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“…and damn it, this Pyre lunatic, this vigilante wack-job, is going to inspire more Variant violence. Granted, it’s not like they need much inspiration, but still, it’s going to be giving all these other Variants ideas, and the last thing that we need is a bunch of these biohazards going around killing anyone that they can find!”
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—David Chapel, in the August 31, 2035, segment of his show, Nightly News with David Chapel, where he often promotes anti-Variant conspiracy theories.76Please respect copyright.PENANAGjqrbakfWa
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Alex walked down the hallway, having to restrain himself from running, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. In the grey laundry bag, he held were four of his Pyre uniforms. Fortunately, the campus laundromat had privacy stalls, with each containing one washer and one dryer, to prevent the theft of things like underwear. As such, Alex wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him washing the stuff. No, it was the transit to and from the machines where the risk of his alias being discovered was highest—at least, in his opinion anyway. As Alex walked at a painfully slow pace on the brown, hardwood floor of the hallway, he saw that the door to another dorm room was open, to reveal Pauline and another girl exiting the aforementioned dorm room. The other girl, who was saying something about hard work to Pauline, was a complete stranger to Alex.
This other girl was short—about four feet and eleven inches, if Alex had to guess—with waist length, dark brown hair, and eyes that were a deep blue, like the ocean far off the shore of an island. She was skinny, yet curvy, almost like an hourglass, so much so that Alex assumed that she must be a senior to be that far past puberty, until he saw the blue background on the student ID card, hanging from her neck by a lanyard. This was a bit odd, as the students were only required to show their ID cards when ordering lunch and when directly ordered to do so by teachers, or other members of the school faculty. The students were required to keep the ID cards on their person at all times, yes, but were not required to visibly display them at all times. Accordingly, Alex typically kept his inside his wallet. Regardless, there was a color coding system for the background colors of the ID cards—red backgrounds for freshmen, blue backgrounds for sophomores, yellow backgrounds for juniors, and green backgrounds for seniors. When Alex saw the ID card, he saw a blue background—this stranger was a sophomore, and likely around Alex’s age, as he was also a sophomore. Unless, of course, she’d been held back a year or two.
Upon seeing—or rather, noticing—Alex, the stranger smiled, bright and wide, saying in the most cheerful manner possible, “Hi there! I’m Jessica! Who are you?”
The surname on her ID card was Wilcox, and Alex noted this mentally—alongside her New York accent—as he replied, “I’m Alex Westsmith, Ma’am.”
Pauline turned to face Alex, saying, “Hey Alex! This is my cousin, Jessica! Her father’s work promotion got him transferred to their company’s New Hellensburge office, so she got transferred to our campus! She’s starting class with us tomorrow!”
“Yeah! Pauline mentioned you, Alex! It’s a pleasure to meet you, but you don’t have to call me ma’am,” Jessica added.
“Right! Of course, ma—.” Alex almost called Jessica Ma’am out of force of habit, but managed to stop himself short—or almost short—of that.
“Oh, so I’m your Ma now? Whatcha doing, darling,” Jessica asked with an odd tone in her voice. That tone wasn’t normal but didn’t sound like any kind of sarcasm that Alex had ever heard. At least, not the variety of sarcasm Alex could recognize, anyway.
A weird feeling bubbled uneasily in Alex’s guts as he replied, “I’m going to do laundry, Jessica.”
For reasons Alex couldn’t fathom at that moment, his heart was pounding rapidly, and he felt a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins, like a smaller version of what he felt when patrolling the city, saving people, and killing abusers. Unlike most people, Alex found social cues that others could pick up on subconsciously to be extremely difficult—and on many occasions, impossible—to discern. Consequently, Alex had to memorize these cues by rote where possible, and consciously search his mind, and the context of what was said, for their meaning, whereas other people could pick them up as simply as breathing—no thinking, no context, no effort, required on their part. After what seemed like an awkward eternity of standing around, but was probably just a few seconds—if it took even that long—Alex found the mental equivalent of an internet search result for some obscure historical reference or little-known scientific fact. At that moment, as though opening an academic article on the CDC website, or one on the Library of Congress website, the answer clicked in his mind—Jessica was trying to flirt with him.
