It's April 17, 2021, I think. Time unknown. I awaken with a groggy start, my head feeling like it's wrapped in cotton, my limbs heavy as if they belong to someone else.
The effects of the gas linger, leaving a sweet taste in my mouth and a mild disorientation that blurs the edges of my vision.
As I sit up, the plush interior of the private jet comes into focus, the room where I was gassed now feeling more like a gilded cage than a luxury.
"Isn't all this a bit overkill?" I mutter to myself, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. The secrecy, the gas, the whole mysterious setup - it's all so dramatic.
My parents don't even know where this school is located, a fact that now seems absurd. And like all the students, I've been subjected to this sleep-inducing ritual just to keep the island's location a secret.
I shake my head, trying to clear the last of the fog from my mind. The irony isn't lost on me; here I am, a genius, yet I'm just as in the dark about my destination as my parents are.
It's a control, I realize, not just over the students but over our lives, our autonomy. But if this is the price to pay for changing, for becoming better and more social, then I will learn and adapt.
I hear a knock on the door, sharp and authoritative, but it doesn't wait for my response before swinging open. A man in his thirties, dressed in a suit that fits him perfectly, steps into the room.
His big glasses reflect the cabin's light, giving his eyes an eerie, almost non-human quality. His movements are stiff, almost robotic, each step precise as if he were following an invisible grid laid out on the floor.
"Master Damon," he addresses me, his voice as mechanical as his movements, devoid of any warmth or inflection. It's as if he's reading from a script, his words programmed rather than spoken with any personal touch. His gaze doesn't quite meet mine; instead, it's fixed slightly to the side, giving him an air of detachment.
This man, with his stiff posture and overly formal address, makes the whole situation feel even more surreal, like stepping into a world where every action is controlled, every word carefully chosen for effect.
I shake away the lingering effects of the gas, my mind clearing, though my body still feels a step behind. "Yes," I answer hesitantly, not sure what to expect from this man who seems more machine than human.
The man scans me, his gaze moving over me like a security camera, as if checking me off against some unseen checklist.
Seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he adjusts his glasses with a precise, almost mechanical motion. "Follow me," he says, his voice flat, leaving no room for questions or delays.
Without waiting for me to stand or even acknowledge his command, he turns on his heel and walks off, his steps echoing with the same precision he entered with.
I scramble to my feet, the urgency of the situation shaking off the last remnants of the gas's effects. I follow him, my curiosity piqued but my caution on high alert, wondering what kind of place would employ such a character to greet new students.
The man's pace is relentless, a fast walk that has me running to keep up, my legs still heavy from the gas. I wonder if he's even human or some sophisticated robot; his movements are so exact, so devoid of the natural sway or hesitation of a person.
"What's your name?" I manage to ask between breaths, catching up to him only to fall behind again as he turns a corner.
"Sisyphus," he replies without breaking stride or turning to look at me, his voice still devoid of any personal touch.
Sisyphus, I think to myself, recalling the myth from ancient Greek lore. Sisyphus was the king of Corinth, known for his cunning and deceit, who was punished by the gods for his hubris.
His eternal punishment was to roll a boulder up a hill only for it to roll down every time it neared the top, an endless, futile task symbolizing the absurdity of human endeavors and the nature of punishment.
I push further, curiosity mingling with a sense of unease. "Why are you named that?"
He doesn't reply, his silence as mechanical as his movements. But I catch a slight shiver in his posture, a human response, making me think he's definitely a man, not a machine. Realizing I won't get any long form of answer from him, I shift my approach.
"Did you commit a great sin?" I ask, my voice steadier now.
*"Yes," he responds, his voice still flat but with a hint of something beneath the surface.
I press on, knowing the answer but needing to hear it from him. "When will you pay your complete penance?"
"Never," he replies, the word hanging in the air like a verdict. I shiver, not from the cold but from the weight of that single word, its implications.
As we finally exit the jet, I ask a question I'm not sure I want answered. "Were you once a student here?"
*"Yes," he confirms, and for the first time, there's a shift in his demeanor, a crack in the facade.
I take a deep breath, my voice almost a whisper as we step onto the tarmac. "Can I end up like you?"
He finally looks at me, and for a fleeting moment, I see emotion flicker in his eyes behind those large glasses—a shadow of regret, perhaps fear, or something else entirely. Then, with a voice that carries the weight of his own story, he says, "Yes."
It's dark outside, the man leads me through the night, his pace unwavering. I follow mutely, deep in thought. With each step, my mind races. It's dark outside, the man leads me through the night, his pace unwavering. I follow mutely, deep in thought.
With each step, my mind races, the secrecy, the gas, the man named after a myth of eternal punishment, and the ominous warning about my own potential fate here—it all paints a picture far removed from the academic sanctuary I had envisioned.
What kind of fucking school is this?