Bradley let out a weary sigh, his gaze dropping to the two motionless bodies sprawled on the dusty classroom floor. The initial surge of adrenaline was gone, leaving behind the dull, aching reality of the mess he had to clean up.
"Tsk," he clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Now I have to make up some excuse and drag these lumps to the infirmary." He gave Adrian's leg a slight, prodding kick with the toe of his shoe. A low, pained groan escaped Adrian's lips, even in his unconscious state. Good, at least they were still alive.
Closing his eyes, Bradley took a slow, centering breath. A soft, golden light began to emanate from his body, pulsing gently and pushing back the shadows in the wrecked classroom. It was a warm, otherworldly glow that made the dust motes in the air dance like tiny fireflies. From this luminous aura, the spirit Bradley stepped out, his form solidifying as he separated from his physical self.
[Tsk, that spirit died too fast, fucking weakling,] the spirit grumbled, his voice echoing only in Bradley's mind. He brushed imaginary dust off his spectral jacket with a look of profound disappointment.
Bradley's own eyes shifted back from the terrifying, swirling voids they had been to their usual warm brown. He blinked a few times, re-adjusting to the mundane world. "Of course, what did you expect?" he replied, his voice back to its normal, tired cadence. "It was a low-rank evil spirit. All bark and no bite."
[Yeah, but I expected at least a little fight!] Spirit Bradley crossed his arms, floating a few inches above the ground. [ Not just begging for his life and then trying a pathetic sneak attack. No sense of drama. ]
"Yeah, yeah, a real shame," Bradley said dryly. "Now stop complaining and help me heal these bastards before someone finds us and I get expelled." He walked over to his backpack, which had been flung against a wall during the scuffle, and unzipped it. He pulled out a crumpled pack of tissues and a half-empty bottle of water.
He knelt beside Adrian's bloodied face. Cradling the boy's head with one hand, he used the other to pour water carefully, washing away the crusted blood from his nose and split lip. The water turned pink as it dripped onto the floorboards. He dabbed at the wounds with the tissues, cleaning him up just enough so he wouldn't look like he'd been in a massacre.
Meanwhile, Spirit Bradley drifted towards the back of the room where Dickson was buried under a collapsed pile of desks and chairs. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, the desks were pushed aside as if by an unseen force. He then grabbed Dickson by the ankle and unceremoniously dragged him across the floor, his body leaving a trail in the dust, before unceremoniously dropping him next to his friend.
[You almost turned their insides to pudding, you know,] the spirit remarked, placing a glowing hand on each boy's chest. A soft, healing light enveloped their torsos. [ You're lucky I can mend injuries caused by spiritual energy. If you'd fought them with just your own fists, you'd be on the next train to juvie. ]
"I know," Bradley admitted, tossing the bloodied tissues into a bin. "That's precisely why I fused with you. Oh, and don't heal them completely. Leave a few souvenirs so they learn their lesson—not that they're going to remember any of this anyway." The memory-wiping effect was a convenient side-effect of their fusion.
The spirit nodded. The light from his hands focused, knitting together cracked ribs and mending internal bruises, the major threats. But when the glow faded, both Adrian and Dickson were left with spectacularly swollen faces, bruised jaws, and split lips. It now looked less like a supernatural beatdown and more like a brutally even fistfight between the two of them.
After a few seconds, Spirit Bradley retracted his hands, the light fading from his fingertips.
[Tsk, a complete waste of good spiritual energy on these wastes of space,] he grumbled, looking thoroughly put-out.
Bradley glanced at his wristwatch. The sleek hands showed it was already ten minutes past eight. His stomach sank. Classes started exactly at eight.
"Fuck, I'm late!" he cursed, scrambling to his feet.
[You're complaining as if you don't skip classes most of the time,] the spirit retorted, floating lazily beside him. [ If you miss this one, it won't make a speck of difference in your grand academic career. ]
"I know, I know," Bradley said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "But it's the first class of the semester. You gotta show up on the first day, make an appearance, and *then* you can skip the rest of the week." He said this with the shameless logic of a seasoned truant.
Spirit Bradley just shook his head in silent, spectral disbelief.
With surprising strength for his lanky frame, Bradley hoisted both unconscious seniors onto his shoulders, one draped over each side like two very heavy, very limp sacks of potatoes. He adjusted his balance and carried them out of the classroom, his footsteps echoing in the now silent hallway.