Suddenly, Alex felt like he was blushing, and blushing hard. Alex hoped that the feeling was wrong—but couldn’t tell for certain—while the bubbling sensation in his stomach abruptly and severely worsened.
“I-I-uh…,” Alex stammered, his oration skills and quick wit suddenly gone, evaporated swifter than his interest in the U.S. Civil War when Neo-Confederate propaganda pieces—always riddled with blatantly idiotic and bigoted historical inaccuracies—viewing themselves as historical dramas became topics of discussion.
Alex loved his home state but felt ashamed of what previous generations of southerners had done during, just after, and before, the U.S. Civil War—ashamed of the treason, bigotry, and crimes against humanity (which yes, includes slavery), on top of war crimes, like the massacre of black Union Prisoners of War after the Confederates captured them at Fort Pillow. Alex sincerely wished he were talking about history—especially military history, but any historical topic in general—because then, he would at least be likely to know how he should respond.
“Isn’t it a bit late to do laundry,” Pauline asked.
“Yeah,” Alex hastily replied, silently thanking his good fortune that Pauline was there, “So I gotta hurry up! I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow!”
After that, Alex was suddenly unable to care less about rules against running indoors, and thusly ran at full speed, until he had exited Dorm Hall A entirely.
Eventually, Alex made his way to the Campus Laundromat, which was right next to the Campus Store—a trip that, in his opinion, could not be made swiftly enough. Entering the five-story building, Alex was confronted by row upon row of navy blue, bathroom-style stalls, each with a lock that required a faculty or student ID card to open. On each one of the doors was a little bathroom-style sign, which read either vacant or occupied, depending on the stall’s status at that moment. Finding the first unoccupied stall he could, Alex pulled the ID card from his pocket—where Alex had left it loose, to avoid having to waste time riffling through his wallet—then held it up to the door’s ID scanner, until he heard a metallic clicking sound, indicating that the door was unlocked, and prompting his entry into the stall. Closing the door behind himself, Alex proceeded to flip the switch controlling the status sign on the door to read as occupied while he locked the door from inside the stall, and then he emptied the uniforms inside the laundry bag into the washing machine, along with the two detergent pouches he’d already put inside the laundry bag.
After turning on the machine, there was nothing left to do but wait. Alex couldn’t leave the uniforms unattended, so he simply had to wait there. Which meant being alone with his thoughts.
Why did I feel so weird with Jessica? She’s Pauline’s cousin! I shouldn’t have felt so awkward, Alex thought, I was semi-speechless, and…scared? Was I scared? She’s just a person, like anyone else. That weird feeling in the pit of my stomach—why was that there? And why the hell did I blush? Did I blush? Why the fuck is that a question? What the hell is wrong with me? I should think about it later. I’m too tired for any more of this shit right now.
Alex still had no answers when he was startled—and torn from his thoughts—forty-five minutes later, by the sound of a buzzer. It was time to move his uniforms into the dryer.
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The Small Child lay curled up under the covers of his bed, in a fetal position, trying desperately—and failing miserably—to ignore the crashing sounds and screaming that was emanating from downstairs. The steady stream of verbal aggression and threats resonated and reverberated, booming through the air, barely muffled by the floor. Finally, the Small Child crawled out of bed, hoping to stop the screaming, as his little, eight-year-old feet touched the cold, groaning, wooden floor of his bedroom.
Quickly exiting his bedroom, the Small Child found himself in another room, a sort of upstairs common room, devoid of furniture. It had various doors leading to various rooms, including a door with two columns of small windows, composed of five square, glass panes per column. The lowest left pane was covered by duck tape and cardboard, presumably shattered, or otherwise ruined, in comparison to the remaining glass panes. As the Small Child turned the rusted doorknob and pulled the door open, the rusty hinges let out a mournful sound. The creaky stairs seemed to whisper menacing threats as the Small Child descended their wooden path downwards.
