famous for that, professor of something, famous for whatever - every painting prompted a story, every classroom, an anecdote; the detail was, well, it got Connor thinking: how did anyone have the time to learn all this stuff? Wallace West was either a super geek or he had far too much time on his hands. It was nice, though, to see how he committed to the task at hand, and the lengths he was prepared to go to in order to make him feel welcome. In Connor, Wallace had a captive audience, grateful for the way the stories robbed his foreign surroundings of their imposing nature. Still, every now and then, he experienced an unsettling flutter of anxiety that reminded him of where he was and what he was doing. And, as they came upon a pair of large heavy doors, he felt that uncertainty once again.

    The brass handle groaned, and the door drifted open with scarcely a whisper of sound. Following Wallace's lead, when Connor stepped inside, his new shoes met the floor with a resounding thud that fell upon his ears like a gunshot. The sound carried into every corner of the room, as if to announce their arrival. Then, in the renewed silence, he met Wallace's gaze and advanced this time on gentle feet. After a few more steps, his momentum faltered. Connor found himself in the middle of the library, a broad open space, with high ceilings and packed shelves; he was reminded of the first time he entered the Martha Wayne Reading Room. Light poured in from a pair of enormous arched windows that stood at either end of the library, grazing over every wooden surface in flecks of gold, and there was that smell, that old papery smell that he loved so much. For a moment, he stared, inspecting columns of shelves, not only on the ground floor, but also that spanned the periphery of the room above, on the balcony; tables and chairs were arranged in neat rows on either side, and some cosy benches sat closer to the stacks for a more casual reading experience; there were paintings here, too, and framed signs detailing each area from literature, to languages, to natural science, and amongst them, so many of those fancy leather-bound tomes that populated the more prestigious parts of Gotham Library. Most importantly, though, the silence. It was so quiet, Connor could hear nothing but the ticking of the clock above the main desk. It was unoccupied, at the moment, as was most of the library, aside from a kid with his head face-down in an issue of National Geographic, and there was movement coming from above, on the balcony, too.

    "Ok," he conceded, in an undertone, "This place is cool."

  2. #22
    This place was cool; but Wally only paid token notice to Connor's quiet praise. When their journey towards the library had begun, Wally's mind had been swept up in Connor's enthusiasm, and he'd crested along on that bow wave, channelling his best approximation of a museum tour guide. It was a sketchy and dubious approximation at best, based on vague recollections of rare and fleeting visits to museums in his pre-teen years, back before he had become a conduit for the Speed Force and had ascended from mortality to the comparative godhood of being Kid Flash.

    It wasn't as if he hadn't been to a museum since then. He had, often. Every museum he could find. School trips. Recreationally. The more opportunities the better; the more chances to expose himself to new sights and knowledge. It was one thing to devour every literary and digital source of information known to man; it was another to actually see those artefacts and relics in person, to have them be something physical rather than an abstract concept. Unfortunately, while being Kid Flash vastly increased his museum prospects, bringing several states-worth of institutions into convenient running distance, they had also turned the more interactive parts of museums into a painfully slow and tedious prospect. Being part of a tour was a nightmare, milling about at turtle speed, waiting for the guides to rattle off asinine entry level details, never leaving enough time for the flurry of questions that Wally was desperate to have answered. Even going alone could be its own special hell, several hours of shuffling along in a traffic jam of gawking tourists interrupted by a few momentary glimpses of something interesting. The Speed Force had done the impossible: it had made museums boring.

    That was an experience that Wally had urgently and eagerly sought to avoid inflicting upon Connor; but the closer they got to the library, the more Wally's stockpile of trivia depleted, and other thought processes began to creep in. Thoughts processes about what was going on around them, students milling back and forth, the day students chatting eagerly with the boarding students to compare notes on the thirteen hours of agonising withdrawal from each other they had been forced to endure. A few glances at clocks, watches, phone screens, and what-not as they passed warned that Home Room was slowly approaching; not urgently enough that they might need to rush, but enough that Wally would likely need to postpone the remainder of his orientation tour until after first period.

    And then the library doors had opened, and Wally had begun to think about what he'd been trying not to think about.

    Something Wally struggled with was knowing too much. He wasn't quite sure what aspect of Speed Force exposure had given him such a reliable memory, but he had theories. At the speed he moved, for his eyes to process any sort of meaningful vision, he must need to be capable of processing and retaining a ridiculous amount of data, else he would see the world as some sort of weird strobe effect light show - like a pigeon, or one of the other myriad creatures who experienced the world at a different frame rate than humans. Those adaptations must have translated to other parts of his brain as well, letting him retain the information he read at superspeed; and just about anything else that crossed his path.

    At first, that was great. He knew things, he remembered; it was kinda awesome. But then the too much had kicked in. Let Wally glimpse your timetable for the semester, and it would be fused into his brain. Accidentally forget to glance away when someone punched in their PIN or password, and he'd never forget the finger motions responsible. Walk in on Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris in the throes of passion, and the traumatic visuals of usually unseen tattoos and mole clusters would haunt him to his grave. Information faded, eventually; or perhaps it was just overwritten, constantly keeping himself within the limits of the amount of data that could physically be contained inside his head. That was actually a real thing: if memory was essentially just electrical impulses, then at some point you would reach a level of knowledge where either the electrons just simply wouldn't fit inside the volume of your skull any more, or worse, would be compressed into such a density that they might collapse into some sort of gravitational anomaly and destroy the whole world. Wally wasn't there yet - during one evening of inescapable paranoia, he'd run the calculations, and was pretty confident that he would die of old age before he was able to absorb that much information - but still, that looming danger was out there.

