Subject 15

CHAPTER 12 - Seth

When I reached the designated meeting spot in front of a concrete classroom, I was met by a veteran of a teacher. Her Mask showed a face that time had not been kind to. Standing near her was a small mix of freshman and sophomores. They stared at me in awe, but I pretended not to notice – long ago I had gotten good enough at acting like I don't mind the stares. The veteran teacher, Mrs. Mullins, looked at me and asked, "You are?"

"Seth Skylar," I replied after a moment's hesitation, and the teacher confirmed that I was in her class by looking down at the piece of glass she held in her hand. It was like one of those old iPads that were made during the 21st century (thank you, History Before the Fracture for Dummies), except it was a see-through version; same proportions, but it was as thin as glass, and it could be synchronized to take information from other sources and place it on the device. You could pantomime grabbing the information off of another device, hold your hand above the glass, unclench your hand, and the information would appear on the screen. The machines communicated with the computer chip implanted in one's brain, using it as a middleman for directions. A teacher's best friend, since it made everything easier.

After Mrs. Mullins made sure everyone was present, she led the small group of about 11 people into her classroom, a small concrete block like most classrooms inside the building, housing a few cheesy inspirational posters, a computer, and an electronic whiteboard. The whiteboard was like a bigger version of the device that the teacher held in her hand, and the computer was an old touch-screen computer, made in 2086. It was ancient compared to the other pieces of technology in the room, but it got the job done. The school's budget was fair, but it wasn't the biggest.

When everyone was situated, the teacher progressed with the introductions and the class syllabus and lesson plans for the year. The class was set up like a study hall, a place where people could finish homework, work on projects, study or read, or catch up on current events if they had nothing else to do, and I was glad. I could just think in that class and nobody would bother me.

I was doing just that when the shrill bell startled me, and I knocked my beaten backpack over, it's zipper undoing, spilling its contents. I quickly got out of my chair and started putting all of my things back in its place, when a second pair of hands started helping me. I looked up to behold Robert Smith, a skinny freshman who's Mask looked like a paintball mask splattered with paint; on his forehead was a paintbrush, its tip dipped in many colors.

When we finished placing all of my belongings, which were few, in the backpack, I stood up and looked down at Robert, standing a head taller and three times bigger than he was. "Thank you," said I, my voice unintentionally sounding rough and imposing.

"No problem," replied Robert, a smile dancing across his face. "You're new to the school aren't you?"

I narrowed my eyes slightly, not wanting to give any trails to my past, and I simply replied, "So are you." He laughed, saying, "True, but I also mean new to this area."

I gave a small shrug but I replied with more than a small amount of caution in my voice, "Maybe," as I headed out the door to my new class. My Mask didn't change as I walked through the halls, everyone giving me a wide girth, but some brave souls dared to either nod their head at me or give me a smile. As my feet all but silently hit the white tiled floor, my eyes wandered the school, studying and memorizing everything I saw; I memorized how almost every classroom looked like a concrete prison with wide glass windows in replace for bars, and how the lockers on either side of the hall looked like soldiers at attention, their sharp features and loud crashing doors reminding me of the heat of battle.