Upon reaching the bottom, the Small Child stopped in his tracks, his eyes widened with fear, as he took in the sight of his father, holding his mother in a headlock beneath his father’s weight, the pistol in his father’s hand aimed at her head, the muzzle less than an inch away from the back of her skull.
By way of appearance, his father was a thin but muscular, bald man, tall and caucasian, wearing a short-sleeved, white-crewneck shirt, and green cargo pants, alongside a pair of brown combat boots. This was in contrast to the short blonde woman he had pinned to the ground at gunpoint.
“Leave me, and I’ll kill you,” his father growled, aggression swirling in his father’s menacing blue eyes.
Upon seeing the Small Child, his mother screamed out, her voice full of primal, instinctive fear, “Alex! Jake Junior! Run! Get out of here!”
In his fear, it was only now that Alex noticed his younger brother on the other side of the room, who was desperately grabbing anything that his seven-year-old arms could pick up, and throwing the items at their father, the younger boy screaming, “Leave her alone! Let Mom go! Get off of h—.”
“Shut up, maggot,” Jacob Westsmith Junior’s namesake yelled at him in reply, as, despite the younger Jacob’s valiant efforts, their father refused to be dislodged.
Francine kept yelling at them to run, over and over again, as seconds stretched into an agonizing infinity. Terrified, Alex obeyed, and ran for safety, under the comforter of his bed.
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Alex scarfed down breakfast, as Richard and Caleb sat across from him. Caleb was—Alex suspected—getting close to the stopping point of his morning prayers to Caleb’s God.
As Richard swallowed, he reached into an interior pocket of his jacket with his right hand, saying, “Alex, you rushed here so fast that you didn’t see this.” With those words, Richard produced from the pocket an envelope addressed to Alex, from one Anna Cohen.
“Who’s Anna,” Caleb inquired.
“A-ha! At last, he speaks to one other than the Holy Creator,” Richard exclaimed, in a tone that even Alex recognized as being extremely humorous.
“Har har,” Caleb replied, rolling his eyes, before asking again, “So who’s Anna Cohen?”
“My little sister,” Alex replied on reflex, before reaching his hand out to Richard.
“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Pauline’s voice abruptly remarked from behind Alex, as Richard placed the letter in the palm of its rightful owner.
“Well, they don’t have the same parents,” Richard explained, “but, despite the lack of any biological relationship, Anna’s mother is like a second mother to Alex—even though she’s married to her husband, and not to his mother. Uh…how should I describe it…”
“Like a second parental figure,” Alex interjected.
“Like that,” Richard added.
Looking around, Alex watched as Pauline, Ethan, and Jessica, all walked up to and sat down at the table.
“Everyone, this is my cousin, Jessica. She’s new here,” Pauline stated, before—with some corresponding hand gestures towards the others—adding, “That’s Caleb. He’s Richard, you already know Ethan, and you met Alex last night.”
Richard’s eyes seemed to glow at that last bit, as he retorted, “Oh really? Where’s the sex tape?”
Jessica, in the act of setting her breakfast—a tray full of eggs—down, glared at Richard for a few seconds, until her hands were free, at which point she abruptly, and very promptly, slapped Richard across the face.
Alex, without knowing why he would stand up, immediately stood up, and sincerely stated, “My apologies for my friend’s…odd sense of humor.”
Evidently realizing that he had gone too far with his sense of humor, Richard said—with a noticeably subdued tone, “Ouch. Okay, I probably deserved that. But did you have to put so much muscle into it?”
“Yes. Yes, I did,” Jessica retorted as she sat down.
Eager to change the subject, Alex asked, “Hey Jessica, Pauline said you moved here due to your dad’s promotion. If it’s okay to talk about it, what’s your dad’s job?”
Jessica replied, “Oh, he was just promoted to the Head of Research and Development for Daedalus Contracting Incorporated.”
