862a/n: Holy f-monkey, I used to spit these stories out like I breathed. Lord, I miss that. Um. I think I've decided that sorry, kids, you aren't getting to keep old review replies—they're going bye-bye. But you get to keep the ones from newer chapters and all the ones from new chapters coming hereafter! Good deal, eh?
Sarcasm.
I'm kidding; I luff you guys.
Rewrites are fun. They're not half as stressful.
On with the story: In which we learn more about SOB and are given, well, a second prologue to the not-yet-commenced story. (Sorry.)
"Anyone can become angry-that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, to the right degree, and the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way; this is not easy." -Aristotle
You know how a school works. Of course you do. Even if you have been homeschooled, you've probably watched enough John Hughes flicks to guess, or at the very least, Mean Girls. And you've sighed and hummed and reflected yet again on the ineffable suckiness of it all.
You don't know how Westfield works.
Our school is a…a machine—one that can make you or break you. It is in these years that our character is formed, and so the importance of a school must never be underestimated. This machine is manipulated by inside gears that are all connected somehow; the outward, important-seeming parts of the machine are only then put into the motion. These arms and limbs and parts that seem to be the determining factors of whether a machine works or not are the teachers and other authoritative figures.
Am I being too cold in categorizing the school? You may think so. I think not. But remember that this school is expensive and gives out few scholarships, and that the parents of the students must be rich. They are rich. Very rich.
Money, my friends. Money. I was born and raised in it, and I have known since I was young that nearly anyone can be manipulated by some form of currency.
The gears of this cash-fueled machine are the students.
We are a linkage of gears, to be more precise. In this forlorn landscape, the normal high school cliques aren't quite so pronounced—far from civilization as we are, and collectively held in one building as we are, and living together as we are, prejudices and social factions are fairly pointless. There is only one large rivalry.
There is Ember's Army. And there is Cale's Army. The former is mine.
What little labeled cliques we have are the secondary gears, who are controlled by Cale and I, the main cogs. By controlling the student population we are given second degree control over the parents, although thus far neither Cale nor I have really seen fit to use this power other than to perhaps procure supplies that will benefit everybody on our side.
In theory, you're either with me, or with Cale, or darting in-between us but easily bent to either one of our wills. It's simple, really.
But the system doesn't go as planned, which should be expected when dealing with a system composed of living, breathing, thinking, feeling people. The students switch loyalties like assassins to patrons; politicians to proposals, depending on who's paying more and who's winning.
Everybody is like that, really.
And except for our own particular friends, few remain completely, steadfastly loyal to one person and one person only. It does help that my friends harbor no affection towards Cale and his friends, either. (I'm still surprised that anyone will remain loyal to that absolute dog, let alone that Cale actually has friends, and true ones at that.)
As the rest of the students can't be completely trusted, Cale and I use our lackeys-for-the-week for only the overt, most simple of operations, and sometimes the thug work. The covert, sensitive, and difficult of missions—especially those that require intellect—are completed only by us personally, or by our best friends.
It is almost—almost—like a real war. On the bright side, it will probably prepare us for the real world of corporate sharks and stuff.
And all right. Now we get to the exciting part.
Living in a virtually ancient mansion that hasn't been renovated since it was built has its perks. Because we have secret passages.
Yup. The dream of every romantic, of every wannabe adventurer, of every person who hasn't actually been inside them. We have them.
The teachers are too senile and the rest of the student population too complacent and stupid to realize that there is a literal network of secret passageways spanning the entirety of the school.
Unluckily, Cale happens to have a working set of brains in that pretty-boy head of his, and 'discovered' the secret passageways around the same time I did.
The year I arrived at Westfield, I happened upon a set of blueprints of the original mansion in the library, and those blueprints included every single secret passageway built in the house. But in a rare lapse of guard, confident that I was the only person who frequented the library, I left the map unguarded and I forgot about Cale. And I have paid for that mistake ever since.
He stole it from me.
The lying, thieving lowlife stole it from me. Never mind that he was as rich, if not richer, than my family and should have been taught better than to steal from the innocent and unprotected. In his desire to gain a step on me, he stooped so low as to take away what was clearly mine from the first.
