WARNING: This story contains offensive language from the outset.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The story is rated as 'Mature'. This is mainly for graphic descriptions of violence (nothing too gory, though), and offensive language throughout. This story takes place in 1950s America, so do bear that in mind when certain characters say certain things - e.g. racial slurs. My intention in using them is simply for character development and world-building.

The lovely cover art is by Spaniscch, whose art you can find on Instagram (/spaniscch).

Lastly, all character names are the ones Hidekaz Himaruya has either officially assigned or suggested for each character. Macau, however, has yet to be assigned one. I've decided to use 'Jin' as his human name (again).

Anyways - read on! And I hope you enjoy this story :)

Yao's head knocked back onto the wall with a sickening thwack. Pain exploded and hit him like a wave, crashing into him as a fist punched his jaw. Yao bit his tongue, the familiar taste of blood in his mouth. He forced himself not to cry out from the pain, not to give into the sneers, to the poisonous words they spat.

(Welcome to Oldbrook, chink.)

Yao slid down onto the ground, dizzy with nausea as the punches and kicks kept on coming, the pain throughout his body throbbing and pulsing. A pointed shoe jammed into his ribs, and this time Yao could not hold back his own strangled voice. He cried out and felt tears prick his eyes. Only laughter rang back at him.

Yao already hated this town. His first day here at Oldbrook Academy, and already he hated it. Hated his own trembling body, too, which betrayed him as he crumbled to the floor of the bathroom corner. Fighting back was tiring. Fighting back only prolonged the pain. Yao knew that, he knew it so well – yet his hands still clawed at them, legs kicking back against incoming hits. It was the one thing he could do.

When his limbs ached too much to move, he fell limp, drifting in and out of consciousness until the gang grew bored of him. Unimpressed by the blood on their knuckles and the trembling state of Yao's shoulders, they left with footsteps trudging heavily and words echoing with careless menace. But Yao couldn't hear them, could only hear his own panting breaths, the gentle drips of the water faucet as pain stretched out the moment. It stung, bruised and ached everywhere.

Yao grabbed the cold sink and pulled himself up, looking into the mirror and only feeling annoyance at the sight. His white shirt had been soiled by spots of blood and dirty shoe marks, his hair dishevelled and cheek growing red and swollen. A broken mess.

Yao washed the blood off his hands and face, pressing a cold wet paper towel to his swollen cheek to ease the pain. The early morning light streamed in through the tiny bathroom window, a mocking reminder that Yao had somehow managed to run into trouble before the lunch bell could even ring.

'Aiyah…' Yao flinched when his swollen cheek stung against the wet paper towel. He would have to go through the rest of the day like this – bruised and battered like a boxer who had no chance of winning to begin with. He would have to walk into his algebra class, a class full of strangers, looking like a bloodied mess. He would have to, and once Yao decided upon this, it didn't matter how he felt. Things like this happened. It had not been this bad in Vienna, no… But America was a different place entirely. Oldbrook was a different place entirely, it seemed.

The bell rang. Yao threw aside the wet paper towel and gathered up his books. He hurried out into the school hallway.

Empty. He was late – as if his first impression wouldn't be bad enough already. He quickly paced down the hallway, realising with a tightening of his stomach that he didn't even know where the classroom was. He glanced at the classroom door names, hoping they would guide him.

Room A9, where is it? A9, A9, A9… But the numbers on the doors seemed to skip over it, an A8 and then straight to A10. Yao turned the corner, frantic as the seconds passed. Where is it?!

'You okay there, man?'

Yao turned around. A blonde student was standing there, gazing curiously. Like some kind of pathetic reflex, Yao's stomach clenched, as if expecting a punch to the gut from this guy. But the guy was only standing there, brows knitted in confusion – perhaps even pity – when only a feeble croak escaped Yao's mouth.

'A9…'

Blue eyes lit up behind glasses. 'Oh! Yeah, that's… It's right through here, man.' He began to walk down the hallway, past these double doors Yao had missed. 'Name's Alfred. What's yours?'

'Yao.' He cleared his throat, following behind. 'Are you in my class?'

'Uh… I don't think so. I'm in the eleventh grade.'

'Same here.'

'Really?' Alfred halted in his steps, turning around to give Yao an incredulous look. 'You're kidding me!'

