Villainous

Chapter 3 | Hellas

My blood is bouncing around inside my hair-trigger body when I get off the train. I open my mouth wide and exhale into my open palms, warming them. It's not cold; it's habit. I've always done it; at night, in bed with threadbare blankets, on the streets, walking through the snow to school with no mittens to speak of, in Sunshine Child, doing homework in a sweatshirt in below zero weather. Suffice to say, I no longer feel the cold as acutely as is normal.

I think of the girl on the bus. Caspian Storm. Her pink denim jacket and polka dot button-down shirt. Her brittle hardness and her blinding innocence that are likely born of the same disease. I've lived with so many broken families I recognize someone stuck in one when I see them.

I am in control. I force her out of my brain and step forward. IAD is magnificent. A palace. It has domes, probably full of dorm rooms, towers, and centuries old buildings. Towers! I've become the proverbial kid in the candy shop. My feet quake in my old ripped thrift store sneakers as I walk forward.

Admissions, admissions, admissions. I scan the austere headings above each old brick building. Defense training, Destiny control, housing, math and science, the arts, admissions. Admissions. I try to look professional and serious and confident and everything else I'm not when I pull open that door and walk into the building. I stick out on the IAD campus like a biker in the opera.

Looking professional is extraordinarily difficult if you're a scrawny teenager with a bad dye job and old sneakers. I don't make it work. Not even Caspian Storm from the train could make me look well put together in this moment.

I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet when the secretary arches a single drawn on eyebrow in my direction. I lean forward, but refrain from resting my elbows on the reception desk. "Hello. Could you please guide me towards the admissions department?" I use my honeyed, smooth voice instead of the coarse, vulgar one that better suits me.

"Forgive me for my bluntness, Miss, but you don't seem at all like the usual type of student for us here at the International Academy of the Destined." She stands, and not only is she a solid six feet tall, but she's wearing a pantsuit. Her perfectly put-together bun of dark hair and expensive looking glasses make me want to sprint in the other direction.

I rush to defend myself even though it didn't make me feel any smaller. "I'm probably nothing like the average student here. But I did get an invitation. My name's Hellas Fury... I don't know if you sent the invite or if someone else did or something or..." She holds up one manicured hand. I cut off my rambling. Inhale, exhale, composure. Tense, relax, control.

"You're Hellas Fury?" I notice the faint British accent she has, and I can tell by her rosy blush that she does, too. I nod and she exhales relief. I suddenly want to strangle her perfection a little less. "Sorry for that, girl." Girl? I'll run with it. She looks tired and bedraggled for a brief moment, digging for what must be my file in a filing cabinet of several thousand.

Secretary woman retrieves a manila folder with my name clearly highlighted on the front. Hellas Fury, written in a neat print, likely the handwriting of secretary woman. She sets it on her desk, flipping it open like she's done this a thousand times already today. She probably has.

One long, manicured nail points at my profile picture. It's a poorly taken photograph, one done by my former school during the assembling of my mandatory ID badge. My bleach-tinted hair is pulled back into a tight french braid. It shows the faint outline of a shirt collar. My lips are lightly glossed, my silvery eyes look more innocent than I've ever seen them. Maybe it's just that the picture is horribly out of focus. I never know how to stop fidgeting when someone's taking my picture. I look up at secretary woman, a half smirk sliding onto my face. "I was twelve. Give me a break."