Voices

Chapter One: The Boy Who Wanted For Nothing, and Wanted Nothing

Every day is ordinary up to the moment something amazing happens to change the being of how that day will be remembered. So it was on one cold, uneventful fall afternoon as Ren Founder sat in his afternoon classes, lavishing his attention on a small piece of paper sitting on his desk. As his teacher Mrs. Gilsby enthusiastically explained how Einstein's greatest equation was actually a guidepost explaining the proper purpose of life. This was a secret which only she had figured out, or so her enthusiasm on the subject implied, despite the fact that she had provided this same illustrious revelation some thirteen times since the beginning of this school year alone, and doubtlessly countless times more, Ren, however, wasn’t paying much attention to the generous amount of Mrs. Gilsby’s high-toned voice which she was pouring upon the class once again. He was focused on something equally important: the delicate art of attempting to draw a stick-figure duck. While the rehashed lecture had been mildly entertaining the first two or three times it had been presented, by now Ren knew it was more efficient to entertain his mind elsewhere rather than hopelessly wait for the class discussion to take a turn back to what the day's homework had actually involved. Today's subject was supposed to have been advanced geometry before Mrs. Gilsby had become side-tracked. The situation didn't much worry Ren though; he was one of those kids who mostly learned from simply doing the assigned readings anyways.

The physical teacher in front of him at the moment was more of a social formality than a necessity.

This is how this boy saw most of the world around him: dully full of ineffectual necessities leading to a painful normalcy. Ren Founder had been born nearly 17 years ago, and since that time, he had been nothing if not ordinary. His mother and father Laura and George had discovered love early, but decided to have children late, leaving Ren an only child with two very loving, mellow middle-aged parents.  The three of them lived on the corner of 21st and Derogation Lane, Hartsville, USA, in a house which looked like it could quite easily be listed as a historical landmark. Ren didn't dislike the renaissance look of the building though, and neither did his parents presumably, seeing how they had been the ones who originally bought the place. The boy had made a few fond memories in the house, and it was all that came to mind when anyone brought up the concept of 'home'. But even this wasn't much more than a fun side-note on what was otherwise an existence without much to warrant mention.

Are you listening Mr. Founder?

It seemed that Ren's reminiscence had not gone unnoticed by Mrs. Gilsby.

I swear, said the woman who in modern society would be defined as slightly pudgy or 'height-weight-proportionate', Every time I turns around you're doing ANYTHING aside from listening to me, The Teacher.

Yes, the emphasis on those last two words was present, painfully.

Mrs. Gilsby had one of those unfortunate faces which is always stuck in a deep scowl. Even more unfortunately, her personality followed suit. Despite this though, Ren’s presence sometimes drew out a fierceness in the woman that made her usual demeanor seem sublime in comparison. This happened entirely without conscious effort on his part, of course.

It was a mystery, truly.

Today the educator had on her 'angry but condescending' look; a fairly standard choice. As she started making her way towards Ren's desk, however, the boy had the feeling that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

Every single day, I try to fill growing minds with knowledge and you just-

She stopped short as she finally approached Ren's desk and could clearly see what he had been working on: he hadn’t particularly tried to hide it. Almost immediately Mrs. Gilsby’s expression went from condescending to the much rarer ice-cold rage.

"And what, exactly is this?" She asked, slowly lifting the drawing up so as to hold it in front of Ren's face.

Well, it's supposed to be a duck. Unfortunately, I couldn't quite get the wings or bill right but-

Oh, is THAT what it's supposed to be? Mrs. Gilsby's tone was so cold you could practically see frost seeping from her mouth. And would you kindly explain just what a poorly-drawn duck has to do with today's lesson, Mr. Founder?

Ren already knew he was in trouble. Why not just go all the way?

I believe I read somewhere that Einstein just LOVED ducks.

The joke about her beloved idol was the last straw for the high-school teacher.

Think you're funny Mr. Founder? Think you're too smart for my class? The woman was practically yelling now. The other students watched in mostly-silent enjoyment of the spectacle. "Well, how's this for funny? Full detention after school today! And this will be going on your permanent record."

Throughout this emotional ranting (actually far more which I won't write), Ren simply kept a casual mentality like usual. Frankly, he didn't really care either way whether the woman in front of him was a teacher or the President of the United States of America. She was wasting his time, so he had decided to do something else. If doing so hurt anyone's pride, then so be it.

Eventually, after projecting everything that had gone wrong in her life for the past 50-somewhat years onto the boy, Mrs. Gilsby did manager to calm down and get back to the lesson at hand, pointedly refusing to look in Ren’s direction while she did so. By then, she only had five minutes or so left to speak, but that was all the time she really needed for the day anyway, so things worked out. Now that the class was actually focusing on math once again, Ren listened like everyone else as usual. As the evening bell chimed, he slowly got up from his seat, careful to avoid the bustling and jostling of his peers as they all tried to scramble out the small 1-man classroom door at once. No one was staying behind to talk to Mrs. Gilsby today, so Ren was among the last to leave. As he did so, he caught the cold stare of the teacher, watching intently as he left. It was like she was hoping the icicles in her eyes would jump out and stab straight through Ren's head. Their gazes met momentarily and a small smirk appeared on the woman's bulbous face. It seems she thought she had won the battle.