There is a set of unwritten rules in our war, and one of them is to never, never steal from your opponent what they have rightfully gained. And he broke that rule.
Grievance number 3894: He's a slimy, cheating, worm.
Of course, glib and guiltless as usual, Cale claimed that he simply found the original blueprints lying around in the library and supposed that they were just there, and up for grabs. This is admittedly possible, as I may have left it there in my excitement after I (very luckily) photocopied the prints.
But judging from his character and previous actions, it is not probable that that is the whole truth. Possible…but not probable.
This dispute led to another battle.
Which he won.
So now he has a copy of the passageways as well, a cause of daily distress.
Regarding our battles:
They are mostly verbal and rarely physical, although it has erupted into that more than a few times. It is a good exercise for the wit, and although Cale is a spoiled, egotistical, arrogant, sniveling brat, he isn't…stupid.
All right; he's more than not-stupid. He's rather good at these battles.
Besides the whole repressed thieving instincts and all. And just being an unpleasant character in general.
Unwritten Rules of Combat
1. In verbal attacks, the use of obscenities is not encouraged as this only proves that one cannot conceive anything more imaginative than swear words, which does not give a vote of confidence for one's intelligence.
2. If in the course of battle physical combat shall ensue, it shall not and must not go beyond a general tussling, as this will alert the teachers to the battle.
3. If the physical abuse reaches higher levels, it shall be broken up by those closest, mindless of various other skirmishes. Those who fail to comply, or even encourage the fight, shall be punished by their leader—Cale or me, depending. Regardless of the agitator's identity, all those involved in the fight will be given a fortnight's worth of toilet duty; a punishment most horrible as we have Mr. Fargo on staff, who has daily indigestion which can be worsened quite easily.
4. Aside from the above, Cruel and Unusual Punishment is strictly forbidden.
5. One must be loyal to one's chosen side. No information shall be revealed to the other side. Traitors shall be given a punishment based on their worst nightmare. Yeah. Like anyone listens to this one?
6. Each side has their own spies; if caught, spies shall not be harmed overmuch and will be returned to their own territory within the next 4 hours after discovery.
7. The group of people who monitor the hallways and rooms of the school for the purpose of looking out for teachers and such and warn their comrades of approach are allowed under tense circumstances to work together.
8. No one outside of the student assembly is to be informed of the war.
9. Classes shall not be neglected in favor of the war.
10. No property shall be purposely damaged. If this happens, the respective owners will be compensated and the offenders punished based on the degree of damage. Neither shall information or possessions rightfully gained be stolen. Practical jokes and the like that do not endanger lives are acceptable.
11. To consort with the enemy is forbidden, unless for spying purposes. At this exception, one can only engage/attempt to extract information from someone who is one's equal. To do otherwise is unsportsmanlike, although in the actual culminating battle one can match against one who is not one's intellectual peer.
I really don't think that I'd have difficulty with Rule 11. Aside from a few, Cale is really the only one who can hope to match me and the day I consort with him is the day that the cows come home.
I'm not saying that I'm the intellectual equal of Socrates or Aristotle or anything. It's just that I am a little smarter than most, and I know it. I won't even attempt to be overly humble and deny it.
I am smart, and it's why I've won half the battles against Cale and have not slunk back in defeat to join the toadies that simper and smirk in his wake. Ugh. If he told them to jump off a cliff, they'd do it—of course, he'd have persuaded them that there was a giant trampoline below and that they wouldn't feel a thing; would just bounce and go flying off into lala land, and then bounce again, and again, and so on and they wouldn't be hurt. If he told them to fetch him water from the end of the world, they'd do it because it sounded romantic—until they remembered that the world was round and there wasn't an end because Christopher Columbus had proved that everything went 'round. Literally.
And yes, if Cale told them to murder the president, they'd hesitate only for a second before deciding that hey, everybody hated him anyway.
This war, by the way, isn't a simple 'passing phase'. It is a matter of pride, baby.
