His gaze drifted back to the pedestrians, the police, the unending swirl of life and motion around him.
You all should be glad that I—a reader—am experiencing the details the author left unwritten.
As they turned a corner, Martha glanced at him, a soft, almost nostalgic look crossing her face.
"Are you ready for life in the Academy?" she asked, returning her eyes to the road. "Your dad and I won't be there to look out for you, you know."
"To become who I want to be, I'll have to do things I don't like," Desmond muttered, reaching for a bag of popcorn on the backseat.
He looked out the window, his gaze focused, as if steeling himself for what lay ahead.
Martha shot him a surprised glance.
"I didn't know you had such wisdom tucked away in that brain of yours," she said, amusement in her voice. "Your teachers in Prep School always had something to say about those grades of yours."
"Who'd want to study for math exams when they could be learning to fight Eaters in gaming simulations?" Desmond replied, shrugging as he defended himself. "Math problems didn't exactly feel as urgent as, you know, surviving."
Martha chuckled but then grew serious, her expression softening as she kept her eyes on the road. "Well, I hope those training sessions were worth it, Des. Because you'll be facing the real thing soon enough."
Her words lingered in the air, a reminder of the gravity of his new reality. Desmond's hand paused mid-air, the popcorn halfway to his mouth, as he thought about what that really meant.
His mind flicked back to every chapter he'd read of courageous characters taking on the Eaters and standing strong in the face of terror.
It was one thing to imagine courage and quite another to feel the weight of it.
Fear can strip every ounce of strength from a person, no matter how strong they think they are, he thought, his hand mechanically moving between the popcorn bag and his mouth.
Arriving at the Council, Martha maneuvered the car into a parking space and, with a quick breath, stepped out, Desmond following closely behind.
The Council building loomed above them, its towering structure barely glistening under the sparse light.
This was a place of authority and significance, where lives were documented, destinies recorded, and, for Desmond, where his journey truly began.
As they approached the entrance, two uniformed security guards flanked the doors, their faces stern.
Martha produced her identification card without hesitation, and with a curt nod from the guards, they stepped inside.
"Wait here for a moment," she instructed Desmond, gesturing toward a row of couches near the reception desk. She strode confidently toward the receptionist, who greeted her with a polite nod.
Desmond took a seat on the long couch facing the desk, his eyes following his mom as she exchanged a few words with the receptionist.
The Council building buzzed with quiet efficiency, and he took in the surroundings, noting the structured order and the seriousness of everyone who passed by.
"You're here to register into the Nation's Database and get your identification card, right?" A voice broke his train of thought.
Desmond turned to see a boy around his age seated beside him. He had an easy smile and a confident air, his posture relaxed yet alert.
"Yeah, you could say that," Desmond replied, studying the stranger. There was something familiar about him, a confidence that resembles his.
"Then that makes us acquaintances," the boy grinned, extending a hand. "I'm Salvatore, by the way. What about you?"
"Desmond," he answered, shaking Salvatore's hand. "So, are you heading to the Academy after registration?"
"Where else would I go?" Salvatore said, his eyes gleaming. "The best resources, the best training—it's all there."
He gave a dramatic sigh before adding, "Unless you're with some secret organization, that is. Got any hidden sponsors?"
Desmond's mind raced as he tried recalling a character named Salvatore from Parker's set. I can't think of anyone with that name.
But it was the mention of a "secret organization" that truly made him pause. Keeping his tone casual, he glanced at Salvatore.
"Do you, by any chance, have a brother?"
"Nope. No brothers. At least, not that I know of." Salvatore replied with a smirk, shrugging as he continued, "My dad, though... let's just say he has a problem keeping his private life, well, private."
He raised his brows meaningfully at Desmond, as if to say take a guess.
Desmond nodded, his mind racing beneath his calm exterior.
So, if he doesn't have a brother, he's likely not Laurence or Lucas. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind.
But that alone isn't proof. If the novel crafted our new identities based on real lives, it means Salvatore could either be another extra like me, someone who somehow knows about secret organizations, or perhaps a character with insider knowledge of Crown of Glory's hidden forces.
As they continued exchanging questions and harmless banter, Desmond grew wary.
He decided to keep Salvatore on his radar, labeling him as a suspect. If he's an extra, I'll have to find a way to get him out of the story. I can't risk anyone standing in our way.
Just then, Martha returned from the receptionist's desk and gave Desmond a warm smile. "The staff member responsible for registering your gift will be available in about five minutes. So, just be patient a little longer."
"Alright, Mom," Desmond replied, his tone casual as he leaned back against the couch, trying to keep his thoughts hidden beneath a composed exterior.
Not long after, he was jolted from his thoughts by a sudden voice. "Judge Martha, I came as fast as I could."
Desmond looked up to see a middle-aged man in a crisp black suit, his demeanor formal and polished.
The man had a matching black tie and carried himself with an air of quiet authority.
He balled his right hand, placing it over his chest as he spread his feet apart, a symbol of respect and salute to Martha.
Martha nodded.
"I appreciate your promptness," she replied, standing up to meet him, giving him a polite nod despite her higher status and more powerful gift. "My son would like to take the test."
The man's gaze flickered to Desmond, assessing him with a mixture of curiosity and formality.
"I reviewed some information on your son, Desmond," he began, maintaining a tone of neutral professionalism.
"It appears he was not brought in to register when he turned sixteen. From this, I gather that his awakening didn't occur on that day but instead today—two months past his birthday. Is that correct?"