It was nearly midnight when Roger visited the most important person in Myriad High. He made it past the armored guards and automated sentry guns, the countless passcodes, and about three separate tram rides, just now reaching the elevator. It was a ten minute ride down, chocked full of intricate verification scans. Roger fought the urge to sigh, just in case it falsely tips the system off. Then, the elevator doors would open to a bloody, porous heap of an Instructor shredded by anti-personnel rounds delivered from a slot in the ceiling. That would be suboptimal. Roger has kids to turn into superheroes. How could he do that when he’s dead?

  The long ride came to an end, and the elevator doors parted, revealing a dimly lit lobby. It was known as the Director’s Office, but it was the size of a small mansion. Deep beneath the already subterranean Principality, far below the waterline, was the nucleus of Myriad High.

  And in every way but officially, the nucleus of T.H.R.O.N.E.

  Roger stretched and took off his shoes, leaving them by the elevator. As expected, the Director’s Office was silent. Only the most essential were present at this hour. He stepped through the lobby of exotic woods, humming as he admired photos of bygone days for the umpteenth time. Roger glided through the dining hall and grabbed a drink from a standing bar. For the invisible Agents watching his every move, they probably thought Roger was acting above his station, like he owned the place.

  “I lived here for a while, that’s all.” Roger murmured.

  Voicing his flimsy excuse to the invisible guards, Roger continued to make his way through the Office. Once he passed the library and study hall, he ascended the double stairway leading to Control. The giant metal gate serving as the entrance to Control at the end of the hall ruined the comfortable vibe of the Director’s Office. That dark room lit by a thousand screens monitored by a thousand watchful eyes was far from where Roger wanted to be, but the Director did not have the same feelings.

  And yet, things rarely pan out as expected.

  Roger heard the deep, full voice of the Director as he passed an open door on the way to the gate.

  “It’s rather late, Roger.”

  In the tiny, spare room that was once Roger’s, Director Gabriel Hunt sat in a lounging chair. The aged man’s silver hair shone in the dimness of the room. Roger couldn’t remember the last time he saw the Director wearing something other than a suit or robe. The robed Director’s kind yet piercing green eyes beheld Roger with a kind concern. Of course, he was smoking from an antiquated pipe. An old gift from his greatest friend.

  “I count 15.” Roger said.

  “18 guard the Office tonight, my boy.”

  “Shoot. They’re getting better.”

  Director Hunt nursed the pipe, his expression hardening. Few times in life would a faculty member be able to speak with the Director in private. Even fewer times would there be a need to. That was what Control was for. Which means the reason for Roger’s visit is beyond Myriad High.

  It was between them and only them.

  “I wonder what you’re here for.”

  Roger understood that the Director was painfully polite, but he had known the old man for too long not to understand his language.

  Tell me what’s happening, now.

  Roger took a swig before setting the drink down.

  “There’s a man locked up in Central Seraph Police Station 3 with ties to Cherub.”

  The Director barely moved. The most Roger could see was a slight hesitation in his blinking. There was something infuriating about the Director’s demeanor. Roger got closer, slamming his hand on the Director’s armchair and leaning close, risking death from the unseen guard detail. As expected, he felt something cold at his neck as well as the base of his spine.

  “The fourth Cherub this year, not counting Spitfire. They’re becoming more active, more reckless! We’re out of time, Gabriel!”

  “Roger, please step back and regain your calm. While you still can.”

  Come any closer and you disappear, Roger.

  Roger slowly backed away, and the cold pressed against him disappeared at the same tempo.

  “My apologies, Director. My apologies.”

  “All is well, Instructor.” The Director leaned back into his velvety seat. “I’ll confirm it for you. Through incompetence or corruption, Cherubim are managing to sneak through the Pearl Blockade and into Seraph.”

  “And they’re organizing,” Roger said. “It’ll be like having Apollyon set up their headquarters in your backyard.”

  “Terrible news, indeed. Here is my question, Roger.” The Director stood up to properly stare down Roger. His eyes lost that default kindness in a focused glare.

  “What do you request of me, and what would you like to do?”