You'd think that Cale and I would be bestest best pals; like Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny after a keg or two of beer. After all, our parents are best friends—or at least pretend to be—and so we've had birthday parties together (he's exactly one year, three days, 14 hours, and 29 minutes older than me), spent vacations in Baha Baha (and even Bora Bora) together, and we have even attended conventions and garden parties and business socials together.
This gave us more opportunities to strangle each other. Sadly, these all fell through.
It does keep you on your toes, though. There's something remarkably comforting in knowing that every day you will wake up to think up different, more creative ways of killing a certain someone in their sleep (or not in their sleep) and dodging that certain someone's different, more creative way of killing you in your sleep (or not in your sleep).
In addition, we know everything about each other. There are perhaps a few things Cale doesn't know about me. There are perhaps a few things I don't know about him. But aside from these, we might as well be related for all the incriminating details and facts we know about each other, and the reason for this is:
Know thine enemy like thyself.
Words to live by.
It's gotten more difficult over the years to fish out little facts about him and to humiliate him in front of hundreds of people. There are only so many embarrassing baby pictures one can find, after all.
Can I trace our hatred back to when it first started? Not really. It seems as if it's always just…been there; a part of life that really sort of sucks, but that I've learned to deal with and have twisted to my advantage.
.
"Hey, Ember." Sara nudged me at our lunch table.
I looked up from my large map of the school grounds and quickly made a small red 'x'. "Yes?" I asked, curious. My friends rarely interrupted me while I was occupied with battle plans—they knew I didn't like being disturbed, especially when I might be just at the edge of a critical breakthrough. "What is it?"
"Cale alert." Angela answered helpfully.
My head immediately snapped up while my hands busied themselves with helping Sara and Angela help hide the battle plans. I brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes to clear my vision.
It was the second day of the new school year, and so far there had been no conflicts. Action had been slow, the atmosphere was quiet—it was immediately worthy of suspicion.
Cale swaggered up to us, flanked by Daniel and Mac, but was halted when two of my soldiers leapt up to intercept them and search their person for some sort of harmful/offensive object or weapon. Oh dear. What were their names? George? Rob? Bob? Didn't matter; they'd probably desert me for Cale within the week.
Sure enough, Rob (Bob?) confiscated a pair of twisties from a scowling Mac. Cale looked sharply at his friend and growled something we couldn't hear from our position.
Twisties could be used as makeshift handcuffs, and my side had learned this the hard way after Daniel had had a particularly bright flash of inspiration last year and had issued them out to everybody on Cale's side.
When at last George and Bob (Rob?) were satisfied, they stepped back and allowed Cale and his two cronies to advance. As they approached—looking oddly like half a boy band—I heard a giggle.
Sara was giggling.
Keeping one well-trained eye on Cale but turning ever so slightly to get Sara in my peripheral vision, I noticed her trying very hard not to look at Mac.
Oh, God. Hormones. The bane of my existence.
I'd talk with her later, but meanwhile I had to deal with this unwelcome surprise.
And it was up to me to initiate formalities. "Seranden." I acknowledged him with a cool nod. "What is your purpose in venturing into enemy territory?"
Cale bowed, mockingly and replied with a touch of dry humor that was warm in comparison to my formal inquiry, "Must I have a reason to risk life and death for a glimpse of your lovely features?"
I hated it when he dodged my questions, and even more when he sucked up. No wonder all the female teachers (and female everything-else) worshipped the very ground the miserable sycophant walked on.
I smiled coldly. "Flattered as I am by your profession," Not, "I'm afraid that you're not answering my question. And your compliment does not, unfortunately for you, make up for the lifetime you have unfortunately imposed on me."
His lips tightened and he placed a hand over his heart, continuing our charade of very thinly veiled hostility. "You wound me."
"With. Pleasure." I bit.
"Undoubtedly." Cale abruptly turned business-like; after years of warfare, I was used to his rapid mood changes. "Much as the little spear in my heart twists a bit at admitting this, Ember, you are intelligent. And even if you were not, you have a working set of eyes and ears, and as such you may have noticed the lack of encounters and skirmishes between our two parties."
