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DATE:6th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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As I entered the school grounds, my eyes instinctively sought out the old oak tree. There she was again – Emily – her green hair catching the morning light as she bent over a book. One of Matteo's lackeys lurked nearby, his gaze fixed on her with poorly disguised hostility. I felt a twinge of... something. Concern? Curiosity? The weight of the revolver I'd discovered last night seemed to press against me, though it was safely hidden away at home.
The day unfolded with an eerie calmness, a stark contrast to the tumult of recent events. History, another free period, and our religion class passed without incident, though tension hummed beneath the surface like a plucked string.
Father Arnold's gentle voice filled the classroom during our religion lesson. Despite being well past fifty, his eyes held a clarity untouched by our city's pervasive corruption. He spoke of our gods with reverence, but it was his care for our futures that truly set him apart.
"Respect your elders," he urged, his weathered hands gesturing emphatically. "The gods see every kindness, every good deed. They will guide you."
I found myself drawn to his words, even as I noticed the barely concealed eye-rolls of my more rebellious classmates. There was a comfort in his teachings, a simplicity that part of me longed for. Yet another part – the part that recognized gun models and dreamed of violence – whispered doubts.
Mr. Figaro, ever the passionate historian, approached us like a drill sergeant addressing raw recruits. "You must embody the spirit of the Ventian Legionaries!" he bellowed, eyes alight with fervor. "Courage! Discipline! These are what built our great nation!"
His words stirred something in me – pride, perhaps, or a hunger for purpose. But they also felt hollow, a relic of a past that seemed increasingly distant.
Mr. Nathan offered a starkly different vision. "The future lies in industry," he insisted, his Normandian accent clipping the words. "Our factories offer opportunity, a chance to modernize Ventia."
I couldn't help but think of the stories – the grueling hours, the abuse, the workers trapped in those factory-cities. Nathan's talk of "security measures" against insurgents left a sour taste in my mouth. No wonder he was so despised.
And Mr. Nicholas? Well, he barely managed to show up, let alone shape our futures.
The echoes of Father Arnold's sermon still lingered in the air as I sat at my desk, lost in thought. Emily's words from yesterday gnawed at me, an persistent itch I couldn't scratch. It wasn't just what she'd said—it was the unsettling realization that I couldn't remember her existence beyond the past two days.
Surely she hadn't just transferred. The other students treated her with a wary familiarity that spoke of longer acquaintance. So why was my memory of her so... fragmented?
A chill ran down my spine. Was I living a lie? I had memories stretching back years—the sting of my mother's mallet, the metallic scent of my father's butcher shop. How could those be false?
A heavy hand clapped my shoulder, startling me from my reverie. Damascus loomed over me, his usual smirk in place. "You're gonna miss Gymnasium if you keep daydreaming, Kassius."
I blinked, momentarily disoriented. Right. Gymnasium. With all these thoughts clouding my mind, I'd almost forgotten.
Hastily, I shrugged off my dress shirt, the starched fabric suddenly stifling. I replaced it with a more casual top, the worn cotton a small comfort against my skin. As I changed, I couldn't help but notice Emily across the room. Her gaze met mine for a brief moment, a mixture of concern and... was that hope?
Damascus and I made our way downstairs, the corridors buzzing with pre-class chatter. The familiar musty scent of old sweat and floor wax grew stronger as we approached the gymnasium.
Our instructor, Mister Casca, stood at the entrance, his carefully styled hair at odds with the setting. A wave of disgust washed over me as I caught sight of him. The rumors about his... proclivities were impossible to ignore, whispered in corners and scrawled on bathroom stalls. He was on of the few teachers I hated.
"Never convicted," Damascus muttered, noticing my expression. "Lack of evidence, they say."
I nodded grimly. We both knew that was a flimsy excuse at best. In Genova, evidence had little to do with justice. No, Casca's continued employment spoke of protection—the kind bought with favors or threats.
As we filed into the gym, my mind raced. Was Emily right? Was all of this—the corrupt teachers, the violent classmates, the suffocating traditions—just a dream? And if so, what reality was I avoiding by clinging to it?
The squeak of rubber soles on polished wood brought me back to the present. Dream or not, I had to navigate this world. For now, at least.
Mr. Casca's whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of class. As we began our warm-up exercises, I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. The familiar routines felt hollow, like going through the motions of a life I was no longer sure was mine.
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The gymnasium echoed with the squeak of shoes on polished wood and the rhythmic thud of bodies in motion. Sweat began to bead on my forehead as we moved through the familiar routine—running laps, then a series of jumps and other exercises whose ancient Ventian names I'd never bothered to learn.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of exertion and the musty odor of old equipment. As we finished the warm-up, Mr. Casca tossed us a worn handball and, to everyone's surprise, headed for the exit.
"Continue with the game," he called over his shoulder, his voice oddly strained. "I'll return shortly."
A murmur of confusion rippled through the class. Casca never left us unsupervised. Unlike the perpetually absent Mr. Nicholas, our gymnasium instructor was known for his hawk-like vigilance. Something felt off.
As the boys began to organize themselves for the game, I hung back, my limited experience with sports making me hesitant. My father's strict rules had kept me isolated, more familiar with the inside of a butcher shop than a playing field.
I noticed a group of girls preparing to join, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension. It was a relatively new development, their inclusion in sports. I'd heard the preachers grumbling about it, calling it "unnatural." But handball, lacking the physical combat of wrestling or the danger of chariot racing, had become an acceptable middle ground.
Matteo's voice cut through the chatter, sharp and authoritative. "Girls, you're playing on the outside field today."
