This is a rewrite of a fanfiction I wrote and deleted a few years ago. It was called 'Odd One Out.'
Quaint, untouched Maplecrest.
The rooted scent of a place hidden from the world - countryside roads flattening grassy embankments with barely a car to see. Days spent lounging in the shadows of golden canopies, wasting away the time staring thoughtlessly into the sky. Amidst the tranquility of that scene chugs the death cry of a thing that has seen better days, a cream jalopy which groans hideously, which fills the peaceful air with a cry for help, the seats buckling, the hood jittering, and the driver, though a careful man, rears that beast with a kind of madness in his eyes. At their destination, teetering on the crux of the pavement, the car calms to an unhealthy ticking, and the door rustily snapps and clatters in the gutter.
"That'll buff out." and a shove on his back, "Off you go, boy. It's a pretty number, that house, so don't go too crazy, you hear?"
He speaks back, "Hey, old man. Where's the school?"
"You'll find it - you're a smart kid. It's a small town." He pauses, "And, here; your uniform. Forgot to pack it."
And out came his threads - the pale polo, the black trousers, and a suitcase, too, bursting at the seams, which falls on the pavement beside him. And in the seconds following the car roars to life, and before a word could be uttered it flies to its doom across the horizon. Then silence did follow, apart from that of the birds, the rustling of the shrubbery, the maple trees - he fell into something like a trance, suddenly so calm. A great cross from the hubbub of the city, he had never known that sounds could come so gently, and so he acclimates. Then, action. He retrieves his case, his clothes, and from the hem of his trousers he pulls a keychain hanging a single key. Alongside the pavement stood a house, a two-story place, a very pleasant looking home, which in that moment he knew was his, and without much fanfare he plugs the keyhole and enters.
A rustic smell - like new shoes, there was going to be some getting-used-to in order. A living room, a pale suite and a older television, some end-tables, and from there the kitchen, compact and practical. From the hall, a bathroom, shower-only, and a press closet near the front door where he took off his shoes. Upstairs, two rooms, identical, and a hatch for the attic. Single beds and drawers, wardrobes and one desk in the left room, which he chose. The clasps of his suitcase were all too eager to be let loose, and a few articles fall from the bed as it flies open. Clothes and necessities - a toothbrush, a small bottle of shampoo, and assorted trinkets; a nice picture of him and his father, creased and torn, and a pocket watch, which he couldn't remember packing at all. Quite frankly, he thinks to himself, there were a few things that he was having trouble remembering, though his father had always said that it was a problem of his. Dropped too much as a toddler. Butterfingers on behalf of the old man.
He tries the uniform on, makes him look like a real class act, someone you could rely on to carry papers or shave pencils, though it was the middle of the Summer, and he couldn't afford to have the shirt buttoned the whole way up.
Maplecrest High. The place had a ring to it. Perhaps this truly was the start of the quintessential student life in a small town, gallavanting with friends, speaking about nothing in particular beneath the shade on hot days, discussing gossip and prodding one-another about girls. Though, it was a Sunday, so he would have to wait. There was no guarantee that he would even have any friends at all. In the mid-year, so many cliques had already established themselves, would be truly be able to associate with them, understand their inside jokes, relate to them at all? Perhaps he was setting himself up for failure. What in particular was he there to do again? He has forgotten, though, he has a bad habit of forgetting, let's remember, so it was only that much more important that he imprints things constantly, and so he spends the remainder of his day touring his street, the local community hub, the shops and the parks nearby, idling in the sun on benches, laying on the crux of the pavement where the hills began.
"I haven't seen you around before."
A girl joins him, one his age, and for whatever reason she wears the same uniform as him. Her hair - black, covered by a hat, a something-or-other type of hat that he had forgotten the name of, short-hemmed and bowled. What caught him were the eyes, bright and red, it wasn't something he knew people could have; pools so crimson and unnerving, but, as he had been told, the Canopy Kingdom was a terrific place where the strange ran wild, and perhaps he would run headfirst into things which terrified him, "Just got off the bus. I'm from the Dragon Empire."
"You don't look like a Dagonian."
"Funny. Everyone back home seemed to think I did."
She smiles, "It must be a shock coming to such a small town."
