At Feron Grove High School, most of the classrooms housed not just a multitude of students and professors, but a multitude of voices as well. Instructors led their classes in engaging conversations about various subject matter, and the pupils eagerly contributed their knowledge and opinions, fostering a feast of food for thought.
Most classrooms, anyway.
In Room 315, the art studio, there was almost always absolute silence. The tracing of pencils against paper, students moving easels about, and the low whirring of the pottery wheel were usually the only sounds that filled the room. Professor Cyan, the long-haired, big-bearded head of the art department, would silently appraise or critique each student's artwork, offering few words. "Save all that talk for after the bell," he often said. All of that effort talking about art could be spent experimenting with it, so the kids would read up on techniques after school, and the teacher was always available somewhere to discuss their work.
Tracey Matthews was one of those in his advanced studio art class. He always introduced himself with his artist handle "Sketchit," a name his father responded to by chuckling and saying, "Really?" Now, the young man was bent over his large sketch pad, his drawing pencil smoothly gliding across the white paper. His brow was furrowed tightly under his headband, his jaw tightening as he drew.
Professor Cyan was striding around the room, surveying the busy teenagers and occasionally nodding when he saw their drawings. He soon came up to Tracey and looked over his shoulder, and the boy immediately turned away from his project. The professor eyed the picture carefully—a diamond-shaped shield with several dents and chinks in it. The middle was smooth and reflective, showing the image of a boy's hard face.
"Interesting," Professor Cyan said.
Tracey shrugged. "You said to draw a reflection piece. I don't really do a lot of those," he answered.
"At least literally," the instructor said back, cocking his head to the side and walking off. Tracey turned back to his work to finish the shadowing, his jaw tight as ever.
Later that afternoon, the last bell had already rung an hour and a half before, but Tracey was just walking into the Feron Grove Union. The computer club meeting ran a little late, and he was trying to get all of the talk about macros out of his head as he approached the counter. He took a seat near Darren, who was handling the smoothie stand that day.
"Hey, Tracey," he greeted, handing a couple of kids their change. "What's up? You look a little out of it."
"Everything, Darren," the boy replied, breathing a sigh and shoving his hands in the pockets of his blue overalls. "Busy as ever. Looks like you are, too."
"Yep," Darren said, running a hand over his dark goatee. "My counterman's out, so guess who the chillmaster is?" Tracey laughed and Darren continued. "I got this new apple-berry smoothie you gotta try, man. I'll fix you one."
"Thanks, man." Tracey turned to face the workout area. Hayashi was leading the advanced self-defense karate class, demonstrating a choke and grappling escape drill to one of the red belts. Lia was also there practicing with another junior black belt, breaking the grip around her throat with a spread double-knifehand block and taking him down with an armbar. She recovered and met Tracey's sight, giving him a thumbs-up. The young man returned the gesture, but as his friend turned, he put his own hand to his throat, remembering how he was caught in that similar, helpless situation a few days ago and the terrible words Goldar had spoken to him.
"You think you worms will continue to insult me with your shoddy combat skills?!"
"No, Goldar," Tracey said to himself, clenching a fist. "I won't."