[center][sup][sup][sup][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/gTuZqUf.png[/img][/sup][/sup][/sup][/sup][/center][indent][indent]Lincoln Memorial High was a place where teenage hopes and dreams came to die. Not because it was a place of hard ass teachers and impossible studies, oh no, that would almost be interesting. No, Lincoln Memorial High was a killer of spirits because it was just so [i]boring[/i]. Richard King felt that the dim, white-bricked walls of his school were more akin to a prison than a place of learning, and he brooded on this fact quietly as he stomped through his daily routine. 

A message was sent on a cracked cell phone. A kid was pushed. A name was called. A dented red locker was opened, closed, opened again and then slammed with enough force to silence the meagering cast of coffee-dependant teenagers scrabbling to their homerooms.  The contents of the locker were mostly ignored, save for a few pages of a ruined textbook and a flashing image of five people with varying degrees of happiness smeared on their faces. And then King was on his way again, stomping down the hall, everything about him pouring with the feel of “familiarity”. It was the same scene as every other morning before. Nothing ever changed at Lincoln Memorial, and that was a fact. 

King took in the walk to his own homeroom as he shoved a few necessary papers into his bag, his eyes cold as his sneakers squeaked against unpolished linoleum and his shoulder brushed up against far too many distracted students. The hall ahead of him was still littered with tiny packs of kids despite the fact that the first bell had rung already. King’s eyebrow twitched, and his stomach rolled as he saw pinpricks of emotional energy well from these groups of hormone-charged teenagers. The others didn’t notice. His eyes were different from theirs’, more magic, more critical.  He caught whiffs of sadness and happiness in the air, joy and panic, appearing in a kaleidoscope of colors, and they infected his mood whenever his guard fell even a fraction of an inch. His sister called it “empathy”. King called it a nuisance. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, once, then twice, and then it seemed endless. A sign that his group’s chat was now alive and trickling in replies to the text he had sent a mere five minutes earlier. Whatever anxiety he had gained from sending out the text simmered and died and was easily replaced with annoyance from the continual ringing. With quick succession, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and gave the spilling-in messages a quick once over before turning the damned thing off entirely. His friends could live another few hours without a message from him.

The quietly noisy halls eventually faded away as King found his way towards the far east wing of the school, and he barely made it into the classroom before the second bell rang out it’s final warning. Homeroom was already filled with bright colors of sleepiness, petty despair, and hope for the weekend. King couldn’t help but squint against it, already fed up with have to block out the emotional baggage of every other person in the room. Still, his ire was smothered slightly by the tired face of Malcolm Okada.

“Hey.” King said, “You coming to the river tonight?”. He cuffed Mal over the head as he passed and took up the seat directly next to him, an action he usually withheld for someone like Aiden or his sister.

“If you don’t mind the likely outcome of me falling asleep and being a [i]total[/i] buzzkill,” Mal shot him the slightest, sleepy grin and glanced up at him, eyes half-lidded, “then sure. But fair warning, I’ll be using you as a pillow. A... body pillow. [i]Actually[/i], scratch that last part––it made it weird.” When the other boy pushed his glasses into his hairline to press the heel of his hand against his eyes, King caught a better glimpse of dark circles under them. 

“Did you do the math homework?” 

“What do you think?” King gave his cockiest smirk as he tossed his head back and relaxed into the hard wooden chair, “I don’t think I’m graduating anyway, so what’s even the point?” Images of failed report cards and angry, billowing fathers came and went, flashing passed his eyes like some sort of bad dream. School didn’t matter to bad eggs like Richard King. Still, it seemed that wasn’t the answer Malcolm was hoping for, and the moment King expressed his unfinished work the boy slammed his head dramatically onto the desk.

“We were rooting for you,” Mal recited, his voice dull and dripping with familiar sarcasm, “We were all rooting for you,” And King couldn’t control the harsh laughter that welled from his chest as Mal rose with an over dramatic sigh. “I’ll just have to get it from Aiden or Jess.” And then he paused, eyebrows raising, and King could see a bad idea turning cogs in his friend’s head, “[i]Or[/i]. Or we could skip. It’s last period; nobody will miss us. I’m tempted.”