"It's peaceful here. I like it." He listens for a moment. The birdsong is clear and unobstructed, the chatter sparse. Compared to the bloated streets of the Empire and its raucous markets ringing with the cries of hearty Dagonians, the sting of knives sharpening, grills flaring. The salt song of the harbour, the seagulls and the waves, the tensioned cry of a rod pulling in a catch. None of it exists here, bar the occassional car passing by, "I heard that the city's nearby, as quiet as it is here."
"Yeah. New Meridian." She looks away, "That's about it, though. You're either there, or you're in the countryside."
"I think I might prefer it here."
"I'm not surprised. The city..." She pauses, "Well, it's not the nicest place to live."
"We would get told stories about the Canopy Kingdom when we were younger. All these legends and tales. It seemed like such a magical place."
"Disappointed?"
He laughs, "Maybe, maybe. Although seeing this town, I'm beginning to wonder if that's what I really wanted to see."
He stands up. The air of the dying evening sun is beginning to cool down, "I think I might really like it. This place."
"Are you leaving?"
"I ought to. I've wandered away from home." He replies, "Though, I don't think either of us introduced ourselves."
"We didn't." She stands up on the hill herself, and puts a hand out, "I'm Filia. It looks like we'll be going to the same school from now on."
He takes her hand with gusto, "Good to meet you, Filia."
"Come on, you gotta tell me your name, too."
"Can't remember right now." He pokes the side of his head, "I've got some trouble up here, with remembering things. It'll come back to me tomorrow, probably."
She seems puzzled for a moment, but quickly warms back up, "Hopefully. I'll keep an eye out for you, alright?"
The two of them say their goodbyes and part ways. Filia creeps along the hillside and drops down to the pavement in the opposite direction. The young man - because that was what he had become, just a young man without a name, retraces his zigzagged steps through the clusters of township amongst the maple trees. By the time he finds his way back to his own street, it had become dark enough for the lampposts to have switched on. The rolling span of the countryside became enraptured with crickets and the night air lit up with fireflies. He has taken special care not to lose his keys, for how bad of a habit it is for him. The house is steadily quiet. Sometimes, back home, his father would be there to greet him - not every day, but often enough that it was comforting to him.
"No more of that." He speaks to himself.
There is a plastic bag dangling from his hand, filled with meat and vegetables. He would visit the store again tomorrow, after school, to look for some ingredients he could use for food he was more familiar with. The daylight seems stuck on him, draining, and after putting away his shopping, he moves upstairs to his room. The suitcase is still open on the bed, bursting out with shirts and trousers. Again, he picks up the pocket watch, and admires the faux gold coat and embossed emblem. He presses the button at the top, and the white face of the watch sits, unmoving, at 11:52. Whatever it was, he had evidently had it for a very long time. The golden luster of the surface brushes off in flakey segments as he runs a finger over it. What he remembered, though, was that it was an old gift from a decrepit antique shop with a bad reputation, and that if he unclasped it three times, time around him would stand still for as long as he wished.
A pause.
And then he smiles, "If only life were so sweet." He drums his thumb on the button like he expects it to actually happen. That was a story of his father's - The Boy Who Could Stop Time, where a young Dagonian tyke runs off to cause trouble for everyone using his little magic pocket watch. Eventually, he falls over and breaks it, and ends up trapped in a world where nobody moves. He goes on to track down the old man who made the watch in the first place. It was a bestseller. He figured, the watch may very well just be a replica, or a piece of merchandise. He had various thoughts like that, which were fragmented and unfinished, and which contributed to nothing, while he hung up his clothes and got ready for bed.
"Big day tomorrow." He jokes.
The College of Maplecrest is just about the largest building around, fixated pridefully as the local centrepiece. A brief walk from the nearby marketplace and constructed atop the town's hills, one can spot its latticed spire from practically everywhere in Maplecrest. The institution was founded on the order of New Meridian's Grand Marshal - a position now woefully absent from the seat of the city's government, who had marked the smog-covered urban jungle as no place for the growing generation to reside in. Originally a kind of school-on-leave amidst the uncorrupted countryside, infrastructure inevitably began cropping up around the college's perimeter as more students started to attend, over the course of several decades eventually creating the town we know and love today.
A pause, "...Are you listening to me, son?"
