Periun, Kettlia
Ashtarium Nation
North American continent
September 22nd 2019
"So you lost a fight," Wren said, his voice smooth as silk but undercut with a lazy threat.
Joe and his boys shrank beneath the weight of Wren's gaze. The gang leader lounged on a battered leather couch, flanked by two women whose provocatively cut dresses made clear the sort of company he preferred. One of his arms draped possessively around them, the other brought a cigarette to his lips, smoke curling upward in slow, lazy tendrils. His eyes, however, were all calculation—sharp, cold, amused.
Around the room, Wren's gang gathered in a loose ring, smirking and jeering as Joe and his lackeys took their punishment. The dull thud of fists landing on flesh echoed off the graffitied walls, punctuated by Joe's ragged gasps. Tony—the biggest of Wren's enforcers—delivered the blows without hurry, knuckles already stained red.
"We… we didn't st-stand a ch-chance," Joe stammered, blood streaming from his split lip, his voice barely more than a whimper.
Wren exhaled smoke, eyes never leaving Joe. "You should choose your words more carefully," he murmured. "I don't tolerate losers who make my gang look weak… or pathetic."
"But he was a monster…" Joe tried to protest, but Tony's fist crashed into his jaw, cutting the words short. Joe crumpled to the filthy floor, fresh blood pooling beneath his cheek.
The room fell silent for a moment—only the crackle of the cigarette and the low, derisive laughter of the gang filling the space. Wren leaned back, satisfied, the shadow of a smile ghosting across his lips as he looked down at the broken boy at his feet.
"What's the name of this guy?" Wren asked
"His name is..."
****
"Jack! Heads up!"
The shout rang out across the patchwork of dry grass and sun-dappled shadow. Mark's arm snapped forward, sending the neon green Frisbee spinning through the crisp afternoon air. Jack stood at the edge of the field, hands tucked into the sleeves of his faded hoodie, eyes half-lidded against the glare. Without missing a beat, he reached up and caught the Frisbee one-handed, effortlessly, as if it had been drawn to him.
Mark jogged closer, grinning. "Nice catch, man."
Jack flashed him a small, sheepish smile. "You threw it right to me."
He glanced at the scuffed plastic in his grip. For a heartbeat, he remembered the strange, coiling surge of energy he'd felt that morning—how his reflexes seemed sharper, his grip unyielding. Careful, he reminded himself. Don't break it.
Turning, Jack lobbed the Frisbee to Eli with careful precision, adjusting the force behind his throw. The disk sailed in a clean arc, landing perfectly in Eli's waiting hands. Around them, the late autumn sun was beginning its slow descent, throwing long shadows across the field where clusters of students lounged or kicked soccer balls, the air tinged with the faint smell of cut grass and distant traffic.
"So," Mark said, catching his breath, "what time do you want to meet up for studying? Kirk told me the PSAT is supposed to be brutal this year. Like, barely anyone passes."
Jack shrugged, the question pulling him out of his reverie. "I dunno. Whenever, I guess? I heard it's just a practice test, but they make it sound like a trial by fire."
"It is, pretty much," Eli chimed in, wiping sweat from his brow. "If you want a shot at that National Merit thing, you basically have to ace it. No pressure, right?"
Jack watched the others for a moment, the easy camaraderie tinged with a subtle anxiety—the kind that lingered in locker-lined halls and the corners of quiet classrooms this time of year. Juniors all, each one quietly measuring themselves against the looming hurdle of college admissions. The PSAT was supposed to be the "easy" test, but everyone knew it was the first real gatekeeper. Around them, the world kept turning—frisbees flew, laughter rang out—but beneath it all, the tension simmered, unseen and unspoken.
Jack forced a chuckle. "Guess we should get started soon, then. Don't want to end up on the wrong side of that statistic."
He tossed the Frisbee back to Mark, the plastic spinning neatly through the cool air, and for a brief moment, everything felt almost normal.
At least, things felt normal—until Carrie and her friends drifted across the field, sunlight glinting on their hair as they approached. Their arrival was like a ripple through the easy rhythm of the afternoon; voices lowered, attention shifted. Jack stiffened, the breath snagging in his throat the instant he saw her.