  State your terms but stay in your cage, Roger. Better a leash than a noose.

  Roger folded his arms and pursed his lips, deep in mock consideration.

  “Well, I want a lot of leniency and a lot of favoritism regarding my teaching methods. If these kids have to deal with our mistakes, then they’ll need to be put in the fast lane.”

  “I thought you already did that by implicating them in your apprehending of. . . what did they call him? Shrinkman?”

  The old man put a mic on me somehow? Or did Detective Clark rat me out? Roger decided he would press on and ignore that for now.

  “And I want some gear. High-quality, the stuff Control would use. Miscellaneous has always had the short end of the stick when it comes to budget and that needs to end now that we’re out of time.”

  The Director stayed silent. This bothered Roger a bit, but he continued.

  “I. . . also want any access to everything T.H.R.O.N.E. has in regards to Cherub’s Fall.”

  The Director remained silent for a few more seconds. Roger suddenly felt even more tense. He’s been on high-alert from the moment the elevator doors opened and yet the silence pushed him to further restlessness.

  Until the Director said, “Ok.”

  Roger did a double-take.

  “Uh, really?

  “Yeah, sure!” The Director began to laugh heartily, reaching up to pat Roger on the head. To Roger, there were two Director Hunt’s: The man who may as well be his grandfather, and the man who may as well be the King of Seraph. Roger liked the former better.

  “To be honest with you, I was just frustrated that you didn’t visit sooner!”

  “Well, I took a few of my students to—”

  “That explains it, then! Not even the Director of Myriad High could get in the way of Instructor Hill and his students!”

  Roger peered at the desk past the Director. An expensive bottle of brandy sat nearly half-empty. This old man. . . handled me while dead drunk. And so Roger’s respect for Director Gabriel Hunt grew to new heights.

  “But let me be clear with you, my boy.” The icy menace in the Director’s tone returned so quickly that Roger couldn’t help but clench his teeth.

  “Your demands are solely for dealing with the consequences we three had sown all that time ago. If the spotlight of the public eye falls upon Myriad High or T.H.R.O.N.E., my leniency will be stretched thin. Do you understand?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Roger’s eyes began to stare endless miles into the unreachable past. The consequences we three had sown. . . Roger didn’t mind being the scapegoat. He’d volunteer if he wasn’t already. What he didn’t think about was the idea of failing. Could this school year really be the end of it all?

  No, that is not going to happen.

  “Yes, I understand.” Roger murmured.

  “Very well. You will have your accommodations by the beginning of your new semester. Please, get some good rest, my boy. And take good care of those kids as well.”

  The Director sat down and closed his eyes. The impromptu meeting was over, whether or not Roger was finished. Roger reluctantly left, retracing his steps while polishing off his alcohol. As he slipped his shoes on, Roger spent a moment marveling at how well the negotiations went. Despite everything, Gabriel was rooting for Roger, wasn’t he?

  Let’s hope so, Roger thought as he entered the elevator.

  One Month Later

  Roger spent a little more time than normal at the statue today. He was not a man of meditation or prayer, but when it comes to the profession of teaching children with the potential to become great or terrible people, a bit of good luck is something he could use.

  “My second batch of students start training today.” Roger said to the statue. “It’s been some time since the last one. Just enough to make me feel like I lost momentum.”

  The statue did not respond, as expected. It simply gave a resolute look into the distance, far past the entrance to the school where it stood, towards the direction of Seraph City.

  “Things didn’t turn out as they should have, and you didn’t exactly get the chance to find that out when you were here.” Roger continued. “So we’ll just have to settle for this.”

  Roger reluctantly returned a salute to the statue of the Paragon. Roger’s jaw tightened. A tinge of guilt occurred, as if he broke a rule. A man who could never join the military, saluting a war hero.

  “I’ll be seeing you, M.G.”

  Roger began his day proper, walking through the gates of Myriad High. The military academy of Seraph was at a normal level of busyness today. Jets were lifting off the extended runway behind the main building, drowning out any chance of quiet communication. The roaring of the vehicles faded into the background as Roger entered the Tram Station. The military police in charge of scanning agents at the gate barely spared Roger more than a glance as he flashed his identification.

