Chapter Text
It’s a slow process to awaken this morning. Mental fog clings to me, wrapping my gray matter in a weighted blanket. A blanket, that is, minus the fucking warmth. Isn’t the West Coast supposed to be temperate the whole year around? Instead I find myself in a fetal position on what barely constitutes a mattress, covered in every item of clothing and the few thin blankets I brought with me from Rock Bottom.
Slowly clawing at the side table from my refuge, I grasp at my phone, fumbling it about 8 times before swiping it and checking the time. Great, two minutes before my alarm. The haze begins to creep back in, but I’m already up at this point, may as well get started. Time hangs in a freefall of seconds feeling like minutes before the digital klaxon sounds and my entire body propels itself into a twisting deathroll, flinging not only myself but every item covering me to the floor. The sickening thud of flesh on floor booms throughout the apartment below me, some yappy little shit of a dog howling incessantly at the rude awakening. Me too, bud.
Dragging myself to my feet, I fall into what will most likely become my routine for the rest of this school year. Get up, pull on green shirt 1 of 54 (bulk buy may mean I’m poor, but at least my style isn’t too laughable). Get breakfast in the form of a cheap almost-expired bag of Little Dino powdered donuts, procured from the nearest gas station's dollar rack. They taste more like moth balls, but even the quick hit of powdered sugar on the tongue is helping dispel that ever-present miasma seeped into my brain. Quick run through final checks before the morning commute: phone for shitposting as I sit alone - check, backpack for nerd shit - check, and switchblade for self defe-... wait, where’s my knife?
Placing a hand to my bald forehead, I suddenly notice just how out of place I feel. I haven’t even checked outside yet but this all feels… ever-so-slightly off. It’s too quiet. Even that lapdog’s tantrum from earlier, I’d expect a big ass shitbull or some other man eater followed by screaming from the owner in a place like Skin Row. Slowly unlocking the singular lock on my door, I hesitate to turn the handle. Wait, is that even where I am?
Forcing myself through the threshold, my eyes are assailed by the early morning god rays, but as they adjust I’m left at a pretty big fucking loss to be honest. Peering over the balcony and surveying my surroundings with wide eyes, I realized I’m not in Skin Row. Instead of crackhead-ridden streets rife with trash and graffiti, I’m met with cleanly trimmed lawns sprawling from my apartment complex into the surrounding suburbs. Kids, middle schoolers maybe, walking jovially in small groups here and there. Elder saurians power-walking their way to diners, enjoying responsibility-free retirement. Blindly locking the door behind me, I begin my walk, still amazed over the unexpected locale.
Alright, come on Anon, retrace your steps. How did I get here? This is Volcaldera Bluffs based on signage here and there, but it’s like it was flipped on its axis. Okay, first thing: I was… forced into switching schools. Parents (my old man) used it to pawn me off somewhere far away at some expense to him, call it a sacrifice for his only progeny. Yeah, right. I would be heading from the number 1 flyover destination of Rock Bottom to Dinofornia. Why it had to be across the country, hell if I know. But now that I’m here, what then?
The streets are so quiet as I walk in the misty morning. Even the colder night is quickly giving way to a radiant morning that makes my choice of clothing almost optimal. Wouldn’t be me if it all went well. Going well… going where, actually? My feet carry me onward, and even as I struggle to piece together my immediate past and planned future, it’s as if an instinctual part of me already knows. I’m headed towards the monorail. Huh, that’s neat. Nothing like that in Rock Bottom, just barely functioning bus routes and maybe a loose fleet of cabs.
I’m getting stares here and there from passing saurians, most polite enough to wave, forcing me to awkwardly reciprocate. The, uh, dinos here seem a lot more exotic than I expected though. Damn, maybe I was in a bubble back home. I didn’t know saurians could be so… varied. The general anthropoid-saurian I was used to comprised only about 1/3rd of the denizens here. A lot more were either massive in stature or had some defining trait or appendage that made it clear they weren’t just a bunch of humans dressed as lizards. Kinda like those weirdos on that one Canadian Game-Dev forum, man we really reamed those guys over their last project. Can’t even remember what it was now, but it was a good time.