King smiled, imagining their sneaky escape as clear as day. It wouldn’t be the first time they would do this, after all, and it most certainly couldn’t be the last. “Honestly, we should. I did drive here today, so it’d be an easy getaway.” His hands moved idly as he spoke, trying to comb through the messy stack of papers in his backpack as he found solace in focusing on Mal’s relaxed expression. His attention was seized, however, as a stray paper slipped from his grasp and forced him to bend awkwardly after it. He failed to notice the teacher who beckoned their homeroom teacher, Dahms, into the hall, or the whispering rumors of secret agents from the few stragglers who made it into class late.

“You drove. [i]Good[/i]. Here’s my idea,” Mal said as King sat up, leaning forward and lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, one meant only for King. For some strange reason, that notion made his heartbeat stammer. “You said the river, but what if we went to the beach instead? It’s only another hour there and back, and if we left early enough...” There was a hopeful lilt to his voice as he trailed off, and King could see the rings of bright yellows exuding off his skin in waves.

“It’s going to be fucking freezing, you know. Wind chill and all that.” King flicked Mal’s forehead playfully, and smirked when he caught wind of the wavering in his emotions, “But maybe it won’t be too bad if we make a fire or something. Aiden would have fun with making that at least.” His hand combed through Mal’s hair once, and then he furiously ruffled the other’s hair. Mal cursed his name, and King laughed again, already forgetting the anger he had walked into the room with.

Mr. Dahms reentered the room then, gazing out into the rambunctious crowd of children. On his left was another faculty member, Mrs. Keets, and on his right were two well-suited men. They carried an air of chilling confidence. King felt their waves of interest from his seat, and he turned his attention to the front of the room just as Mr. Dahms caught sight of both of them in the back.

“There they are, over there. King, Malcolm. You’re… Being called to the Principal’s office.” On cue, dozens of voices sang out a chorus of ‘ooooo’s and ‘you’re in trouble’s. King turned his attention back to the suits then, his hand slowly closing around the strap of his backpack. Something wasn’t right. He was a gold star frequent to the Principal's office byw now, and he usually wasn’t offered such fancy looking escorts. Besides, he hadn’t done anything office-worthy since last week. 

Carefully, King leaned his head down to Mal’s ear and whispered, “Did you fucking do something? And who the fuck even are these new guys, security?” All he was granted in return with a withering glance and a quickly barked,

“You tell me––you’re the ‘rebel without a clue’.” King huffed audibly at the insult, humor still somehow  worming its way through his system, but watching Mal rise with his oh-so-light backpack and nervous aura to follow the faculty and strangers out into the hall made his stomach roll with anxiety. King followed after Malcolm with a short gait, turning only once to watch Mr. Dahms on his way out. He had hoped for some kind of shrug and nonchalant head wag, gesture familiar to his good-humored homeroom teacher, but all he found was a guiltily bowed head and silence.

Something wasn’t right, something wasn’t right.

His thumb jammed the power button of his phone as he was shoved ahead to stand next to Malcolm. Both of the strange men were staring ahead, silent as can be. King stared ahead as well, acting his part, but his left hand curved over to his right pocket to quickly tap out a message to the others. Just as his thumb dashed across the ‘send’ button, and he heard the telltale buzz in Mal’s back pocket, a strong and sturdy grip ripped his hand and phone from his sweatshirt pocket. One of the suits stared down at him with a gaze that emulated annoyance.

“You won’t be needing these.” The man said calmly, but his grip was tight and his emotional cloud deafening. King cursed and dropped his phone into the man’s hand, turning just in time to see Malcolm do the same with a pained expression. Phoneless and anxious, King and Mal were led through the empty halls of Lincoln High, turned around corners, and watched so closely that King swore they could probably just [i]smell[/i] whatever they were seeking off of him.

His stomach dropped when he saw Charlotte and Nick, two members of Lincoln Memorial High’s secret Occult and Witchery Club, being dragged into the office ahead of him. This wasn’t good, his mind sang. His heart was a thundering steed, galloping two fold as they passed through two threshold sinto the Principal’s office. No Principal sat at the desk. Instead, another agent with dark sunglasses and a short-cropped haircut sat with his hands folded across the table, looking as prim and proper as a ruler. In front of him, in one of the three cushioned seats for guests and naughty children, sat Austin, King’s quiet and reluctant apprentice from the club. His head did no rise when the four other witches entered. Guilt and shame poured off him like wind, buffeting King with it’s horrid gale.

