#;v: but hey; that's high school (ｐｏｓｔ－ｍｏｖｉｅ　ｃａｎｏｎ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

roastyoualive-archive · 6 years ago

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He’d had to read the letter a few times to make sense of it. It had to be a mistake. Even when Mom showed up and asked him what it was, when she read it and gasped her pride, he didn’t believe it.

“Valedictorian?!” She’d exclaimed it so loud he was sure the neighbours would pound on the walls and tell them to shut up. “Oh, honey, that’s amazing!” She threw her arms around his shoulders. That was a mistake, he wanted to say. Had to be. He was able to swipe the letter again when she was hugging him. ... Nope. That was his name, alright. ‘Mr. Warren E. Peace’. ... Yeah.

Had to be a joke, then. There’s no way this would be allowed. He wasn’t stupid, he knew how these things worked. Kids like him didn’t get to be representatives of anything aside from ‘What Not To Be’ posters. Hell, he was lucky the Board was even letting him graduate. He still remembered hearing Mom arguing over the phone to even let him be allowed to attend Sky High. She thought he hadn’t heard. He had. He’d just never gotten around to letting her know. But, if they’d disliked him so much then, before he’d even gotten involved in the super community, what had changed? Yes, some things were different. Sort of. The Stronghold Support Group had been making waves. But progress had been slow. There’d been a lot of backlash. It wasn’t surprising, but, it was pretty extreme. Everyone seemed ready to pounce at everyone else’s throat for the tiniest thing. So, putting him on a pedestal in front of everyone - Baron Battle’s son, on stage for the world to see? That was throwing a match into a pot of kerosene and expecting nothing to go wrong.

... Unless that was their plan. Let everything go wrong and then crow about how they’d been right about him, all along. Did that sound paranoid? Absolutely. Might as well start building the tinfoil hat now. But he had his reasons. It’s not like anyone in the super community had been friendly to him since- Well, ever. (With five lovable, dorky exceptions.) This was a major one-eighty. It didn’t make any sense. (And, unknowingly, he was right. It had taken a lot of arguing back and forth at both the Board and Agency meetings for this to be considered ‘acceptable’. Nobody told him that, though.) But, if they were waiting for him to crash and burn, they could keep waiting. Spite was one hell of a motivator. ... And this would look great on his college applications, if he didn’t mess it up. And Mom seemed so excited, he wouldn’t ruin this for her.

(He wasn’t sure if he was excited or not. He was mostly just nervous. Nervous and stressed.)

The stress would only continue to grow. If he’d thought he’d had a shortage of free time before, that was nothing compared to how things were now. Most lunch breaks were spent in the library researching and wearing pencils to the nub, or... Talking to people. That was probably the hardest part, for a few reasons, and he had to recruit a few of the others for help in that department. Sped up the process, at least. Many hands make light work. He brought books to the Lantern to read while he washed, as usual, but the subject matter was different. After his weekend shifts, he’d bus or walk down to the city library (it was quieter than the apartment, and the resources there were beyond helpful). A bit of negotiating let him in to the school computer lab to use the printer. The stack of papers got a raised eyebrow or two. Most people just assumed it was for a report or something. He didn’t bother correcting them.

The last few days of school came and went. He was grateful he’d gotten so much time in advance to work on this. (If he’d asked around, he’d learn that he had Principal Powers to thank for that. She knew he worked, and so decided early notice was more than fair. But Warren didn’t ask. So Warren didn’t know.) Exams seemed to fly by. Warren had to put speech-writing on hold for studying. He’d sacrificed sleep, meals, a social life (not like he had one, anyways), and more things than he could count for a 4.0 throughout his entire high school career, he wasn’t losing that, now. He made himself feel better about the ‘lack of productivity’ by having Mom read the drafts over in the mean time. There weren’t too many others who could, due to the subject matter. But he knew what he wanted to talk about, and thought the inconvenience was worth it. After a few days spent with his face buried in a textbook on different peoples’ couches, tests were done and scores were in. Report cards came home. He sat on the stairs with the others - by the ledge, in their usual spot - and listened to groans of dismay, exclamations of surprise, and proud pats on the back. He offered a bit of sympathy himself, a few teasing remarks. The usual faire. Good-byes when his bus driver stepped to the driver’s seat. Offered a somewhat forced smirk at their enthusiasm at the upcoming graduation, a shrug and a nod at promises to sit together. Like he’d hang with anyone else. The six of them were a clique of their own, always had been, always would be. (He hoped so, anyway.)

He showed Mom his report card. She seemed proud as she always did. Added a teasing ‘I’m not surprised’ and tugged him down to kiss his forehead.

“Oh, Warren, you’ve worked so hard.” She said, giving him a squeeze. “But you did it! You survived!”

“I did.” He said, returning the hug. She was so little... It was easy to forget she used to be a superhero. She stepped back and placed her hands on either side of his face, smiling a watery-eyed smile up at him.

“Guess we’ve gotta start thinking about college for you, now, huh?” She said that so sincerely. Like it’s something they’d ever be able to afford.

“Might take a year off.” He shrugged. Like that’d make a difference. She frowned, brushed some hair from his face.

“You don’t have to.” She said, and he averted his eyes. “We can make it work.” He nodded, pressed his lips into a thin line. In his dreams. He didn’t say that, though. Didn’t want to kill the mood. She sighed and shook her head, dropping her hands to his shoulders.