Before I even take stock of my surroundings again, I’m suddenly all too aware of the claustrophobic proximity and dizzying inertia of the monorail. At some point I’d pulled out my phone and began checking the usual forums: nothing really good at this hour in the states and euro-cucks are only so much fun to mock on any given day. Ah, whatever, I settle for some generic race-baiting, derogatorily calling some random trait “meteor-dodger behavior”. I don’t know, not really feeling it and I doubt whatever seethes I can get before class will really lift me out of this funk.
“Penny for your thoughts, young man?” A deep voice rattles through my body. Looking up, I see a towering white whale with a fine mustache spread across his inquisitive pucker.
“I, uh… I just,” Come on, Anon, “Honestly, sir. I don’t know where I’m going.”
The whale’s brows turn up in a look of sympathy, “Well, sometimes it certainly seems that way. Why, I remember when I was your age. The whole world my oyster and an infinite span of possibilities lay before me.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, “But certainly you aren’t giving yourself enough credit, my boy.”
“No, I mean like, I don’t know where I’m headed right at this moment.” A twinge of embarrassment forces me to follow up, “Like, I’m going to school and all. But uh… something’s been off all morning and it’s my first day. Does this line run to Volcano High?”
His brow furrows, only deepening as I continue, though his worry for my mental state seems to abate. “Volcano High? No, it does not. And aside from school jurisdictions, I’m afraid they’re quite full up this year.”
Oh shit. Yeah, that clears a bit of the fog away I guess. I seem to remember that almost completely dashing any hopes of escape before… before…
“Would you, perchance, be ‘Ay-Non’?”
“Uh, why yes, yes sir. Anon Mous,” I correct without correcting. He takes my hand and it is proven once again that this is not human territory as he liquifies my phalanges in one sturdy shake.
“Good to meet you, I am your school district superintendent, Mr. Ferris. I did seem to remember a unique transfer to the school this year.” Post-racial world and yet he won’t just say “human”.
I subtly scrunch my hand to reposition the bones and tendons, “It’s actually starting to come back. I guess I’m enrolled at… Saint Hammond’s was it? I’m not really much of a Catholic.”
Even over the din of the metro, Mr. Ferris catches my mumbled comment and laughs, “Well, that’s certainly no requirement. Not for a school of the arts, though I can see why you’d make the mistake. That being said, you seem a bit more out of it than a bad day would explain. What brought you to us in your senior year, Mr. Mous?”
DODGE THE QUESTION.
“Oh, haha, a number of things. But I’m more interested in the name of the school. Mr. Superintendent Ferris… sir.” Parried flawlessly.
His comforting yet probing gaze shifts to one of beaming pride, “Ah, now that is quite a story. It of course requires the context of some time before your birth. In the late 80’s…”
An engaging story teller Mr. Ferris is not. He spends the rest of the ride in detailed explanation, doubling back numerous times for even farther back historical context and activist causes I’m sure never did anything for anyone. But eventually the monorail squeals to halt at our stop and he walks a short ways with me.
“In any case, to make a long story short…” Oh dear Raptor Jesus why didn’t he start that way? “It was only fitting that a school of the arts and with such a unique heritage be named after Saint Hammond himself, though the school is considered secular in its curriculum."
“W-wow,” I cough after not speaking since I asked the ill-fated question, “That, uh… certainly was an interesting yarn, Mr. Ferris.”
“I’m glad you thought so. It was nice to meet you, young man. I look forward to seeing you on subsequent commutes, though most likely not all of them. I do hope you enjoy our fine school and all it offers. If ever you need something, know our faculty is here to help.”
“Right, I’m sure I will. Thank you, Mr. Ferris.” I have to poker face to avoid a sneer creeping onto it. Yeah, right. I’m sure the faculty will be just as blind and uncaring as my old one. Arts school or no, there are always bad actors and careless teachers to enable them.
As he bids me farewell, we’re already at the campus and he splits away from the main entrance to follow up on… whatever reason a superintendent goes to a school. Shit, maybe something did happen here like it did at Rock Bottom and it got a response. Well, I can always ask later if I do see him on the metro again.
The campus looks like college, replete with murals and artistic design adorning everywhere the eye can see. I don’t really know much about art outside of tasteful frog edits, but it’s pretty cool I suppose. I mean, I most certainly have the overwhelming feeling that the painters long since devolved into burnout losers who couldn’t get a job if it only involved existing, but they’re pretty enough.