Mal’s hand on his shoulder is sudden and shocking. It knocked the wind from his chest and brought him back into the present, the here and now, where their meek little Principal Jameson was standing off to the side. Behind him, through the massive, sunlit window, was an armoured van and three more suited agents.

“Richard, Malcolm,” Jameson began, fighting through the apparent fright in his voice. King was sure just from glancing at him that he wasn’t scared of the agent. “These men are from Seattle; they’re here to speak with you.” He and the agents cast their gazes across the room once, taking them all in, and King felt horribly known.

 Beside him, Charlotte, small and round faced, her hair hidden beneath a floral hijab and her eyes hugened by the thick rimmed glasses that sat on her nose, shook with rage instead of fear. She was clutching a bag close to her chest, one that King was sure contained a Book of Shadows. She was the backup scribe, after all– all of their club activities were her’s to protect. Nick was standing with his back straight, ever defiant and poised, to her right. His shocking red hair was the most intense thing about him, and the bravado he clung to looked about as terrifying as an angry kitten. His magic was subtle, natural, seen in the pen doodles of vines on his wrist and flowers in his veins. Mal was charged with endless energy, a scientist imbued with arcana, and he clung to King with the knowing concern of an elder. 

Jameson and these damned agents saw them not as four scared children, wondering what was bringing them to such a strange scene, but for who the rumors swore they were, finally. Witches.

They were witches.

The head agent said, “How many more are coming?”

“There’s a few left, but it will be quicker to address this group first, then deal with the stragglers.” One of the other agents answered, quick and efficient.

“Some of those names are our worst truants. There is no guarantee they will have come in today.” Jameson added, wringing his hands together. King paid them no heed. He was focused on the back of Austin’s head. Austin Steinmenn was King’s apprentice in the club. He had been gifted in mental magic, and that was enough of a reason for the others to shove the poor kid into King’s lap for tutoring. He was shy, nearly reclusive, and never spoke unless greeted first during club activities. Sometimes, he would confide in King, tell him the reasons for his trembling emotions, spill his heart out to reveal his detestment he held for his own abilities.

He was weak-willed and frightened. Guilty. King’s rage flared as everything seemed to click into place, and red anger spilled from him.

“What did you do?” He whispered, cold. Austin’s expresion broke, finally, and he ducked his head in shame as King moved forward. When no response, no apology, no tears came, King surged forward and snatched at the back of Austin’s neck, “What’d you do, Steinmann? Did you fucking snitch on us? For what? Don’t you understand what this means?” His voice was rough, raw, filled with the brokenness of betrayal. Austin still did not speak, offered no explanation, no remorse, nothing. Nothing. Through King’s haze of red, all he could see before him was a pathetic traitor.

The agents watched on, unimpressed, and King failed to notice their annoyance until one shoved Mal forward and demanded he “control the idiot” before they had to step in. Malcolm’s hand returned to his shoulder, and King felt his grip on Austin’s shirt lessen almost immediately. He had no reason to push Malcolm away, and so he shifted back into a seat, eyes narrowing as his friend said,

“King, calm down. Chill a bit. It’s not gonna help anyone, getting angry. Just [i]listen[/i].” The whispered ending caught his attention, and King’s jaw set knowingly. Malcolm wanted him to try telepathy again. 

King was versed in mental magics only because of his innate skills in empathy. He was shitty in every other school of magic and unwilling to really apply himself, but things like telepathy didn’t require vast hours of studying and planning. All he had to do was sit and listen. Listen.

Listen.

The government agent behind the desk said, “You are all under arrest for illegal magic usage, harboring occult artifacts, and forming an unauthorized coven on a government owned piece of property.” 

Listen.

Charlotte grimaced and responded, “You can’t prove shit.” King’s eyebrow twitched. He squeezed his fists so  tight  that his fingernails dug into the palm of his flesh.

Listen.

“He’s given us more than enough evidence Miss Alvi. Both verbal recounts and images. So yes, we can prove shit.” And Austin, again, exuded the dark green of pure guilt. King sucked in a deep breathe, lowered his head, and finally focused entirely on his own mind, his own thoughts. He ignored Charlotte’s gasp of rage and Nick’s whining questions until he could only hear the blood pulsing in his ears and the faint, hiccuping voice of Malcolm’s mind.