“You’ve grown up so fast, you know that?” She tilted her head to the side. He nodded. (’Too fast’, she might’ve said. But this wasn’t the time or place for that conversation.) “Feels like just yesterday, we were trying to teach you your ABC’s.”

“Think I’ve got the hang of them, now.” He says, offering a smile. She grins back and nods with a soft laugh.

“I know you do.” She hugs him again, tighter, this time. (He’s pretty sure he heard his back crack.) “I’m so proud of you, baby.” He hugged her back, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Thanks, Mom.”

... If he’d thought she looked like she was about to cry then, that was nothing compared to grad night. The Peace family had tried to avoid the super community for years. This would be Mom’s first step back in years. (Not entirely true. She’d made a few calls when the Board had kicked up a fuss about Warren’s attending Sky High, and the agents there had learned that Monsoon was titled after a storm for a reason.) This would be the first time Warren faced them all like this. So, he’d gotten done up in his dad’s old suit. The same one he’d worn to homecoming on that first wild and unbelievable year. And she’d gotten a dress from... Somewhere. When he’d asked, she said she was borrowing it from a friend. He thought she looked great, anyways. As for the suit, well - he regretted it. Graduation robes were hot, even to him. Mitigating the heat with his powers only did so much. He was considering taking off his jacket, but decided against it.

The ribbon draped over his shoulders drew some stares and even more whispers. The same sort of things he’d thought. Warren Peace? Really, that’s who they chose? Bullshit, said some. This oughta be good, said some others. Who’d his dad kill to make that happen?, said a third party. Who’d his mom-- The fourth was cut off by a glare and a snarl. Congrats, said his friends, who mostly already knew, calming the air to a tangible extent. They walked in in procession, and he regretted the fact that the line was alphabetical (last names), but at least Maj was behind him. Peace and Queen, v. 2.0. The guy in front of him - Freddie Park - glanced over his shoulder a few times as they waited outside the gym. Warren didn’t bother to ask why. They filed in to some ridiculous orchestral music. Parents waved and clapped and cheered and camera flashes mixed in with the school lighting. He picked Mom out of the crowd. Looked like she’d gotten there early enough to get a decent seat. Maj’s mom was beside her, of course. Peace and Queen, v. 1.0. Mom was smiling so hard it looked like she was about to split her face in half. She waved, and the little disposable in her hand flashed a few times. He did his best to avoid looking too embarrassed and slid into his seat, kicking the paper-filled waste basket under the chair so he’d have somewhere to put his feet.

The teachers did their best to stress the alphabetical order, and, for the most part, it worked. But that didn’t stop people from leaning back in their seats to talk across the rows and aisles. Quips about the speeches the staff made. Harsher quips about the Board’s. At least they all knew the teachers, but when some old suit got up to drone on in front of a bunch of super-teens and thought they’d pay attention, it was only the fact that their parents were here and this was grad night that kept it from turning into a bloodbath. A roar of cheers broke out when The Commander and Jetstream took the stage to present the trophy for ‘Hero of the Year’. (Yeah, based on the Royal Pain one. Someone had the bright idea to turn the whole thing around and make it into an award for the graduating class. Not what Warren would call a good move, but, nobody asked him.) There were notably fewer cheers when Mr. Boy got up to present Sidekick of the Year. (That was a thing, too. Warren figured there was some bigwig patting themselves on the back for being so progressive.) Hero went to Will, to nobody’s surprise. The votes had been pretty unanimous. Sidekick went to Gina Connors. Will, of course, said he couldn’t have done it without his friends. This was met with vocal support from the rest of their group, and even Warren clapped along. The camaraderie was ruined when Jetstream - Josie - kissed her son on the cheek, and the fact that Will’s blush was visible from the back row sent snickers rippling across his peers. Warren didn’t really agree with Gina’s win, but, he was probably bias. ... He also thought that her powers might have had something to do with it. Handwriting mimicry. But his vote probably hadn’t counted for much.

He’d written four names on the ballot, after all. Probably against the rules.

He got a handful of awards. Shared the Phys-Ed one with Will, and nobody was surprised. They were a team, after all. People were shocked at the community service one, though, and so was he (he shared that with Taylor Lewis and Layla. There weren’t many three-way ties like that). He collected a few plaques, a few pins, a few cords, and the gold-standard certificate. Had to pile all of them on his chair when it was finally time to go up. (He’d noticed, as he was stepping down from the podium with the certificate, Mom switching a new roll of film into the camera. Where’d she gotten the money for that?)

Deep breath.

He pulled the trash bin out from under his chair and weaved his way through tie aisles. Maj gave him a nod of encouragement, which he mutely returned. There was a hush as he took the stage. A few whispers. A handful of claps. Mostly from Mom, Ms. Queen, and the rest of the SSG. Looked like he really could count on them for anything. He set the trash can down by the side of the podium (ignored the confused looks) and let the papers rest just under the microphone. He opened his mouth to speak, and--

“YEAH, that’s my BOY!” Zach’s voice was so loud, it almost seemed like he was trying to give Boomer a run for his money. Abigail Bruin and Leslie Black (to either side of him) had jolted away like that would save their eardrums. Little late for that. Still, it broke the tension a bit. Warren was grateful, in spite of his raised eyebrow and rolled eyes. Waited for silence. It wasn’t a long wait. He picked up the first page of his stack.