The young man's head perks up, suddenly interested, "Yes sir. Please continue."
Two pairs of footsteps create an uncanny echo in the wide halls of the school. Chatter and lectures occasionally leak out from classroom doors left ajar in the crowded chaos of the bell. The young man is receiving a lecture of his own - one of history, and had only just begun to phase out the bloated chatter of Maplecrest's beginnings until he was interrupted. The older man, a sharply-dressed fellow who walks with his hands behind his back, stares at him with a kind of vacant, resigned expression. He sighs, "I understand that it's not the most exciting thing, son, but it's part of the induction. Call it compliance. Be thankful you're getting the abridged version and not the speech the other students had to sit through on their first day."
"It does drag on a little."
"You'll be pleased to know that it's over." He comes to a stop and spins around, "And good timing, too. This is your classroom."
Suddenly, anxiety - panic and worry. The young man pauses, and takes a moment to breath. A new classroom, and not just a fresh slate, but a firmly collected bunch of students who had already been together for a few months. Groups, cliques, little collections of that he would have to forcefully worm his way into like some kind of parasite.
Honesty strikes him, "I'm a little worried."
"Wouldn't you end up more embarrassed if I have to explain that you don't want to introduce yourself?"
He wonders, "That's a good point."
He shoots the young man a quick smile and pushes his hand down on the door handle. A legion of chatter from the room just as quickly reduces to barely-hushed whispers and full, undivided looks as the two of them wordlessly stand aside from one-another at the teacher's desk. The young man tries to survey the class without making any unnecessary eye contact. There are a few unnocupied desks scattered at the front and back. Someone at the far end of the room lifts a hand in a brief, shallow greeting - Filia, the girl he had spoken to the day before. He releases a breath he didn't notice he was holding. A student coughs, to try and alleviate the awkwardness. It is a thankless move, but an appreciated one.
"Good morning, everyone." The principal is the one to break the silence, "I'm just dropping by to introduce the new student that will be joining this class as of today. He's recently moved to the area, so please try to make him feel at home here in Maplecrest."
Think it through - deliver something. The heat in his head rises up. He breathes in, "Uh, it's nice to meet you all. Hopefully we can get along."
Leave your friendships to hope and your future to the fates, stutter your sentences and stand awkwardly with your hands behind your back like a dishwasher practicing his apology for the rats in the kitchen. Just terrible. A solidly standard and uninteresting plea for normalcy in an unfamiliar environment. There is silence following, a noticeable second plucked and stretched to its limit. The principal leans into him and lowers his voice to a whisper, "Feel free to pick any desk, as long as it's free."
And so he did, although he wasted no time in simply picking the first empty desk he spotted. The class remained silent as he tried fruitlessly to mitigate the screeching from the chair. Once he was comfortably seated, the principal took centre stage at the front and began to speak again, "I should be on my way. I do hope you'll all try to make your new classmate feel welcome."
And off he went. It isn't long before the chatter starts back up and the young man becomes just another part of that chaos. Some of the students sitting nearest to him lean over to introduce themselves over the course of the morning, asking after his circumstances and where he's from. None of them ask for his name, thankfully enough, seeing as he still couldn't remember it even after a good night's sleep. It is close to midday when something brushes against his head and falls cleanly down the back of his chair. He reaches to grab it and pulls back a sheet of crumpled paper. He has only heard tall-tales of these picturesque, romantic note-sharing rituals from TV shows and novels. It is a small miracle that nobody noticed the paper ball. He unravels it and reads the short sentence within:
Figures that you'd get thrown into my class. Remembered your name yet?
He turns his head. Filia, who sits near the windows, smiles and nods towards him to answer. He reaches for a pen and jots a reply just underneath:
Unfortunately not. I'm starting to get a little worried.
He looks around, to his sides and behind him and especially towards the teacher's desk, before crumpling the paper back up and tossing it towards Filia, who catches it with little effort and unravels it herself. A look of unsatisfied disappointment spreads across her face. She writes up a reply and lands the paper squarely in the centre of his desk faster than he ever could.
So much for remembering it today.
But he gets into the swing of it - starts rushing out his handwriting and tossing the ball quickly yet quietly.
It'll come back to me. It's happened before. I just need to think about it.
Don't think too hard or you'll break something.
