[COLOR=GRAY][sup][h1][hr][CENTER][img]https://i.imgur.com/x1jMKVw.png[/img][/center][center][b] [color=#D90037]【[/color][color=black]ＴＲＡＣＥ[/color][color=#D90037]】[/color][b][/b]
[color=black]【[/color][color=#D90037]ＴＲＡＣＥ[/color][color=black]】[/color][/b]
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[indent][sub][COLOR=SILVER][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [I]Sub Location such as a room or specific building,[/I] - [I]Pacific Royal Collegiate & University - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean[/I][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=SILVER][b]The Homecoming Trials #1.01[/b][/COLOR] [I]Not so Special[sup]TM[/sup][/I][/right][/sup][/indent][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT][sub][color=SILVER][B]Interaction(s):[/B][/COLOR] [I]Banjo [@Hound55][/I][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][COLOR=SILVER][b]Previously:[/b][/COLOR] [I]N/A[/I][/right][/SUP]
[INDENT][i]Special.[/i] That’s what they’d said. That Trace and their ilk were [i]special.[/i] Then why the fuck were they currently knee-deep plunging a toilet that a jackass had clogged up? The school year had barely started. Unless this was a brick of cocaine, then Trace didn’t know what the hell could have destroyed the plumbing so quickly and efficiently. Unless one of the kids around here could literally shit cocaine. If that was the case, Trace needed to see them. 

When the water finally gurgled and receded into the bottom of the toilet, they exhaled. [color=#D90037]“The year bloody fuckin’ started, and here I am unbothra’n a fuckin’ loo.”[/color] They tapped the handle for good measure, and everything acted as it should. They took the plunger back to the laughable janitor’s cart then dragged that back to its little hidey-hole. Despite this being a school for [i]special[/i] kids, they could still be kids. If they knew where the secret toilet paper was hidden, then no one was safe. 

Trace was used to this sort of labor. They’d stocked shelves for years and had to do sanitation work when someone’s child decided to flush the contents of their mother’s purse down the toilet. At least then they could go back to their flat, wallow on the sofa, and watch the telly. No, today they had to head to the Opening Ceremonies and pretend to give two shits about Canada. Though, at least the drinking age here was reasonable. In the US it was bloody fucking 21. They were old enough to die in and out of school, but not have a beer in peace? 

They quickly exchanged a few pieces of clothing, not really wanting to be packed in with the rest of the students wreaking of hard work and urinal cakes. As much as the beret was blasphemous to everything that Trace stood for, they still sat it atop their head. Going outside was akin to—well—there was no catchy euphemism here—they would burn instantly. They even carried an umbrella with them as pretentious as that seemed. Trace didn’t know if they could get melanoma, but they didn’t want to tempt fate. They already did that once, and now they were a fleshy, marble statue.

The armband with a card symbol felt a little much. “Blackjack” was what it stood for. Trace felt like they were in a dystopian teen novel. Would they have to stand in the middle of the ceremony and give some unique salute to show that they were the Special One [sup]TM[/sup]?  Trace had read a glut of those stupid books while at their previous job. Their boss—which ironically was their brother—was a stickler for “screen time.” So, they’d grabbed a cheesy novel off of the rack, paid their couple of pounds, and immediately got sucked in. It was [i]real[/i] sad. Trace lowered the sleeves on the jacket and pulled at the long skirt that was punctuated by the shiny loafers. They’d kill for some combat boots. Hell, they’d kill [i]in[/i] some combat boots. 

They popped the umbrella as they passed the threshold to the outside, glancing over at their fellow classmates. Trace definitely wasn’t the protagonist of this teen dystopian novel. They hadn’t had time to form any friendships with their other Blackjacks, but they knew one thing: none of the others had any physical deformities and all of them had cooler powers than them. The only one that came close to being as off-putting as they were was Trevor, and he could pass for normal if you didn’t squint. 

Nah, the protagonist was probably the stoic girl that didn’t talk much because she had some sort of [i]Tragic Backstory[/i][sup]TM[/sup] that led to her silence. Or maybe the girl that was rich, smart, and pretty—[i]very[/i] pretty. Or the mysterious, angry boy that seemed to hate everything, even hygiene and manners. Trace was from South London, but even they weren’t belligerent for belligerent’s sake. Or the other pretty girl, who wasn’t as rich but a lot nicer. Trace would probably still choose the frigid one over her, but wouldn’t complain if she got a chance with either. Then there was the good-looking boy with dark hair or the other five/six good-looking boys with shaggy blond hair and a [i]disposition[/i][sup]TM[/sup]. And let’s not forget everyone’s favorite buff Afrikaans aunt. She was probably less protagonist material and more the beloved rival. Trace didn’t know where they sat in all of that. 

They did know that they had to sit somewhere in the physical world where a lone shadow from one of the metal poles crossed over a seat. Sure, it was only a minute slice of shadow, but they’d take something over nothing. They also kept the umbrella popped much to the chagrin of the people behind them—[i]maybe[/i]. They didn’t know how much their classmates loved opening ceremonies. They were asked to stand for the Canadian anthem, something that shouldn’t go well with international students. Trace just hummed [i]“God Save the King[/i]” under their breath as other people sang. They did catch a snippet of someone belting out entirely different lyrics. Probably the edgy, gross boy in their class. They rolled their eyes—not that anyone could tell.

The whole spiel about trials leading to their initiation into a house had less dystopian teen vibes and more “a certain magic boy book series” feeling. [color=#D90037]“Oh boy. I hope this Harry Pottah fevah dream drops the TERF, or I’m fuckin’ out of here,”[/color] they muttered to themselves. But that seemed to be the end of the entire shindig. As they stood, brushing the back of their skirt off they overheard the gross boy go off. Again, they rolled their eyes. [color=#D90037]“So [i]cool[/i],”[/color] they called out. [color=#D90037]“Look everyone, at the [i]cool[/i] boy challenging the system. He’s so edgy. No one’s evah thought to do that before!”[/color] They then grumbled, [color=#D90037]“fuckin’ wanker.”[/color] They’d kept it in for as long as they could. It was hard, sometimes, to not gag at the contents of a toilet, especially when it crawled out and grew vocal cords.[/INDENT][/INDENT][/color][hr]