In any case, time to settle into my plan: becoming one with the walls and coasting through what’s left of my school career. Walking through the halls, I keep my head down and away from the majority of students. I got here earlier than expected, there’s still a half hour until my first class starts. I keep to myself, exploring the halls with the fewest number of students, not making eye contact, and just surveying the scenery.
Numerous halls have open roof designs. I guess you can do that in a place like Dinofornia, but I still wonder how they prevent the halls from getting doused even when it sprinkles. Vines sprout and hang freely from almost every wall and you’d almost think that they were decoration. I did, until I saw a brachiosaur bowl over another student yelling about how she missed breakfast before chomping down. Somehow, I doubt I’ll be so lucky as to get a free meal here. In fact, the more I see, the more I’m amazed this place was an option: no way my old man paid top dollar, and I’m definitely expected to subsist at the bare minimum in the way of housing and monthly allowance, but I guess that’s a testament to the commie principles that keep this place afloat.
I stop my aimless wandering, eyes fixated on a nearby cork board. I furrow my brow as my eyes run over the text over and over again. A chess club meeting September 8th after school. I shake my head, guess that’s why it’s felt so off. Why everything has felt off. I don’t think I’ve been in a good place since last school year. This entire morning, no, maybe all summer I’ve been in a delusional haze. It’s all a fleeting memory now. Monochromatic feathers in a myriad of half-memories. A year joined halfway through. A horrifically ridiculing exhibition of my darkest secret. Wait, no. That happened. Just the one time though.
I rub my eyes hard enough to leave black swirls lingering after I remove my hand. I had my power level revealed just before summer last year. I spent the rest of the school year and all of summer in a haze, begging my parents to just fucking help for once. They only had one solution in their mind.
I guess they didn’t need to spare any expense. It really was the last one they’d make for me. Whatever fantasy my mind had occupied itself with was gone, I feel like I should cry. But really, I just feel empty. Maybe this is a good thing? There’s gotta be people here a million times weirder than me and I’m not in constant danger of getting shanked or robbed on my morning commute like I first thought. Besides, who’d take enough interest in some bald skinnie to ruin my planned hermitage? A small, forlorn smile graces my lips. I feel like whatever that delusion I made up was, it was… happy. Idyllically so. But this isn’t so bad, and at least I’m not some loser talking to imaginary people in my head. I just can’t talk to normal people in real life. That's an upgrade, kinda.
“You really shouldn’t be removing those you know,” someone says behind me.
Snapping from my ruminations, I see that I’d absentmindedly taken the chess poster, tearing it cleanly from its push pin. “Ah, uh yeah s-sorry.” I quickly pin it back in place after a brief fumble before turning around.
A blue-skinned, brown-haired parasaur boy with sharp clothes and a disarming demeanor holds his hand out to me, “It’s alright, I’m certain the chess club will be glad to have you. Ben.” He adjusts his glasses to get a better look at me.
“Ah, well I don’t know if I’ll join. Don’t have a mind for that stuff. Just sorta… wasn’t thinking when I took it down.” I take his hand and am thankful I won’t have to reset the bones this time. “Anon.”
“Well, in any case, I’m certain you’ll find an extracurricular to your liking.” Yeah, likely not. Shitposting is the only extracurricular I need. “You’re the new student I’ve heard about. We’re happy to have you at St. Hammond's. What brings you to our school?”
Is this really such a normie conversation point that everyone will ask me?
“Ah, well, you know…”
“Oh, of course! I should have realized. Sorry, there have been a few new transfers due to Volcano High’s occupancy, but I shouldn't have guessed that was the case. What part of the art program do you look forward to the most?”
“Uh,” I look to the hand at his side, clutching what I’m 90% sure is a camera bag. “Shooting…?”
He frowns. Okay 76%.
“Oh, you mean photography!” His face brightens up. Shit, now I have to fake it on a subject he knows. Play it safe, Anon.
“Y-yeah, well. I mean I don’t know if it’s my primary art. You know, I’ve often been referred to as ‘artistic’ before.” Seriously? Why can’t I keep the spaghetti in my pockets for more than three sentences?