“July fourth, 1776. Declaration of Independence. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal’.” He held up the paper for all to see, two fingers on the bottom of the page. He looked up just in time to catch the gasp when that hand caught ablaze. “Not at Sky High.” He dropped the paper into the bin, flicking a bit of fire in after it to keep it ablaze. He picked up the second piece of paper.

“December fifteenth, 1791. Amendment Six. ‘In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury’.” This was also set on fire and dropped into the trash can. “Not at Sky High.” If people weren’t paying attention before, it looked like they were, now.

“December tenth, 1948. Universal Declaration of Human Rights. ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.’” Also set on fire, also dropped into the trash can. “Not at Sky High.” By now, there was a decent blaze at his side, and a lot of the adults in the room looked visibly on edge. (Mom looked proud. She’d heard him practice this a dozen or more times.)

“When I was six,” he looked up, ignoring the script he’d prepared, just in case. “If you asked me what my dad did, I would’ve told you he sold cars. And I would’ve been proud of it.” He pulled a tiny Hot Wheelz out of his jacket pocket. Picked it up at the second-hand store earlier that week. “I didn’t understand how cover careers worked. I was six. All I knew was that cars were cool.” He let the car roll across the podium as he talked. A faint smattering of chuckles through the crowd. He caught the car before it fell. “I thought I wanted to be like him. I wanted to sell cars. Or drive them. My friends and I used to talk about being in NASCAR when we grew up.” That hand caught fire, now, blazing brilliant white with wound-tight nerves. When he opened his hand, the car was gone, and a mangled mess of plastic and metal sagged in its place.

“August fourteenth.” If his voice sounded unsteady here, he didn’t notice. “1997. International Court of Justice transcription, Judge Quyen Tran presiding. ‘For your crimes against humanity too numerous to recount, I hereby sentence you to four consecutive life sentences within the North Alaskan Penitentiary for the Supernaturally Enabled. May you never again see the light of day’.” It hurt to read, but he kept his composure as he tossed the metal-plastic lump into the flaming waste basket. It wobbled slightly, and he steadied it with his foot.

“Baron Battle got his trial. Warren Peace didn’t.” He didn’t look up at the crowd, and didn’t admit to himself that he couldn’t. “The day before I turned seven years old, I received my own life sentence. Just the one - but it was enough. It was different than the kind Judge Tran would’ve given me. The sentence I got,” he did look up here, briefly. “is the kind with no cell, no shackles, but still prevents you from ever being free. It’s the kind that makes every door close before you get anywhere near it.” He looked to Mom for a confidence boost. She was nodding, smiling a smile that seemed strained. He figured she wouldn’t be smiling for long. He was getting to the part where he’d stopped reading to her and started reading to the mirror.

“The sentence I got is the kind that makes grown adults look at a seven-year-old kid - one who still wears velcro sometimes, because tying shoes is a new thing - and say that he’s never going anywhere in life. The kind that makes teachers look at a kid who can barely see over the top of their desk and think ‘he must have done something to deserve it’ when he says something about how he’s being treated. The kind that makes them look down their noses from their safe ten-foot distance at a kid who’s just graduated from picture books and talk. Maybe they thought I couldn’t hear. But I could. It was like living in an echo chamber. People said I was dangerous. I’d never amount to anything. I’d end up in juvie, if I was lucky, and my poor mother for having to put up with me.” An exhale against the silence. “The thing is, when you hear that often enough... You start to believe it. By the time I was in middle school, I thought they were right. I mean, if everyone-” He looked up again, caught his mother’s gaze. “Almost everyone, is so convinced of that, who am I to tell them ‘no’? You just start to accept the majority’s rule. You believe you’re a criminal, even if you have no record. You believe you’re good-for-nothing, even if you try your hardest. You believe you’re a burden on everyone around you and curse your invulnerabilty to Hell and back from preventing you from lifting that burden.” There was a different kind of silence over the room, now. A colder one. A heavier one.

He kept going.

“I never got a trial. I never saw a jury. But a thousand judges sat before me and the verdict was unanimous. And with all the naivety of youth, I thought I was the only defendant. But that wasn’t the case. When I first came to Sky High, I had a reputation before I even walked through the door. I’ll admit, I didn’t do much to get rid of it. I might as well own up to the cafeteria thing, now, since everyone already knows about it. That one’s on me. ... But it was Stronghold who put the holes in the walls.”

“My bad,” Will offered from where he sat. Warren smirked and rolled his eyes. A few quiet laughs in the audience.

“Back then, I thought it was just me. That I’d said or done something back in first grade to deserve all of it. That something was wrong with me. ... Turns out that assumption was what was wrong. It’s not just me. It was never just me.” He straightened his stack of papers, took a second to straighten his posture.

“Donna Reese was in the year above ours. Her grandmother was a villain who called herself Lady Fracture. Donna’s mother is unpowered and a civilian. I ran into Donna not long before tonight. She works at an autoshop as a secretary and apprentice, volunteers at a soup kitchen in her free time, and never misses an episode of Criminal Minds. She also can’t get hired by the Agency as a hero. She’s applied seventeen times to date. When she asked why they turned her away, she was told that she was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. She’s pretty sure that’s also why she gets stopped and searched at the gate every time she goes back to the Agency, when everyone else is allowed to pass through without interruption. Donna’s eighteen years old, and has no record. Not even for speeding. She’s not old enough to drink, but apparently, she is old enough to give up on.” That paper was also dropped, flaming, into the trash can. The dying embers devoured it greedily.

