The grand amphitheater of the University of Eden glittered with opulence: marble floors that hummed with geothermal warmth, desks made of polished cedar, and screens hovering midair, displaying student metrics and lecture notes. Sunlight cascaded through the crystal dome, a marvel of engineering, drenching the room in an ethereal glow. It was here that Eden's future leaders gathered: the scions of the Sacred 69—old blood, tradition, and legacy—and the new money elite, bold and brash upstarts with an eye toward change. But today's lecture would be far from academic.
At the front of the hall stood Professor Dalen, gripping his podium as though it were the last solid thing in the universe. His thinning hair looked like it was staging a slow but deliberate escape from his scalp. He cleared his throat nervously, knowing full well this lecture would be a disaster waiting to happen.
"Right," he began, adjusting his glasses. "Today's debate topic, as required by the powers that be, is the Dome Baby Incident." He paused to let the title hang in the air like a bad smell.
Immediately, the students stirred, some scoffing, others exchanging sharp glances. Everyone knew the political feud between the Sacred 69 families and the new money elites had gotten ugly—and today's debate was essentially an invitation to throw verbal grenades at each other.
"Now," Dalen continued, "I trust that you will all keep this civil." A few snickers rippled through the room. Caius Norval, son of Senator Norval and heir to one of the Sacred 69 legacies, lounged in his seat with an insufferable smirk.
"Define 'civil,' Professor," Caius drawled, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his lapel. "Do insults count as civil discourse? Or just healthy tradition?"
From across the aisle, Alara Voss—the sharp-tongued daughter of a real estate tycoon and proud face of the new money elite—snorted. "Oh please, Caius. If the Sacred 69 were capable of healthy tradition, half your families wouldn't be in therapy."
The room erupted in laughter. Dalen winced. It was already going off the rails.
"Let's try to focus," he pleaded. "This is about learning from the past, not insulting each other. Now—who would like to open the debate?"
Alara raised her hand with a smug grin. "I'll go first. The Dome Baby incident was a failure of archaic leadership—an unwillingness to adapt to modern times. If the old elite had invested in proper infrastructure instead of clinging to outdated ideologies, the entire thing could've been avoided."
Caius leaned forward, his smirk growing wider. "Ah, so it's the infrastructure's fault, is it? Not the incompetence of a few ambitious wannabes who don't understand that power requires restraint."
The debate grew louder, with each side taking increasingly personal jabs at the other. The scholarship students sat in the middle rows, watching nervously as the tension built.
Dalen wiped his brow. "Let's not escalate—"
But it was too late. Caius had just lost his patience, and with it, any semblance of civility. "At least my family didn't buy our way into society. You're nothing but a whore in fancier clothes, Alara."
Silence fell over the room like a thunderclap.
Alara's face flushed with rage. "What did you just say, you overbred, underbrained—"
The room exploded into chaos. Students leapt from their seats, fists flying, and in a flash, plasma knives and stun gauntlets appeared from pockets and bags, as if everyone had been waiting for this moment. A loud crack echoed as a new money kid clocked a Sacred 69 boy square in the nose, sending him sprawling into a desk.
Dalen dived under his desk just as a plasma bolt seared the air where his head had been. "Not again!" he groaned, curling into a ball.
A scholarship student screamed and bolted for the door, followed closely by several others. "I can't afford new organs!" one of them yelled as they disappeared through the exit.
Meanwhile, the rich kids fought with reckless abandon. Caius launched himself at Alara, only to be tackled mid-air by one of her friends wielding an electromagnetic baton. "That was for calling her a whore, you privileged jackass!"
Another Sacred 69 kid pulled out a sonic disruptor and blasted half the room, sending desks and bodies flying. Alara, not to be outdone, pulled a plasma pistol from her bag and returned fire, the shots hissing as they narrowly missed her targets.
"Enough!" Dalen shouted from under the desk, but his voice was drowned out by the chaotic barrage of weapons fire and insults.
A boy from the new money side laughed maniacally as he hurled a flash grenade. "This is for every time your families monopolized the ports, you smug Sacred fossils!"
The flashbang detonated, temporarily blinding half the class. Someone stumbled into a holographic projector, and it flickered erratically, now displaying a giant dancing cat meme on the main screen.
Dalen could only watch in horrified disbelief as the battle raged. Plasma bolts burned holes in the walls, and desks shattered under the force of thrown bodies. One student's leg got vaporized, but instead of screaming, he just sighed. "Great, that's the second time this month. Dad's going to kill me."
Dalen grabbed his comms device and frantically called security. "I need backup in Lecture Hall Seven! Now! Plasma fire—active plasma fire!"
Several agonizing minutes later, the doors burst open, and security teams flooded the room, armed with electromagnetic disruptors. With the flick of a switch, every weapon in the room powered down, leaving the students panting and disheveled—but no less arrogant.
Security officers dragged the fighters apart, some still throwing weak punches as they were hauled away. A few students, their torsos riddled with plasma holes, were rushed to the medical bay for immediate repair. One kid groaned as he was carried off. "Tell my dad I want a better liver this time."
Dalen emerged from under the desk, his face pale with exhaustion. "Gods help me," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
He stared at the carnage around him—scorched walls, shattered desks, and unconscious students. This wasn't a debate; it had been a small war. And now, he had to email their parents.
He sank into his chair and opened his laptop, his fingers moving sluggishly as he typed the first message. "Dear Mr. Norval, I regret to inform you that your son..."
He knew exactly how the parents would respond: a light scolding at best, with a shrug of indifference. "Boys will be boys."
As Dalen sent the first email, the holographic screen behind him still displayed the dancing cat, oblivious to the destruction below it.
"Just another day at the University of Eden," Dalen sighed. "And it's not even lunchtime."