Yao frowned. 'What is that supposed to mean?'

'Ah, no I didn't mean it like that!' Alfred said. 'I mean… like, you don't look like… an eleventh… grader…' His voice grew hesitant, shoulders tensing up as if he was walking on thin ice. 'Sorry?'

'Just take me to my class,' Yao said. He felt increasingly conscious of the bruise on his face, certain the guy knew exactly why it was there but was choosing not to say anything about it.

'S-Sure thing.' Alfred turned back around, walking a little more briskly this time. When they had reached a door with 'A9' printed on it, Yao felt relief sweep over him.

'Thank you.'

'No problem, man.' Alfred waved and walked away. It was only then that a tiny spark of curiosity hit Yao, realising he hadn't asked what Alfred was doing in an empty hallway during class time. But the feeling was fleeting, and perhaps too quickly it was replaced with a twisting dread in his stomach. He opened the door, a large class of students turning their heads towards him. The teacher barely paused, continuing on with her lecture and merely giving Yao a glare.

'S-Sorry,' Yao croaked out, heading straight for the back of the class towards an empty desk. He sat comfortably in the worn, wobbly seat, not caring for the obscenities scratched into its wood or of the curious glances of his classmates. He was here, he made it. And no one had shone a spotlight on him, at least not for long. He fell into the lesson like it were a blanket of safety, gladly feeling lost among the other student's bored faces.

'Complete the problems on the board. You have ten minutes,' the teacher said. She left the room, and as soon as the door slammed shut behind her the class seemed to sigh in relief as a whole. Loud chatter filled the room, but Yao found himself burying himself into his work instead.

A finger prodded his arm, stinging one of Yao's bruises. 'Hey.'

Yao bit back a complaint. He pursed his lips and looked up at who could, potentially, be his ally in this school.

'Where are you from?' A student with curious, ink-black eyes gazed at him. His hair was gathered into a low ponytail.

'How about asking for my name first?' Yao said, unable to hold back the snap in his voice. He tried courtesy and kindness this morning, he tried 'nice' the first hour here at Oldbrook Academy. All it got him was a swollen cheek and a bruised rib.

'Alright, alright.' The student smiled. 'My name is Yong Soo. I'm from Korea – uh, South Korea, just so you know. What's your name?' The smile, Yao noted, was cheeky and reeked of trouble. No, not an ally. A bothersome, he was sure.

'My name is Yao,' he said. Yong Soo nodded, not saying anything as if expecting more. Yao felt a prick of annoyance and continued on. 'I was born in China, but I've moved around a lot.'

Yong Soo's eyes glistened with excitement. 'That sounds cool! You know, a lot of the kids here don't even know the difference between like… us, you know. They think we're all from the same village or something!' Yong Soo laughed. Yao only offered back a polite smile.

'But, uh…' Yong Soo's smile dissolved from his lips. 'Listen. If they call you a 'Jap', or 'chink' or whatever other names they come up with for you, don't like… don't fight it, okay?'

Yao frowned, wincing when the noise level of the room was almost shrieking in his ear. A paper airplane zipped across the room. 'What do you mean, don't fight it? We're supposed to just-'

'Look, I know where you're coming from,' Yong Soo said, leaning closer. 'Trust me on that. But if you want to make it by the end of the school year in one piece, just keep your mouth shut and move on. You got that? I'm only gonna tell you once, okay, because you're not the first and I'm kinda sick of telling the new kids this.'

'It shouldn't be happening here. This isn't a slum, or downtown, it's a school. A private one! An international one, too!' Yao lowered his voice, wary of being heard even among this chaos. 'We're supposed to be welcome here.'

A smile tugged at Yong Soo's lips, one of tired amusement. 'What, you thought because this was a private school, people were gonna treat us any differently?' His eyes trailed over Yao's swollen cheek. 'I think you've learned that lesson already, Yao.'

The door burst open, the classroom falling silent as the teacher walked back into the room. Her barking voice dominated the room once again, but it wasn't her words Yao was hearing. No, it was those first words of welcome, ringing in Yao's ears like the start of a boxing match.

(Welcome to Oldbrook, chink.)