  He headed to the Instructor-only Tram, expecting to run into his seniors.

  And he did. The first one he saw was a recent sight.

  “Good morning, Mr.Kro- oh?”

  Dr. Krovopuskov was asleep standing up, taking up space in front of the Tram doors like a stone guardian. His gargantuan heart was visible through a bulletproof glass fixture embedded in his chest. It sounded like drum bass from oversized speakers. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t snore. The sound of his breathing was amplified, though, so he may as well be snoring.

  “I wonder if he tailors his clothes, or if he just rips them?” Roger thought aloud.

  The sound of a throat being cleared came from Roger’s right. The short and slender figure of the sitting Dr. Hardt greeted Roger with a slight wave. If one didn’t know who the Physiology Studies’ Instructor was, they would marvel at the large open pores on his waving hand. He was fumbling with what looked to be a spherical steel mini-drone. Still maintaining eye contact with Roger, he began pulsing electricity into the mini-drone with his bare hands, powering it up. It hummed to life, beeping and rolling on the lap of its creator like a pet dog.

  “If he does a good job of ripping them, it may as well be tailoring, I’d say.”

  “Fair point. Good morning, Professor.”

  “Morning. I know you and Bruce get along well, but don’t let his recklessness rub off on you. If I have to deal with two of him, I’ll have no choice but to build a Krovopuskov-only Tram.”

  Roger chuckled as he made it past Dr. Krovopuskov and promptly bumped into Mrs. Fontaine, a stout, redheaded woman in a sky blue turtleneck covered by a lab coat. She had the demeanor of an overbearing mother rather than the renowned Creation Studies’ Instructor and ex-member of Gate.

  “Roger! Are you ok?” Mrs. Fontaine asked. She attempted to get on her tippy toes to inspect Roger’s face, an adorable sight to see in the morning. “Security said you stayed late yesterday like you always do, even though you promised you would stop doing that! How much sleep did you get? Be honest!”

  Roger stiffened at this mid-commute interrogation, holding his hands up like guns were trained on him.

  “I uh, I can’t say I was counting Mrs. Fontaine, but I’m sure it was at least four hours. Maybe?”

  Mrs. Fontaine’s eyes narrowed with all the viciousness of a stuffed animal. Her ruddy cheeks began inflating into a pout.

  “Maybe… four hours and 30 minutes?”

  Mrs. Fontaine almost launched into a lengthy nagging, before the Manipulation Studies’ Instructor spoke up from the corner.

  “Lisette, I understand he is rather young for an Instructor, but do not treat him like a child. He’ll think he can get away with things he shouldn’t be able to.” said Ms. Kurotsuki.

  The taller, bespectacled woman in a conservative pinstriped skirt suit picked Roger apart behind the flash of her square glasses as she leaned against the side of the tram. It looked as if her body was threatening to almost become part of the wall.

  Roger sighed, knowing this woman would likely never warm up to a person like him. He couldn’t blame her. A man like him exchanging pleasantries with four of what used to be the most prevalent Strike Team in the history of this organization is a travesty that Roger has accepted long ago.

  “Good morning, Ms. Kurotsuki.”

  “I’m told you finally start with your second batch of students today. Perform to the standards of T.H.R.O.N.E. as you are expected to.”

  The other two silently react to Ms. Kurotsuki’s words, snapping their heads to look at Roger.

  “Is that why you were late? My, you should have said so!” Ms. Fontaine laughed.

  Dr. Hardt scratched at his chin, a twinkle growing in his eyes.

  “It looks as if things will get interesting around here again. Let me know when you wish to test my prototypes, Mr. Hill.”

  It was at this point that Dr. Krovopuskov began to awaken, spluttering a little as he returned to consciousness.

  “Hm. . . New students? Ah, right. . .”

  At the nick of time, the tram made it to Roger’s stop: the Miscellaneous Hall.

  “And there’s my stop! My students are waiting for me, so we’ll have to continue this another time!” Roger says as he slinks out of the tram and continues his stride towards the classroom.