He smiles. Their little correspondance ends there, not because they've been discovered but because the claxon of the bell has just signified that the lesson is over, and so the two of them suddenly don't have to be so secretive. He slides past the student mass erupting from their chairs towards Filia's desk, "Couldn't resist talking to me even when I was so far away?"
"It's a bad habit to flatter yourself so much." She stands up, "But, I did say I'd be looking for you."
"And lo and behold, we end up in the same class. Sounds like destiny."
"Fate can be cruel sometimes." She jokes, "Are you going to come with me?"
"To where?"
"To see my friends." She elaborates, "Unless, you've got someone else you're going to hang out with?"
"Nothing like that. I'm as free as the wind right now." He replies, "Lead on."
On account of it originally being a private school, the corridors are far too thin for the amount of students walking through them, necessitating a kind of coagulant single-cell movement pattern to avoid getting pushed over in the madness of it all. The school is three floors; each reserved for classes of different years and organised roundabout in a hollow square filled in by a spacious courtyard in the centre. This is where most students seem to go during their break, either that or near the front doors, emptying out from entrances arranged at each face of the square, creating a fairly impressive picture of students flooding the yard from every side. This wouldn't be where Filia was headed, however. Rather, she pushed into the oncoming crowd to a kind of faculty area at the far side of the school, where the break room was. From there, she pushed the bar of a metal door at the corner leading to a rusted staircase. The cool breeze running through the access could have tipped off anyone to where it led.
"We're allowed on the roof?" He asks.
"Of course not." She begins to ascend, "But it's not hurting anyone. It's nice and quiet and cool up here, plus there are fences around the edges, so it's not even dangerous."
The similarly metal door at the top of the staircase opens with a fresh gust of wind.
The roof loops around itself, creating a confusing visual static with its various overlapping fences across one side. The young man notices that there is a second access stairway at the other end, just barely visible through the mesh. The deafened sounds of chatter spew from the centre where the courtyard sits. He turns his head to the opposite edge, where a lively country town sprawls down cascading hills of amber and crimson. If he felt like it, he could probably spend a few hours picking out his own house among the hundreds that dot the landscape. A similar view probably awaited him if he took the long walk around the roof's doughnut geometry to see the other side. He remains so captivated by it that he doesn't notice the person standing right next to him.
"It really is a lovely view, isn't it?"
He turns his head, "...It is. I never thought I'd see such a beautiful place."
"Are you from the city?" She sounds distant. Her voice is unusually clear.
"I'm from a city." He replies, "Covered with nothing but skyscrapers and smog. Nothing like this."
"It's so relaxing compared to New Meridian. I much prefer it here."
"Are you one of Filia's friends?"
She smiles, "With all that we've been through together, 'friends' is an understatement."
Her hand reaches out, towards him. He notices that her eyes, too, are that same unbelievable red that Filia's are, "My name is Squigly."
He takes it with gusto, "Co-"
He stops, and lowers his head to think, and keeps the handshake going for just a little too long. What was it, again? Co, yes, but Co-what? He was about to blurt the whole thing out before he stopped himself, and now it rests on the tip of his tongue. It disappears from him, as much as it should have been something he would recognise anywhere, but not a single continuation of that sound made him feel anything. Co, Co-so-and-so - he realises that he's lost it, allowed it to get away when he had it sitting in his grasp. He notices his introduction is dragging on and releases the handshake, "Sorry."
"Are you alright?" Squigly asks him.
"I have a little memory problem." He replies, "I've been forgetting the most important things lately. My name most of all."
"Well, we can't have that." She tilts her head. Her left eye is lazy, "You have to call yourself something."
A brash voice speaks up, "Was that a C or a K that I heard?"
Another girl joins the conversation. She radiates a wild kind of authority with the volume of her voice. Her hair is coloured a fresh cyan, so vibrant and outstanding that it's difficult to tell whether it's dyed or not. Two similarly painted diamonds rest on each of her cheeks, "Just call yourself by that first letter. Like a codename!"
"And who might you be?"
Her momentum stops, like she's just heard something unbelievable, "...You're telling me you haven't heard of the Canopy Kingdom's greatest performer? Star of the Cirque des Cartes?"