Ren turned his head back towards the door and stepped out into the crowded hallways feeling the same as usual. His thoughts had long since passed the trifle which had happened earlier, placing the memories of which in the same forlorn area of the mind which houses things like yesterday's lunch and people’s birthdates. He trudged forward towards what he thought would undoubtedly be yet another of seemingly endless unimportant experiences. Such was life.

Chapter Two: Until It’s Not

The halls of Westwood High were about as clean and spotless as one could expect from such a facility at the end of the day. Mr. Coqnus, the principal, prided himself on having an exceptionally nice building and only the most prestigious of teachers under his care, which is a long-winded way of saying 'the best school around'. The arrogance of this claim was fairly annoying to Ren, but he enjoyed the benefits which came with Mr. Coqnus's overly-enthusiastic efforts. Every day upon the chime of the evening bell, an army of underpaid janitorial staff workers arrived to clean up the daily refuse which the student body left behind. It was quite an impressive sight if one paid attention to it, but no one did. Men and women in dull orange jumpsuits wove their way through crowds of wandering children, sweeping up dust and papers, shining handrails and glass cases, and even plucking the still-wet pieces of chewing gum which particularly evil little cretins had stuck to the ceiling. The troupe was professional; their abilities almost acrobatic. Whenever a student or group of students got in their way, the Oranges (as Ren had overheard some of his peers call them) would first scowl and then 'ask politely' for the hindrances to vacate the premises, all the while flashing one of those shark smiles adults are so skilled at. The students would then scurry on their way despite shooting some ugly looks themselves and quite audibly muttering censorable words under their breaths. Their uncommon obedience was thanks to another of Mr. Coqnus's inspirations: a blanket rule declaring that hindering any member of the cleaning crew was punishable by detention. Repeat offenders of such a heinous crime would face immediate expulsion, followed by a transfer to one of the nearby less-prestigious educational facilities.

So, as Ren slowly walked through the halls towards his destination, the ratio of students to Oranges quickly shifted to become in favor of the cleaners. He was careful to sidestep vacuums and ladders, avoiding as much attention and unnecessary human interaction as possible.

The way to the fated room of detention was distant; just about the entire length of Westwood's mile-long campus. Ren knew the location from overhearing others talking about it, but he had never been there himself. Nevertheless, even he was impressed by just how far away it turned out to be. As he traveled down the long halls, making occasional turns left and right, he started to get the feeling that he was walking into another world. The sounds of the students died out eventually, and aside from the occasional silent changer of fluorescent light-bulbs, even the Oranges mostly disappeared. The echo of Ren's footsteps reverberated loudly off the tile floor and locker-lined walls. This was an area of the school which he had never been to before. He journeyed forward and heard the faint whines of machinery which must have come from the woodworking class. The cracking, screeching, groaning of materials being beat, cut, and broken into submission sounded more like torture than art. Even worse was when he passed the metal shop. The grinding truly sounded like screams to Ren's ears, and though he smiled as the though passed through his mind, just a touch of fear pricked his heart as well. Eventually, these sounds faded away too, and still the boy didn't seem to be anywhere near the far-end of the school where the detention room supposedly lay. Instead, the lights just kept getting darker and darker, creating eerie shapes where nothing existed and making Ren question just how alone he truly was. Maybe he shouldn't go this way after all? Maybe he should go back, and ask the last Orange he'd seen 30 minutes earlier for directions? Maybe-

And then out of nowhere doors appeared. Above them, clearly written in dull red letters read: DETENTION. The visage was hardly heartwarming but Ren still breathed a sigh of relief at having finally reached it. As he examined the unique the enormous gateway Ren thought it looked bigger than any he had seen throughout the school, and the wood was certainly of a different type. It was a dark color, almost black, but somehow tainted with a blood-like red. Hesitantly, his heart beating just a little bit too fast for comfort, Ren took hold one of the massive rust-bronze door handles and turned.

And turned, and turned, and upon turning the object a full 360 degrees from its original position, finally realized that the handle was probably not connected to any mechanism inside structure. Laughing a little he spun the device, enjoying the little childish pleasure that came with doing something absolutely pointless. Seeing the dark visage of the detention door after his strangely spooky jaunt through the school had been a bit unnerving, but he was getting himself under control again. Studying the strange carvings and runes running alongside the handle (and now that he noticed it, most of the door) made for a good opportunity to calm dow-

Having fun?

The sound of a voice behind him made Ren jump and spin around. He had been so engrossed in the nonfunctional door handle that he hadn't even noticed the approaching footsteps of what appeared to be a girl around his own age. This similarity was the first thing to register in the boy's mind. After that, however, came the flood of dissimilar features which they did not share and sent a slight but sharp stab of discomfort into Ren's stomach.