    The curse wasn't just the alarming potential to destroy the cosmos by knowing too much, though. It was the more immediate potential for damage; the personal and social damage that remembering everything could cause, and the danger that came from your lightspeed thoughts racing off before you had the chance to think things through. Like, take Linda back in Keystone City. Sweet, kind, wonderful, beautiful Linda Park. Wally had never been brave enough to talk to her; not like that, anyway. She was always friendly, always willing to chat; but when it came to flirting, busting out his moves, all of that, he went utterly to pieces. She was his Moby Dick, except not at all whale-like, or aquatic, or really similar to that literary character in any meaningful way other than the fact that she made his chest feel like a cannon, and he'd shot his heart to pieces on it.

    It started out innocent. He'd wondered when her birthday was, thinking that maybe he could do something subtle, something sweet, something that would make her think, You know, that Wally is so kind and thoughtful, I should make a move before some other girl steals him away and I miss out on my only chance. So, he'd gone on social media. Easy place to check, right? Except, Wally and Linda weren't friends on social media, and that was where Wally had pulled onto the highway that led to the danger zone. He'd tried to search for her, but it was a pretty common name, and they didn't exactly run with the same sort of crowds. Luckily she'd liked the school's social media page, but because of some frankly terrible website design, you could see the avatars of people who'd liked the school page, but not actually click through to their profiles. Fortunately Wally was smart, and before his better judgement had a chance to even blink, he'd deciphered the URL for the thumbnail and traced it back to her profile page; which, naturally, did not list her birthday because of course it didn't. Maybe a sane person would have stopped there, but Wally's mind was already running, and before he knew what was happening he'd chased email addresses and usernames back to a newspaper from the town where she'd grown up that included a birthday message to a Linda Park of approximately the right age in the classifieds. Along the way he'd learned too much. Hobbies. Names of friends. Places she'd lived. Sports teams she'd been part of, and trophies they'd won. All things that could springboard him into future conversations with her; but at the same time, all things he couldn't possibly admit to knowing without seeming creepy. He'd poisoned himself, constructed a burden of knowledge that he couldn't trust himself not to reveal. He'd wished her a happy birthday that year; but he and Linda hadn't spoken since.

    It wasn't just her, either, although Wally actively fought to resist it as best he could. His mind's current victim - or at least, the innocent bystander whose usual schedule his mind had decided to record - was Megan Morse, one of the other new transfers who'd joined Brentwood for their senior year. She was, in a word, mesmerising. Or maybe captivating was better. She was the kind of person where all you wanted to do was sigh, and smile, and just bask on the awesomeness of everything that she said and did. Beautiful, obviously; but smart, and funny, and kind, and talented - basically perfect. But Wally knew what that meant. He'd learned from that mistake, and saw the danger looming in the distance. Which presented a problem. A challenge. He needed to get close to her, fast. Not close close, but like, Hey beautiful, since we're such good friends and stuff, I know I can trust you with my secret identity type close. He needed them to be friends, needed them to bond, and needed it to happen quickly enough so that he could admit what was going on before he ended up learning too much and ruining everything again.

    He could already feel himself getting close. He hadn't meant to, but he'd accidentally memorised her routine. He'd realised, about a minute and a half before opening the doors, that Megan would be here this morning, same as she always was, using the library as a zone of safety to avoid the bickering and bitching of the herd of boarding girls that oozed their way around campus at this time of morning. It was a smart plan, one that Wally had begun to echo; but not in an obvious way, more of a carefully calculated way, so that the times he arrived and the days that he wasn't there seemed completely random and accidental, as opposed to the meticulously crafted strategy that had a colour-coded flow chart and everything.

    It hadn't been his intention to introduce Connor to Megan, not yet. Obviously he would have done that later, the new kids had to stick together and all of that; but that was part of the lunch strategy, and now was not the lunch strategy. But the situation had changed, and realisation slowly dawned that an opportunity had presented itself. Wally contemplated that new opportunity extensively over the few seconds it took to lead Connor up the stairs towards the balcony above, muttering something about the view being better up there. And boy oh boy, it sure was. There she was, all cosy in her little reading nook, isolated just enough from anyone down in the main library to have privacy, but still close enough that she wasn't alone. A perfect place to hang out; of course perfect her would do something perfect like that. Wally caught himself sighing, but it was too late to stop it.

    As Wally led Connor in a few uncharacteristically slow strides along the library's balcony upper level, he tried to think how best to leverage Connor's presence to his advantage. Wally was showing a new student around, which clearly was going to score him some points as far as being compassionate and charitable went; and he was pretty sure he could put a good spin on the idea that us new students need to stick together, using Connor's newness for extra leverage to move his and Megan's orbits a little closer together.

    It wasn't the words part that was tricky, that he could handle on the fly; it was something more fundamental than that. How to act. How to stand. Should he lean? Walk up with his hands in his pockets all cool and casual? Try to seem professional? Apologise for disturbing her? Scenarios zoomed across Wally's consciousness; were he alone, he'd probably have taken a few supersped moments to try a few of them out, see which stance and expression and tone of voice felt best. Sadly, he wasn't alone; and so he went for a best guess.

    Elbow positioned awkwardly between the spines of a few books, about an inch and a half higher up than felt entirely comfortable - apparently this bookshelf had been constructed by giant Connor-sized people, rather than ordinary Wally-sized people - he adjusted his features into the cool and charming expression that he had practised extensively in the mirror for at least a solid thirteen seconds; pretty much an eternity for a speedster. His voice came out a little deeper than normal, soft, casual, respectful of the silent atmosphere of the library.

    "Well now. Hello, Megan."