“Phillip Ashfield is a sophomore here at Sky High. His cousin is a villain called Bile Intent, who’s currently locked up in Fort Brant. That’s medium-security, for those wondering. Phil’s a comic book enthusiast who’ll talk about his favourite heroes with anyone who’ll listen, and some people who won’t. In his freshman year, you could always pick him out of a crowd, ‘cause he always had someone’s logo on his T-shirt. He had the Commander’s castle on a few times, Beacon’s lamp, Gold Fang’s gate, Animalia’s pawprint, and I even saw him with Mom’s ‘M’ on, once or twice. His friends told me he always got so excited when someone recognized who he was supporting that day. He wanted to be just like them.” He looked up from his paper here to fix the crowd with an almost accusatory stare. “He wanted to be just like you.” A pause to let that sink in, before he looked back to his papers. “I’m using the past-tense for this, and the shirts, because a few days before the end of his freshman year, Phillip Ashfield, age 14, was cornered by a handful of upper-year students in his way home from school and physically assaulted. I got a chance to talk to his parents, and they said it was hard to tell how bad the beating actually was, since he’d had paint thrown over him and the limited-edition 1988 Jetstream shirt he’d been so proud of. He’d reportedly been told to stop pretending. That he wasn’t fooling anyone. He’d never be a hero, and they’d probably already had a bed waiting for him at Brant. That he should do everyone a favour and lock himself up before he hurt somebody. And yeah, before you ask, I’ve been told similar. Phil was fourteen then, he’s fifteen now, and I never saw him in anyone’s logo again. He’s barely old enough to get a learner’s permit, but he’s beyond old enough to condemn.” Another burning paper dropped into the bin.

“Jason Jaspers, son of Marco Polarity and a civilian father. Jason likes card tricks and poker and country music. He hates being in school and skips frequently. Hangs out with a group of civilians at the Spotlight down town. But I can’t blame him. Would you like going to a place where your locker was so badly vandalized you couldn’t open it any more? Where you had an entire bowl of punch dumped onto you your first homecoming? Where you had your clothes stolen at gym, only to turn up later clogging one of the toilets in the guys’ washroom? And, by the way, gym clothes belong to the school, so, better hope you have something else to wear home, Jay. He’s turning seventeen in a week, and he’s already decided he’s not applying to the Agency. He’s heard the same stories that I have- The same ones Donna heard, Phil heard, that so many kids like us hear: They don’t want us there. Just like everywhere we’ve tried before, they don’t want us. So I don’t know what Jay’s gonna do with his life, but I sure as hell don’t blame him for leaving the community behind.” Another flaming paper. He was glad he had the fire to vent, otherwise it’d be a lot harder to keep his composure.

“Whether our parents, grandparents, cousins, relatives, whoever deserved what they got, sure, yeah, they probably did. But we didn’t. I didn’t think that way at the time. I still thought it was just us. I still thought it was justice. That we’d done something wrong, all of us, to deserve the harassment and the abuse, because that’s what it was. That we as children still trying to find our place in the world had done something so horrible that for my entire experience at Sky High, all four years, there was only one teacher who was halfway decent to me throughout and that was Coach Boomer.” He pointed in the Coach’s general direction. “But I’m sorry, Coach, ‘cause if we’re still following the court metaphor, then you’ve presided over more mistrials than I can count, because it still wasn’t just us. And it never was.”

“When Will and I totaled the cafeteria, we both got detention for it. Not my proudest moment, but, hey, I had it coming, I’ll admit. Meanwhile, there were a pair of upper years who wreaked havoc every day. Half-drowned kids and their belongings in the toilets, stole lunch money and food, assaulted and harassed the staff in front of crowds of people. I didn’t meet them in detention. I met them in gym, because they were the star athletes. What’s the difference? They targeted sidekicks. I can’t help but wonder - If Will hadn’t gotten his powers in time to throw me through the teacher’s lounge, would I have gotten in trouble for it? I dunno. Maybe not. Those two - Speed and Lash if you’re curious, you probably remember what happened to them - weren’t the only ones, even if they were the worst. Making life hell for the sidekick class was a school tradition. My friend Zach--”

“WOO!” Came a voice from the crowd.

“Yeah, that’s you.” Warren nodded. “In Freshman year, he got the award for ‘Most Useless Superpower’.” When he looked up again, accusation was mixed with an angry defiance. “Why is that a thing? In what world is it okay to tell a fourteen-year-old, in a written, official school document, that he’s useless? ... I guess the same world where telling another freshman that he’s lucky the Agency is letting him step on school property is acceptable. ‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, the fact that we have that award is disgusting, and Zach is anything but useless. He’s one of the most painfully upbeat and optimistic people I know. He’ll face any challenge head-on without flinching, he’d rather die before betraying a friend or leaving someone behind, and he’s the first person in the caf to start shoving food at me if he thinks I’m not eating enough. He’s a damn good person who any of you would be lucky to be anything like, and he doesn’t deserve the shit you put him through,” (Oh, they weren’t too happy about the language.) “And don’t ask me to repeat myself, Glowstick, because we both know I’m not gonna. But, you know what? Maybe being a good person at Sky High is useless. That’d explain why there are so few of them. ‘Cause just like the list of kids like me, the list of kids like Zach goes on. Andy Dwyer graduated school flinching when half the hero class of his year walked by. Mavis Acrowitz was five minutes late to every class because there were some halls she was terrified to walk through, so she had to find other routes. Leo Winters was a master at faking sick, because the nurse’s office was the only place he could eat his lunch in peace. Toby Price did homework for himself and the Hero who had a locker next to his - Bec Lewis - so he’d be left alone, and took the blame from his parents when his grades slipped as a result. Scott Green just dropped out. Couldn’t take it any more. Dunno what happened to him.”

