Less Ordinary

The rest of the day started off fairly ordinary. At home room, Ms. Maritty welcomed John back with a brilliant smile that would have charmed the pants off anyone who wasn’t holding the fact that she wasn’t June Summers against her. John offered a wan grin in return, which coincidentally fell in line with the fact that his mom had apparently called out sick for him yesterday. He doubted she would remember doing that.

Ordinary was initially a much needed reprieve from the disaster that had been the last few days. John was grateful for the daily grind of mundane lessons and boring worksheets; he could finally take the opportunity to zone out and think of nothing for a while. Doing nothing and thinking even less, John had come to realize, was an essential chapter in the Beginner’s Guide to Caring for Your Gamer. Stress from deadlines, assignments, and clinging onto his flimsy rung on the social ladder was difficult to deal with, but he’d never had to do so without having even a minute to himself for days. There was, of course, also the small matter of fighting for his life.

A boisterous shout resounded from down the hall, pungent with a familiar brand of malicious cheer.

“Johnny, my man! Glad you’re feeling better!”

Frank.

Unfortunately, ordinary days meant ordinary troubles, and ordinary troubles meant dealing with a certain tow-headed neanderthal. Toe-headed was more like it, by John’s reckoning. He turned around to gauge the situation.

“Oh, yeah, feeling awesome!” John called back, already picking up his pace.

Frank was several yards away still, among the many filtering out of their classrooms. Mentally, John calculated the distance to his next class. He had to go around the corner, down a flight of stairs, make a right, then get halfway down the first hall on the left. It wasn’t what he’d call close, but with the physique he’d earned since becoming a mage, it was close enough to give him a chance. He knew he’d get it worse for running, whatever ‘it’ was, and Frank was already pent up from being outwitted by John several times now. Even so, he had to wonder how much worse it could possibly be than turning around and taking it on the chin.

“Sorry, Frankie!” John shouted. He could see Frank’s face already turning red from the use of Vanessa’s pet name. “Can’t stick around, classes and everything. You get it.”

John ducked and bolted down the hallway without waiting for Frank’s unintelligible response. The break between classes had only just started, so the halls weren’t very crowded yet. That suited John poorly; he was counting on his ability to weave through the mass of fellow students to keep Frank from narrowing the gap between them too fast. With only a few of their peers littering the halls, Frank was more than capable of relying on his highly trained skills of running in a straight line and barreling through people.

A trail of annoyed students formed during the retreat, one which quickly shifted to a trail of bewildered and alarmed students as Frank shouldered them aside in John’s wake. It was by their shouts that John could tell how close Frank had gotten. His heart beat faster, and not just from the sudden exertion. He recognized the familiar feeling of adrenaline entering his system, but his mental response didn’t feel the same. The terror wasn’t there. John’s body was ready for action, that was for certain, but his old friend, the Fight or Flight response, hadn’t appeared. His mind felt clear.

John reached the stairs before anyone else and took advantage of the opportunity by vaulting the dividing handrail about halfway down. It was a maneuver he wouldn’t have been able to pull off a few weeks ago, but today he hit the opposing steps at a run and rode the momentum the rest of the way down. As a result, he burst through the stairwell entrance just as students on the ground floor were starting to pile in. The front ranks, startled by John’s sudden appearance, gave way enough for him to slip through and ping pong off the rest of the students with a flurry of apologies and excuses. John hit the wall and took off to the right as fresh sounds of chaos erupted from the stairwell. A stern shout called out from behind.

“No runni-”

John didn’t stop, but he instinctively twisted around to see who was yelling at him. Moira’s reprimand cut short the moment she realized who she was talking to. It was difficult to see her through the sea of people, but John caught just enough of the emerald of her strangely alarmed eyes to know it was her. He couldn’t do more than offer her an apologetic wince before swinging back around to make the sharp turn around the corner and-

WHAM!

-directly into Vanessa Hawthorne. Her gaggle of flunkies yelped in surprise, but none of them made so much as an attempt to stop Vanessa from falling on her ass. It wasn’t a bad fall, really, but one would imagine the inconceivable had just happened based on the look of abject shock and bewilderment on her face. John himself was fine, just a bit stunned, but Vanessa had enough reaction for the two of them. Her expression swiftly shifted to rage, then vitriolic revulsion the moment she looked up to see that John was the one responsible for her ignominious fall.