My stomach clenched. His tone was different—colder, more serious than usual. Emily, standing near the group of girls, tilted her head slightly, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face. To her, it might have seemed normal for the sexes to be separated, given the boys' tendency to incorporate wrestling into the game. But something in Matteo's demeanor set off warning bells in my mind.
As the girls filed out, I caught Emily's eye. She held my gaze for a moment, her expression unreadable. Did she sense the wrongness of the situation? Or was this just another part of the dream-world she claimed we were trapped in?
The gymnasium doors swung shut behind them with a dull thud that felt oddly final.
"Alright, let's start," Matteo barked, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that made me shiver.
As we took our positions on the court, I couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to unfold. The game, the school, perhaps this entire reality—it all felt like it was balanced on a knife's edge, ready to come crashing down.
The gymnasium's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the faces of my classmates. Matteo's hand fisted in my shirt, the fabric straining as he nearly lifted me off my feet. The circle of boys around us tightened, their excited whispers and snickers forming a suffocating cocoon of malice.
"You think you can play me for a fool?" Matteo snarled, a vein pulsing at his temple. His breath was hot against my face, reeking of the cafeteria's mystery meat. "How long have you been friends with that green-haired freak?"
"It's not true," I gasped, my hands scrabbling at his iron grip. "I barely know her—"
The slap came fast and hard, my cheek erupting in stinging pain. For a moment, the world tilted, and I wondered if this was the moment where the dream would shatter, where Emily's words would prove true. But the pain was too real, too present.
"Tobias!" Matteo barked. "Tell him what you saw."
Tobias shuffled forward, his eyes downcast. "I... I followed you yesterday," he mumbled. "I saw you walking with her. She said you knew each other."
My stomach dropped. How had he missed the rest of that bizarre conversation? The whole 'being from the future " thing. Or was he deliberately leaving it out?
Matteo's grip tightened, his knuckles white. "I left you alone all these years," he growled. "And this is how you repay me? Cozying up to that bitch?"
"Please," I wheezed, "it's all a misunderstanding—"
But Matteo was beyond listening. His left fist connected with my solar plexus, driving the air from my lungs. Then I was falling, the polished wood floor rushing up to meet me.
Gasping, I looked up at the ring of faces. Most were gleeful, enjoying the show. But there, just behind Matteo, stood Damascus. My neighbor. My sometime-friend.
"Damascus," I croaked, "tell them. You know I don't—"
But Damascus's face was a mask of cold amusement. He shrugged, a lazy grin spreading across his features. "You're being unfair to the boys, Kassius," he drawled. "Shouldn't have gotten cushy with such an insolent girl."
That grin sent a chill through me, colder than the floor beneath my cheek. In that moment, I realized the fragility of my position, the paper-thin nature of alliances I'd thought solid. I was disturbed more so because I knew him. It wasn't about what the girl did. It was her looks. he was jealous because a pretty girl gave me attention, It was... pathetic.
As Matteo loomed over me, his shadow stretching like a giant's, while I? I just gave up. I didn't even try to brace. Was it from how used I was to getting beat up? How I 'wasn't supposed to resist my punishment'? Quite pathetic.
The first kick drove the air from my lungs. Then another. And another. Pain exploded across my ribs, my back, my head. Matteo's shoe connected with my temple, and the world tilted sideways, gymnasium lights blurring into streaks of harsh white.
Through the haze of agony, I caught glimpses of faces. Tobias, eyes averted. Marik, pale and frozen. Half the class, pretending not to see the violence unfolding before them. Their indifference cut deeper than any blow.
This was different from my parents' beatings. Those were a twisted form of discipline, a perverse expression of their warped love. But this? This was cruelty for its own sake, born of petty jealousy and mob mentality.
My father's voice echoed in my mind: "You're weak, boy. Fight back!" But how? Against so many, against those stronger and more vicious?
Another kick to my head sent waves of nausea through me. My vision swam, darkness creeping at the edges. Was this how it ended? Broken and bloody on the gymnasium floor?
Then, through the fog of semi-consciousness, I saw her.
Emily seemed to materialize out of thin air, suspended for a moment as if gravity itself had forgotten her. Her foot connected with Matteo's head with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling.
Damascus, ever the loyal dog, lunged for her. But Emily moved like water, flowing around his grasp. In a blur of motion, she planted her feet and hurled him—a girl half his size tossing him like a rag doll.
It wasn't possible. None of it was possible.
Matteo rose, blood streaming from his temple. He charged at Emily with a roar of fury. She sidestepped his wild swing and then... she was everywhere. Her fists became a blur, pummeling Matteo's face with inhuman speed and force. He collapsed, pleading, but she didn't stop. The sound of flesh striking bone filled the air, a metronome of retribution.
The other boys backed away, their faces masks of terror. This wasn't the violence they understood. This was something else entirely.
Emily's voice cut through the gymnasium, sharp as a blade. "Is this how men should act?" she demanded, her eyes sweeping over the crowd. "Ganging up like rats? And you—" she turned to the spectators, "watching violence like it's a game. You should be ashamed."
But I saw it in their eyes. They weren't ashamed. They were afraid. Emily's words meant nothing to them; only her power mattered. A foreigner wouldn't understand, but this is how our society works. Strength is Power and Power is Authority. He who masters this fact is the absolute ruler.
She turned to me, her hands streaked with Matteo's blood. As she lifted me, her touch was surprisingly gentle. I felt myself being draped over her shoulder, an impossible feat for someone her size.
As she carried me away, the gymnasium receding behind us, I felt a strange sense of safety. Her hand on my back was warm, almost familiar.
"It's okay," I heard her whisper. "I've got you."
The world faded to black, and I surrendered to unconsciousness, wondering if I'd wake to find this had all been just another strange dream.-*-*-*-*-*