June 2012
They were little more than husks; just shells of their former selves. Children who had laughing and joking only moments before—kids who had screamed and thrashed and cried now lay dead at their feet; long-forgotten like glass in the gutter. Theodore gripped tight to the large shovel that had been thrust into his hands as he stared at the increasing pile of bodies growing wretched in the blazing Arizona sun. He tried to ignore the glassy eyes of the unseeing children, tried to forget the valleys and peaks of the scars engraved into their multicoloured flesh.
At six years old, Theodore was one of the younger 'Students' at the 'School' and yet he still bore the same scars that many of the older kids did from their lessons. Each adorned in large colourful overalls that stood out in the red American desert like a sore thumb, that sorted them into each of their houses. Blue for House Frija (those with physical Legacies), green for House Theron (those with energy/elemental Legacies), yellow for House Helwyn (those with Legacy-affecting Legacies) and red for House Ordin (those with mental Legacies). The barbed-wire lined courtyard was filled mostly with greens and blues; the piles with reds and yellows.
Burrowing the spade of the shovel into the unforgiving red earth at their feet, Theodore dug without complaint, well-aware by this point of what sort of consequences would be in store if he did. The sound of liquid splashing against the unforgiving sand caught his attention, and yet Theodore did not stop in his awkward movements. Off to the side, Gretchen (a tall seven year old with red curls pulled back into a frizzy ponytail & a member of House Theron) stood bent over and retching next to the hole she had started. Theodore wasn't sure if the reaction was from the likely heat stroke she had incurred or the permeating scent of rotting flesh floating on the non-existent breeze.
"Don't" Warned the voice in his head as one of the heavily armed soldiers hauled the little girl to her feet and shoved the shovel back into her hands from where she had dropped it. Theodore turned away scared, as the sound of gun hitting flesh echoed across the expanse of desert followed by Gretchen's painful groan as she hit the hard sand with a quiet thump. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye showed Theodore that the older girl lay with tears on her freckled & sunburnt cheeks and a bruise quickly forming across her face from where she had been pistol whipped.
Orders were barked in their general direction as more than just Theodore had paused slightly in his work to watch the spectacle play out before them. They all knew the risks of acting out here and if you didn't, you learnt fast. They had rules for a reason, but that didn't mean they had to like them. Returning to the corner of the mass grave that they were digging, Theodore lost himself in the repetitive motion of the shovel grating against the unforgiving red soil of the Arizonian desert as his thoughts drifted away.
The whole reason they were out here in the first place was because of the Augments. Theodore shivered despite the aggressive sun on his back as he thought of the smartly-dressed Mogadorians. They had stood proudly wearing their shiny black coats that had contrasted greatly against the brightly coloured overalls of the Garde children. The row of Augments had been presented to them by the Headmaster that morning during the assembly. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what their presence at the School meant for the kids—nor did the wicked grin stretching across the Headmaster's scarred & gilled face. Trouble was brewing in the kitchens, and the kids were on the menu.
September 2012
A couple of months had passed since the first of the Augmented Mogadorians had been paraded in front of the children. Since then, the digging of the mass graves for their friends and inevitably themselves, became a regular occurrence. Theodore didn't mind the digging, it was simple work. What he feared however was the big wooden door that led to the Headmaster's office—once you went in, you never came out. And those few—those lucky few that did, were never the same again.
Matthew of House Ordin had been the first person that had survived the trials put forth by the Headmaster. When he had arrived, he had been a tubby boy of twelve, but now, many months later he was tall and lean from the overworking and lack of food. With long brown locks pulled back into a braid (courtesy of Courtney of House Helwyn) and framing apple green eyes, the boy hadn't revealed much of what had happened—only bits and pieces really—after he had returned, sallow and withdrawn.
Theodore couldn't help but think he may as well have been dead like the bodies of their friends piled high outside. Matthew didn't move, didn't eat, didn't do...anything really; just sat there mumbling random sentences over and over like a broken record. Things such as the grin on the Headmaster's face when he had entered, the pair of worn shoes poking out from behind the upturned desk, the menacing glare of the Matrix rejects standing next to futuristic technologies. There were ramblings on the fear he felt, the pleas he sang, the cries they ignored and the pain they inflicted. Jenny from House Theron was convinced that he had become possessed by some kind of demon and had clutched to her harshly-crafted rosary like her life depended on it as she prayed in tune with Matthew's muffled ramblings.