Richard, suddenly sounding curious—to Alex’s ears, although he could have been mistaken—in what was an oddly morbid manner, asked, “You mean the PMC company?”
Nodding, Jessica answered, “Yes, the PMC company.”
“Wait—what’s a PMC company,” Alex asked, hoping that he wouldn’t sound too much like an idiot for not knowing what the phrase—presumably some sort of acronym—meant.
Another girl, a tall, slender, girl with waist-length black hair, named Violet—well, to be honest, Alex wasn’t fully certain of her last name, which he believed might be Brunswick, as he knew that her father’s great-grandfather had founded the first Brunswick Academy campus in New Orleans, followed shortly by the building of the New Hellensburge campus (there were several dozen campuses throughout Louisiana alone, and more in other states)—although Hurricane Jay, which had devastated southern Louisiana—among other Gulf Coast areas—in August of 2035, had forced the school to shut down operations in New Orleans and several other cities, with some students from those campuses attending classes in other cities. While this operational shutdown in New Orleans, also known as the Crescent City—and the other affected cities—was only temporary, it was still ongoing, with the severity of the damage rivaling that of 2005’s Hurricane Katrina.
Either way, Violet spoke up, saying, “My uncle Donnie worked for Daedalus. PMC means Private Military Contractor. Th—.”
“Think mercenaries, only more organized, and not technically banned by international law,” Richard interrupted.
Jessica, sounding furious, demanded of Richard, “What’s your problem.”
Way to go, Richard, Alex thought, his mind dripping with sarcasm—something he rarely used in speech, let alone in thought, Piss her off even more, why don’t you!
Richard loudly stated, “Oh, there’s no problem with corporations who are not held to government oversight, international law, and humane rules of engagement, like government troops are, being given literal armies for hire! Who cares how many civilians their contractors kill, there’s never such a thing as too much corporate power!”
Extremely confused, Alex responded, “Richard, that seems really out of character for y—oh…you were being sarcastic, weren’t you?”
Sounding even more irritated—assuming such was even possible—Richard snapped at Alex, “Yes, Alex, I was being very sarcastic!”
“Are you calling my father a war criminal,” Jessica demanded of Richard, seeming somehow offended to an even higher degree than the degree to which Richard was irritated.
“No,” Richard retorted, “but I am calling the fact that we’re giving corporations the same capabilities as the military without at least—at least—subjecting them to the same degree of laws, regulations, and oversight, a massive mistake that will eventually bite us in the ass! Which it is!”
Jessica then declared, in a manner so furious that Alex would have described it as extremely hacked off, to the maximum possible degree, “My father served for years on end in the US Military before joining Daedalus, you little sh—.” Due to either Richard’s good luck or Jessica’s bad luck, she was cut off by the bell, which was meant to indicate that students should proceed to their first class of the day.
Alex stood up, and went to class, feeling off about the conversation. The weird thing was that Alex was not sure at all why he felt off about it himself.
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Alex and Richard were in the Guesthouse, situated behind the house of Richard’s Uncle Rick—or, more specifically, inside the space that served as both the kitchen and the dining room of the guesthouse. The two of them sat in black-painted, wooden chairs, at a brown wooden table on one side of the room, close enough to one wall, but not so close as to prevent the chairs on that side of the table from being used. The floor was a checkerboard of white and black tiles, separated from the lime-green walls by white baseboards. On the far side of the kitchen/dining room hybrid was a closet-style pantry; a few sets of drawers next to the cupboard, all of which were beneath a countertop; a sink; a small dishwasher; a refrigerator; and a gas stove. Cabinets of dishes mounted to the walls hung over the counter, which had a microwave, a dish rack, and a toaster, sitting on it. The dishwasher never worked, though, so any dishes had to be washed by hand. By way of light fixtures, one hung over the center of the room—providing most of the illumination—and the other smaller light fixture hung over the sink. Behind the sink lay a window, through which Alex could see the rain striking the glass. He could also hear the pattering of the rain against both the roof and the window. There were three doors in the kitchen, one on every wall except for the wall with the window. These doors led, respectively, to the bathroom, living room, and storage room, of the guest house.