“It wasn’t a secret these things were happening. We all knew it. But it happened out in the open, and it was never really punished, so we assumed that’s just how things were. When the staff turned a blind eye or even encouraged it, that only cemented the idea. And Mr. Boy - I never had you myself, but one thing came up pretty frequently when I was talking to people about this. You were almost unanimously the favourite teacher, because you made the kids you taught, the sidekicks - the Hero Support - feel like maybe, just maybe, they weren’t worthless, after all. Maybe they could amount to something, even if it was living in someone else’s shadow.” He looked up again. “Think about for a second. In this entire school, only one teacher told an entire class of kids they had some value. Only one teacher out of the entire faculty treated them with the respect the Declaration-” (he pointed to the trash can) “says they deserve. And he was a sidekick, too. I can’t be the only one who sees a problem with that.”

“When I helped save the school from Royal Pain - and yes, I am playing that card - I won the award for ‘Most Likely to be a Villain’. I got it every year. Even this year. You can check the year books if you don’t believe me, but you probably do. You guys voted for it, after all.” A bitter shrug. “That was the year Zach got ‘most useless superpower’. And someone got that award every year, too. That kind of thing sends a message. It tells us that it doesn’t matter what we do. Our actions and our efforts aren’t important. All that matters is things completely outside of our control. Whether it’s kids like me who get blamed for things our relatives did or kids like the sidekicks who get shunned for the powers they were born with, you look at us and brand us as criminals, as losers, and wastes of time and wastes of your breath. You see us as failures and throw us away before we ever get the chance to be anything else!” There’s heat distortion around his hand as he gestures to the trash can again, but he clenches his fist and takes a breath and it’s gone before any fire can bloom. “But who cares? Because all we are is villains and sidekicks. And you’re the good guys. ... Which only makes the fact that I have to get up here and tell you this all the more ridiculous.”

“You’re the adults.” He waved a hand to the crowd. “We’re the children.” He thumped himself in the chest with an open palm. “You’re supposed to be showing us right from wrong. But not at Sky High. You’re the teachers, we’re the students. You’re supposed to be encouraging us - all of us - to be the best we possibly can. But not at Sky High. You’re superheroes. It’s your duty by choice - A responsibility you willingly took on - to stand up to injustice, to protect those who can’t protect themselves, to make the world a better place, to be- Well, heroes. But not at Sky High.” He threw the rest of the papers into the trash bin. Only a few small flames remained.

“Things need to change. They need to change yesterday. It’ll be difficult, and it’ll take all of us. But it’s well past the time that, when people talk about kids feeling unsafe in school, when they talk about the discrimination rampant in the Agency and in the education system, when they talk about how they feel like they failed the younger generations and have no clue where they went wrong, that we can honestly and proudly say, ‘Not at Sky High’.” He took a step back from the podium, picked up his trashcan, and walked off stage without a word. He wasn’t sure where the clapping started. Maybe Mom, maybe one of the others, But it caught on - mostly from the sidekick kids, he noted - until it was loud enough that Powers had to wait a moment for silence. Warren walked past the rows of students. He was stopped, briefly, by Zach, who pulled him into a tight hug. Warren decided not to complain too much. Patted him on the back, untangled himself, and moved to the middle-back of the gym where the Ps, Qs, and Rs were sitting. Maj moved the awards on his chair so he could sit and nudged him with her shoulder.

“Nice one, Hothead.” She said, and he nodded.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peace.” Powers said, once she was satisfied with the volume in the room. Warren looked up just in time to catch a conspiratorial smile she shot his way. He arched a brow. She clearly knew something he didn’t. He wasn’t sure to feel about that, but she carried on before he could dwell too much on the thought. “Now, if I could request the help of our staff in lining up the student body, it is my honour to present our graduating class of 2008 with their diplomas. Yes, good- Thank you. Patricia Abernathy...”

#suicide mention //#abuse mention //#violence mention //#bullying mention //#ask to tag //#;holy blank blankman (ｄｒａｂｂｌｅｓ)#;v: but hey; that's high school (ｐｏｓｔ－ｍｏｖｉｅ　ｃａｎｏｎ)#long post //#;ignited (ｉｎ　ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ)#;r: strongest hero I know (Ｐｅｎｎｙ　Ｐｅａｃｅ)#;r: not wonder woman (Ｐｒｉｎｃｉｐａｌ　Ｐｏｗｅｒｓ)#;r: can't get them to stop talking to me (Ｓｔｒｏｎｇｈｏｌｄ　Ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ　Ｇｒｏｕｐ)#i dunno if they did val before or after at your school but we did awards with speakers here and there | val | diplomas at mine so #that's how it's formatted #sb: warren peace as valedictorian is a bad idea #warren: literally burns a copy of the declaration of independence on stage; casually drops the fact that he was suicidal in middle school;#reads the entire faculty the riot act; swears a few times #diana powers: are you kidding this was a GREAT idea #BUT YEAH SOMEONE MENTIONED VALEDICTORIAN WARREN AND I LOVE THAT IDEA SO MUCH SO HERE YOU GO HE'S MAD ABOUT MANY THINGS #also this is currently unedited so. forgive any typos i'll go over it after class

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roastyoualive-archive · 6 years ago

Note

Penny has died.