“God damnit,” he groaned, then leapt directly over her before she had any chance to respond. He’d probably pay for that later, but he didn’t care; it was nice to see Vanessa knocked down a peg. Literally, in this case.

Shouts continued to follow in John’s wake, not the least of which was a shriek of outrage from Vanessa, but Moira and Frank’s voices also joined the chorus. Only now did fear tickle at the back of his senses, not of Frank, but of having stepped so wildly out of his comfort zone. He’d just caused quite a scene, especially for a guy who tries to stand out as little as possible at all times. The consequences would bring with them a variety of unknowns, and unknowns were bad for John’s mental health. He had to shrug it off, the sanctity of Wentworth’s classroom was in reach.

The irony was not lost on him.

“Early today, Mr. Newman,” Wentworth commented, reacting with naught but a raised brow to the way John crashed into the doorframe. She hardly even looked up from the book she was reading at her desk. “Or are you fleeing from the Dickinson boy again? You really ought to come up with a better way of handling him, you know. It’s disgraceful.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” John quipped. He pushed himself off the frame and into the room with no shortage of agitation. “How was Derek’s essay?”

“Plagiarized,” Wentworth said, “not that it’s any of your business.” Closing her book and folding her hands over the cover, she turned to him. “How was your brief sojourn with the Warden?”

“It was-” John cut himself off. Wentworth had asked the question so casually that he’d nearly forgotten that the faculty was supposed to be under the assumption he'd been out sick. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Wenthworth would be able to see it for a lie, but he was. Worse, it seemed like she knew the truth. How could she possibly know? It was frustrating, but John accepted that asking would be pointless. Wentworth knew because she was Wentworth, and that’s all there was to it. John let out a defeated sigh and finished his answer, “-illuminating.”

Not that it’s any of your business.

“I’m sure it was,” she replied. John knew well enough now to recognize the subtle hints of amusement on her otherwise austere expression. John’s heart skipped a beat when her mood suddenly switched to irritation, wondering what he’d done to earn her scorn. Her eyes ficked over to the doorway, however, where Frank had appeared. He hadn’t made it one step into the classroom before his vigor wilted and he balked under Wentworth’s glare. Vanessa shouldered past him in huff and John froze on the spot.

“Ms. Hawthorne,” Wentworth said, all business and formality. “I’m not expecting you for another two periods yet.”

“What?” she asked, briefly flustered by being interrupted. The layers of foundation and makeup on her face hid how red with rage she was, but John could still see it at the tips of her ears. “Who cares? H-”

“I care, Ms. Hawthorne,” Wentworth replied, “as does Mr. Stone, I’m sure. It’s unbecoming to be late for class.”

“Whatever, I-” Vanessa said, taking a few steps into the room.

“You should run along, Ms. Hawthorne,” Wentworth interrupted again, this time with only a thin veneer of propriety over her aggravation. The atmosphere grew heavier.

“But he-” Vanessa remained defiant, but stopped in her place. Her voice was stilted, prepared to be cut off again.

“Ms, Hawthorne,” Wentworth snapped. The weight of the air doubled, then tripled in quick succession. John’s sudden difficulty breathing amplified the creep of fear washing over him. He recognized it, it was the same as when Wentworth had confronted him in the past, only a touch duller. Whether or not it was due to his recognition or that he wasn’t currently the one Wentworth was addressing, he couldn’t say, but he was grateful for it all the same. Frank, meanwhile, was white as a ghost, and even Vanessa looked lost and contrite. Wentworth inclined her head to stare at the girl from just over the rim of her glasses and repeated herself with grim severity, “Run along.”

Vanessa threw a silent tantrum on the spot, stomping her feet and beating at the air like a petulant child. John almost laughed, but it stuck in his throat when Vanessa pivoted to shoot him a glare filled with red-hot daggers. She let it hold for a moment, then spun around and stomped out of the room without a shred of grace, straight-arming her way directly through Frank. Expression bereft of thought, Frank lingered for a second before following after her with his tail between his legs. With the pair gone, the crowd of students they had been blocking were able to begin filing into the room.

Any delusions John might have had that Wentworth had deliberately defended him were dispelled when she cast her iron gaze in his direction. It was only a moment, but it was enough to let him feel the full **** of her ire. She was every bit as annoyed at him for bringing the problem to her as she was at Vanessa and Frank for being said problem. It was clear to John that she could not have cared less about what his predicament was, all that mattered was having had to put things back in their proper place. To wit, she eyed John’s desk as the world fell back into normalcy.