“Well, that’s certainly a boon in this school.” Oh thank God he didn't get the meme. “Are you in Mr. Iadakan’s AP Photography class?”
“I think so?” I pull out my hand-scrawled schedule, which Ben all too quickly snatches up to absorb. Unfortunately, I must have been far too focused on staying cool and Ben too engrossed in deciphering my chicken scratch, because I only hear the hallway commotion at the last second. Suddenly, there's a purple-green blur slicing through the growing crowd, headed straight for me.
Now I’m not the most agile guy in the best of circumstances. So of course instead of simply side-stepping the incoming danger, I flubbed it as hard as possible, tripping up over my own feet into a nearby display case and then having both feet run over with what feels like the weight of a truck balanced on a pinwheel.
“FUCK!” My curse rings out, drawing all attention, then an immediate slam into the glass, followed by a sickening squelch as - whatever that was - undoubtedly got some air off of my feet. Then, all eyes are on me splayed out on the floor. But I’m only searching for what the hell just happened, head swaying back and forth. Ben crouches down to say something my shocked ears can’t hear. When I realize whatever gremlin just took me out was long gone, I simply lay my head onto the floor I now found myself on, exhaling a harsh grunt.
I still can’t hear Ben, though now he’s taking stock of the case I just collided with, seemingly content with the lack of damage my fleshy body did or didn’t do.
“-ay, Anon? I’m sorry for her, she… didn’t necessarily mean it. Just a casualty.” I’m still not really registering his words, but I can hear him now that my ears have stopped ringing. My eyes are fixed high into the case now, there’s a painting at its center. Artism aside, I can’t string together the words for why it drew my eye. But it certainly was pretty.
It's… a cityscape. Maybe Volcaldera? I hadn’t really seen enough of it in pictures or otherwise. But it was bathed in autumn colors at sunset. Maybe it was impressionist. Maybe I’m acting like I know what that means from one of my Moldovan Brush-Technique forums. Either way, the effect was dreamy. Like a projection on a cloud, just enough detail to see the fine attention of the artist’s eye without compromising this wistful feeling it gives you. A river lazily snakes across the lower half, reflecting everything back up. Anyways, Ben’s hand is now in my face, so I decide to take it. That’s enough fake painting discourse for one school year.
“Thanks,” I mutter, “That a daily occurrence? Whatever that was?”
“You could say that,” Ben sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck, “Though it’s worse some days more than others. Staying out of the middle of the halls is usually best practice.” Several blunders aside, no one is looking anymore. I guess that could’ve been a nightmare scenario, but because it wasn’t I’ll just live and let live. Fuck whoever that was though.
“In any case,” Ben continues at seeing my scowl, “It seems we do share Iadakan, though you also have him for AP Art. I would give you a tour of the school but we are cutting it close. Good luck in your first period!”
“Yeah, thanks. Wait, good luck for what?” But he’s already off down the opposite end of the hall with a wave back at me. Good, no need for a tour anyways. Thankfully it doesn’t seem I’m special enough for a welcoming committee.
Well, since it’s almost time for first period, I begin making my way to… the Gymnasium. Shit. Surprisingly, the shut-in shitposter is not very physically fit.
One changing montage later, the whole class stands at the ready as the missing link walks in. Seriously, I’m about ready to bust out laughing, the senior prank isn’t supposed to be until the end of the yea-
“ATTEN-SHUN, MAGGOTS!” The apish figure screams before blowing his whistle with max lung capacity. He's covered in a thick layer of hair across most of his body. As much as it calls into question his humanity, it certainly rules him out as a saurian.
Everyone else gets with the program, snapping to attention. Most even falling into a parade rest I think it’s called - the pose with hands folded behind the back. I fumble to mimic the rest just as his attention turns to me.
“And here I see they have delivered to me the saddest excuse for soldiers this side of the Pacific Ocean.” This side of the... the whole country? Harsh. He marches back and forth, a baseball cap tucked tightly over his head, obscuring his eyes and framing his simian features. “Rest assured that in this class you will be molded into a fine stock of cadets. Those of you that survive, that is.” Is this guy serious? No, this is just some hard-ass act, right?