“…..has died.” finish it in my ask. || Accepting

… when turned fifty degrees past calibration, will result in a polari–

Snap. Warren frowned down at the broken pencil lead. Ah, well. That’s what he had extras for. He grabbed one of the two spares from the corner of his workspace and resumed his note-taking. Every now and again, he’d glance up at the blackboard. While some people might question his teaching methods, nobody could say Medulla didn’t know what he was talking about. He was a supergenius, after all.

He’d been in the middle of double-checking his spelling of the inventor of the first shrink ray (Russian phonics were different than any he’d worked with, before) when a knock on the door stopped the lecture. Warren only spared it the barest glance.

“Yes?” Medulla sounded annoyed. Warren could relate, but decided to salvage the situation. As Medulla stepped outside to speak with whoever it was - offering a ‘one moment, class’ over his shoulder - Warren reached down to rummage through his bag. He’d scrounged together enough spare cash to buy a set of highlighters from the dollar store, so, depending on how long this took, he might be able to get a head start on colour-coding his notes–

“Mister Peace.” He looked up. People were looking at him, now. A glance to the side showed him Will quickly averting his eyes. As Warren sat up, he returned his own gaze to the door. Mr. Medulla stood with a decidedly unreadable expression on his face. Beside him was one of the office attendants. The, uh, the jumpy one, what was her name… Mrs. Springer.

“… Yeah?” He said when the silence stretched.

“You’re being requested at the office.” Warren rolled his eyes almost before Medulla had even finished speaking. Of course he was. He shot an irritated grimace at the desk as he pushed himself to stand, bracing his hands on the smooth wooden surface.

“And, Mister Peace?” Medulla spoke again. Warren straightened with a huff of breath and an arched brow.

“Yeah?” He repeated. Mrs, Springer shot an anxious glance to Medulla. Warren felt like he wasn’t supposed to notice, but he did.

“You- Might want to bring your bag, dear.” She said it in the sort of tone you’d expect a grandmother to have. That didn’t make this any less of a headache. He was fluent in teacher, by now. That meant ‘don’t expect to come back, kid’. He shoved his book into his bag, briefly wondering who he’d have to ask to copy their notes. Probably Will. Speaking of-

“What did you do?” He asked, voice barely over a whisper. Warren shrugged and shook his head, doing his best to convey ‘I don’t know!’ in a gesture. He hauled his bag up by one strap and walked through the silent classroom and out into the hall. As he passed, Mr. Medulla looked like he wanted to say something. Warren paused. A beat of silence, before Medulla shook his head and closed the door. As it clicked, Warren could faintly hear him returning to the lecture with an apology for the interruption. Damn. He hoped this wouldn’t be on the test - or maybe he could ask for a make-up lecture at lunch? … Probably not. Especially not if he was in trouble. Guess he could always check the library.

The walk to the office was silent. So silent, in fact, he could hear his sneakers against the tiled floor just as well as her heels. Springer seemed more nervous than usual. She wouldn’t stop fiddling, either with her glasses, a stray piece of hair, or the manila folder of paperwork she seemed to have perpetually clutched to her chest. … She seemed scared. Of him? Did she honestly think he’d attack a teacher? (Or- secretary?) …. Scratch that. Baron Battle’s kid. Of course she’d think something like that, never mind the fact he’d never done that kind of thing in his life. (Thanks, Dad.) He decided to think about something else. Like what they could possibly be pinning on him, this time. He honestly had no idea. He hadn’t gotten into any fights, or even any arguments lately, didn’t make a headache of himself in class… Didn’t cheat on tests or plagiarize his work, and ever since sixth grade had made a point of keeping his rough drafts and research notes to prove it… Didn’t destroy any more property than normal in STC (and had not, thank you very much, set Boomer on fire again). Yeah, he had no idea. He figured he had to be getting blamed for someone else’s handiwork. Again. Whatever. The nice thing about having friends (or, one of the nice things) was that, hopefully, at least one of the others would be willing and able to vouch for his innocence. That should speed things along. Maybe he’d be able to catch the tail end of the lecture, after all.

Springer opened the door for him, and he gave her a small nod of thanks. Received a watery, shaky smile in return. Geez, she looked like she was about to cry. Was she really that scared of him? They’d barely ever even spoken, before! It didn’t put him in the best mood as he stepped into the office. Principal Powers was at her desk. For some reason, she looked older than she had when he’d passed her in the hall, that morning. He wasn’t really sure why. Didn’t think about it long after he saw the person sitting beside her. A man, broad in the shoulders, in a formal black suit. Short hair, dark glasses, ear piece. A Fed, by the looks of it. It took a concentrated effort not to scowl. Had to be about Dad. Because, you know, a fifteen-year-old highschooler in California absolutely had control over what happened up at NAPSE. He’d handled this before. Just give him your statement, get your alibi verified, get back to class. Hopefully it wouldn’t take as long to process as it had, last time. The suit started to ask a question - ‘Are you–’ but clammed up as soon as he saw Warren’s face. Just nodded to himself in silent confirmation. Warren warily set his bag down by the door and crossed his arms over his chest, hovering by the door.