Carrie walked at the front of the group—Amber, Layla, and Zoey trailing in her wake, laughter bright and easy among them. The girls moved with a confidence that seemed to part the clusters of students around them. For Jack, the sight of Carrie was enough to unravel him. He still hadn't worked up the nerve to ask her out after drama club—not with Joe always lurking, always getting in the way. And now, with her standing just feet away, the moment pressed in on him like a secret he couldn't voice.
"Carrie," he blurted, her name tumbling awkwardly from his lips.
She waved, smile dazzling in the afternoon light. "Hey, Jack. Hi, guys."
Mark, Eli, and Sarah exchanged glances, their surprise obvious. Carrie and her friends rarely crossed the invisible lines that separated friend groups, yet here they were—smiling, casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Hey, Jack," Amber, Layla, and Zoey chimed in, each offering him a warm, almost conspiratorial smile. It was clear his defense of them from Joe's bullying hadn't gone unnoticed; a new camaraderie hung in the air, subtle but sincere. The girls turned, greeting the others with equal friendliness, dissolving any lingering tension.
Amber's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "What were you guys talking about just now?"
Jack tried to play it cool, though his nerves buzzed beneath the surface. "Oh… we were just figuring out when to meet up for PSAT prep. You know, trying not to totally bomb the thing."
Carrie perked up. "We were actually planning to use the library after school—turn it into a study room. You all should join us." She flashed a grin at Jack, and he felt his heart lurch as if he'd been yanked forward by an invisible thread.
He found himself nodding before he could second-guess it. "Sure, why not?"
"Great. See you there," Carrie said, her voice bright as spring rain. The girls waved as they melted back across the field, the energy of their presence lingering like perfume on the wind. P.E. was winding down; students began to trickle toward the locker rooms, laughter and footsteps echoing across the grass.
Jack watched Carrie go, warmth settling in his chest. He almost didn't hear Sarah nudge his side.
"I think she actually likes you," she whispered, grinning.
Eli shook his head in mock disbelief. "Dude, how have you not asked her out yet?"
Jack started to respond, but the words stuck. He only shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. Even without reaching for his Zone Drive, his senses felt hyper-attuned—each sound crisp, each movement magnified. And beneath the noise, he caught it: his name, drifting across the field from the direction of the school's front gate.
"You guys go ahead," Jack said, his tone suddenly alert. "I'll catch up."
Mark eyed him, concern flickering across his face. "What's up?"
"Just… go inside. I'll be right behind you." Jack's voice left no room for argument.
He peeled away from the group, his sneakers crunching on the dry earth as he skirted the edge of the field and slipped onto the path leading toward the school's entrance. From a distance, he could see the cluster of figures at the gate—a flash of leather jackets, glinting metal, the sharp outlines of bikes lined up against the curb. At the center, Mr. Kobel, the Hall Monitor Director, stood stiff and nervous, trying to reason with a group who had no interest in reason.
Jack's eyes narrowed as he watched one of the bikers—tall, tattooed, with greasy dreads and silver rings—raise his hand and slap Mr. Kobel across the face. The crack echoed. The older man stumbled, landing hard on the concrete.
"We told you—bring us Jack Ryan," the biker growled, his voice carrying across the empty space.
Jack didn't hesitate. "It's someone looking for me," he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulders as he stepped into view.
The gang's attention snapped to him, hostility radiating in their stares. Jack stared back, unfazed—if anything, only annoyed at the interruption.
"You, Jack Ryan?" asked the biggest one, eyeing Jack up and down.
"Yeah," Jack replied, voice level. "What do you want?"
The biker who slapped Mr. Kobel spat on the ground, pulling a butterfly knife from his pocket. He flicked it open with a flourish, the blade catching the sun as he twirled it between his fingers in a display meant to intimidate.
"Shut up," he sneered, stepping closer, knife flashing as he moved.
Jack's eyes flickered to Mr. Kobel, who was still dazed on the ground. Calmly, Jack bent down and helped the hall monitor to his feet, dusting off his jacket. The move was a quiet defiance.
"Hey! I said, Don't ignore me!" the biker—Paul—snapped, lunging in a swift motion. The blade slashed toward Jack, a blur of silver. But Jack, reflexes sharpened beyond the ordinary, caught the knife mid-swing, pinching the blade delicately between two fingers.
Paul stared, dumbfounded, as if the world had just shifted sideways. Jack met his gaze, unblinking, the steel glinting between his fingers. The field, the school, the weight of a dozen gazes—all seemed to pause around that impossible moment.