Following that, rumours began to fly. Soon enough the entire School was overrun with the mumblings of Matthew of House Ordin. Flowing from to mouth to mouth in an odd game of Chinese Whispers, it didn't take long for every child to know at least some of what was going on behind the Headmaster's door. It didn't take long for the conspiracies to fly. The screams they heard, weren't actually screams "—they were the ghosts singing for blood" One suggested.
"The thumps weren't Garde being hit, but the pounding of Godly drums" Suggested another.
"There were angels waiting them beyond the door!"
"A way to Heaven!"
"A fridge full of food!"
"It was a bad joke!"
"A prank!"
"A bad dream!"
"A monkey in mascot suit!" The theories were far and wide, growing more and more outrageous with each telling and in a sense they were just little stories—little white lies—that they told each other to hide the true horrors that lay beyond the Headmaster's door.
January 2013
It was raining. Theodore stared dumbly at the dark clouds crying tears from the starry sky up above them even as the cold droplets pattered down his freckled cheeks like they were his own tears. He wasn't the only one. It never rained in Arizona. Ever. Blue eyes watched enraptured by the single droplets falling from the patchy roof and down onto the children in the cells below as a gaggle of the elder Loric Garde sat in their cell across the way singing lowly.
The world was young, the mountains green
No stain yet on the moons was seen
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durrinn woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells
He drank from yet untasted wells
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere
And saw a crown of stars appear
As gems upon a silver of thread
Above the shadow of his head
Quietly shifting in the hay-laden floor of their cell, Theodore let his gaze wander over the familiar fixtures of the dimly lit warehouse for the umpteenth time. The large rickety building appeared to be some old warehouse or storage containment of some kind as several abandoned shelves were stacked against the back wall, leaving most of the building bare for whatever it was supposed to contain. Split apart like animals at the zoo, each of the Houses were then divided by genders and species—Lorics and Humans side-by-side, but still far apart.
The Western seas have passed away
The world was fair in Durrinn's day
A king he was on cavern throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor
And runes of power upon the floor
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shown forever far and bright
The Teachers must've been in a good mood tonight. Theodore mused as he listened to the elder Loric boys tell the story of Lorien's discovery—of the first man to step foot on the lush soil of their homeland. Their baritones were soothing, and even for a young Human boy who had barely stepped foot outside of the state, he felt like he could picture the planet in which his ancestors had come from.
There hammer on the anvil smote
There chisel clove, and graver wrote
There forged was bladed and bound was hilt
There delver mined the mason built
There beryl, pearl and opal pale
And metal wrought like fishes' mail
Buckler and corset, axe and sword
And shining spears were laid in horde
Safe, tonight in the rain and enveloped by the gentle lull of the Loric song, Theodore sat back against the rickety wall and peacefully closed his eyes as he shifted again amongst the dirty hay and he tried not to think on the graves he would have to dig tomorrow.
Unwearied then were Durrinn's folk
Beneath the mountains, music woke
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates, the trumpets rang
The world is grey, the mountains old
The forge's fire is ashen-cold
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls
The darkness dwells in Durrinn's halls
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazak-duum
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windowless Mirrormere
There lies his crown in water deep
'Til During wakes again from sleep.
20 November 1963
It was sometime later—somewhere around lunchtime—that Theodore finally shifted back into his (naked) human self. Uncle Five barely even registered as scales receded into flesh, instead shifting to recline against the fridge door as he slept. Theodore tried his best not to wake his uncle as he slipped from the kitchen, gathering the remnants of his earlier ensemble (thankfully the cardigan had survived, though the shirt and pants left a lot to be desired). Slipping the large cardigan over his naked form, Theodore quietly shuffled over to Elliot's room where he fetched another pair of clothes to replace the ones he had torn through; once again dressing himself in a jeans and a garish polo shirt.
Red-eyed and emotionally drained from his breakdown, Theodore felt only a little bit better now that his hangover had eased a little—aided, in part, by the nap he had fallen into at some point after shifting. Plucking Uncle Five from where he was now slumped against the fridge, his mouth agape as he quietly snored, Theodore moved him to the dishevelled couch (snatching Sergio and stuffing him into his back pocket before Uncle could take him away again). Uncle barely stirred as Theodore returned to the kitchen and began to root through Elliot's fridge for something to eat.