Yao pressed his pencil into his notebook, letting the lead snap and crumble beneath the pressure. He could already feel the bruises that would scatter his body throughout the months, the punches he would get, regardless of whether he minded his own business or not. In scratchy handwriting, he scrawled three words at the top of his page.

Welcome to Hell.

This was going to be one bloodbath of a year.

.

Ivan drew the knife around, scraping it against a hard surface as he stirred the lumpy mess. It reeked, unpleasant to smell, unpleasant to even look at. But he was too afraid to look up. He would rather take in the sight of this mess, than look up at the faces that were surely glaring at him. Ivan swallowed hard.

'Hey.'

Ivan snapped his head up, only to realise the call was not for him. A student walked past him, striding up to a nearby table to confront two other students. His voice had a crisp, British accent.

'I thought we were having a meeting.'

One of the seated students, bespeckled and larger built, burst into a chuckle. 'It's the first day, Arthur. You thought people were gonna turn up?'

'I put notices all over the school. There's a lot of preparation to be done for the tournament.'

'You need to relax,' a smoother voice cooed, coming from the mouth of a long-haired male whose top shirt buttons were left hanging open. 'Let us enjoy our youth, non?'

'Shut up, frog! I'm not forgetting the stunt you pulled on me this morning!'

'You looked like you needed something to wake you up, so naturally-'

'I don't think trying to grope me in the middle of the morning announcements is the natural response by any means, Francis! So if you don't mind-'

The two seated students caught Ivan's gaze. A smile tugged onto Ivan's lips, the first thing he always did when caught staring. It was the friendly thing to do, wasn't it? And it wouldn't be so scary anymore, he was sure, if Ivan only took the first step forward towards making some friends –

The students turned their gaze away from Ivan, discomfort on their faces. Their voices lowered to whispers, and Ivan's resolve crumbled. Embarrassment settled in as a burning flush across his face, and he could only glance back down at his food, the disgusting lump they called 'lunch'.

It's always hard at first, Ivan reassured himself. Always hard to make friends, but it can be done… It can be done.

Ivan pretended to eat, shifting the food around and mixing it into a smoother mess. The whispers behind him continued. Ivan had tried, but sometimes trying didn't change a thing.

Giving up on the tray of food, Ivan adjusted his scarf, tightening it around his throat. It gave him some comfort. A preoccupation, when Ivan did not know what to do with himself, with these fumbled and calloused hands, with a gaze that was never welcome. But the scarf could only do so much. Ivan looked up at the cafeteria clock. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the beginning of lunch.

Ivan withheld a sigh. The day was passing by too slow. Would all the others be like this, he wondered. The first day alone had been too much for his nerves to bear, how was he going to handle an entire year of this? Two years, even, if Ivan did well enough to continue at Oldbrook Academy. Ivan looked back down from the clock, catching the eyes of someone staring at him from across the room.

Startled, Ivan blinked. Ink-black eyes were gazing at him, dark and piercing. But there was a brightness about them as well, shining like the curious glance of a cat. It wasn't unease, it wasn't discomfort or disgust. It was something other, and it drew Ivan's breath almost to a stand-still.

But the moment flickered, the eyes slipping away from Ivan's before he could even think to respond. A chattering student leaned to the side in his seat, obstructing Ivan's view of the dark-eyed student.

They all seem to belong, Ivan thought with a sinking feeling. Even the cat-like eyes that had glanced at him. They were among other pairs of dark, ink-black eyes. On one table, a group of girls in matching cardigans and poodle skirts, their hair curled into swirls and perked up ponytails. On another table, a rowdy crowd of boys in leather jackets. And next to Ivan's empty table, the three blonde boys, whose voices had returned to loud banter and argument. Everyone had a place, it seemed. Ivan just didn't seem to fit into any of it.

Lunch passed by painstakingly slowly, Ivan's lunch a soup by the time the bell rang. Relieved to leave the cafeteria at last, Ivan made his way to his next class, only to play the tiresome waiting game once again. When the lesson had ended and the bell had rung again to signal the start of fourth period, Ivan's stomach fluttered in anticipation. Only History left to endure, and the day would be over.

Ivan walked into a bustling classroom, heading straight-away for a desk at the back. He sat at the desk and opened up his notebook, only to catch sight of a boy sat near the front, a dark pony-tail draped over the shoulder.