    He felt his head moving in a strange upward reverse nod tilt sort of motion. It felt right. A few more degrees of charm was applied, cranking a lopsided smile into the corner of his mouth. He let silence drag out for just a moment longer.

    "S'up?"

  3. #23
    Megan Morse
    Guest
    There was an intricate portion of stained glass art at the top of the two-story library windows, casting a veritable rainbow of light across the surface of the small table before her. She took a moment to appreciate the bounty of color as it fell across one of her hands, shifting the skin of her fingers to match it for the briefest moment. A soft sigh passed through her lips as she folded her hands together in her lap, resisting the urge to repeat the delicate gesture.

    It wouldn’t do to be discovered after only a month of living in Gotham, after all. Her uncle would be decidedly disappointed in her lack of control, after all her assurances and promises to the contrary. It had been difficult enough to persuade him to allow her to attend a real school for her final year before university. To be a real teenager, to make friends, to attend classes…to exist outside of the warmly comfortable bubble she’d known for as long as she could remember.

    It was a good life, a wonderful life, even. Megan wanted for nothing, save perhaps a little companionship and freedom. She loved her uncle a great deal, and he had taught her much about how the world actually worked, and what it meant to be an alien with abilities like hers. It had taken a number of months before she’d succeeded at persuading him to allow her to attend a school with her peers in lieu of her private tutoring and lessons.

    Her first month at Brentwood had been…even more than she’d envisioned. There was little in the television shows and movies she had devoured that could have prepared her for the social strata and the ramifications of every word she uttered and movement she made. Megan quickly adopted the quiet and polite social mask that seemed to attract the least attention from those such as her roommate, Polly.

    Slender, bright eyed, and possessed of every social grace imaginable, Megan had thought at first that she’d found her first friend. But it hadn’t taken more than a week before she realized the level of wicked pettiness that was hiding behind the flawless façade. Since then, there had been a cool politeness at best between them, and it gave her the excuse to spend as much time as possible in the library tending to her studies, and in the practice rooms of the music area.

    At some point, she mused, maybe she’d find someone she could trust with her secret. It would…be amazing to not have to always hide, even though she understood the reasons it was necessary.

    Some day.

    The fingers of her right hand rested on the tabletop, faintly tapping out what would have been a random rhythm to anyone who couldn’t hear the sonata playing in her mind. Her left hand gently turned the page of the large volume, her dark gaze coursing over the glossy pictures of elaborate replica garb from the seventeenth century. It had been a topic in a recent lecture in her Textiles & Templates class. What was supposed to be basically about fashion was an in-depth study of both fashion and its history. As Ms. Mode was often fond of saying, “…you cannot understand what fashion is if you do not understand from whence it came, darlings…”

    Wally’s voice interrupted her reverie, and she smiled softly as she shifted in her seat to glance up at him. “Good morning, Wally…not too much up yet today. How are things with you?” she asked with quiet warmth in her voice, her gaze shifting over to his companion, standing just beyond him, and remaining silent. She blinked, catching herself before her gaze could be termed a stare, certainly not lingering on his shoulders, and returned her attention to Wally.

    “Who’s your friend? I haven’t seen him here at Brentwood before…”

  4. #24
    It was like something Shakespeare might have written about. A knife to the heart, or maybe an arrow. The pleasantries had barely left her mouth, obligated by social conventions to do so, before she'd abandoned any pretense of interest in Wally and his wellbeing in favour of focusing her attention on Connor. Sure, he was new, and that was interesting and stuff. Sure, it was all part of an elaborate game of hard-to-get that she was playing, and damn if she didn't play Wally like a fiddle every time - or maybe something cooler than a fiddle, like an electric guitar or something; or perhaps even something that didn't mix the metaphors so badly. But how long? How long. Megan? How long could she deny the chemistry, and mutual attraction, and the constant urgings of fate that craved for them to be together?

    Or maybe this was something else. Maybe there was more to Megan Morse than Wally already knew. A secret past. A secret life. A secret love. Was that it? A love that dare not be spoken, for fear of who might learn of it? Suddenly it was all so obvious. Suddenly everything made sense. Missing parents. An uncle who works for the government, with no other details provided. Her parents were spies, or maybe she was, or maybe this was witness protection, or something else. And if that was the case, then who knew who might be watching? Any one of these books could be bugged, or concealing a hidden camera. Anyone could be part of a surveillance team.

    Wally's eyes widened for a moment, processing Megan's potentially coded words. Who's your friend? Reluctance to speak of their secret love around a person that she didn't recognise. I've never seen him at Brentwood before.

    Immediately, Wally bundled up every emotion and thought that he had, and crammed it deep inside himself, like civilian clothes stashed in a backpack when you switched into an old school super-suit. He wouldn't let anything show. Wouldn't let his thoughts or suspicions leak onto his features. He wouldn't even let them register in his conscious mind, lest there be telepaths in play. Who knew how deep this conspiracy went? Who knew what resources they might have at their disposal?

    Play the part, Wally.

    He turned, gesturing to his "friend".

    "This is Connor Kent," he explained, in the closest approximation of normal that he could deliberately attain without any sort of prior rehersal time. "He's new here. Wayne Scholarship, like us. And Connor?"

    He turned back to Megan, and couldn't fight the small smitten smile.

    "This exquisite example of human beauty is Megan Morse. She's in the same boat as us, and I figure us newbie scholarship kids need to stick together, or something."

  5. #25
    While Wallace and Megan spoke, Connor buried his hands in his pockets, and found something innocuous to stare at - Megan's book. It was no light read, which made sense he supposed, considering her status as a scholarship student. There were pictures of funny old clothes, though. Maybe she studied history; maybe they were in the same class. He glanced up, then. Wallace was still doing his confident thing, being all relevant and flattering with his words. If Megan was anything like him, this was going to be a difficult conversation to follow. There was that sinking feeling again. What part of quiet was difficult to understand? Now he had to not make an ass out of himself in front of another stranger.