“You may refer to me as Coach Solly. Not Solly. And certainly not Coach as you maggots are not on a first name basis with me!”
“You got it, Coach!” The loud-mouthed pink Dilophosaurus next to me bellows with a huge grin.
“Drop and give me 20, Payne!”
“Yes, sir, Coach Solly!” He immediately drops and pumps out the reps without a second of hesitation. What is even happening?
Suddenly the monkey-man is right in my face, “And what are you looking at, cadet?”
“N-nothing, sir…”
“Nothing, now? Are you referring to your fellow bag-of-dirt cadet Payne as ‘nothing’, monkey boy?”
That’s ironic.
“What was that cadet?”
“N-nothing, sir? I mean, I was saying I… wasn’t looking at anything in particular!” A laugh ripples throughout the crowd, quickly stifled by a head cock from Coach Solly.
“Perhaps you weren’t! Work on that, cadet!”
“Yes… yes, sir!” This guy is completely cracked.
“In honor of our newest cadet, Private Monkey Boy-” Please don’t let that catch on, “- we will be starting the year off with the time honored slaughter that is… Dodgeball!”
The pink dilo next to me stands after serving his punishment, “Woah, bro! You just finessed Coach Solly into dodgeball on the first day. You’re like… a superhero or something!”
“Great”, I grimace. More like super-sperg.
“He’s right monkey boy, you did good.” A woman sardonically chimes in from my left as the groups begin to divvy up. Before I can get a good look at her, the wind is knocked out of me from a hearty thwack to the spine. Whoever it was luckily smacks me with the flat end of their fuchsia tail rather than piercing me with its numerous spikes.
The pink dilo smacks me on the back, not really helping if I’m honest, “Woah, man. You are just about the luckiest guy I know.”
I suck in as deep a breath as I can to avoid passing out, “This is lucky?!”
“Uh, yeah! You just got Coach Solly to go for dodgeball first day of class.” That is most definitely an L to me. “And Mia gave you props for it!” If her props are this lethal, that is also another L.
“Name’s Damien by the way,” he places a more reassuring hand onto my shoulder.
“Uh, Anon.”
“Did we just become best friends or what?”
'Or what', is right. Maybe it’s his goofy grin or thoughtless eyes that bore into you, but I don’t think I’d really get along all that well with this guy.
“Yo! We gotta make sure we’re on the same team!” Now that isn’t a bad idea. Fuck it, he can call it what he wants, but I got a feeling I can use him as a sturdy shield against the incoming hail of rubber.
“Sure,” I shrug, causing his frills to flap excitedly as he… is he pogging? No time to dwell on that as he drags me to one side of the gym, waving off any protest from the team captain.
Before I can even ask Damien what to expect, the whistle blows and all hell lets loose.
I hit the deck as the volley of dodgeballs smacking into the scales of the innocent drowns out all other sounds. It’s horrific, and my ears begin to ring from adrenaline again. Crawling across the battlefield, I see but can’t hear as my teammates lie wailing - oh God, that’s a lot of blood. Is that guy clutching his-...?
Suddenly I’m dragged to my feet by the nape of my gym shirt. It’s Damien, same stupid grin as he attempts to say something, effortlessly dodging and even maneuvering me to avoid the rubber hail.
I smack the side of my head to get the ringing to subside, “What?!”
“I said, that’s not how you dodge, man. This is!” He swings me to his other side, dragging my feet to narrowly avoid a ball poised to ruin any plans of parenthood. Not like that’s likely, but I mean good on him. “Now you try, Anon!”
He drops me, causing me to stumble forward, a red rubber ball of death shaving a bit off the top. Suddenly I’m in a touhou game as it feels like everyone on the other team is targeting me. I don’t have a chance to think, much less imagine catching one to try and return fire.
Damien meanwhile, is effortlessly sliding back and forth, even catching a ball one handed and outing an opponent with it right after. Both sides begin to thin considerably with only the heavy hitters and a couple grunts like me spreading fire concentration.
Come on, Anon! Coach Solly chose this for more than just hazing! Didn’t he? Of course he did, you can’t just keep getting mogged by these meteor-dodgers, humans were literally built for throwing shit! I steel my nerves, reaching for a nearby discarded ball. I boldly stand and reel it back with as much strength as my NEET physique can muster.
