At the pinnacle of the Pentagon Academy, higher than parents' expectations on their children's report cards, the Observatory of Astrological Innovations served as the stage for a peculiar spectacle. The place, usually gazing at the stars, now witnessed stars of another kind: a group of students ready for the infamous "beach trip," a rite of passage in the life of any self-respecting youth.
There was Sam, leaning against the railing as if about to launch the next big hit of introspective balladry. He contemplated the campus below, now more deserted than the salad section at a steakhouse buffet. The Pentagon Academy stretched out before him, a labyrinth of innovation and dreams that, from such a height, made everything seem like it came from a futuristic utopia — or a sci-fi movie with a questionable budget.
"They're late," he noted, in a tone that suggested less surprise and more resignation to others' punctuality. It was like waiting for the sequel to "Avatar" – you know it's going to happen, just not when.
There was Sam, with a look that defied any dress code, blatantly flirting with the concept of "chic pajamas." White shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops, a combination that screamed "ready for bed, but adventure called." His black hair danced in the wind, while his red pupils gave him an air of mystery, as if he held secrets from another dimension.
Suddenly, Sam tilted his head, a movement that suggested a heightened sixth sense, or perhaps just good hearing. The footsteps echoing towards the stairs heralded the arrival of someone, or in this case, some highly anticipated people.
"Listen, do you know how hard it is for a cat to play the piano perfectly? That kitty must be the Mozart of felines," said a female voice, laden with admiration and a hint of disbelief. The voice, unmistakably recognizable to Sam.
And then, as if summoned by a spell, the silhouettes of three girls appeared, whose beauty could easily turn any fashion show into a secondary event. A blonde with blue eyes, a redhead with sparkling green eyes, and a brunette, whose purple eyes seemed to contain entire galaxies. All were dressed in casual clothes, bringing with them an aura that could be described as "beach fashion meets last minute."
Sam, with a mischievous smile, greeted the trio. "Well, if that cat really exists, I bet it has more followers on slap.com than all of us combined," he joked, waving to the newcomers.
"Sorry for the delay, Sam," said Ellie, with the urgency of someone who just discovered that procrastination has its consequences.
"We were discussing life philosophies with a pianist cat," Chloe added, nodding her head with the seriousness of someone facing quantum dilemmas over breakfast.
Sam just smiled, his patience a monument almost as imposing as the observatory. "As long as that cat isn't in charge of our transportation, I think we can forgive the delay."
The hugging ritual was so warm that even the most staunch loner in the digital world would pause their endless scrolling to appreciate it. That level of intimacy and casualness shared among them would make any observer, even the most antisocial, feel a twinge of envy — or at least a fleeting curiosity about what it means to have real-life friends.
"Are you all ready for today?" Sam threw the question into the air, right after the last hug was released, as if releasing balloons at a party.
Ellie, always ready with a response that mixed bar philosophy with tourist expectation, shot back: "When you ask if we're prepared, are you talking about the cold sea water? The coconut water, and that peace accompanied by that fresh Caribbean breeze?" Her tone suggested she might be ready to write an alternative tourist guide, in case being the protagonist of her own life didn't work out. "If that's it, I'm more than prepared. Vacation is like elementary school recess: everyone can't wait for it to come, and when it does, it ends too quickly."
Sam smiled, nodding in agreement. "Well, I hope this recess has more ice cream and fewer scraped knees," he joked, his voice laden with a hope that only true optimists, or perhaps main characters, can maintain in the face of the unknown.
Chloe and Diana agreed, each with their own smile that brought a mix of anticipation and a subtle touch of "let's see what this turns into." Because, in the end, being prepared for vacation is more than just bringing sunscreen and bikinis; it's embracing the imminent chaos, the guaranteed laughter, and the moments that, so good, make everything worthwhile.
Diana, with a gaze as meticulous as a general assessing his troops before a great battle, noticed that the contingent of beach adventurers was almost complete. "When are we leaving?" she questioned, her voice tinged with the impatience of someone who already feels the imaginary sun caressing their skin.