    "Hi, Megan," he said, snuffing out the ubiquitous uh before it had a chance to surface. That part was easy enough. When he met her gaze, however, something strange happened. For just a second, he was under the impression he and Megan were at opposite ends of a very long tunnel, and he was falling towards her. Of course, his feet were rooted to the spot, and he was in no danger of going anywhere. But that feeling... what was that? With a sideways glance, he noticed Wallace, and remembered where he was. With a shrug, the daze lifted, and he fired a curious glance at the open book.

    "Cool book," his eyebrow climbed a hopeful fraction, "History student?"

  6. #26
    "Aren't we all, Master Kent?"

    In truth, Martin Stein had been waiting on the limits of earshot, arms folded and a wistful smile on his lips, for quite some time. It was a talent that he had acquired during his younger days as a research scientist: to avoid troublesome social entanglements by avoiding notice entirely, moving quietly and covertly until such a time that he chose to be noticed. These days, such skills were dedicated less to introversion, and more to the ambush of unsuspecting teenagers loitering around the halls of Brentwood Academy. Most often, it allowed him to catch them in the act of something irregular or untoward, allowing him to make the benevolent gesture of subjecting them to his polite disapproval, rather than the full weight of discipline that they might receive from other tutors, but on rare occasions it allowed him moments like this: the opportunity to insert himself into a conversation with a profound yet graceful interjection.

    "From Galileo to Gagarin, Amadeus Mozart to Ariana Grande, Socrates to Stephenie Meyer - are we not all students of history, in one form or another? Is our knowledge, our work, our contribution to society not irrevocably built upon the shoulders of all those who have come before, and would we not be remiss in failing to study and acknowledge and learn from their wisdom and example?"

    With a flicker of a smile, and a small whisper of a chuckle, he watched his words wash across the three students, acknowledged and contemplated and met with confusion to varying degrees. While he might have preferred to be regarded for his contributions to science and understanding, among the students of Brentwood Academy he was most renowned for his commitment to the verbose. It was both deliberate and incidental, the result both of practice, history, and a delight at the intricate complexity of the English language and its expensive lexicon. The students of Brentwood, often the offspring of the wealthy and respected, went to great lengths in their private lives to embrace the cutting edge of fashion and technology. Professor Stein felt the same way about the language that tumbled from his lips, his words as carefully and consciously chosen as the thousand-dollar accessories that wealthy pupils used to flaunt their affluence in circumvention of the Academy's uniform regulations. Why be angry, while one could be irked, insensed, or vexed? Why simply state or explain, while one could regale, convey, disport, or enthral?

    "With luck, I have the opportunity to be the first member of the faculty to welcome you to Brentwood Academy. I am Professor Martin Stein; and timetable permitting, I will be your guide for an insight into the intricate wonders of the cosmos." His gaze shifted momentarily from Connor to his nominated tour guide. "I trust Wallace is doing an adequate job of helping you acclimate to this fine institution?"
    Last edited by Martin Stein; Oct 31st, 2018 at 07:22:32 PM.

  7. #27
    It was the second time in the space of 15 minutes he had been identified by a perfect stranger. As someone who had historically taken refuge inside anonymity, Connor was uncomfortable being at such an immediate disadvantage, even if his name had tumbled from the lips of a genial old man. He got the feeling it was something he was going to have to get used to, here at Brentwood. With deliberate effort, he relaxed, allowing the stiff hostility to bleed from his back, shoulders, and arms. The old man continued to speak, sparing him the daunting task of answering such a vague and open-ended question. Some of the names he mentioned - Galileo, Socrates, Mozart - they were familiar to him, but lacked resonance, like something he'd once known long ago. Then, somehow, he managed to transform his long meandering statement into yet another question. The inquisitive lift in his voice had been the tell, not that it left Connor any the wiser as to what precisely was being asked of him. He gave Wally a glance, and found him looking patiently attentive, but in no position to offer an answer.

    The old man continued, revealing himself, unsurprisingly, to be one of the resident teachers of Brentwood. Professor Martin Stein. Much to his annoyance, when Connor moved to offer a greeting, he discovered he'd slipped into his bad habit of burying his hands in his pockets. The time for handshakes sped by, and the professor was already waxing lyrical about the intricate wonders of the cosmos. Was it ill manners to shake hands with a teacher? Perhaps there was an unspoken agreement between members of the faculty and students, to assert authority and to keep the balance of power in the right place. Somehow, this Martin Stein didn't seem the sort to care very much about the balance of power. And, finally, he presented him with a question he could answer.

    "Yes, Professor Stein," Connor said, and, glad to have something to do with his lamely hanging limbs, he gave Wally a clumsy clap on the arm, "Very adequate."

    Then, returning his magpie attention to Professor Stein, he plucked from his introduction the most sparkly nugget of information, and said:

    "You teach science, professor?" His eyebrows climbed in interest, "Like alien words and sh- such?"

  8. #28
    "Alien worlds more than alien words," Stein corrected, rewarding young Master Kent's engagement and interest with a warm uptick of a smile, willfully overlooking the barely aborted profanity.

    "Alas, the subtleties of linguistics fall beyond the scope of my purview. Rather, my unenviable challenge is to strive towards a definition of that which defies language, to simplify the vast complexity of the infinite into concepts comprehensible to our limited human minds."

    Delight twinkled in the Professor's eyes, a wistful sigh escaping him between words.