After unceremoniously dumping them on the cots in the infirmary and spinning a quick lie to the nurse about finding them "going at it like wild animals" in the empty classroom, he rushed back towards his own class, his heart pounding from the sprint.
He skidded to a halt in front of the door marked 'Class-1A', took a quick breath to steady himself, and pushed it open.
The hinge creaked, and instantly, two dozen pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at him. The gentle hum of the teacher's lecture cut off abruptly.
"You're late for the first class of the first semester, Mr. Dentlinger... as usual." The voice that spoke was soft, melodic, but carried a sharp edge of disapproval that silenced the room.
A few students snickered, the sound muffled behind hands.
Bradley's gaze found the speaker. She was standing by the whiteboard, a marker still in her hand. Ms. Melina. She had shiny, obsidian-black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and light brown eyes that held a lazy, almost feline intelligence. She wore a formal, tailored black-and-white outfit that accentuated her curves perfectly. She was a strikingly beautiful woman in her thirties, and at that moment, a deeply unimpressed one.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Melina, for coming late," Bradley apologized, his voice slightly breathless. "There were some... issues in the way."
Melina simply let out a long, weary sigh, as if she'd been expecting this. "Go to your seat," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "There won't be a next time."
Bradley nodded quickly, avoiding further eye contact. He closed the classroom door, the *click* sounding final in the quiet room. He then had to walk the gauntlet of his seated classmates. He could feel their stares—a mix of scorn, resentment, and morbid curiosity—boring into his back. He kept his eyes fixed on the far corner of the room, his expression a carefully maintained blank slate.
He moved towards the very last row, next to the large windows that looked out over the snowy football field. There, a boy with messy black hair and bright, intelligent green eyes was already waving him over with a grin. Bradley slid into the empty seat beside him.
"Yo, wassup, bro," Kirby greeted him, his smile genuine and completely at odds with the hostile atmosphere.
"Yo," Bradley replied, the single syllable laden with relief.
They performed their complicated, ritualistic handshake—a series of slaps, claps, and grips that culminated in a loud, satisfying *smack* that echoed in the hushed classroom. A few students in front of them turned around and clicked their tongues in clear annoyance.
Ms. Melina just fixed them with a long, lazy stare from the front of the room—a silent warning that promised detention if tested.
"That was an immaculate dap," Kirby whispered, leaning in conspiratorially once the teacher had turned back to the board.
"On God," Bradley agreed, a low chuckle escaping him. It felt good to act normal, even for a second.
"You look like shit," Kirby observed, pointing a pen at Bradley's disheveled uniform, which was still covered in a fine layer of classroom dust.
"Yeah," Bradley brushed at his blazer ineffectively. "Some pricks decided to get in my way."
"Oh, Dickson and Adrian?" Kirby asked, his green eyes narrowing with understanding.
"Yeah. Taught them a lesson, though."
"It was about damn time," Kirby said, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
They shared a quiet, knowing chuckle.
"So, what did I miss?" Bradley asked, finally pulling out a notebook and pen, a purely performative gesture.
Kirby leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Nah, you didn't miss much. Ms. Melina was just going through the curriculum for this semester. A whole lot of 'this is important' and 'that is mandatory'."
"A lot of yapping, I guess?"
"Yeah," Kirby confirmed. "A whole lot of yapping." He looked forward for a moment, then swiveled back. "I'm surprised you appeared on the first day of school. Normally, you wouldn't even show your face for the first two weeks. What happened? The world ending?"
"Nah, nothing that dramatic," Bradley said, putting on a serious face. "I just decided to be a new man. From now on, I'll be showing up for classes every single day. A model student."
"Cap," Kirby replied flatly, not buying it for a second.
"Deadass," Bradley insisted, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
Kirby studied him silently for a long moment, his expression one of mock-serious scrutiny. Then, his eyes went wide with feigned shock, and he pointed his pen at Bradley as if it were a weapon. "What did you do to my friend? Who are you? Please give the real, class-skipping Bradley back!"
Bradley had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle a loud burst of laughter, his shoulders shaking. He caught Melina's sharp glance over her shoulder and quickly composed himself, pretending to be deeply interested in his blank notebook.
"Phew," he let out a deep, shaky breath once the danger had passed.
They both turned their attention to the front, ostensibly to listen to the lesson.