Practically climbing into the ice box, Theodore pushed passed an ineffable amount of Jell-O-encased foods as he looked for something edible. It wasn't until his eyes lit up at the bacon wrapped in brown newspaper that Theodore retreated from the fridge and spent a few minutes fumbling with utensils as he tried to figure out how to work the appliances. Soon enough, however, the delicious scent of bacon was wafting through the building and making stomachs' rumble.
A low groan sounded from the couch as Uncle Five woke to his stomach's protests and Theodore noted that it had probably been only a couple of weeks for his smallest uncle since his first Apocalypse (the one ironically caused by the very people who survived it)—he was probably still tired from the first one. "It's a wonder the monkey hasn't exploded yet" Loren mused as Uncle Five stumbled into the kitchen and beelined for the cold coffee pot that had made its way to the sink at some point.
"Humans don't explode" Theodore mumbled as he flipped over the burning bacon, his mouth watering as he watched the fatty meat crispen amongst the grease.
"Not on their own"
"I'm not gonna blow him up, you nortz"
"Fine, fine, whatever you say"
"You can't eat 'im either"
"Party pooper!"
"Yeah, yeah" Slipping the current rashes of blackened bacon onto the plate next to him, Theodore moved to place more rashes in the pan as Uncle sent an odd glance or two in his direction, likely wondering why/what he was mumbling about.
"Well" Uncle Five slouched into one of the kitchen chairs that he'd righted with a newly warm pot of coffee on the table next to him, mug in hand and combing back his hair that lay askew. "That's wasn't what I was expecting"
"Nn" Theodore grunted, sparing a glance towards his tired uncle as he understood the schoolboy-assassin to be referring to the interrogation turned breakdown, confession and sulk.
"But I s'pose I understand where you're coming from..." He muttered into his coffee.
"Don't say that" Theodore shortly replied, shoulders tense as he pointedly stared down at the sizzling bacon.
"I know it's hard—" Uncle Five tried, clearly taking his protest the wrong way.
"—Don't tell me what Hell is" Theodore interrupted, still refusing to look at his uncle as his tone turned cold. " You were plucked from her gates, I dug her graves. You will never understand how I feel"
"Excuse me?" Uncle Five demanded incredulously as he sat up straight, now staring at his nephew who continued on like nothing was wrong. That was if you dismissed the clearly tense stance he had taken as he turned off the stove, taking the bacon with him as he moved to lather a couple of slices of bread with butter. "You think I had it easy? You—you think I didn't do everything I could to get back? You think I didn't go through Hell to get back here?! To get back to my family?!"
"You're little Apocalyptic holiday? Again? Really?" Theodore sneered as he harshly stabbed the sharp knife, blade down, into the chopping board next to his half-constructed bacon sandwich; before turning to face his rage-filled uncle "Then tell me something Uncle, 'cause I'm dying to know—what were doing when you were five, hm? Learning to read? To write? How to not shit on your shoes? 'Cause I bet it wasn't digging your own grave"
"...You're bluffing" Uncle's wary eyes narrowed on the knife embedded in the chopping board as it continued to sway from the force in which it was shoved there. Red had flushed his cheeks from the sudden rage at his nephew's offhanded accusations, and yet he couldn't help the backhanded dumbfoundedness that washed over him as Theodore continued to talk.
"Am I?" Theodore rose a brow in question, lips pursed into a thin line as he turned back to the chopping board and plucked the knife from the wooden surface with ease. "How they swept that shit under the rug, I'll never know. Rehab, my ass!"
"So what? We should all just say 'fuck it' and give up? Is that what you want, Theodore? To give up? To die?"
There was a beat of silence as Theodore didn't reply straight away, instead mulling over his words as he tried to think of how to phrase what he wanted to say in such a way that Uncle Five would actually listen. "This war that's coming—it'll come—people'll die whether you like it or not" Theodore mused as he sliced through the soft bread, cutting his sandwich into four uneven triangles. His thoughts drifted back to the summons Grandfather had gifted to him the day before as he replied full of trepidation. "So you better hope that Grandfather has that Hail Mary you're looking for, or you'll be digging your own graves soon enough"