'Alright, class. Behave and we can all go home on time,' the teacher said as he walked in, slapping a binder onto the teacher's desk. 'Open up your books and take notes. Let's not waste time sharing names and holding hands, shall we?'

The teacher began to scratch words onto the chalkboard, students bowing their heads down to copy them down. But Ivan didn't. His eyes were stuck onto the boy at the front, the one he was sure was staring at him during lunch. Wasn't he?

The boy lifted his head to glance up at the chalkboard, head turning slightly to follow the movements of the teacher, who was now pacing around the room as he talked. It was then, that Ivan could see the familiar ink-black eyes. It was then, that Ivan could also see the red swell on the boy's cheek.

(Stop… please…)

Ivan diverted his gaze to the empty page on his desk, feeling as though he had peeked in on something he shouldn't have seen. As if he had pried open memories that weren't his, though they felt familiar to his own.

(I'm sorry.)

Wasn't that what Ivan had whimpered as a child, when the other children chased him and hit him with sticks, or threw stones at him? Only he didn't know why he was apologizing, or what good it would do him. Perhaps sorry he couldn't be someone else, sorry his name sent mouths twisting in distaste. America wasn't a good place for strange names. Ivan had learnt that early on in this country.

Stealing a glance back up at the boy, Ivan wondered what strange, foreign name had earned him a swollen cheek. He wondered how it was that those dark eyes remained focused, gently blinking as if having forgotten the moment of pain, of being beaten. He wondered why the boy had chosen to sit at the very front in spite of the bruise, in spite of the judging glances he might get.

The hour passed by much too fast this time. The final bell rang, and though Ivan had been looking forward to it the entire day, he did not want to leave his seat just yet. Students eagerly picked up their books, desks screeching across the floor as they pushed their way out.

'Hold on, class – I said, hold on!'

Few students bothered to remain. Among them was Ivan, who really was more interested in the boy at the front than what the teacher had to say.

The teacher sighed, a piece of paper in his hands. 'Well, anyway. For those who stuck around to listen – there is a debate club meeting next Monday. For those of you interested, the meeting is in the music room during lunchtime. First-timers are welcome.'

The boy's eyes brightened, a glimmer of cat-like curiosity in them once again. Ivan felt a strange sense of accomplishment in catching sight of it, as if having witnessed a rare moment that was hidden to everyone else. As if the subtle spark in those dark eyes was something only Ivan could see – invisible, unapproachable Ivan.

'Alright. Class dismissed,' the teacher said, sarcasm coated thickly.

Almost too soon, too quickly, the boy left the classroom. Ivan was left fumbling with his books, hugging them to his chest and hurrying out. But as soon as he left the classroom, he was almost hit by the wall of students, a crowd swarming like bees. The boy was gone, his eyes out of sight. Ivan's chest sank as he pushed through the crowd.

(For those of you interested…)

A tiny spark of hope sprouted from Ivan's heart, jittering within his chest like it might burst out from the mere idea. The music room at lunch. He might just be able to approach those eyes if he were to go. The thought felt risky somehow – the boy might just turn away from him in discomfort like most people did. But then… maybe not. Maybe that same curious glance would greet him, that same expression of innocent interest. The possibility was too tempting to ignore.

He stepped out into the hazy heat of September, the afternoon sunlight glaring down on him. Too warm for a scarf, but Ivan didn't care. Even as he walked away from the school, even as he walked alone into dirtier and rockier roads, into shabbier parts of town – Ivan could not forget the sight of those dark eyes.

.

The afternoon heat beat down on the bus, boiling up a sweat inside its stuffy interior. Arthur sat on a sun-scorched seat, and for once found himself longing for rain. He was so sick of the sun here, glaring and all encompassing, piercing through the leaves of the aspen trees.

The last two years in Oldbrook had been hellish for Arthur, more so in a mountain of small nuisances than anything major. For instance, the sun. Yes, the sun was one of many pests in Arthur's life. He had loved it at first, lapped up the precious warmth he could only fleetingly enjoy back in England. But within the first sweat-drenched week, he had grown utterly sick of it.

Perhaps the same could be said of Alfred. Oh, yes… Alfred and his bright smile and big ideas. Charming in small doses. Bloody annoying when it was anything more than that.