I aim, time slowing to a crawl: the peak of human perception achieved, no one targeting me actively, all balls aside from my own in mid-flight. My sights focus upon some runt on the other team, sorry pal but it’s gotta be done. My arm unfurls the projectile with a force unknown to me ever before and every feeling from today is eclipsed by a sense that this is the turning point. No more loss after loss. Maybe I can’t be 'good' but I can be 'okay enough' to get by!
All hopes are immediately dashed as the fuchsia saurian from earlier snatches the ball as it crosses the team line. I don’t see her even return fire, it all just goes white as the rubbery thunk bounds off of my chrome dome and I slump to the ground.
Somehow though, I’m still not unconscious despite blow after blow this morning. From my supine, face-down position, I hear as everyone starts walking away. A lone pair of sneakers squeak up beside me. “On your feet, Private Monkey Boy!” Jesus R Christ, please let that be the last time I hear that name.
I groan in response, but otherwise slowly puppeteer my limbs into action; I shakily push myself up and eventually force my eyes open. Spinning double vision probably isn’t a good sign. Oh, and the fact that Coach Solly sounds like he’s at the end of a tunnel.
“You were good son, real good. Enough that I almost feel bad calling you the worst.”
“Th-that bad, huh?” I shakily rise to my feet, legs buckling like a newborn dear.
He harrumphs, before quickly pulling something out of his back pocket and slapping it onto my head. Ow.
I grasp at it to find a brimmed cap.
“That’s your hall pass, Private. Report to the nurse’s office for debrief.”
There’s no way he said that: this is some sort of powermove, a test. “N-no, sir?”
He shakes his head, “That wasn’t a question, son. I know when a soldier’s licked beyond his means of recovery. I’ll be there soon to collect your hall pass, don’t lose it.” He says that with more gravity than he told me to seek help with. He strides off to the men’s locker room, leaving me to stumble my way blindly through the halls. I almost miss it, and maybe it’s a hallucination, but I swear I see a pink-frilled saurian giving me a thumbs up as Coach Solly opens the locker room.
Maybe it’s divine luck, maybe it’s my caveman senses, but I do find the nurse’s office. And in a blur of interactions, she recognizes the cap on my head and sets to work on a diagnostic of how badly I messed up to end there. I don’t think she phrases it that way, but it’s all in the look she gives.
Sure enough, Coach Solly is there not long after. “Well done in the line of duty, soldier. Take leave for the rest of the day and report back at 0800 hours tomorrow.”
“Ugh, hell of a first day,” I grumble into my hands.
Coach Solly lets out a hoarse peal of laughter, “Well, you survived and avoided a concussion. Still, no need for the shell-shocked to stay in the trenches. Tomorrow is another battle. Be proud son, you tried to stand back up and damn near succeeded in shrugging it off. You should feel good.”
“Feel good? About that?”
“If it didn’t hurt, you wouldn’t be trying. And if you don’t try, you might as well be dead. Remember that, Private Mous.” He grabs the loaned cap from the nearby counter to leave, accidentally revealing its brim inked with the name “Marcus”.
I stay a few more minutes in the office, mulling over the advice. If I don’t try? I try a million things a day, like putting up with people, surviving, uh… I don’t think that’s what he means. But what does that mean? “Try”. Don’t know, maybe just some Cro-magnon ramblings from someone more monkey than man. Or maybe there’s some weird army wisdom there.
Either way, I think this has cemented that I do not want to enter the service after this year is over. If that’s the diet army experience, a sip of the real thing may turn me into paste. I walk back to collect my things from the locker room, now empty as the passing period begins. Coach Solly gives me a lone nod from his office but no more words of wisdom. I return it after a second of hesitation, which seems right to do, I guess.
God, what an exhausting day. I don’t bother changing, the office is aware of my home predicament, simply okaying my early leaving. So I head home before 10 am. My first day was a resounding failure in every sense of the word.
Barely made it through one period. Met a blue camera nerd, a loud-mouth acid spitter, and the tail end and ball face (there's an innuendo there, but I can’t be arsed to finish it) of some pink bitch.
By the time I retrace my morning commute and enter my barren apartment, everything just hurts.