Jack didn't hesitate. With a flick of his wrist, he bent the blade between his fingers, metal groaning as it warped. In the same smooth motion, he snapped the knife out of Paul's stunned grip, sending it spinning into the grass. Before the biker could even process what was happening, Jack delivered a stinging backhand across his face—a deliberate echo of the humiliation Paul had dealt to Mr. Kobel moments before. The slap landed with a wet, sickening crack, blood and a chipped tooth flying from Paul's mouth as he staggered sideways, dazed and half-collapsing.
Jack's posture was calm, almost casual, as he turned to face the rest of the gang—his presence radiating a cold authority that seemed utterly out of place for a high school junior. The bikers—leather-clad, their faces marked by bravado and a lifetime of bad decisions—hesitated, sensing that the world had quietly shifted beneath their feet.
"This is about the time you all turn around and leave," Jack said, voice low but unyielding, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk.
The biggest of the group—a hulking man with broad shoulders and a jaw like a cinderblock—stepped forward, fists clenching and unclenching. His presence seemed to draw the others together, emboldening them.
"You think highly of yourself, brat," the leader—Moses—growled, voice guttural, eyes burning with indignation.
Jack met his glare with a flat, unimpressed stare. "And I think you hooligans need to go back to school and learn something useful. Might improve your prospects."
Moses snorted and lunged. But Jack moved in a blur—his fist slamming into the gang leader's jaw with surgical precision. The impact was so sudden, so absolute, that Moses' feet left the ground before he crashed backwards onto the pavement, eyes rolling back as he crumpled, utterly unconscious.
The rest of the bikers barely had time to react. Jack moved through them with the efficiency of a force of nature—sidestepping wild punches, knocking one into another, dropping the loudest with a calculated strike to the ribs, twisting arms, and sending bodies tumbling in a silent choreography of domination. Every motion was clean, controlled; he held back just enough not to kill, but not enough to be mistaken for mercy.
One after another, the would-be toughs fell. Jack's Zone Drive pulsed at the edge of his perception, the world stretching and bending to his intent. With a thought, he swept the unconscious bodies up, dragging and depositing them outside the school grounds as if shuffling pieces on a chessboard, leaving them sprawled in a heap at the curb, battered, beaten, and outclassed.
As the dust settled, Jack straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of tension. He shot a glance at Mr. Kobel, who was still frozen in place, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth working wordlessly as he tried to process what he'd witnessed.
Jack offered him a reassuring nod. "You should get inside, sir. I'll handle the cleanup."
Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, Jack turned and walked back toward the school building, the afternoon light glinting off his hair. Behind him, the campus was silent but for the distant hum of traffic and the faint, lingering shock that hung in the air like static.
****
School was finally over. The exhausted tide of students ebbed away from the brick facade and sun-washed steps, but Jack and his friends made their way in the opposite direction, cutting through quiet halls toward the library's glass doors. The air inside was cool and faintly scented with old paper and lemon polish—a hush settling in, as if the building itself respected the world of ideas it guarded.
Near the back of the library, Carrie and her friends had already claimed a large table beneath a spill of golden window-light. Textbooks, highlighters, and stacks of color-coded notes were spread out in methodical rows—an ordered island of ambition in the sea of silence. Carrie was leaning over, speaking to Zoey in low, focused tones, her brow furrowed in concentration. When she noticed Jack's group entering, her expression transformed—softening, brightening with a smile that seemed to light up the whole room.
Jack felt that smile hit him like a pulse, warm and electric. He slid into the seat across from her, trying (and failing) not to look too eager.
"I'm glad you all could make it," Carrie said, her voice warm and genuine. Her eyes flicked between them, and Jack could see a faint blush on her cheeks as she shuffled her meticulously organized pile of books. The table was already laid out for efficient studying—Carrie's touch apparent in the neat columns of math worksheets, the sticky notes fluttering at the corners of literature anthologies, the detailed PSAT prep guides marked with tabs.
Nobody was surprised by her diligence. Carrie was, after all, a force in every part of the school: president of the Drama Club, head of the Library Book Club, and quietly considered the top student of their year. There was a gravity to her—a way she brought others into her orbit, whether they wanted it or not. Even the librarian had happily bent a few rules, letting Carrie reserve the back table for their group as a private study sanctuary.