She stood perhaps an uncomfortably close foot and a half away, adorned in clothes that Ren couldn't quite describe. She looked like a mix somewhere between modern high school girl and medieval rogue. The colors she wore were muted, composed of mostly grays and blacks, her hoodie and blouse-skirt-one-piece thing being different shades of the former, and her boots and tights the latter. The whole ensemble was accented by a surprising amount of lace for this day and age, hence the Middle Age effect. It wasn't exactly the friendliest design, but it did look undeniably nice combined with the girl's well-proportioned face, mixed black/blond hair, and gently white skin.

As Ren took in the stranger more fully now, he noticed also that she held herself with a certain dignity appropriate to her appearance. The air this young woman gave was of strength, purpose, and even a tad bit of danger. Despite the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders, the boy found himself fairly intimidated. This was a strange reaction for him.

Even if this newcomer was somewhat attractive.

Still, there can only be so much description done in a split second, and as quickly as all this flashed through the boy's mind, there was also a flash of dead annoyance in the girl’s, expressed by as fine of a dull-eyed (green, he noted), raised-brow expression as Ren had ever seen.

Well?

Well what? Ren managed to reply.

Are you having fun?

Despite his best efforts, a flash of embarrassment showed on Ren's face.

Not really. I was just thinking how stupid it is for a door to not have a working handle.

With a show of overzealous astonishment, the girl walked up to the door center, forcing Ren to stand aside.

My, that truly is foolish. A door with a broken handle is like a human being without a brain, she spoke in an overly-haughty voice while spinning the handle the same as Ren had done. Then again...

The stranger stopped the spinning, and then slowly started turning it in the opposite direction. Half a moment later, there was a loud click, and the massive doors started to swing outwards. Ren stared, feeling foolish, as the girl deliberately waited for the gateway to fully open and before starting inside.

Glancing over her shoulder, she finished her previous sentence, As with most things in life, the problem might just be that no one uses theirs right.

Ren’s impression of the girl quickly cemented upon one of the two options he had previously been juggling in his head. She was definitely a rogue.

Chapter Three: Indefinite Expulsion

Taking a moment to recover a little of the composure he had just lost, Ren went through a mental checklist of the things he would need on this adventure into the unknown. Numbers 1, 1.5, 2, and the always essential 2.176 pencils: check. Copious amounts of paper for writing that world-changing novel which he had been inspired of in the bathtub years earlier: check. One purely entertaining story for procrastinating the creation of said amazing literature which he thought of in the bathtub years: check. Light blue jeans, black T-shirt, clean underwear: check, check, and check. Last but not least, deodorant (he gave a quick smell): double check. Ren was, after all, a high school male.

His preparations complete, the boy stepped forward with great expectation to face his destiny. He was thus deeply disappointed to find that the DETENTION room not much different from almost every other classroom in Westwood High. Student desks/chair combinations of the sort where the two are eternally connected to one another by comfort-discouraging metal struts were aligned in eight parallel rows with large chalkboards lining the walls in front and behind them. Covering the other two sides of the room were mass-produced inspirational posters which some focus group had deemed ‘positive’ and likely to reduce student outbursts or increase obedience to authority figures. In the far corner away from where Ren stood sat an unimpressive teacher's desk resembling a miniature machine-gun bunker, except cluttered with pencils, old fruit, and other teaching materials rather than bullets. Securely fortified inside the construct was a slightly-pudgy (Ren was being overly nice in this description) old man with a long white beard and not-so thick head of hair. Glasses sat up there, looking lost but somehow accessorizing with the whole senile old man style which the teacher had going for himself. The individual also appeared to be soundly sleeping.

The female rogue who had politely helped him inside was already situating herself at a desk near the far wall, not in the very back of the room but only just. Ren was sorely tempted to sit at the front just to be as far away from her as possible, but he didn't want to appear like a do-gooder either. Plus, if the old sentinel up there ever woke up, the boy certainly wouldn't want to be the nearest lightning rod for whatever wisdom/judgment the old man would likely spew. Quite literally, with spittle, if Ren's experience with other let’s say ‘more experienced’ teachers was any indication.

So, he settled himself into a chair precisely seven right and two back from the rogue, which conveniently also happened to be the seat closest to the room’s entrance. Seeing no imminent instruction as to what he should be currently doing, Ren opened up his nondescript brown shoulder-pack, briefly considered writing some of his foundation-shaking work of literary art, and then began reading the popular novel instead: The Tales of Time and Tragedy. It was a fun fantasy/science-fiction/realism novel which Ren had heard really good things about online. Apparently its conclusion truly cemented the harshness of the real world and had caused many readers to outright burn the novel upon finishing it: a true masterpiece. Upon learning this, Ren of course had immediately purchased a copy.

As he began to read, the boy distantly noticed the school's secondary chime play. Aside from himself, the rogue, and the sleeping giant, six other students joined the party. Of those six, four looked like they were regulars of the detention experience, covered in piercings, tattoos, and scars which made it appear that they had just made a stand for freedom in Scotland and been massacred. The painted warriors all seemed to know one another, and sat near the front-right corner of the room, as far away from both the teacher and their non-clique peers as was physically possible. There were three boys, one girl; all with murky black hair and blacker fingernails. They talked in hushed tones, occasionally glancing at the