“Uhm-” Mrs. Springer broke the silence. All three sets of eyes - Powers, Warren, and the Suit’s sunglasses - turned to her. She gulped, stared at the floor, and shut the door with a nervous laugh before scurrying off down the hall. Warren furrowed his brow. Sheesh, and he thought he was bad with social situations.

“Warren?” Principal Powers spoke, and he looked up. First names? Weird. “This,” she continued, gesturing to the suit, “is Mr. Stern, from the Agency’s head office.” Warren’s brows raised, and he blinked. The Agency? What the hell did they want? No Agent had tried to get in contact with the Peaces since Mom went inactive. Were they trying to hire her, again? To hire him? He wasn’t even licensed, yet. That couldn’t be it. … It looked like they were waiting for him to say something.

“Hey.” Warren greeted lamely. He kept studying the Agent, trying to get a read on him. No luck. Not surprising.

“Would you take a seat, son?” The Agent - Stern - said, nodding to a chair opposite the desk. Warren glanced to the chair, leaning away to get a better look at it and swallowing a comment about how Stern wasn’t his dad. Probably better to not make this worse. Instead, he said nothing and did sit down, but kept his eyes on the two adults. This was so weird. It only got weirder when Stern reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a huge, white rectangle that almost reminded Warren of an overgrown bar of soap. He flicked a switch on the side, the box made a short whirring noise, and Powers gave the Agent what Warren thought would have been an exasperated look, if she’d had the energy. (Why was she so tired? Did the staff coffee machine break, or something?) She didn’t stop him, though. There was a brief moment when the air felt charged with static. It faded quickly enough, but not before piquing Warren’s curiosity. He wanted to reach over to the box and see what it was. He decided against doing so and kept his arms crossed, hands tucked in. Stared silently at Stern, waiting for an explanation.

“Son,” Stern began again, shifting to a more comfortable position in his chair. Warren leaned back slightly in his. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” A part of Warren very much wanted to be sarcastic. It was drowned out by the chill that raced down his spine.

“… What kind of news?” He sat up slowly. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair a bit tighter than he realized. Stern sighed.

“It’s about your mother.”

Warren felt the school rock beneath him. Mom?

“What…?” The air was suddenly too thick for him to get any other words out. In the corner of his eye, he could make out Powers standing up, but he was too focused on Stern to care. No, no, no no no….

“This afternoon, at 1:45 PM, your mother was on her way home from work.”

No.

(It was so cold.)

“… Am I correct to assume you’ve seen the news? About Voltage?”

No.

(Yes.) (He didn’t answer.)

“We have reason to believe that your mother intervened in one of their attacks.”

No.

(Please, no.)

(This wasn’t real.)

(Not Mom.)

“And…” Stern trailed off. Warren kept staring, unaware that he was shaking his head in silent denial.

Please.

Stern sighed.

“I’m so sorry, son.”

Sorry?! What did that-?! He didn’t even remember standing up, but the chair that clattered to the ground behind him let him know that he must’ve. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It was some sick joke, some sort of- Some- It wasn’t-! It couldn’t be, not Mom-!

“You’re lying!” He wasn’t aware of the break in his voice. He was aware that there was no fire in his hands. Tried again. Nothing. Powers and Stern were standing now. If he’d been more coherent, he might have realized his lack of abilities came from that box. But he wasn’t thinking about that. Only about getting the truth out of Stern.

To the Agent’s credit, he didn’t flinch when Warren shoved him against the wall. Didn’t fight back, didn’t struggle, didn’t even react aside from re-adjusting his glasses when they got knocked askew.

“Where is she?!” Warren demanded, yanking on fistfuls of Stern’s jacket collar. “Where’s my mom?!” His vision blurred. It had to be from adrenaline, right? Not from how much he was crying. (’Boys aren’t supposed to cry, Warren’ a voice from first grade whispered.)

“Diana.” Stern held up a cautioning hand over Warren’s shoulder. Warren glanced back - Powers. It looked like she’d been reaching out to them. He exhaled a shaky breath, then roughly dropped Stern and took a step back. His lungs drew in air at a ragged, irregular rate and he sniffed but didn’t wipe his eyes. Only stared, hands still flexed against the humming white box, as the Agent calmly dusted himself off.

(’It’s okay, sweetheart.’ Said a voice he’d never hear again. ‘Everything’s gonna be okay. We still have each other, right?’)

Wrong.

He tried another gulp of air and failed. Squeezed his eyes shut, His voice sounded so small when he spoke.

“Where’es my mom…?” A hand on his shoulder. Warren flinched back. Stern was in front of him, looking down through impassive glasses.

He didn’t even care.

“Come with me.”

…

He felt numb.

They’d taken him off in an Agency aircraft. They’d sent someone to collect his things and he hadn’t said a word since they’d left the office, only clung to himself desperately like it might offer some form of comfort and it didn’t. (She was gone. She was gone she was gone why was she gone?) They’d landed in a secure location and he’d asked if they were going to a hospital but Stern had said there’d be no point. No point? Nobody would even tell him what happened. What did ‘no point’ mean? Sure, hospitals were expensive, but- But he would’ve given the shirt off his back if it meant she was okay. He’d have spent every day for the rest of his life at work, he’d cut down on food, he’d- He’d take a page from Dad’s book and rob a bank, anything as long as she’d be around at the end of the day, but- But there was no point. He should’ve been there. He should’ve saved her. He should’ve died, instead. She’d always been there for him. She’d done everything for him, and he couldn’t do one damn thing for her. Walking home from work, they’d said. She wouldn’t have needed that job if he hadn’t been around. She wouldn’t have lost her old one if she hadn’t needed to take care of him. It was his fault she was dead. It was his fault he lost the only person who ever really gave a damn. His mom was gone because of him.