“Sit down.”

John did so, and he remained silent for the entire class.

After that, John decided to bail on the rest of school and absconded through the window of another classroom at the first opportunity. He didn't feel great about it. Ditching class wasn’t usually his go-to solution for avoiding trouble. Today was different; today, he was fed up with shit and didn’t feel like dealing with it. Maybe he’d have stuck around for Art if June had been around, but that obviously wasn’t the case.

A question remained, however: What now? He wasn’t due at Brighton Manor for a few more hours, and he couldn’t go home unless he wanted to explain to his mother why he was out of class so early. It’s not like there were any places of interest near the school anyway, so he was in for a long walk regardless of where he went. With that in mind, he figured he might as well head to Wendy’s. Evading danger was hungry work.

John texted Liam along the way, just in case his friend decided to have another heart attack over finding him missing. Liam shared his concern by asking John to come back and bring him a Frosty, which John left on ‘Read.’ In Liam’s defense, John might have done the same thing. It’s not like there was anything he could do to help.

The worst part about the walk wasn’t the physical activity or the length of it, but the boredom. The business district surrounded most of the area near Ashcroft, so the journey towards the heart of the city took him through blocks and blocks of nondescript office buildings and the occasional warehouse. Each tried to present some sense of individuality through their architecture, but there were only so many ways one could present an undecorated rectangle, and even less when on a meager budget. It all felt so lifeless to John; even the sky itself seemed grayer than before, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was aggravatingly similar to the tunnels he’d spent his weekend roaming through. If it wasn’t for the stagnant air and lack of sunlight, he might have preferred the tunnels.

Oh, and the monsters. Those sucked too.

Greasy burgers, a pile of nuggets, a few fistfuls of fries, and a large Frosty seemed to John a proper reward for enduring the monotony. The restaurant (if it could be called that) wasn’t very crowded at this time of day, and no one had batted an eye at John waltzing in while still in his school uniform, so he’d decided to kill the rest of his time inside. John surveyed the tray of empty boxes and wrappers in front of him with contentment. It felt nice to splurge, and he had the luxury to do so with all of his magically acquired cash. He wondered for a moment about the consequences of one day spending exorbitant amounts of questionably legitimate money, but he’d ultimately decided that it wasn’t his problem.

Some time perusing Reddit later, John’s phone alerted him to the fact that school had ended and it was time for his date with Ms. Proctor at the Manor. He could stall for a while longer if he wanted to, but he’d done enough waiting for the day. Besides, the Order might look favorably on him arriving early, and he was sorely in need of any goodwill he could scrape together from them. John looked down to order an Uber just as the scream of a bike engine shot down the road. It might have been Moira, but it might not have been; she wasn’t the only motorcyclist with loose regard for vehicular law. It occurred to him that he could have asked for a ride, but he shuddered at the memory of the first, and hopefully only, time he’d ridden passenger with her. A few bucks was more than worth his peace of mind.

That wasn’t to say his mind was actually at peace, however. The Uber arrived in short order, but the entire ride to the manor was filled with the dueling dreads of meeting Archivist Proctor (who had since morphed into a Wentworth Junior in his mind) and having Reginald shadow him for every second he spent on manor grounds. It would be nice to see Adelle and Erica, but he wasn’t sure he’d even get the chance – and then there was Moira. Would seeing her be comforting or even more stressful? Could he even get away with avoiding her if he wanted to? Probably not, now that he was being personally chaperoned by the Manor’s head butler. If they wanted him somewhere, he had **** but to go.

So much for being freelance.

Was John truly ever an actual contractor, or had everything so far been an elaborate ruse to rope him in further under the Order’s control while leaving him under the impression that he still had autonomy? It didn’t make sense why they’d go through so much effort for one person when they could have much more easily pressed him into service against his will. And why did Wentworth send him to the Order in the first place? What was her play, and how long would he just be a piece on the board?

There were too many unanswered questions for John to pinpoint why, but his gut told him that truths would never line up if he didn’t start pursuing them.