The two sat across from one another—on opposite sides of the table, that is—with Alex facing the small window that stood over the sink. Richard had been working with Alex on social skills, and right now they were working on Alex’s ability to differentiate between figurative and literal speech. In short, Richard would make ten statements per practice round, with one to five of those statements being figurative speech in each round. Alex had to figure out whether each statement was figurative or literal. That said, they alternated between the figurative speech in question being sarcasm specifically, or other figures of speech.
“You ready,” Richard asked.
“Ready,” Alex replied, to which Richard nodded, before Richard stated, “Okay. Let’s begin. Statement One—His brain’s in the gutter.”
“Figurative,” Alex said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Very good,” Richard told Alex evenly, “Statement two—I heard you were rolling around in the hay with some broad.”
“Figurative. Also, the use of the term broad is rude,” Alex stated.
“Very good,” Richard replied, “You spotted both the rudeness and the figurative language! Statement three—I heard he’s got his head in the clouds!”
“Figurative,” Alex answered.
“Very good. You, however, seem beat, Alex,” Richard stated, concerned.
“Was that statement three,” Alex asked, “Because, if so, it’s figurative.”
“That was figurative, but I did not intend it as statement three. You really do look tired,” Richard answered, concerned.
Richard was not wrong—Alex definitely felt exhausted.
“I was up late. Or, technically, I was up early,” Alex replied, before adding, “I think until four in the morning. Maybe five? And I got up for the day at around six.”
“Well, if you’re so tired, why don’t we just count that as statement three, and take a break, Alex,” Richard offered.
“Thanks for offering, but I need to learn this stuff,” Alex answered.
“Whatever you say,” Richard replied.
Ultimately, of the ten statements made, four were figures of speech, and six were literal. Alex correctly identified all of the ten statements by the end of the round, prompting Richard to tell Alex, “Congrats on a job well done, buddy! You got all ten of them! To go from just guessing at it to actually doing it…I mean, something clearly clicked, and I’m damn happy about it!”
“Clicked?” Alex inquired, confused.
“Yeah—in other words, you’ve realized or learned something that’s made you understand what’s going on, or how to do something,” Richard explained, before asking Alex, “So, do you want to try working on sarcasm again?”
“Now,” Alex asked in surprise, prompting Richard to reply, “Yes, Alex, now.”
“Okay…sure,” Alex replied reluctantly.
This is just another challenge. Just another problem. Running from problems will not yield any good results. I will not run again, Alex thought.
“Ready,” Richard asked.
“Ready,” Alex replied, trying to hide any bodily sign which might show the steady decrease of confidence in his mind—although Alex wasn’t quite sure how to do so.
“Okay. Statement one—Yeah, right. He really wants to fuck her,” Richard said.
“Literal,” Alex replied after a moment’s hesitation.
“Incorrect. Statement one was sarcastic,” Richard stated, “Statement two—Oh, yeah, I had plenty of options.”
“Literal,” Alex immediately answered.
“Incorrect. Statement two was sarcastic,” Richard said, “Statement three—Is she really looking at him like that?”
After a slightly longer bout of hesitation than with the previous statements, Alex unsurely answered, “Sarcastic?”
“Incorrect. Statement three was literal,” Richard replied, cocking an eyebrow in a facial gesture—assuming that one would refer to a specific component of a full facial expression as a facial gesture, that is—which Alex had been told was commonly a sign of either curiosity or concern. Which applied in this case—if either—Alex wasn’t sure at all.
“You still ready,” Richard asked Alex.
“Ready,” Alex falsely confirmed.