Arthur sighed as he leaned his head against the hot glass of the window, spotting one of the new kids hopping onto the bus. His face had been marred by a red swell, and Arthur was not surprised. Foreigners, though formally accepted by the school, were not welcome here. Arthur himself, had received a punch or two the first few days he had been here, for nothing more than 'speaking funny'.

But those were his early days at Oldbrook, and though he stuck to his way of speaking, he had eventually earned the respect of his peers. Or rather, he had gleaned off the respect his peers gave Alfred. Though he would never admit it out loud, it was his reluctant friendship with Alfred that kept him safe from bruises. The boy had stuck onto him like chewing gum, for whatever reason. But Arthur wasn't stupid enough to pry him away. Alfred kept him safe. With Alfred by his side, Arthur was untouchable. Because no one picked a fight with Alfred, no one dared to mess with the son of a lawyer who could put you in jail for treason sooner than you could holler 'mistrial'.

Alfred liked to think it was because he was likeable, that he was strong. Both true, Arthur agreed with that. But what they didn't speak of between themselves was the effortless way in which Alfred had cruised by the school years without much effort, without consequences for playing truant and failing several exams.

So perhaps in a selfish way, Arthur stuck close to him for that. It wasn't unusual – everyone here was clawing for survival. Rich or not, predators walked among everyone.

The bus rocked slightly, the engine kicking up a strangled noise as the bus driver turned on the ignition. But the doors were still open - musty, humid air seeping in.

'Will ya hurry up! I'll close the doors if ya don't get in!' The old bus driver screeched. 'Come on, Frenchie! You too!'

Francis hopped onto the bus, a smooth smile on his lips. Who exactly he was trying to charm, Arthur didn't know. What he did know, however, was that as soon as pale blue eyes met his, the smile had grown past its pleasant charm and straight to lewd. Arthur groaned.

Please no please no dear God don't let him sit next to me please don't –

Alfred got onto the bus, the doors shutting behind him. He looked over Francis's shoulder and towards Arthur. Alfred's eyes glimmered, mouth opening as if words were just about to spill out. Alfred had something to say today – when didn't he? – and Arthur was going to be his audience. Arthur pushed out a slow exhale. He didn't want either today. He didn't want to be groped, but he didn't want a headache either. He wanted to be alone, for once. To sit in peace, for once.

Pick your poison, Arthur. It's going to be one or the other.

When Francis approached him, Arthur made his decision. He dumped his books onto the seat next to him. 'Sorry, frog-eater. Seat's taken.'

Francis cooed in disappointment, grabbing hold of the back of Arthur's seat when the bus began to move. 'Is my handsome presence too much for you to bear?'

Arthur could feel the judgemental glares of the other students. Francis seemed oblivious to it, unaware he was giving the predators a free pass at beating the hell out of the two of them. Arthur could only think to snap back as vehemently as he could to save his own skin, when Alfred butted into the conversation.

'Move it, Fran. Seat's mine.' Alfred jostled past Francis and shoved the books aside to sit. His smile was bright as ever, a sign that he had a fantastic story to tell – meaning, the kind of story that was most definitely going to give Arthur a headache. Francis chuckled in amusement, perhaps pleased with the dread on Arthur's face, and moved to take a seat behind them.

'Arthur, man. You are not going to believe it.'

Arthur sighed, looking outside the window and watching the dust being kicked up as the bus drove out of the school yard. 'Try me.'

'Alright, but you gotta listen for real this time, okay?'

'I always listen, Alfred.'

'I know, but like… with an open mind, ya know?' A shoulder bumped into Arthur's. 'And open eyes, too.'

Arthur drew in a tired breath, turning his head to look at Alfred. 'I will do my best.'

Alfred's smile widened. 'Okay, so… You know how I've been telling you about these flying saucers-'

'Oh, don't you start again with the bleeding aliens again, Alfred!'

'You said you were going to listen!' Alfred whined, puppy-like distress on his face. But Arthur had grown a second layer of skin for that, had long ago learned not to give in to it.

'I said I was going to do my best.'

'Are you still angry about the debate meeting?'

'Who said anything about debate?' Arthur frowned.

