Immediately she was no longer in eyesight, the boy's expression turned completely sour. His posture instantly slacked, and he let out an exhausted sigh, turned to Keiran and asked,
"So the bitch is yours?"
The boy was wearing a dark blue blazer, a white shirt, and blue slacks with gators so sharp they could cut you, with a blue and white striped tie that was so far up his neck you'd think he had difficulty breathing.
But with a personality completely different from his appearance, he turned around and slowly started walking back to his seat, tugging and tugging down on his tie as if giving up on it.
He dragged his feet, yet his polished shoes almost reflected the fluorescent light. His eyes were barely visible, the bags under his eyes like they weighed a ton, as he slowly turned to Keiran.
"So you mute or slow?"
Keiran raised a brow as his curiosity grew.
"Sorry, just didn't know you guys here were so chill."
They finally made it back to his seat. He turned back to his food and let a slow chuckle escape his lips.
"We're not chill. We have to act stuck-up in front of the assholes—at least if you want to keep your head."
The boy was just trailing his fork in the plate, practically playing with his food. He then slightly lifted up his fork.
"You see this?"
Keiran, confused, "Yeah?"
"Plastic." He tilted his head toward the direction of the guards in the corners, with heavy armor and guns.
"Not exactly kid-friendly now, are they? And no, they're not here to protect us. They're here for one reason and one alone—if we ever act out, they put an obsidian bullet through our skulls in an instant. No hesitation. No remorse."
He sneered as he clenched his teeth and scraped his fork against the plate.
Keiran, unfazed, kept his eyes steady on the boy, then raised up two fingers.
"Two questions. You ever gonna tell me your name? And what other security measures are there?"
He dropped the fork, laid back into his seat, sinking into it.
"One, Marcus's the name. And two—it never ends."
With his hands folded together, he raised his eyes up at the radiating fluorescent lights above them.
"First the lights have something called Zero Mode, where they go obsidian. And trust me, it's like someone pours acid against your skin."
He slightly twitched his neck, as if a muscle memory just kicked in.
"Then there's the plastic forks and spoons. No knives of any kind. So many cameras you'd think we're filming a Netflix documentary. Then there's the obsidian-laced detonation bomb in our hearts."
"What?!"
Keiran's eyes went wide—he couldn't control himself anymore.
Keiran said nothing more, but in the pit of his stomach, a thought dug its claws in.
Fuck this guy--fuck all this. I'm getting out of here. I don't care how.
"Shut up," Marcus sneered at him.
"If the glorified bodyguards at every corner even get a whiff of demon control, they'll light you up first and ask questions later. And I plan to serve my sentence completely," Marcus hissed.
A creeping smile appeared on Marcus.
"But I still can't pick my favorite—either the weekly Divinity check or the fact that they still execute us at nineteen."
Keiran's heart raced as more and more beads of sweat condensed on his forehead.
BRRRRRGGG
A bell rang through the walls.
Marcus got up and brought his tie back to his neck, tugging on his blazer and tucking in his shirt.
"Come on, we've got Bio. But first, I've got to get you a uniform."
Keiran shot up, eyes wide and refusing to shrink. Marcus glanced at him for a minute.
"I wouldn't advise that. Even acting weird here, as a demonic, is enough reason for a cafeteria lady to say she was scared and stab you in the neck. I know personally."
"How long have you been here?" Keiran brought his head down and asked.
Marcus, unbothered, put his hands in his pockets.
"Uhmm… since I was eleven. And now I'm seventeen. Shit, I've been here for six years."
"And you've never tried to escape?" Keiran asked.
"I suggest you keep your voice down. Seems you're very determined to have me killed today.
No, I haven't tried to escape—because I know people who have, and they died very slowly and very painfully.
But I have tried to kill myself, though. I tried hanging myself, but I just hung there for hours. Tried drowning, and I just kept coming back. Nothing to slit my wrists with, so I gave up on that.
And then I tried starvation and sleep deprivation. Did that for two years, I think, before I realized... the demon won't let you die.
And obsidian hurts like hell and that's too much of a hassle, so I guess obedience was the only way."
Marcus said he'd stopped trying, but he was clearly still starving and sleep-deprived, his physique was basically skin on bones and the bags under his eyes weighed heavy.
Keiran finally realized—this isn't a school. It's a fucking prison.
They finally stopped at a door that said "UNIFORMS", and of course, two guards stood beside the door.
Marcus turned on the cheerful persona, a beaming smile, straight spine and actually lifted his feet.
"Hi! Just looking to get my new friend here a uniform," he said, wrapping his arm over Keiran.
The guards glared at them for minute before they stepped to the side as they opened the door.
*****
Keiran stepped out with a well-fitted uniform, holding the tie in his hands, a painful look of disgust riddled across his face.
Turning to Marcus, "Is this really what my life is now?"
Marcus smiled, turned to him, and used his fingers to draw an imaginary smile on his face, eyes dead-fixed on Keiran.
Then, without turning his head, he shifted his eyes toward the guard beside them, looked back at Keiran, and slid the same finger across his throat.
Just a playful way of saying: watch your mouth or you'll be used for target practice.
As they stepped out of the room, Keiran didn't turn to Marcus anymore, slowly getting accustomed.
"Are they only demonics here?"
"No. We have everything—demonics, angels, even some humans who just really want to kill us--I mean demons."
"I don't get it. What's the point of keeping us alive at all? Why not just kill us from when they found us?" Keiran asked.
"Simple. Because if they killed us when we were little kids, the IDC wouldn't be the poster organization they keep painting themselves to be, the government can't exactly be killing little kids.
I mean, look at gods—they were humanity's survivors up until they killed a little girl on national TV," Marcus laughed slightly, "while she begged, nonetheless."
"So now we're not on TV, and no one's watching—why not kill us now?"
"Simple. Gods are ruthless—they kill everyone and everything that seems slightly demonic, and the people hate them because they don't care what the people think about them.
Angels can do the work, but no one wants to risk their life for free.
While demonics—at least if we survive possession—we're more or less prisoners on death row.
Their pets. Slaves. Or, my personal favorite, free labour...
We complain—they kill us.
We argue—they kill us.
We make a mistake—they kill us.
We show defiance of any kind—they kill us.
We get too strong—they kill us.
And when they get bored of us—they kill us."
"There's got to be—" Keiran said.
"Stop already!"
Marcus snapped.
"I know it's hard, but you have to open your eyes and fucking accept it—you're not the hero here.
Not the lead in some story.
You're just a goddamn slave."
Keiran didn't respond, but something in him twisted. Not in fear. In pure bubbling rage.
I don't care what Marcus says. I'm not staying here to rot.