    "My expertise is physics, Master Kent. From the Ancient Greek physiké, the study of nature - or, more accurately, the nature of the universe. From the infinite to the infinitesimal; cosmos to quanta; the forces of nature and the nature of forces; time, gravity, motion, energy -"

    He trailed off, smiling into his own sentiment like an old man fondly recalling a lost love.

    "Reality is layered. Worlds upon worlds: not just worlds like that upon which we stand, or those that share gravitational dependence upon our sun, but also the world of electrons, of molecules, of the microscopic, and macroscopic. Each one different and unique. Each obeying their own structures and patterns. Each one alien. Each one fascinating, intricate, and beautiful."

  9. #29
    "Right."

    From the look on Professor Stein's face, Connor assumed he was happy, which at least made one of them. For the more the professor spoke, the more dejected he became. At first, it rose up like a wall of bewilderment, a barrier to make any comprehension of the professor's words an impossible feat; not that there weren't some of his words that translated, of course, but the way in which he wove them in a convoluted ponderous web that didn't seem to serve any purpose other than to tie the new student up in knots and bind him to the spot. What was he supposed to say to that?

    And, as it went on, the confusion became misery, which then transformed into annoyance. Connor couldn't tell if this Professor Stein was testing him or if he was just showing off? Either way, his thoughts took a long walk, down the path from the school, back to the road and Raisa's waiting car, where he could finally declare "I told you so."

    If they all spoke like that, it was going to be a very very long day. And, more than ever, the rigid grip of his Brentwood uniform felt like a poor disguise. Defiant, he held the professor's gaze a moment longer, before turning his attention to Wally, again.

    "Come on, Wallace. I don't want to be late for class."

  10. #30
    Wally was so captivated by the melodious dance of knowledge and linguistics that Professor Stein led them through that he almost didn't notice Connor's words. Dropping the Wallace bomb was enough to carve through his attention, however, like a searing hot knife buried deep in Wally's chest. He allowed himself a few microseconds of self-reassurance that he wasn't in trouble, and to feel relieved that no one here was armed with his middle name as well. It was too early in the morning to feel as if he was in that sort of trouble.

    As Wally's eyes shifted to Connor, he found himself frowning at the new student's body language and tone of voice. He seemed disinterested. Wally blinked. How was that even possible? Listening to Martin Stein was like having a live-action Sagan or Feynman documentary play out in front of you. Intelligence and wonder dripped from every word. How could anyone not be captivated, fascinated, and entranced by that?

    Oh no.

    He regarded Connor Kent in a new light, a strange sinking feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach.

    Is he a sports person?

    A covert analysis of Connor's physique and mannerisms flooded Wally's brain, challenging his concerned theory and scrutinising the new student for evidence. His hair was subtly, slightly ruffled, as if he'd been wearing a baseball cap and hadn't quite smoothed away all the signs of it. He stood and moved like someone who had muscles and knew how to use them. He didn't quite have the kind of swagger that Wally had learned to expect from jocks back at Central High; perhaps not football, then. Not basketball either: he wasn't light enough on his feet, wasn't slender and agile the way Wally himself was. Not a swimmer's build, either. Lacrosse, maybe? Or one of those European sports - soccer? Rugby?

    He wasn't an academic, that was for sure. The evidence had been right there staring Wally in the face this whole time, and he'd been too swept up in being a tour guide to notice him. They'd walked into the school library - gorgeous, striking, practically orgasmic for anyone who had even the slightest fondness for reading - and he'd barely even reacted; the quiet was what he cared about, not the books. A Ravenclaw, Connor Kent clearly was not. Wally uttered a silent prayer to the universe in hopes that he was dealing with a Weasley, or a Longbottom, or some sort of other dull-witted Gryffindor, and not a full-blown Slytherin Crabbe and Goyle situation.

    "Uh, sure," Wally offered eventually, glad that his lightning-fast synapses allowed his awkward contemplative silences to pass in the blink of an eye, and thus go unnoticed by almost everyone. A confused and apologetic glance was offered to their shunned and disrespected tutor. "See you after lunch I guess, Professor."

    * * *

  11. #31
    There was a question that people liked to ask. Where do you see yourself in five years? It was a question built on the premise that moving forward was the only correct way to live your life, and that people needed a plan, a destination, to know which direction forward was. Even without knowing it, society forced you into living your life that way. Kindergarten, Elementary, High School, College. Subject choices. Choosing your major. Employment. Career advancement. Each rung on the ladder merely bought another within reach, then another, and another, an endless climb upwards, towards - what? What was the end? What was the goal? You could look to others, but they had no answers. Some climbed faster than others. Some had a longer reach and longer strides. Some started higher up the ladder than others. Yet everyone climbed, up and up, until you reached a point of contentment to stop and go no further, or simply became too old or too tired to ascend any more.

    If you had asked Hank Hall the question five years ago, never in a million years might he have guessed you would find him in a school, back in the kind of institution he had spent half his life trying to flunk out of. Contrary to opinion, Hank was not lazy; nor was he disengaged, or angry at the world, or any of the other summations that so many people had tried to hang around his neck like a noose. He'd simply reached that point far sooner than others, where the drive to climb higher had faded, and he was content with the altitude he had reached. Yet, he had continued to ascend, driven on by others rather than his own will and desires. A father who had dragged him upwards like a dog on a leash. One brother who refused to climb his own ladder unless the two of them were side by side; another who shouted down from above about his superior view. A mother whose shadow blanketed everything, her name and her will invoked every time Hank tried to find a way to remain where he was.