"Yes, I have." I consented, suspicious.
The situation was surreal. We never shared battle plans; never gave hints, except accidentally and those missteps were rare. It seemed now, though, that Cale was about to tell me, straight out, what his plans were.
He shrugged, but it was a calculated movement, not a natural one. "It is because I am aware that you have not collected enough followers to even hope to engage me—and my numerous followers—in battle."
Oh, he did not go there.
I clenched my fist, relaxing a small bit when Angela gripped my arm in a silent warning. "If you have come here merely to boast, to be uncivil, and to play on my pride, you insufferable boy, then you had better leave."
Rob (Bob?) leapt up happily, cracking his knuckles, and immediately sat back down when Cale glared at him.
I died a little inside.
"Boy? I'm a year older than you, in case you'd forgotten."
I smirked. "Act your age, not your shoe size." I said softly, looking demurely up at him from beneath my lashes.
At this atypical insult, there was a murmur of appreciative laughter from my ranks, and a barely perceptible flush spread across Cale's normally quite stoic features. "And if I told you that my shoe size was 17?" He retaliated.
I scoffed.
Two girls squealed and screamed and giggled for some inordinately bizarre reason, silenced when I turned my evil eye on them.
I eyed Cale disdainfully. "I don't think they get that big." He was really only going to get caught telling a lie, despite his attempt to regain ground. I couldn't believe he'd be so stupid as to jeopardize what little reputation he had as an honest person.
"Well, how would you know?" Cale had a big, fat grin plastered across his stupid, not-so-fat face. "Unless…" His eyes widened theatrically.
Shooting him an annoyed, slightly puzzled look, I wondered why on earth he was acting so obtuse when I knew that he wasn't. "Well, I certainly haven't ever seen shoes that large," I began, when I paused.
Well, you know what they say about guys with big feet…a random voice snickered in my head.
Oh. We weren't talking about shoe sizes anymore, were we?
My face turned an unattractive shade of tomato red, clashing with my hair. "Gungh…" I muttered, unsure of how to respond to…to pervy banter.
Horrible, depraved man.
Cale, in a typically Cale manner, returned to the previous subject. "Because of your shortage, I've decided to give you two more days to gather more troops before the next battle. I hope you're grateful that I'm a man of honor."
A man of exaggerated dramatics and a constant need to degrade his enemies, more like.
Still flushed with anger, I rose from the bench, placing my hands flat against the table and so hard that I was sure I was leaving imprints on the wooden surface. "I assure you, Seranden, that I will have more than equal your troops—by tomorrow, in fact; depend on it. And don't," I spat, "don't you dare patronize me."
Again Cale bent slightly at the waist; in the middle of the fake courtesy, he looked up at me and winked.
I sniffed and turned away, internally fuming. Insolent prick.
Like a well-choreographed boy band, Cale and Mac and Daniel left: Cale, the tallest, with his pale blond hair; Daniel at medium-height and with nondescript brown hair walked confidently beside him; Mac, rather short, took fast, furious, purposeful strides forward that caused his bright blue hair to bob rather enthusiastically in the air. Or if would have bobbed if it hadn't been so encased in hair gel.
I don't think that Mac personally participated in spying operations. That blue hair was a dead giveaway.
I leaned back wearily once they had left and the crowd has lost interest. "I always, always lose my temper around him. Always." I murmured, drained.
Sara patted my back sympathetically, making wordless, crooning noises that were meant to comfort and did. Her sweet, empathetic nature contrasted strongly with what I knew of Mac, who, from all reports and observations, was one of the rudest, crudest, insensitive party animals I'd ever met.
I did know, though, that he was an artist and so probably harbored the angst-ridden, sensitive soul that tended to go with people of that group. I doubted it. But who knows, maybe Mac just liked to hide that aspect of his personality because of some ridiculous macho instinct. Sara was an artist, too. Maybe she just appreciated his work…?
Mac was a decent person, once you burrowed past his outer hostility; I didn't know why he still hung out with Cale. Because Cale didn't have a soul—much less an artistic one. I'd seen his stick figures. He couldn't even draw those.