With that one word, they continued the exchange—Richard giving a numbered statement, and Alex trying to differentiate the sarcastic from the literal. On the occasions where Alex was successful, it was almost exclusively on identifying literal statements. Alex failed to identify all but two of the sarcastic statements, which he only managed by guessing. That was two out of five sets of ten statements, for a total of two in fifty. Granted, they were thrown in with a bunch of literal statements, some of which Alex had also correctly identified, but Alex couldn’t shake the feeling of failure that circled him like a flock of vultures. It felt as though Alex was a fish that had somehow ended up out of the water, firmly on dry land, floundering about helplessly. Alex hated feeling helpless, just as he hated being helpless. He hated even the possibility, the thought, of being stuck in a helpless position.
Helplessness is not an option, damn it, Alex thought.
“You look frustrated. Are you frustrated,” Richard asked Alex, concerned.
“Extremely,” Alex admitted to his friend.
“Okay. Maybe we need to try a different approach,” Richard replied, “Can you define sarcasm for me?”
“Yes,” Alex stated, “Sarcasm is the use of irony to convey mockery or contempt.”
“And can you define irony for me,” Richard inquired.
“Yes, Richard. The word irony is defined as the expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect,” Alex answered.
Nodding, Richard stated, “Okay. So you know what it is, but you’re struggling with identifying specific instances of it. Can you tell me what the definition of figurative speech is?”
“A word or phrase that has a definition other than the literal meaning of said word or phrase,” Alex replied, trying not to let himself get distracted by the gentle pattering sound, almost like a constant, repetitive tapping, of the rain on the roof of the guesthouse, and the same rain striking against the one window of the kitchen.
“So you were struggling with my lessons on figures of speech, but now you’re understanding that. Something has changed in your approach to that, something clicked in your head, so to speak. What change has allowed you to get better at identifying figurative speech,” Richard asked.
Answering matter of factly, Alex replied, “I got exhausted—and I mean just downright sick and tired—of utterly failing to understand figures of speech, so I looked up the definitions of common figures of speech, at which time I realized that—just like individual words—those phrases have multiple definitions, not just the literal definitions. I knew I would not be able to instinctively catch onto them, so I read through the definitions, and manually memorized them. Ya know, like how you would study past events to learn history—I just memorized them by rote, before working to identify them in conversation by the context of whether the other words and sentences around them make more sense with the figurative or literal definitions. It took me all night, and much of the morning, but I did it.”
Sounding very thoughtful, and very focused, Richard told Alex, “I see. I think I can use that to help you with sarcasm, or some of it, anyway. You see, there are two types of sarcasm—common sarcastic phrases, and custom sarcastic phrases. Common sarcastic phrases are figures of speech and are very commonly used phrases, only instead of describing something, they convey mockery, contempt, or—on occasion—lack of belief for, or in, something. Custom sarcastic phrases are phrases unique to a given situation, where the sarcastic meaning is not commonly used or known. However, with custom sarcastic phrases, the fact that the words are being used sarcastically is conveyed via the speaker’s body language, the tone of the speaker’s voice, and the context of what was said. You understand that, right?”
“I do, now that you’ve explained it to me,” Alex said hesitantly, “Or I think I do, anyway. Your explanation makes more sense than my internet research. So, if I may ask, how do I apply it?”
Richard replied confidently, “Well, your approaches to these two types of sarcasm have to be different. For common sarcastic phrases, you’ll take your approach to figurative language, and apply it to sarcasm, whereas—given your struggles with identifying and processing signals in body language and tones of voice—with custom phrases, you’ll have to go on context alone. If it doesn’t make sense in a literal manner, or as just a figure of speech, then there’s a good chance it’s sarcastic.”
Tired, Alex simply said, “Understood, Richard.”
“You seem tired,” Richard stated, “and I’ve gotta do some homework. Why don’t we grab lunch, then I work on math at this table, while you make up for lost sleep in the guesthouse bedroom.”
“If it’s all the same to you, sleep, then food,” Alex replied, to which Richard stated, “Sure, whatever you say.”76Please respect copyright.PENANABtXfBp6Hzx
Upon hearing those words, Alex stood up, and staggered off in the direction of the guest house’s bedroom, and sweet, sweet sleep.76Please respect copyright.PENANAUGcJwD5q0w