“We’ve contacted your next of kin,” Agent Stern said. Warren numbly looked up from the chair he was in. At some point, someone must’ve put a blanket around his shoulders. He didn’t remember it getting there. “Your uncle has agreed to take you in.” The gentleness sounded alien and forced in the Agent’s voice. A thought broke through the grief:

I have an uncle?

Warren didn’t say anything, though. Only stared.

“Nicholas Peace?” Stern said, as though expecting that to jog some memory. “Your mother’s brother?”

Mom had a brother?

Had. Past-tense. Mom had a brother. Just like Warren had a mom. Where had this ‘uncle’ been for the past forever? Why was he stepping in now? A man came into the room behind Stern. Neatly combed brown hair, blue eyes, a suit that looked like it cost more than Warren’s entire apartment. Dress code aside, he looked a lot like Mom. Warren’s chest constricted painfully and he looked away. Swallowed a lump in his throat that might’ve been a sob if he let it. Mom was gone. His mom was gone and it was his fault and now he was being shoved off on someone who wouldn’t want anything to do with the kid who killed his sister. Warren wouldn’t want anything to do with himself, either. He just wanted everything to stop.

The funeral was small and quiet. The sun was shining, and Warren, from where he stood alone, idly thought that Mom would’ve liked it. She’d loved the sun. The marble headstone could’ve covered the Peaces’ food budget for a month, easily. A simple epitaph graced its surface.

Penelope Anne Peace

October 12, 1972 - November 4, 2005

Beloved mother, sister, friend.

What a joke, Warren thought bitterly. He stared silently at the freshly-turned earth, blinking against tears that had long since been spent. Nobody else had come. Just him, and his… Uncle. Cousin and Aunt, too, but they were doing a poor job of disguising how bored they were. How dare they. How dare the three of them make light of this-? Mom deserved so much better. She deserved a better family than them and a better son than him and better friends than the ones who couldn’t be bothered to make an appearance. Not here, and not when they cleaned the apartment. Nicholas had sent people to do it, but Warren had insisted on being there. Had made sure to gather every single item of importance himself. … It had always seemed like such a cramped space, before. But now- It felt huge. It felt empty. It felt cold. It felt lonely. It was a feeling that followed him no matter where he went.

Not school, though. Mainly because he didn’t go back. Not the next day. Not the day after that. (He couldn’t take it, any more.)

(Sorry, Mom.)

“Hey, guys!” Will said, weaving his way through the cafeteria to their usual table.

“Hey, man!” Zach reached up a hand for a high-five, and Will obliged, making sure not to drop his tray. He slid into a seat between Ethan and Layla.

“How’d the history test go?” Layla asked, popping a kale chip into her mouth. Will shrugged.

“I think I passed?” He offered. “I mean, I did study, and I think I did well, but-” He glanced around, looking for a change of subject (the last thing he wanted to do was stress even more about that test. He’d been worrying all week). “So, uh- Has anyone seen Warren? I’ve still got his science notes from the last few classes, and…” The table went silent. Will looked around. “What?” Everyone seemed to be staring at their food. Layla put a hand on his arm.

“Will…” She began. Will frowned.

“Yeah…?” It was Magenta who answered. (She’d heard the news, first.)

“… His mom died.” She said, putting her fork down. Will felt the colour drain from his face.

“Wh-? Oh, my god…”

That was the first piece of news that would reach Sky High regarding the disappearance of Warren Peace.

The second fact was that the lavish estate of Nicholas Peace, practicing attorney, had burned to the ground completely. Thankfully, no casualties had yet been discovered, but a few of the staff were suffering serious injuries.

Next, the student body learned that, some time ago, Baron Battle had escaped from NAPSE, leaving a trail of immolated corpses and chaos in his wake before apparently vanishing off of the face of the Earth. Nobody knew how he’d gotten out. Nobody knew where he’d gone.

All they knew was that, wherever he was,

it looked as though he’d taken his son with him.

#death //#death mention //#ask to tag #;school gossip (ａｓｋｓ)#;ignited (ｉｎ　ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ)#;r: strongest hero I know (Ｐｅｎｎｙ　Ｐｅａｃｅ)#;holy blank blankman (ｄｒａｂｂｌｅｓ)#;r: miss you more than I should (Ｂａｒｏｎ　Ｂａｔｔｌｅ)#;v: but hey; that's high school (ｐｏｓｔ－ｍｏｖｉｅ　ｃａｎｏｎ)#;r: of some assistance (Ｍｒ．　Ｍｅｄｕｌａ)#;r: can't get them to stop talking to me (Ｓｔｒｏｎｇｈｏｌｄ　Ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ　Ｇｒｏｕｐ)#;r: not wonder woman (Ｐｒｉｎｃｉｐａｌ　Ｐｏｗｅｒｓ)#Anonymous #So I redid this four times like four years ago according to my old tags #so i guess fifth time's the charm??#this is literally the first time warren's cried since he was seven jeezus #i should also say that baron is refusing to say where he took warren to besides 'somewhere in italy'#but for those concerned; don't be baron is oddly enough the safest person for warren to be around rn

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