"Sorry, but I'm from out of town. Call me a philistine." He pauses, "You're, uh... a circus clown?"
"Performer. A circus performer, is what I am, or an acrobat, or a juggler, or a strongwoman, or a rope walker - I do a bit of everything."
"She's not exaggerating." Squigly points out, "It really is incredible to see her perform."
"The diamond of the Canopy Kingdom - Cerebella!" She grins and grabs his hand from his side, "Nice to meet ya, C!"
"And you as well." He can't even control the handhake, "But - C?"
"It's a cool nickname, right? Real mysterious." She explains enthusiastically, "...Gotta call you something, huh? Why not?"
He turns to look at Filia, and raises his free hand, "Why not?"
She rolls her eyes.
But he notices something else. A brief gaze from behind the elevated roof access - and then, nothing. A small figure dips behind the corner, whose shoes poke meekly out from the blind spot. Filia follows his gaze behind her, and gives a look like she understands the situation, "It's fine, Carol. He's alright. I think."
"You think?" He speaks under his breath.
A girl slowly emerges from that hidden alcove and rapidly moves to Filia's side. At first, C thinks it's a trick of the afternoon sun, to have seen what he thought he saw, but a closer look confirms it. Amidst the normalcy of the girl's bangs and uniform, a thick cross-stich runs across the length of her face. The hands which sit clasped and nervous are imprinted with thin, discoloured veins that continue up the arms. Her eyes, which are as impossibly red as Filia's and Squigly's, are hanged with innumerable, shallow bags.
"Uh... C?" Filia uses his nickname, "This is Carol. She's a friendly person, but she can get a little nervous around new people."
He smiles, but takes a moment to speak, "Nice to meet you. I hope we get along."
"H-Hello." Carol tries to smile back. Her voice is so quiet it's a wonder the wind didn't drag it away.
"She can seem like a real shrinking violet." Cerebella chimes in, "-But there's a real sweetheart in there. She'll warm up to you in no time."
"I hope so."
He really does.
The solitude of the rooftop, in amongst the rolling amber hilltops and afternoon skies, seem to deafen the sound of the bell ringing. From such a place, it's the only thing that can remind the five of them that they're still students. The goodbyes are over in an instant, probably in an ridiculous attempt to beat the crowd dispersing from the courtyard below. Cereballa is the first to loudly announce her departure before bolting down the stairs, shortly followed by Carol, who gives a tempered wave to the group. Squigly, strangely, takes the time to say what might have been some kind of ancient farewell, "It was a pleasure meeting you, C. I hope we meet again some other day."
And she leaves gracefully through the doorway, leaving only him and Filia still standing on the roof.
"You've got some interesting friends." He points out.
"We've been through a lot together. I wouldn't trade them for anything."
"That Squigly girl is a little old-fashioned, though."
She smiles and puts a hand to her mouth like she's just heard a joke, "You could say that."
"But Carol..." He wonders, "Is she alright?"
A pause, "...It's too cruel, what happened to her. I can't imagine how she must feel."
He remains silent.
"Carol's my best friend. Always will be." She continues, "And she tries. For my sake - for everyone's. I don't want to let that go to waste."
"I won't butt in. But she seems like a strong person."
"She had to be. She still needs to be. The least I can do is stay with her."
Filia speaks with a bright determination. The roots of their camaraderie run deep - they are unbreakable, inseparable friends. Something about her devotion runs a sourness through C's blood, fills his head with worry mixed in with adoration. What is it? This deep envy, this kind of unbearable inferiority. His hand drops, unconsciously, to the trouser pocket where the chain of his watch should be dangling from. Why had he left it at home? Didn't he always bring it with him? Whose thoughts are these, that seem so alien to him? Flaked golden shelling popped to reveal the hourly tick, three minutes slow, the soft-handed presentation of that thing-
A gift, so unforgettable. Who had he become?
"C." His eyes focus. Filia waves a hand in his face, "You alright?"
He pauses, "Maybe a little tired."
"The move is starting to catch up to you, huh?" She smiles, "But the day's not over yet. We're gonna be late for class, you know."
He gestures forward, "Lead on. I've forgotten the way back."
"You've got a bad habit of doing that."
"Hm." For a moment, his smile falters, "I really do."
-END OF CHAPTER-
Happy New Year