Before any of her companions could launch guesses or theories about the travel schedule, a discreet but decisive presence made itself known — not that it was trying to camouflage, but it walked with the lightness of a shadow at noon. "Let's go now," announced a tall and imposing figure, with the authority of someone who has already decided the fate of the world about five times before breakfast.
Everyone turned around, a mix of shock and surprise, not so much because of the sudden presence, but because of the identity of the person behind the voice. As they faced the silhouette of Professor Lizy, an Asian woman whose combination of dark hair and eyes could give the king of emos a run for his money, the reaction was unanimous: "Professor Lizy."
The professor, sketching a smile that defied the gravity of the situation, reassured the group with a simplicity that only the truly wise possess: "We've held strong these past months, so let's head to the beach. Teachers deserve a break too, you know?" Her voice carried a tone of camaraderie, a bridge between academic rigor and the promise of freedom that the beach represented.
At that moment, the group realized: if even Professor Lizy, guardian of knowledge and discipline, was ready to swap the classrooms for sand and sea, who were they to question?
Thus, under the command of Professor Lizy, the group headed to the teleporter, ready to leave seriousness and stress behind, at least for a while. After all, if there's something that unites teachers and students, besides a passion for learning, it's the vital need to recharge the batteries, preferably in a place where the only hard work is deciding between a dip in the sea or a nap in the shade.
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Here I am, Dean, walking under the sun that seems to have mistaken my scalp for a personal target, on a road that would make any jar of moisturizer evaporate in despair. Ah, the green field stretching out to a mansion that screams "I'm a B-movie horror set, but you'll only realize it when it's too late."
As I advance, my black hair does its best impression of a pirate flag in the wind — a personal rebellion against the weather. Ahead, the lake, and there, a figure with hair so white it would make a shampoo commercial look like a documentary on environmental pollution. Nívea, the girl with vibes of "I survived a snowstorm without losing style," sitting carelessly by the lake's edge.
She doesn't need to turn around to know it's me. Her supernatural powers are cheaters in any game of "guess who?". "What are you doing here, Dean?" She doesn't ask, she states. She knows it's me because of my aura of "accidentally turned into the extra of my own fiction."
I wave casually, with the informality of someone who decides to show up to a job interview wearing flip-flops. "Good to see you too, Nívea. Aren't you shocked that your dear friend here managed to hack the cycle of life?"
"You might as well have stayed dead," Nívea grumbled, turning the act of kicking water into an art so refined it could almost be considered an Olympic sport.
"Look, just for the record, I have feelings too," I retorted, doing my best to appear offended, which, considering the situation, was harder than one might imagine. "What if I fell into a deep depression because of your comment? What if I decided to throw myself off the literary bridge again?"
"That would be great," she shot back, with the cutting sincerity of someone who uses truths as weapons. Ouch.
"Damn, women really are heartless," I murmured to myself, as I moved to sit beside her, approaching like one would a wild animal, well aware that I could lose a hand in the process.
I settled next to her, in a ritual as complicated as negotiating world peace, and dipped my feet into the lake's waters, seeking some comfort in the coolness it offered. Nívea gave me a look that could easily translate to "I have an arsenal of sharp responses ready for you," but I was feeling particularly brave (or maybe just stupid).
"So, Nívea…" I began, trying to navigate the dangerous waters of casual conversation. "How have you been? Picking up many boyfriends?" And as soon as the words escaped, I wanted to kick myself. It sounded like I was trying to start an elevator conversation with a distant relative at Christmas.
Why the hell did I say that? Maybe because, deep down, I still saw myself as that reclusive writer, always on the fringes of human interactions, observing and noting, but rarely participating. Or maybe because, even after everything, I'm still trying to figure out how to make friends (or keep the old ones) when you're technically a dead man with a second act.