    One by one, from best to worst, Hank's climbing companions had been stripped away: his mother lost, his brothers stolen, his father locked away and out of reach. Hank had felt his drive return then, but backwards, urging him downwards, not up. He longed to climb down to simpler times, to lower heights that had felt less alone, to altitudes where the view was familiar enough to recognise the world and how it worked. He supposed that was what had brought him back here: to school, to sports, to the safety of familiarity and understanding. He knew this rung; or at least, he'd known one likes it, and there was comfort in that.

    Hank barely acknowledged the horde of students waiting for him as he strode into the classroom, fixating on the binder held open in his hands. It was a coping mechanism, a subtle distraction to help him cope with the notion that he was striding out in front of a classroom. In the gym, and on the sports fields, he felt as if he belonged. Coach Hall was who he had become, and it was the kind of person he was comfortable being. Here in homeroom, forced to be the man in command of a classroom, things felt different. He felt fraudulent, counterfeit, on the brink of being exposed for his ineligibility to impart anything of use in these surroundings. To stand here and teach, to act as if he was an authority, as if he understood the world any better than the high schoolers seated in front of him, would have been hypocrisy, plain and simple. So, he clutched the binder a little tighter, a cheat sheet of names and announcements to guide him through the next few minutes. He didn't need to know better than his class, provided that he was the one holding the map.

    "Seats," he commanded, loud enough to be well heard over the ambient conversations, and perhaps enough to be considered a bark, but without any of the aggression or bite that would have come along with it if he intended to actually be stern. It was a nudge, the green bulb at a stop light, signalling his students to proceed with a routine that they already all knew how to follow. He crossed the room, reaching the desk, but shifted off a conventional course at the last minute, opting to lean himself against the desk's front edge, rather than occupying the waiting chair. His eyes scanned the announcements once again, nodding subtly to himself as he committed them to memory. A breath was drawn. The binder was closed, and set aside on the desk beside him. The breath was released. His eyes climbed to the class.

    "New kid. On your feet."

  12. #32
    The walk back from the library was made lively by Wallace and his unrelenting pace of conversation; he asked, amongst other things, about his favourite classes. Connor stumbled at first, in anticipation of the inevitable follow-up questions, so he answered history and English. He had enough of an understanding of American, European, and world history to be able to babble his way through any probing questions and, well, he spoke English, so how hard could it be? Fortunately, Wallace kept the tone light and accommodating, and kept his line of questioning on the amicable side of interrogation. Plus it helped him forgot about the awkwardness with Professor Stein.

    When they turned into one of the many rooms down one of the many corridors, Connor knew at once he'd be asking for directions before the day was up. He found himself in a smart classroom furnished with rows of individual wooden desks and chairs, ornate panelled walls, and a large mahogany teacher's desk; a flat screen TV was fixed to the wall beside a whiteboard and a computer; old world style meets modern convenience. There was a buzz about the place, whether it was the routine clatter of student lockers, the thunder of oversized books on tables, or the animated drone of morning chatter. His arrival drew a glance or two, that he noticed, at least. It was to be expected when there was a new face. Allowing the looks to roll off him like rain, he followed Wallace to their seats on the third row, and sat with a groan of strained wood.

    Fortunately, they were one of the last to arrive, so he didn't have to endure the noise for too long before who their homeroom tutor arrived. At least, that's who Connor assumed he was. He was big for a teacher. In fact, he looked more like a professional football player, a football player who had wrestled himself into his shirt and trousers that morning to make him seem more like a teacher. Sure, he wore a tie, but his top button was undone, and instead of a stuffy rigid blazer, he wore a nice loose varsity jacket. While Connor felt the pinch of envy (or was that his collar?), his inner Raisa was not impressed. Then, with a single word, he sent every student to their desks. The screech of seats was ear-splitting. Eyes down, he winced through the pain, and when all was silence, he heard the teacher speak again.

    Connor looked up. The silence was heavy now, like a weight upon his shoulders. He glanced to the left, then to the right, before finally meeting the man's gaze across from him. It was interesting how he'd elected not to sit behind his desk, but afford himself a better view of the class by leaning against it. The expectation was there in his eyes; there could be no doubt who this new kid was. He stood, reluctantly. In the time he'd been free, Connor had made a point of avoiding making himself the centre of attention, of any attention, and he did not like having to break with tradition now. He gave a shrug.

    "Yeah?"

  13. #33
    Hank hadn't known what to expect from this Kent, Connor kid that was joining his class. Some people might have drawn conclusions from the scant information that had been provided: a Wayne Foundation scholarship, a transfer from Middleton High in Colorado, no subject selections as yet; a person could infer all kinds of things from details like that. They might have been surprised by the sight of the student that those details apparently belonged to, seeming so at odds from what one might have been led to expect. Fortunately for Hank, he wasn't the sort of person to read into anything. People were who they were. Best to see that for yourself than waste time and energy trying to predict the future. Life was chaos and entropy, and no matter how smart you were - or thought you were - predictions were just guesses, but with an added side of pretentious.

    "This is Connor Kent."

    His voice rang out, quiet but clear, the kind of firm words that commanded a hushed tone from those around them. The kids called it his timeout voice, the tone he adopted whenever he needed to get real with his teams. It worked for them, and Hank saw no reason to consider his homeroom class as anything different from just another team. True, there was nothing athletic about this classroom, but there was nothing academic here, either. This was an arbitrary collective, but it was one to which these students belonged; and part of his responsibility, to his mind at least, was to ensure that they all felt that, and understood that. There were a few hundred other acres of school ground upon which these teens could make each other feel like excluded outsiders; in his classroom, and on his courts and sports fields, that wouldn't be allowed.