Jack took in the scene, the easy laughter of Layla and Zoey, Amber's cheerful wave, and Carrie's effortless command of the space. He found himself sitting up straighter, not wanting to disappoint.
Mark, always competitive, nudged a chair closer to Carrie's right, while Eli and Sarah dropped their bags and exchanged amused looks. Despite the playful rivalry—Mark solidly in second place academically, Sarah and Eli battling for third—the group dynamic was never tense. There was a sense of shared mission, a camaraderie forged in the trenches of essays, quizzes, and dreams of something better.
Jack, for his part, wasn't as naturally gifted as the others, but he was relentless. He'd clawed his way into the top ten through sheer will, every night spent at the kitchen table doubling as a promise to his mother and himself. Medicine, for him, wasn't just a career—it was hope, a lifeline for the woman who had sacrificed everything for him. Still, when he glanced across the table at Carrie, he knew there was another wish just as important, a longing for something more than late-night textbooks and secondhand uniforms. He wanted her to see him, not just as a classmate, but as someone worth loving.
"Wow, Carrie! I don't know how you do it," Sarah said, flipping through the neatly typed notes with a kind of reverent disbelief.
"I know, right?" Layla echoed, leaning in.
"Carrie's awesome," Zoey added, grinning. There was an unspoken agreement around the table: with Carrie guiding them, they just might stand a chance against the PSAT beast.
Carrie smiled at the praise, but Jack saw the hint of self-consciousness beneath her composure—a subtle tuck of hair behind her ear, a sidelong glance his way. For a moment, the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant thrum of library carts faded, replaced by a silent current of possibility, hope, and a fragile, blossoming connection that made the future—tests and all—seem a little less daunting.
"What do you think, Jack?" Amber asked, a sly smirk playing at her lips as she leaned back in her chair. Instantly, the energy at the table shifted—all conversation stilled, and every gaze fixed expectantly on him.
Jack felt the weight of their attention press down on him, that old anxiety flaring in his chest. Once, he would have stumbled over his words, cheeks burning, voice barely above a whisper. But ever since his awakening, a subtle clarity pulsed through his mind—a steadiness that anchored him, even as nerves simmered just beneath the surface. Though still self-conscious, he found himself able to draw a slow breath and meet their eyes, voice calm and even.
"I think Carrie is wonderful," Jack said, almost offhandedly, flipping through the pages of her color-coded study notes. "And kind of amazing, honestly."
For a split second, the group blinked in surprise, as if unsure whether he was joking or had meant every word. Carrie's cheeks flared with sudden color, the faintest pink blooming across her skin. She cleared her throat, eyes darting down as she tucked a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear—her composure briefly scattered by the compliment.
"Okay, um… thanks," she murmured, recovering quickly. "But, uh, we should probably get back to studying. PSAT, remember?"
Mark let out a low whistle, breaking the silence. "Sure, but it still blows my mind how you keep all this together and manage to be top of the class," he said, gesturing to the carefully arranged fortress of books and notes Carrie had prepared.
Amber, never one to let an opportunity slip by, arched an eyebrow. "Seriously. You barely even have time for dating," she teased, shooting Jack a mischievous glance from beneath her dark lashes. Jack could practically feel the implication radiating off her—the black-haired "demon" girl, always eager to stir the pot.
Sarah, emboldened, chimed in, "Is there even anyone you like at this school, Carrie?"
Jack's body tensed involuntarily, a tiny shiver of anticipation running down his spine. He managed to keep his posture loose, though his fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of his notebook. He was about to glare at Sarah for her bluntness when Carrie, after a heartbeat's hesitation, spoke up—her voice softer, almost shy.
"Yeah," Carrie said, barely louder than a whisper. Her gaze found Jack's across the table, eyes wide and vulnerable.
Time seemed to contract, the busy hush of the library vanishing into a strange, private silence. In that instant, there was only her and him—Carrie's eyes holding his, the rest of the world falling away as his heart hammered in his chest.
A slow, knowing smile passed around the table as the others discreetly returned their attention to the piles of study notes before them, letting the moment linger—unspoken but not unnoticed. Sunlight spilled through the windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden haze, and for Jack, it felt as if something had shifted, the air crackling with new possibility.