"Ung, reputation." I groaned obliquely into my hands. The bell rang as Angela opened her mouth, looking hesitant over God knows what because she was the least indecisive person I knew, and I whimpered again. "I forgot to do my math homework again. Damnit."
"Again?" Angela's face collapsed into a mixed-up mixture of pity, irritation, and laughter. "You barely scraped by with a B last year."
"Yes, well, it won't make a difference whether I try or not, will it?" I ask apathetically, standing up and slinging my bag over my shoulders. "Mr. Eynal hates me anyway."
They didn't attempt to deny it, although they knew full well that Mr. Eynal hated everybody.
He just happened to take it out on me because I looked like his old high school girlfriend who stood him up at prom.
.
"Miss Briar?" Mr. Eynal said in a monotone as I looked up. "See me after class."
I sat up straighter, pulling on my long gray vest (school issued) and kept my dignity. "Yeah." I rolled my eyes. My classmates didn't jeer at my being singled out, although they would have if it had been anybody else. They were a little too frightened of my authority.
Really, the only reason my grades in mathematics hadn't been so smashing over the years was that instead of working on math homework, I, er, used that valuable time to work on battle tactics. And Rule Number 8 still holds. I'm still passing.
I just had to bring the grade up before my parents saw it.
Mr. Eynal (pronounced, in an unhappy coincidence, as 'Anal'), immediately started in on the lecture as soon as class was over and I had walked up to his desk. "Miss Briar, you have potential. I'd hate to see you waste it. If your record for completing homework assignments—as the case may be, not completing them—holds true for this year, then I'm afraid I'll have to fail you."
I have a lot more to worry about than you, buster. Like executing a recon mission to get my pride back from Cale. And you know full well that my parents can buy my grade from you.
But I didn't say that. Instead I nodded solemnly and muttered subserviently, "Of course, Mr. Eynal. I will try harder this term."
Mr. Eynal believed me and nodded smugly, confident that he had done his duty. "You may go."
.
I suffered from sporadic but persistent insomnia. It is a fate that belongs to nearly all members of the elite, of the rich, of the wealthy, of the privileged. Or haven't you noticed? Sometimes insomnia is replaced by depression. Sometimes a very unlucky rich person gets both.
Then I sort of laugh cruelly at them because it's rather hilarious when someone is a victim of cliché.
"Miss Briar," a voice suddenly came out from the shadows; a terrifyingly accurate imitation of Anal's smarmy voice. "Have you not learned that it is dangerous to wander the hallways after curfew?"
I flung myself against the wall, hands up in the air, eyes wide open. Cale was fairly honorable about not attacking people in the dark…at night…alone. But many of his people operated alone and disregarded their leader.
Or maybe it really was Mr. Eynal?
Child molester.
"Who's there?" I asked sharply.
"Oh, you don't recognize me? Has the summer dulled your never particularly sharp sense? Not registering the presence of your own enemy…" Cale emerged from the shadows, looking rather like a bad gangster in a bad gangster movie.
Oh. It was only him.
"What are you doing here, Seranden?" I demanded, annoyed. He probably also suffered from insomnia—the trait was one passed down from generation to generation, a probable result of inbreeding.
"Isn't a guy allowed to walk his own school grounds?"
"After curfew?" I said, still untrusting and prepared for the worst.
"That's rather contradictory, given my current company."
I replied shortly, "I couldn't sleep."
"Still trying to create one last, desperate plan to bring more students to your side?" Cale leaned back against the wall, clearly bored.
I didn't get a chance to answer, for a guy with chubby legs and wobbly jowls ran up to me, panting, "Ember…the Headmistress is coming!"
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
A brief flash of agreement passed between the locked gazes of Cale and I as the Monitor struggled away with admirable effort. And Cale and I ran in opposite directions down the long, dark hallway.
.
a/n: Dude! Without the weird spacing, my chapters from before were only, like, 12 pages! That's pretty tight…anyway, hope you liked!
If you've read it, please review it!