He whispered, “I’m not saying anything until I speak to my parents’ lawyer. You might want to call him.” The ever collected Mal spoke wisdom, yes, but his emotions were shaking. His anxiety was clearer than it has ever been before as he welcome King into his mind. Beside King’s arm, Mal’s leg bounced up and down, his sneaker squeaking against the tiled floor, and this loss of focus garbled his next uttered words. “My parents, too... While you’re at it. I’m sure they’ll be so happy with all these ridiculous claims.”

As King fell into his psychic mindspace, the agent continued on, already discrediting Mal’s initial plan by denying them access to legal representation and taking them directly into custody. Mal’s actual voice cut through the watery deafness King forced upon himself, “That’s not [i]fair[/i]. And it’s [i]super[/i] illegal.” And the agent immediately replied,

“I would begin focusing on your alibi, witch.”

King’s head rolled for a moment, his jaw twitching, and he cut himself free form Mal in search of the others. Astrid, Aiden, and Jess. They had to get out. Them getting caught would mean no one else was free to get them out of this mess. He sought their familiar minds, and, when he failed to pinpoint them directly, instead began projecting his thoughts to any and all magic users in the area.

[i]”Run.”[/i] He projected, [i]”Run, get out. Occult club has been found out, they’re taking us in. Go. Go. Run.”[/i]

Charlotte and Nick shut themselves off immediately, frightened by the volume perhaps, and King felt Austin shift beside him. He felt eyes, and urged for him to shut up, to keep quiet, please. [i]Don’t ruin this again.[/i] And then nothing came. Austin’s head dropped again, and he closed himself off from the rest of them once more. King continued to scream his thoughts out, trying to keep his head upright at least to avoid suspicion.

The head agent eventually gestured again, swirling his pointer finger around in a dismissive manner as he said, “Start rounding them up into the van while we wait for the others. It’s probably our best bet to get ‘em secure now.” Hands came next, impatient and pushing, and they urged King into walking after a few heavy shoves. Mal’s voice was a soothing echo in his mind, projecting forward the manta of “The others will get us, the others will get us” as KIng dragged himself into movement. His head rolled again, his mind aching for some reason despite the reassurance, and quickly he realized it was due to Malcolm preparing a spell. His eyes focused for a moment, settling on Mal’s hand, and he fought a smirk as he saw the telltale symbols of alchemy. The others were a bit more docile in their movement, but as they passed through the office doorway and were escorted towards the front entrance Charlotte turned and bit the hand of the agent holding onto her shoulder.

“Dammit, kid. Keep it up and you’ll regret it.” The agent barked, pushing Charlotte ahead. The flash of a gun stilled her fighting, and she fell back in line with Nick as they were all led out the doors. 

The moment they are pulled and shoved into the van, KIng’s mind is filled with static. White noise deafened him, swallowed him, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he realized he had just been cut off from everything that made him magical. The van’s doors were slammed shut after a few more moments of rigorously complaints, and King’s head fell back hard against the wall behind him as he reconnected with the material plane.

“I’m cut off.” He growled, eyes flashing, “I can’t hear shit anymore. Just white noise. Fuck, fuck!” He kicked the seat across from him, causing Nick to leap to his feet in fright. He kicked the seat again, and again, and again, cursing out the world and all the shit in it until Mal slammed his hand on to King’s thigh.

“Calm the [i]fuck[/i] down. We might not be able to do magic,” He lifted his hand as evidence, and King stared at the unlight pattern of an alchemical circle, “But calm down. You’re freaking the kids out.” His gentle gaze returned to Charlotte and Nick, and they seemed to relax a bit, settling down onto their side once more. King felt his shoulders slump as well. He was no match for Malcolm Okada.

“Astrid, Aiden, and Jess are still out there, King.They haven’t got them yet. There’s still a chance.” Mal said, again hopeful, again calm, and King’s head rose to stare at his friend with disbelief clear in his eyes. Finally, though, he let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, and he  drew his knees up to his chest as he has finally deflated. The only thing he could do now was cling desperately to the hope Mal spun into the air.

“Then… Fuck. I guess we wait.”[/indent][/indent]