"Did I overdo it?" I threw out there, with the sensation of someone who just jumped out of a plane without a parachute, waiting for the ground to come. Nívea's response came quickly, laden with the subtlety of a brick: "I should kill you for the insolence."
"I wouldn't blame you," I replied, wielding a courage I didn't know I had. It was almost like a rabbit deciding to chat with the wolf, not out of naivety, but because of a strange sense of camaraderie between predator and prey. "But you know killing me would be pointless."
"Oh, you think my sister will revive you?" She challenged me with the question, and I returned it with that look of "You know she will." It was a chess game where I had already read the opponent's manual.
"You might be right. My sister is indeed fixated on you. A mere Class E," she admitted, with a casualness that caught me off guard. It could be the sun beating down on my head, or maybe the reality of sitting here, talking with Nívea about the terms of my own existence. It was one of those moments that make you question all the life choices that led you here.
But hey, if life isn't about being resurrected by a capricious deity while trading barbs with supernatural beings by a lake, what really is it? A sitcom episode where the writer forgot to write the happy ending? Maybe. But if there's one thing death has taught me, it's that humor is the only thing that keeps us sane… or at least, interesting.
"So, Nívea, as we have our little lakeside therapy session, I suppose your sister must have mentioned the plan for the weekend, right?" I tossed out, casual as one comments on the weather, but loaded with subtext like a psychological thriller.
"A trip to the Caribbean," she finally said, turning to me. And for the first time, our eyes met – a clash of gazes that seemed more like a duel of wizards than mere chit-chat. Her white eyes, captivating as a snowstorm under moonlight, and mine, blue as the literary cliché of the deep sea.
"I'm not going there to be your babysitter, got it?" The distance between us narrowed to the point where we could exchange secrets with our breath. For a brief moment, a very brief moment, I thought she might break all conventions of personal space with a kiss. "If you're on the brink of death, don't count on me. I'm not my sister, understand?"
Hypnotized by her eyes, but fully aware of the gravity of the message, I could only respond, in a pathetic attempt to appear focused and not completely distracted by the proximity: "Yes ma'am." The voice came out more like a reverent whisper, a confirmation that the message had been received, understood, and, under Nívea's intimidating gaze, etched in iron and fire in my mind.
Watching Nívea retreat and create a safe distance between us, a part of me couldn't help but wonder about the weight of the thoughts that seemed to anchor her to the lake. "She seems more thoughtful than usual today," I reflected, with a twinge of concern seeping through my usual layers of sarcasm. It's not every day you see a contemplative demigoddess. "If I were in her shoes, I'd probably also have a million things on my mind. The idea of my sister playing puppeteer with my weekend plans? It's a recipe for an existential crisis."
With Nívea on the island, she undoubtedly holds the title of being the most powerful here. But her interference is conditioned on a single clause: the safety of Diana. And oh, the ironies of fate that I wrote with such fervor — Diana will encounter more dangers than an action movie protagonist. How Nívea will deal with this, especially considering the restrictions I've placed on her character, is something that not even I, her creator, can predict with certainty.
"Sigh… Now I need to 'acquire' the fruit that Sam will receive after annihilating all the villains. 'Steal' would be the more accurate term," I murmured to myself, considering the complexity of the task that awaited me. A system mission that Sam will receive, with a reward that, under other circumstances, would be cause for celebration. But now, it's just another item on my list of "things to do before the plot completely derails."
Allowing myself to close my eyes for a moment, I indulged in absorbing the peace that the surrounding environment offered — a brief truce amidst the chaos that was undoubtedly coming. After all, if there's anything my unusual journey as a writer reincarnated into his own narrative has taught me, it's that the balance between creating and living the story is as delicate as navigating a minefield.
And, as the wind carried the coolness of the lake, a part of me knew this was the prelude to a storm. A storm that I conjured on paper, now ready to test every fiber of my being — and perhaps, just perhaps, offer the chance to rewrite the destiny I had sealed with a few keystrokes.