'Look, I'm sorry I forgot, okay? But I will totally make it up to you! Both Fran and I-'

'I want no part in Francis' apology, thank you.'

Francis pressed his face between the seats, the tip of his nose poking between Arthur and Alfred. 'You would be missing out…'

'Will you mind your own business?' Arthur smacked the nose away. 'And Alfred, I am not angry about debate, mostly I would just like a day where I don't have to listen to your ramblings about little green men and their tin foil spaceships. Enough is enough!'

'But I saw one just now!' Alfred said.

'No, you didn't.'

'Yes, I did. Just before I got onto the bus.' Alfred leaned closer. 'I saw it in the sky, it was like… this black triangle. And it was watching us, man! It was watching and I saw it!'

'You bloody didn't!'

'Why don't you believe me?'

'Because you're the only one that saw it, Alfred. What about Francis? Did he see it? He was outside with you, wasn't he?'

'Yeah, but-'

'But what? It disappeared before he could turn and look?'

'Kinda?' Alfred's voice faltered. 'But, Arthur, it was there! It really was! You think I'm lying?'

Arthur sighed, leaning back into his seat and crossing his arms. 'No, Alfred, I don't. You saw what you saw. But it's not what you think it was. It could have been a bird, or your eyes adjusting to the sunlight-'

'You know what, Arthur? Forget it.' Alfred turned away, crossing his arms as well. 'Forget I ever told you.'

'Fine.'

'Good.'

'At least I'll have some peace and quiet.'

'Enjoy it, man.'

Arthur pressed his head to the window, finally free of Alfred's voice. But the quiet sat uncomfortably, with guilt even though Arthur had only told him the truth. What good would it do to lie, anyway? Harsh as it was, the truth was the truth. Aliens weren't real, flying saucers weren't real, not even the rose tinted world Alfred saw was real. None of it. Arthur would have to be the one to show him that.

The bus stopped, and for a moment Arthur didn't even realise it was his stop. Students started to leave the bus, the new battered kid among them. Arthur climbed over Alfred, who refused to budge.

'See you tomorrow,' Alfred grumbled. Arthur sighed.

'See you,' Arthur echoed back, stepping off the bus and onto the pavement. The bus rumbled and drove away, thick exhaust fumes trailing behind it. He walked in the blazing heat of afternoon sunlight, down the road which was as picturesque as an Oldbrook neighbourhood could get. Aspen trees sparsely lined the road, yellowed leaves bristling in the breeze. The houses looked like they had come out of a catalogue, white and smooth, perfect porches and shiny cars in their driveways. And in the middle of it all, Arthur could see the scrawny new kid trudging along, carrying books that were too heavy for his size.

Arthur had to admit he was a little surprised. Most residents on what was famously dubbed 'Millionaire's Row', were Americans through and through. With the exceptions of course, of students like Arthur, whose father worked at the British embassy nearby. He wondered if the kid was in a similar position, living under the pressure of a diplomat's lifestyle, constantly moving from town to town, from one unfamiliar place to the next.

The kid dropped his books, muttering a tired curse as he started picking them back up. Arthur caught up to him, picking up a book.

'Here.' Arthur handed the book back.

Near-black eyes looked up at him, reminding Arthur of a cornered animal. The kid took the book, muttering a thanks before hurrying away. Arthur stood there for a moment, watching the quickened pace of the kid, the way his head was held up high in spite of the tiredness the rest of his body showed. The breeze picked up, sunlight having become an intense orange glare since the school day had ended.

Arthur continued to walk, thinking of the bruise on the kid's cheek. The sight of him was so very much like Oldbrook, somehow. Perfect seeming on the surface, beautiful almost. But there was also a kind of hell twisting and turning beneath, scratching its way out. Though the bruise would fade, Arthur was sure the ghost of it would stay for much longer. It was in small ways like this that Oldbrook showed its true colours – of black and blue. And it was for people like Yao, that Oldbrook unleashed its cruelty upon.

But the thought was only for a moment, and soon Arthur was lost in his own plans for tomorrow, the preparations he would have to make, the new schedule he would have to adjust to. Little problems, small nuisances that would pile up bit by bit. Life expanded out in front of his eyes in a predictable manner, orderly and clear. But, knowing Oldbrook, Arthur was sure that yet another hellish year was lying ahead of him.