Any remaining thoughts regarding his situation were cut short as the car rolled to a stop. He exchanged terse goodbyes with the driver and climbed out of the car at the foot of the lengthy stairs he’d have to ascend just to make it to the front door. To John’s delight, Reginald awaited him there, seeing the driver off with a polite nod before turning to address him.

“Mr. Newman,” he said.

“Reginald,” John replied. He inclined his head to present some measure of respect to his overseer. It was not returned in kind.

“Archivist Proctor is expecting you in the library,” he said, then pivoted to face the manor. There was an awkward moment of motionless silence until John realized that, like Moira before him, Reginald was waiting for John to take the lead so he could keep an eye on him.

“Of course,” John said, much too stiffly. It seemed like what Moira or Lord Brighton might say, but John was ill-accustomed to such constant formality. He set off up the steps and did his best to ignore the way the hairs on his neck stood on end. Even when annoyed at her, at least Moira at his back made John feel safe. Reginald, on the other hand, made him feel even more exposed than if he’d been alone.

There was some comfort in that, as they got closer to the top, John could hear the telltale clacks and shouts of knights in training. He didn’t need to listen very closely to pick Erica’s distinct battlecry out from the rest. It sounded like she was putting in some real effort, a display John would much rather be watching than marching to some fresh interrogation. Listening served as a pleasant, if brief, distraction from his current predicament, all the way up until the sonorous creaking of one of the massive front doors opening. Reginald had passed him at some point and now held the great wooden barrier open, gesturing for John to cross the threshold with his free arm.

The foyer was as grand as always, polished banisters shining in the light of the chandelier above, with the marble floor cleaned to a mirror finish, and the portraits of various Brighton ancestors standing their silent vigil. It was also as empty as always, so devoid of life that even the slightest sounds echoed across its vastness.

“Up the stairs, if you would.” Reginald said. John was grateful that he only shivered a little bit in response. “First story, to your right.”

John’s nod of acknowledgement stuttered as he clamped his mouth shut to prevent himself from commenting that they were already on the first floor. He turned back with a grimace and crossed to one side of the twin stairs, Reginald’s fine shoes clicking after him. Thankfully, the crimson carpet lining the steps muffled the rest of their footfalls.

Both stairways curved towards each other as he climbed, nearly meeting in the middle at a central landing for the second floor. A matching set, ascending in the opposite direction as the first, led the way to the third floor. They were positioned such that if one were to follow the arc of the stairs, they would naturally complete a spiral leading to the top. Only one set of stairs split the center and led to the fourth floor, above which John couldn’t see. He recalled how Moira had told him that the entire manor had been disassembled and rebuilt here in springfield. The level of precision required for every last piece to align so perfectly was staggering and (he was certain) migraine inducing for the crew that did the work.

John understood that he was letting his mind wander, but it was preferable to dwelling on the present.

The carpet continued onto the second floor, wrapping around the room’s exterior walls , flanked by railing on one side and a series of closed doors on the other. Only one of them, the doorway to his right, featured double doors. John took that for his destination and strode over to it to take one handle in hand. He was tired of waiting for doors to be opened for him. Still, he looked over his shoulder to check for confirmation from his escort. John may have been prepared to be rude, but he wasn’t going to risk losing a hand over being stubborn.

Reginald nodded, and John pushed the door open to step inside.

The room was not unlike Lord Brighton’s study, only much larger in scale and at a loss for natural light. Most of the light was a warm orange, emanating from a cracking fireplace at the far wall. The walls were, expectedly, lined with books, broken up into short aisles by large bookcases that ran along the greater part of it before opening up into a more comfortable reading space. There were a great many more details to be noticed, for sure, but John was taken aback by the sight of the library’s sole resident.

At the largest desk sat not a wizened scholar or decrepit witch, but a girl not much older than him. John couldn’t get a good look at her clothes thanks to the way she was slumped forward, but he could clearly see a pair of heavy looking knee-length boots on her legs, all buckles and black leather to match her hair. She had been all but resting face down on the desk, but rolled her head to the side so that she could see John. Beneath uneven bangs and over glasses made lopsided by the way the table pressed up her cheek, she stared at John with an abjectly disinterested expression.

“Anxiety,” she said. Her words were slurred by pushed aside lips. “Five out of ten.”

John was too shocked to react when Reginald appeared beside him. The girl sighed listlessly and looked elsewhere while the butler extended an arm into the room and spoke.

“Mr. Newman, may I present Archivist Proctor.”