    "Connor is new, to this school and to this city. He just transferred here on a Wayne scholarship from Colorado. Change is scary. Different is scary. I know that. You know that. He knows that."

    Hank's vision shifted, sweeping in arcs across his class, avoiding the urge to fixate on Connor directly.

    "What Mr Kent doesn't know is that he is one of us now. He doesn't know what that means."

    Pushing himself forward, the Coach began to pace slowly across the front of the class, hands clasped behind him like a Captain surveying a parade of troops. The words tumbled out of him, not quite a practiced speech, but definitely a practiced sentiment.

    "If he struggles, we help him. If he gets lost, we point the way. If he stumbles, we pull him back up. We are assholes, but we are not entitled assholes. We always pay it forward, and we always pay it back. We are a team. We win together, and we lose together. We are in this together. Are you all on this page with me?"

    A few mutters and murmurs followed. Hank added a little extra bass to his words.

    "Are you all on this page with me?"

    It wasn't quite the Yes Coach! or oorah! he would have hoped for, but the nods and responses were a little less noncommittal the second time. It would have to do. Hank let his strides continue until he returned to his desk, perching against the side once again. His voice softened a little, his attention finding the new student exclusively this time.

    "Tell us a little about yourself, Connor. Where are you from? What's your thing?"

  14. #34
    From the moment the teacher said his name, every head turned to stare. He could feel the gaze of the students behind him, too, prickling the back of his head and neck. Connor remained resolutely eyes-forward. Wallace had mentioned a Mr. Hall in connection to homeroom, so he could only assume this was him. He was nothing like what he'd expected, certainly not after the unusual exchange with Professor Stein, only moments ago. But there was something in the way he was speaking that put him marginally at ease, despite being outside of his comfort zone. Mr. Hall spoke plainly, and loud enough for all to hear, which was important because, rather than zero in his attention, and consequently the entire classroom's attention on him, he was addressing the class at large. He somehow made it about everyone, going as far as to call everyone an asshole, but in a way that sounded strangely decent.

    So it was another curve ball, courtesy of Brentwood Academy. The difference, this time, was that Connor understood what was being said, and what was being asked of him. He didn't like it, of course, but he prepared for this moment. Prepared because he had to, because he couldn't really tell anyone where he was from or what his thing was, because the sound of sirens would follow. And, in a weird way, not being able to tell anyone the truth totally sucked. Sure, they would call him dangerous, and call him a freak, but at least it would be the truth - his own truth. It was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. Instead, he had to regurgitate some fabricated story about a place he'd never been to, and people he'd never met. Keep it brief, keep it simple, and, where possible, tell the truth. A complicated lie was only going to trip him up, Oliver said. It was a point he conceded, because he was a terrible liar. So, he took a breath, and began:

    "I'm from a place in San Juan County, Colorado. A small town called Middleton. It was quiet, nothing like Gotham. Just me and my aunt, uh... Oprah. I like rock music, hitting the gym with friends, and I recently started boxing."

    The logic was that if Middleton was as small and boring as he'd been told it was, no-one would want to know about it. And, while he'd never hit the gym in his life, he looked like he did. The boxing thing was a stretch, but not untrue, and he did like rock music. Shame he messed up his aunt's name, whatever it was. Olga? Priscilla? Whatever.

    He looked at Mr. Hall, and his eyebrows climbed in question, before the words fell from his lips:

    "That okay?"

  15. #35
    Hank wondered how many mirrors it had been practised in front of, how long Connor Kent had spent preparing himself to be put on the spot and introduce himself like that. Perhaps it was cruel, Hank wasn't sure. Some people thrived in situations like that, others didn't. For some, it was the most terrifying prospect their lives had confronted them with thus far. Connor muddled his way through it just fine. Not a shining beacon of charisma and confidence, but not a frightened pillbug either.

    If you spent enough time thinking about a person's words, you could conclude all kinds of things. Sometimes, some of those conclusions might even be correct. Hanks wasn't that sort of person. It wasn't even that he didn't care, more that he couldn't be bothered. Sure, you could figure things out about a person if you put the effort in, but what was the point? Things that needed to be known had a habit of revealing themselves eventually anyway, more often than not. There was no point dwelling on Connor's words, on how threadbare and thin that list of interests seemed, or how lonely an existence just me and my aunt or the prospect of having been torn away from the gym friends that seemed to constitute the only social activity worth mentioning.

    Hank offered a nod in response to Connor's question, and with a subtle gesture invited Connor to return to his seat. "Well, we don't have a gym," he responded, injecting a little warmth and joviality into his voice. "Most of the students here either have a personal trainer, or don't have the arm strength to lift anything heavier than a silver spoon, so there hasn't been all that much demand for one."

    A flicker of a thoughtful frown tugged at this brow.

    "Boxing, though? I've been known to go a few rounds in my time. I know a place in Midtown; nothing fancy, but I know the owner, if you need someone to help hook you up."

  16. #36
    "Wildcats?" He said at once, loosing the question like a ring buoy onto a turbulent sea. When he saw the light of recognition in Mr. Hall's eyes, he couldn't help but smile, "Yeah, I was there a few weeks ago. Cool place."

    Something came over him, for a second, a strange rush like electricity that left him feeling giddy and light. At first, Connor couldn't quite place it, why he felt this way. He supposed it was just nice to finally have something in common with someone, a connection, no matter how tenuous. If there was a list of people out there, who could relate to being the test subjects of dubious scientific experiments, he imagined it was a short one. Same thing went for being a metahuman; sure, he'd met a small handful of strangely dressed Batman-wannabes prowling the Narrows at night, but none who were different. Not in the way he was different. And something told him that the likelihood of one of his fellow students sharing a history with one of Gotham's gangs was slim.