  Being at the center of attention is less than optimal. It is much harder for Roger to observe and analyze outside factors when outside factors are doing the same to him. That was the reason why he leaned into the “plain teacher” look; circle glasses, beige turtleneck sweater, black slacks and dark brown loafers. Roger checked his appearance in the reflection of a window to an empty classroom. The Miscellaneous Hall is the same size as the other Study and Training Halls, but barely amasses enough students at a time to fill up a single classroom.

  Roger reminded himself that one classroom at the end of the hall, the one he was briskly approaching now, would be his first class of the year, and likely his only class of the year.

  His only chance.

  Roger stood outside the door, still like a statue. Voices of children were behind this door, talking amongst themselves in a mixture of boredom and anticipation. Roger smiled dryly, the one he can wear for hours at a time. It’s a smile he wore at nearly all times.

  That smile was the first thing the students of the Miscellaneous Studies’ Classroom noticed about Instructor Roger Hill.

  As for what Roger saw, it was quite a different experience than what was on the surveillance monitors during the Entrance Exam.

  Roger took in the view of his eleven students as he strolled to the plain podium in front of an old school chalkboard. He slammed his teaching material on the podium. After a moment of looking down at his students, Roger tried to suppress a laugh and failed. It was laced in derision and scorn. It was the kind of laugh that lasted a touch too long. Just enough that the students slowly quieted down at the laughter.

  “Goodness, I have to apologize.” Roger swiped off his glasses and wiped at his eyes, wet from laughter. “I should be more polite, hopping right into introductions and calling for attendance. I should be acting a bit more professional, I think.”

  Roger cleans his glasses, still snorting from his outburst.

  “But what would be the point of doing things right? After all, you guys are in the Miscellaneous Class.”

  Dead silence was in the room now.

  “In a world where nearly everyone is gifted with a Blessing—a power—you brats believed your powers were enough to enter the fast track to becoming an Agent of T.H.R.O.N.E? And not only that, you were put in the Miscellaneous Class just after?”

  Roger leaned on the podium and scanned the students from left to right, back and forth, like a security camera.

  “I’m sure the outside world will tell you that Miscellaneous Blessings are equal to the other Blessings, but not here. The city of Seraph is the birthplace of T.H.R.O.N.E. and in this city, we won’t sugarcoat your position. For most of you, your Blessings would have landed you in the other classes if it were just a little bit less inefficient. Without a doubt, as of now, this class is the weakest in Myriad High.”

  Satisfied with the prolonged silence, Roger continued.

  “Even if you manage to graduate from this Principality, you’ll face crises with your Blessings deemed ‘Miscellaneous.’ You’ll work harder just to meet the same standards of others and receive nothing extra from that effort. Consider yourselves unlucky.”

  Roger walked back to the classroom door and flung it open.

  “With that being said, I am a busy man. For those of you who don't belong here—you know who you are—go ahead and take the tram topside, pack your bags, and go enjoy the privilege of being protected by true Agents.”

  Holding the door open, Roger stared back at the classroom. Among the faces of the youth, there were a multitude of expressions brought on by his opening speech. Grit teeth, growing frowns, rueful stares, and even downcast gazes.

  And yet, not a single one rose from their chairs. Roger held back a smile.

  Excellent. The will to learn and improve was there.

  If that exists, any of these kids can become an Agent.

  No. A hero.

  Roger slammed the door with frightening force and began pacing between the three rows of students.

  “Good. You at least have the intelligence to realize that you earned a seat in Myriad High. This Principality is the most respected in the world, and has trained many legendary heroes, including the past Paragon himself. Even if you are the weakest, we have decided that there is potential for you to be something better than you are now.”

  Roger returned to his position at the podium and began writing his full name on the chalkboard.

  “The only way to improve is to identify what you are lacking in, and to correct that lacking detail. Luckily for you all, that potential to become better is guaranteed as long as you follow my instructions. You see, it is much easier to appreciate things you do not have yourself.”

  Roger now brought his leg back against the wall and leaned against the chalkboard next to his written name.

  “As for why I can appreciate a Blessing more than anyone else, it’s simple.”

  Roger adjusts his glasses.

  “I don’t have one.”