    Wildcats it was, then. And even though he'd only ever been there once, he could talk about the place in enough detail to hold a conversation; the sights, the sounds, the distinctive smell; it was as Mr. Hall said, nothing fancy, but it was a place where he had not been made to feel unwelcome, despite everything that had happened there. For once, he had a story to tell that would not be a lie. And, ignoring every instinct telling him to hold his tongue, to show some restraint, and to respect the man that had already given him so much for so little, he perked up. There was a part of him that had all but forgotten the other students in the room, but at the same time, there was a small bright irreverent part of him that was eager for them to hear what he next had to say.

    "In fact, while I was there, I happened to met Oliver Queen." He paused, half hesitation, half relishing the rare opportunity to show off. A smug grin crept to the surface as he concluded, "And I kinda... rearranged his nose."

  17. #37
    Hank's eyebrows climbed slightly. Not that Hank had any particular expectations of the new student, but Oliver Queen was not the kind of name that Hank might have expected to hear tumbling out of his mouth, especially not in such an obscure context.

    He knew that Oliver Queen was in Gotham, of course: no one with a television, radio, or eyeballs could miss the constant mentions and headlines and speculation about that name. It detracted from the constant coverage of Bruce Wayne for a few seconds, he supposed, and that should have been a pleasant reprieve. Should have been. If Hank were to think about it - something he tried not to - he wasn't sure which of the two trust fund heirs irked his sensibilities more.

    Who am I kidding? It's definitely Queen.

    A faint tug of a smile pulled at the corners of Hank's mouth, not a result of considering Queen himself, but at the imagined visuals of the situation that Connor Kent painted for him.

    "You broke Oliver Queen's nose?"

    Hank let the pause that followed drag out for a few seconds.

    "West, I'm going to need you to high five Kent for me."

  18. #38
    Connor had to think fast, for no sooner had the words left Mr. Hall's mouth, from out of the corner of his eye he saw that Wallace was already on the move. Instinct told him to raise his hand - he'd seen it done before - and, with a satisfying smack, their hands connected. His first high five. Wallace's enthusiasm was palpable in his tingling palm. When a broad grin broke through his defences, he lowered his head in sheepish uncertainty. What was it about him breaking Oliver Queen's nose that had resonated so strongly with Mr. Hall that is justified such a response? There had been nothing duplicitous or patronising about it, that was for sure. It was just an honest reaction to a stupid story. And it felt good.

    "It's not like I meant to do it, of course," he surfaced, having wrestled his grin into something more reserved, but no less self-satisfied, "But at least he can afford the medical bill."

    Riding the burst of confidence, he considered the man in front of him, and his attire, and asked the obvious question, "You teach sports, Mr. Hall?"

  19. #39
    "What gave it away, Kent?"

    The voice chimed in from the back of the room, cloistered comfortably in a corner where an antique cabinet could serve as a backstop for his reclined seat. Like everyone else in the room, Jason Bromorton was dressed in the requisite Brentwood Academy uniform, the dark navy blazer with red trim and matching tie, but Bromorton had found ways to subtly meander within the confines of the room to grant himself a little extra flair and style. A slightly more tailored cut to the jacket here, a technically not prohibited pocket square there, cufflinks, a tie pin, an expensive watch; every opportunity to flaunt wealth and prestige was exploited, right up to the very threshold of what would be allowed. He wore it all, and carried himself, with the air of someone who knew exactly how much he could get away with, and exactly how much leeway the Bromorton name bought him.

    A ludicrously expensive pen was twirled idly in Bromorton's fingers, an obvious proxy for an absent cigarette that Jason smoked only for style, and hadn't quite learned to inhale properly yet. With a smug half smirk, he turned his attention not to Connor, but to the audience of other students whose attention he craved. Despite the jovial slant of his expression however, he couldn't quite keep the undertones of contempt and judgement towards yet another Wayne Foundation charity case from creeping into his voice.

    At least the school had done a public service by hitching him to Wallace West so early on: it seemed good practise to train the hopeless and wealthless to cluster together for the sake of their social betters.

    "Was it the sports jacket? Or is that just how teachers dress back where you're from?"

  20. #40
    "Good one, Jace," Wally fired back, eyes not deviating from the notebook page in front of him.

    Jason Bromorton was an ass. For starters, his name had Bro in it, and he was the kind of person who lived up to that. Worse, he insisted that everyone call him Jace, as if that extra syllable at the end of his name was some sort of insurmountable burden that he was trying to spare people from. Jason was a name with gravitas, linked to mythology, to Power Rangers, to Isaacs and Stathams and Donovans. Jace was a Magic the Gathering card, and was up there with the likes of Chad and Todd on the scale of douchey dudebro names.

    Go lift some weights, Bro.

    That was the retort that Wally wanted to offer, the kneejerk bitterness that turned into bile at the back of his throat every time The Bro sullied his ears with that obnoxious voice of his. Fortunately, the more sophisticated parts of his brain were more eloquent than that, weaving a more scathing rebuke with almost no effort at all. So little effort in fact, that his eyes and hands continued to focus on the task in front of him, a quick scribbled sketch of the classroom tables, annotated with who was seated where, based on the split-second glance that Wallace had paid the room when he entered. Once finished, complete with his own internal nicknames for the various antagonists distributed about the room, the page was torn free and slid casually across the table to Connor.

    Only then did Wally turn, still only a second or so after his initial remark, flashing The Bro a tight and ingenuine smile.

    "Did you come up with that yourself, or did you get your butler to write it for you, like your history paper last week?"

Page 2 of 3 FirstFirst 123 LastLast

Bookmarks

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •