If the cold at first had been consistently unpleasant, now it was brutal. It had set in under skin, right down to the bone, feeling like it was threatening to lock joints solid. So disorienting was the ever-present, freezing sensation that it seemed to almost be driving the tiny Xenos walking at the group of Astartes’s feet to say something out of desperation.
Not that he would, of course, if he knew what was good for him.
Baramiel, formerly of the First Legion’s Twelfth Order, and now battle-brother of the Dark Angel Chapter’s third company, paid the Xenos no further mind, and returned to his brooding. That was no unusual thing for a son of the Lion, to brood, but even with that said he and his three remaining brothers had truly been going above and beyond in recent days. He could not blame them; he knew he did not want to be here as much as they did not want to. He wanted to find their Chaplain. He wanted to return to the Rock, or whatever it was they were now calling the remnants of Caliban. He wanted to leave their erstwhile companions behind, and return to the Hunt that mattered. Selfish, yes, but with the way Uzzael’s death still hung heavy upon them he reckoned he could allow himself a brief period of melancholia.
The helmeted Space Marine’s thoughts were distracted as the crouching, gunmetal-grey figure gave a sniff. Beneath the plate of his Crusader-pattern headpiece, Baramiel felt his lips curl in disgust. That was another thing. They were waiting on a Space Wolf.
“You look as frosty as Russ’s smile, brother.” As if his thoughts had been open to the air, the deep voice sounded in his ear, a chuckle not long in following. Suppressing a sigh, Baramiel turned only fractionally as one of the other Tactical Marines, Gideon, approached.
“Was that a jest, brother?” He asked back over the private channel, not bothering to hide the tiredness in his words. “That is unlike you.” He kept the implicit request for the other Angel to keep with tradition unspoken.
“True.” Gideon conceded, pauldrons grinding and rising fractionally in what presumably was a shrug. “But you were shooting proverbial daggers into the back of our feral friend’s head, and I thought it was only right I intervened.”
Baramiel’s curt response was forestalled as the other Calibanite’s words sank in. He had been staring, now he thought about it; it was a breach of emotion, unbecoming of a knight of the Order. His thanks, such as they were, were conveyed in a slight inclination of the head, but that was enough to convince Gideon to keep talking. “You don’t like him, do you?” It was clear that he was referring to the Grey Hunter, and apparently the other Dark Angel took Baramiel’s grunt of disinterest as a question in return. “I do. He’s not too bad.”
That was sufficiently surprising to make Baramiel actually turn, inclining his forest-green helmet quizzically, even as the arctic air threatened to freeze his robes solid. “Uzzael would reprimand you, if he had heard that.”
“Then it is a good thing that Uzzael is no longer with us.” Gideon retorted. Inside his helmet, Baramiel once again felt an expression of displeasure crossing his face.
“Careful, brother.” He warned, voice low. “That one was in bad taste.” Gideon held his gaze a moment, their blood-red eye lenses unwavering. Then, he relented, bowing his head in contrition. Silence descended for a while after that, occasionally followed by the group following Helsturnn as he directed them towards the supposed train-tracks. The Blood Angel was engaged in his own quiet conversation with Joshua, the other tactical marine, whilst the two Iron Hands as ever kept to themselves.
“I have an observation.” Gideon suddenly piped up. Baramiel had not realised they were still conversing, and couldn’t quite hold off a sigh on that one. Once again, however, Gideon appeared to take that as incentive to continue, the palm of his gauntlet rubbing around the pommel of the ceremonial sword at his side. “This was a good world, once.” For the second time in their conversation, Baramiel found himself taken thoroughly off guard, looking round at Gideon oddly.
“A Xenos world?” He asked, as if clarifying he hadn’t misheard. “You think this was ever a haven? All we have seen so far is ice and corruption.”
“Which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, makes it hard to form a judgement.” Gideon countered. He had a point. “But, yes, I do. This was a peaceful world once, before the traitors came.” He paused, giving something that could have been a sigh of his own. “It is…different now. Something more than just their lands has been lost in this whole, sorry mess…” He trailed off, as if remembering himself, inclining his head again. “Forgive me, brother. I ramble.”
“You do.” Baramiel agreed, though the apology made him content to let the matter slide. Even had the Astartes wished to say any more, he would have been cut off; as they began to walk again, Helsturnn tapped something with the tip of a ceramite boot. Kneeling, he wiped away a few layers of the thick snow, a grin crossing his canine features once more.
“There’s your damn railway, Angel.” He remarked, as gruffly as ever. Sergeant Nehemiah – who, up until this moment, had remained as stoically silent as ever – did not offer the Fenrisan any words of thanks, head slowly panning to follow the rails. Baramiel watched him, the urge to scrutinise coded into his gene-seed pushing to the fore.
“What are you watching for?” He murmured, the question directed mainly at himself. Gideon was still close enough to hear, not averting his own gaze.
“Who knows?” The other Angel retorted, his voice just as low. “The only time I have seen him look so maudlin is when our…’eternal friends’ are involved.” At the mention of them, both Astartes promptly fell silent, shame and anger bubbling gently in both their guts.
“You said it yourself.” None of them had expected the machine-drawl that was Voss’s voice to break the silence, but break it it did, the son of Ferrus taking a step forward. “The tracks will lead us to the Xenos’s fallen capital. There, we will find the source of this Chaotic breach, and purge it from existence.” Always so certain. “Anything else is a waste of time.” The Iron Hand’s brother, Moulkain, as well as Zuriel remained diplomatically silent, whilst Helsturnn gave a low murmur of agreement.
“The plan has not changed, brother.” Nehemiah assured, after a moment’s pause. “Caution, however, can be as acceptable a virtue.” That would certainly rattle a few of them, and Baramiel even briefly considered whether his sergeant had actually made a joke. Nehemiah had begun walking before he could decide either way, heading the direction they presumed was away from the Crystal city. The other Astartes followed suite, whilst the pony continued to awkwardly trot through the snow by their feet.
It was actually him that broke the quiet that time, in a move that would undeniably have surprised the transhuman had they had time to process it before things got considerably worse. They had all by now gotten used to the way the taint sunk into the world of Equestria manipulated the surroundings, carrying rocks through the air or making snow fall upwards. So, when the rails began to gently shake, even the Wolf paid it little mind. As the shaking grew more pronounced, and they stopped to examine it, it dawned on the Xenos before any of his Astartes guardians.
“Why…haven’t we heard the train for a while?” Adamant Tower asked, voice shaky, ears folding against his head.
The scream of the engine’s horn answered the question before any of them got the chance. As if it had been hiding behind some stage curtain that was suddenly pulled back, the ‘train’ crashed into existence. To name it any sort of mode of transportation seemed generous; it had clearly once been cutesy, the carriages looking almost like muffins whilst stylised hearts formed both decoration and the shape of some windows, but the Warp had not even left that untouched. Trails of multi-coloured aetheric fire streaked off it as the daemon engine sped forwards, whilst some of the wheels were replaced with muscled legs to drag itself forwards. Tentacles burst from windows and lashed violently through the air whilst molten metal and fouler-looking liquids dripped constantly from the flanks and underside of the machine. Most disturbing of all was the front, once a simple plough and exhaust, now mutated into a leering face with far too many eyes that howled and chomped pointlessly at the air as it sped forwards, seeming to chew up the very track as it went.
Whilst Adamant Tower screamed, the Astartes moved into action fluidly and without conscious thought. They fanned out, unslinging their bolters, though all were conscious that they had precious little ammunition remaining to them. Zuriel drew back, the precious gene-seed his narthecium now carried tempering his more aggressive side, whilst the Iron Hand’s usually emotionless frames now radiated unbridled horror. Briefly, Baramiel wondered whether they would be safe simply backing away from the train-tracks. That idea, however, was quickly put paid to; with a sickening, grinding sound, the daemon engine actually lurched off the track, the rock deep beneath the snow protesting as the hell-bound wheels were dragged over it. The lack of a conventional means to carry itself didn’t seem to mind the train, which whipped around like a steel snake in an attempt to grind the Astartes beneath itself.
Helsturnn, as always, was the first to charge. He pounded across the snow like it was nothing, not slowed for a second, his chainsword already out and howling through the air as he leapt. What exactly he was intending to do wasn’t clear, but the grey-armoured warrior certainly cut an impressive figure as he closed through the air like a thunderbolt; the tentacle that shot out and closed tightly around him, then, was even more sickening. The Grey Hunter howled some more, in frustration rather than pain, as the slick appendage coiled around his waist and began to tighten. As he thrashed, more of them burst from the side of the train, closing around legs and arms and sending the *crack* of splitting Ceramite through the air. He had no love for the man, but Baramiel’s battle-senses kicked in anyways, raising his bolter and firing once. The unerringly accurate shot struck a tentacle, blowing it apart from the inside in a shower of gore. Capitalising on the momentary distraction, and his freed arm, Helsturnn clawed and bit deep into the limb restraining his waist, the pressure leaving instantly as it retracted, the Wolf spinning almost gracefully in the tentacles that still held him to lash out with his sword. Their ends dropped off as the teeth passed through them, and he dropped too, though the momentum of the train sent him crashing head-first into the snow and rolling over and over.
There was no time to aid him, the other Astartes similarly beset. For such a monstrous engine, the train was surprisingly agile, hissing and roaring as it slid through the snow. The carriages lashed out like wrecking balls behind it, forcing any in their path to run as fast as they could or dive for cover. For the Iron Hands, the latter was not much of an option. They held their ground, firing in short, efficient and hate-fuelled bursts, only retreating when absolutely necessary. More than once, it almost cost them their lives. Voss was caught by the back end of the last carriage, the force of the impact sending him through the air, landing as hard as the Wolf had.
Gideon had a point, in his own way, Baramiel mused, firing off another shot into the machine’s flank. Perhaps once, this world was worth defending. Now we are tossed around like ragdolls, and what does it matter? He had precious little time to indulge some melancholic thoughts further, as he felt the presence of Joshua and Gideon by his sides. The former was still one-armed, but adjusting to the disability well, pistol clasped in his remaining hand and barking with each shot. The bolts sunk deep into the train’s sides, but they didn’t seem to be doing more than irritating the Daemonic entity.
“We are getting nowhere with this.” Joshua grumbled, back off as the ammo-clip ran dry, forcing him to swap to his bolter. The other two Dark Angels gave grunts of acknowledgement, maintaining their short firing bursts. Even as he did, Baramiel found himself wondering where their sergeant had got to. His question was answered quickly enough as Nehemiah suddenly came into view. The Astartes officer was, much like Helsturnn had, making a beeline charge for the train. He seemed to be having much greater success thanks to the energised edge of his power sword, wielding it with knightly skill and hacking off a seemingly-endless rush of tentacles as he swung his weapon in great arcs. Eventually, he reached the side of their enemy; taking his sword above his head in a two-handed grip, Nehemiah struck down, passing the blade through the corrupted metal and tearing a clean gouge into the side of the machine. It didn’t have any obvious effect, besides just making the machine angrier. With a howl, the train twisted again, the sergeant beating a hasty retreat. Behind his helmet, Baramiel frowned.
What are you doing…
The answer hit him the moment he saw the monstrous train open its mouth and roar again in animalistic frustration. He had to hand it to him, his sergeant was no tactical slouch. Seeing that Voss had already risen, some of his bionics giving the occasional spark, the tactical marine made a beeline for him, strafing around the possessed engine.
“Brother.” He said when he reached him, cutting straight to the chase. “Do you have a melta-bomb?”
“One.” Voss answered, not turning to look at the Dark Angel or inquiring any further. Even when he saw the maw at the front of the train open once more and understanding dawned, the Iron Hand gave no more acknowledgement than a nod and mumble of “very well”. Covered by their bolter fire, he began to advance at a steady and relentless pace, striding over the torn-up ground as he primed the bomb.
Nehemiah was still running, robes whipping behind him as he sprinted, daemon engine snapping at his heels. He caught the Iron Hand’s eyes, veering round and powering towards him. The train kept on coming, snaking around again, skidding over the ice. The melta-bomb was already in Voss’s iron hand, the red light in the centre blinking furiously as he stopped and braced himself.
They were only going to get one shot at this, and they all knew it. Nehemiah peeled off, banking harshly to the side, but the possessed machine was in no such position to do so. It kept on coming, murderous attention now refocused solely on the onyx-clad marine. Voss did not waver, or even seem to move at all, staring down the onrushing foe with mechanical impassiveness.
When the train was no more than ten feet away, he finally moved with a speed his usually ponderous nature wouldn’t suggest. One arm shot out, hurling the explosive through the air almost like a discus, before his bionic legs compressed and sprang Voss out the way. The train had no way of avoiding the throw, not at such a short distance. The melta-bomb passed between its teeth, sinking deep down into whatever passed for the thing’s gullet. It still kept on coming for a few moments, wheels and claws grinding across the ground, before the device detonated – with one last howl, the daemon engine came apart in a mighty plume of fire, the arctic wastes seeming to shake a little as it did. Shrapnel that had once formed the train’s body hurtled through the air, forcing the Astartes to duck or risk getting their heads taken off. Only when it everything had finally fallen silent did they dare rise, glancing around to make sure the sound hadn’t attracted any more monsters from beyond the veil. In that, at least, they seemed to have gotten lucky.
Nehemiah patted Voss’s pauldron once, though the Iron Hand gave no reply. Noticing one of the pieces of shrapnel near him, Helsturnn walked over to it, crouching down to read the faded words scrawled on the side.
“’The Friendship Express’.” He quote, growling again. “We almost got killed by something called the Friendship Express.” He stood up, giving the metal a kick.
“Is it Iron Warrior?” Moulkain asked, the Iron Hand actually deigning to speak for once. Helsturnn shook his head. Zuriel, meanwhile, appeared to have suddenly thought of something as the Wolf spoke; he searched around in the snow for a few moments, eventually kneeling and pulling something out. Adamant Tower hung slightly limp in his grasp, obviously shaken by the monstrous engine, which was perhaps understandable.
“Are you alright?” The Blood Angel asked, words lent an echo by his Maximus-pattern helmet. It took the pony a few moments to reply, and when he did it was with a small shiver.
“I…can’t help but feel like a bit of an afterthought on this.” He chuckled weakly. The Apothecary nodded, not asking what he meant as he lowered the equine back to the ground. Their pulses all just about calmed by now, the Astartes returned their attention to the remaining train tracks, stretching out into the distance.
“Well…at least we don’t have to worry about that anymore.” Helsturnn chuckled humourlessly, gesturing with his head towards the carcass of the train. They didn’t even wait for the order this time, the Astartes resuming their trudge towards what had once been the capital of Equestria, pony in tow.
In the centre of it all were Baramiel, and Nehemiah. The sergeant had not moved, not yet, and the tactical marine couldn’t quite keep his eyes off his brother. Now he had noticed the officer’s even more pronounced than usual brooding, it was all he could focus on. Nehemiah looked up, meeting the other Dark Angel’s gaze. He held it for a moment, seeming to grimace despite the helmet covering his face, before the two set off with the sound of boots crunching through the snow their only companion.
***
“Well.”
Somehow, the way Principal Perturabo spoke the solitary word made Lorkhan feel even more uncomfortable than had the man immediately launched into a tirade. It was all he could do not to physically squirm in his seat, and that was restrained purely because to do so would have been a complete admission of weakness. In the seats beside him – though he, of course, had been placed squarely in the middle – Barbus and Zuko seemed to be having much the same sort of reaction. Mordecai, of course, was the only exception, and even he’d been made to shut up for once.
In some schools, the Principal’s office was perhaps a room of finery, a room designed to impress. Principal Perturabo’s office was not one of those. There were no windows, the only illumination provided by a flickering and dying lighting strip on the ceiling. Filing cabinets filled the back wall, whilst the centre of the room was dominated by a desk that looked like it was made of pure steel. There were a few papers and pens on it, all meticulously organised, as well as what looked like a bobblehead in the shape of some sort of heavily-armoured walker. They didn’t question it. The other thing they didn’t question hung on the wall, behind the Principal’s desk; where other teachers might have kept their diploma, Perturabo instead hung a single newsclipping. Though Lorkhan was doing his best to ignore it, he couldn’t ignore the words ‘local man ruins everything’ printed in bold as the headline. Probably best he didn’t say anything about that.
“Well.” The boy’s attention was diverted anyway as the Principal spoke again, his slate-grey eyes never seeming to even blink. His voice was like stone smashing together, leaving a profound sense of dread to settle in the group. “You seem to have been on quite the adventure yesterday.”
Perturabo’s words were addressed to them all, but some part of Lorkhan knew they were directed mainly at him. Swallowing, he ran his hands together nervously; after they’d sprinted away from Canterlot High the previous day, he almost dared to believe they’d at least gotten away with it, with the help of the strange man who’d pulled the fire alarm. That had lasted until midway through that morning, when the four of them had been briskly summoned to the Principal’s office. Realising that the eyes of his companions were on him, he took a deep breath; he might not have been a nice guy, but he wouldn’t shirk from responsibility.
“Yes…sir.” He added, keeping his voice and expression steady as he replied, not quite able to look the Principal in the eye. “Yes, we did…” Perturabo nodded from behind the desk, hands still clasped before him, apparently appreciating the honesty at least.
“So,” He said. “You admit it was you?” Feeling the others still looking at him, Lorkhan nodded again.
“Yes…it was.” He repeated. “It was my idea, sir…I was behind it. They were just following orders.” Zuko, Barbus, and even Mordecai seemed surprised at his shifting of the blame all onto himself, but they were all smart enough not to say anything. Principal Perturabo didn’t seem particularly moved either way.
“You were the commander of this little operation, then?” He asked, eyes narrowing. Feeling himself want to squirm again, Lorkhan just nodded. “Do you know,” The Principal asked, after a moment. “How much effort I have had to expend covering your arse after you and your little company’s series of ‘raids’?” Lorkhan gave an audible gulp, shaking his head. “My counterpart from Canterlot High is not pleased with your antics.” Perturabo finished, not really answering his own question. “I defended you only because you are some of my own, and I don’t particularly feel much care for any of you in the first place.”
There was nothing Lorkhan could say, not in the face of such towering displeasure. So he just nodded, shrinking in a little on himself in spite of his best efforts, as if Perturabo’s anger was a physical force. The Principal took a deep breath, but even his exhalation sounded disapproving. “I admire your tenacity,” He admitted, glancing over them all now, sounding sincere enough. “But this great crusade of yours, Lorkhan. It ends now.”
Even now, part of him wanted to protest, to impose upon the man the importance of just what Lorkhan was doing; nothing he could have said would have met with a positive reception, though. And so the boy capitulated, nodding submissively at the demand, looking down and closing his eyes. “Yes, sir.” He agreed, still keeping his voice level as he prepared to ask the question that was on all their minds. “Are you…going to decimate us?”
It was a stupid question, really; of course they were going to get decimated. They were going to get decimated so hard, they would not be able to recall a time before being decimated. And yet, Principal Perturabo did not speak straight away. He did not speak for a long time, and Lorkhan didn’t dare look up, even as his gut churned in nervous confusion. When he finally did, it was hardly what any of them had expected.
“What did you find?”
Lorkhan couldn’t help his confused frown as he looked up. For a few moments, he was robbed of words, even with the Principal’s penetrating glare. Thankfully for him, it was then that Mordecai finally chose to intervene.
“If I may, sir?” He asked, in his usual polite and cheery voice. Perturabo’s gaze shifted to him, the man giving a single nod. “Barbus here was a remarkably effective agent.” Mordecai admitted, the boy he’d named unable to stop himself given a small smile of satisfaction. “We learned there is some awfully bizarre form of division amongst our good counterparts at Canterlot High; frightfully odd, and none of us can quite work out why.” He shrugged. “Although, if I may be so bold sir, presumably it is something to do with their upcoming Battle of the Bands competition…from what we understand, it’s being taken rather seriously.”
It was, again, a long time before Perturabo spoke. Throughout the whole, drawn-out silence, Lorkhan had to physically restrain himself from throttling Mordecai for admitting that that was the only real thing they’d gleaned. Zuko and Barbus, wisely, remained silent, though they did cast a glance at one another.
“Battle…of the Bands.” The Principal said slowly, as if making sure he had heard correctly. The way Mordecai nodded enthusiastically made Lorkhan physically wince. Perturabo gave a low sigh, slab-like body unmoving. “Enter it.”
It was Lorkhan’s turn to question if his ears were functioning properly. He looked up, eyes wide, the rest of his face drawn into even more of a perturbed frown than before.
“…Come again?” He asked, forgetting discipline for a moment.
“Enter it.” Perturabo repeated, ignoring the momentary slip as he held Lorkhan’s gaze. “I do not care what you have to do. Enter it, and prove our superiority over Celestia’s precious little students. If you win, we will forget this ever happened.” The Principal’s countenance darkened again as he leaned over the table a little, seeming to tower above them all. “And, if you lose…well…the shame of defeat will be the least of your worries.”
Lorkhan gulped again, as did the others, all of them forced down into their seats further. In truth, he wanted to do anything except what Perturabo had asked of them, the very idea of it making him feel angry and nauseous in equal measure. His fear at that moment, however, trumped all those emotions; before he even really realised what he was doing, he gave a shaky nod. That seemed to satisfy the Principal, who sat back in his seat and already began to look over the papers on his desk.
“Get out of my sight.” Was the only way he acknowledged them. None of the four boys had to be told twice, all of them rising from their seats and practically sprinting from the office.
***
“So, are you getting decimated?”
To Lorkhan’s evident surprise, there were actually people waiting for them outside the office. Rorke cut straight to the chase, his expression just as feral and thunderous as ever as he folded his arms over his chest. Varvillon seemed just as expectant, whilst the stocky form of Vortun dominated the group as he looked down at them. “You’re getting decimated, aren’t you?” Rorke asked again, growling, a finger spasming at some misfiring synapse. “It’s your own fault, I told you it was a stupid plan.”
“Actually, Rorke, we’re not.” Zuko snapped, his annoyance plain even behind the motorcycle helmet. The short boy frowned, glancing at them all in turn. Lorkhan chewed his lower lip, trying to think of how best to phrase this.
“Well…not…exactly.” He said, drumming his fingers on an arm. “I…don’t suppose any of you can play an instrument?”
Silence descended, all three of them looking at him in unmitigated confusion. “…Tell me zat is a joke.” Vortun rumbled, his words slow and laden with warning. Lorkhan sighed, but shook his head, explaining to the three newcomers what exactly had occurred inside the Principal’s office. As they listened, at least Rorke and Varvillon’s faces changed from puzzlement to abject horror, whilst Vortun remained outwardly impassive.
“No.” Rorke cut him off before he could even finish. “No. I’m not doing it. Fuck that, fuck you.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby about this, old sport.” Mordecai tutted, rolling his eyes. “We need all the support we can get, and I can almost guarantee it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Shut up, Mordecai.” Barbus grumbled, the first thing he’d said in a long time. “It’s your fault for mentioning that stupid Battle of the Bands in the first place.”
“Well, what would you have had me do, lie?” The polite boy retorted, turning to face Barbus. “You know full well that Principal Perturabo would have seen straight through us.” Barbus grumbled, looking away; he’d been particularly crabby ever since they’d pulled him out of the school the previous day, though he hadn’t actually explained why.
“I’m not fucking doing it.” Rorke repeated in a growl, absolutely adamant. “Not this time, Lorkhan. We’re Olympia High, we don’t make pretty pictures, we don’t pride ourselves on athletics or any of that shit, and we definitely don’t form bands!” He’d clearly worked himself up, shaking a little and having to restrain himself from trying to kick something.
“I repeat.” Zuko muttered, mostly to himself. “Isn’t it nice when we all get together like this?”
“Rorke’s right, Lorkhan.” Varvillon said, the admission clearly a difficult one to make. “If we did this…it would be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. I mean, imagine if anyone else got wind of it: Toramino, Kroeger, Berossus. We’d get run out of town by them for having lost our minds.”
“Look,” Lorkhan interceded, grimacing. “I bloody hate this as much as you all do, believe me. But does it really sound like we get a choice?” He looked at Rorke, Vortun and Varvillon, who glanced at one another. “You guys knew what we were doing, that makes you culpable…you think the Principal would just let you off?” He might have done, but that didn’t seem to occur to them, the trio all looking a little nervous. “Besides, Rorke said it himself, we’re Olympia High. How good can those Canterlot losers be compared to us?” He went on. Appealing to some sense of communal pride was a gamble, but amazingly, it actually seemed to work. Lorkhan was quick to capitalise. “It’ll be fine. We’ll just go, win this bastard thing, and no-one except us will ever know.”
“Students.” No sooner had the last words left his mouth, the school intercom network crackled to life, Perturabo’s voice ringing out over the speakers. “Your contemporary Lorkhan and his group of accomplices will be performing in the Canterlot High Battle of the Bands in the near future. Feel free to mock them heartily.” A pause. “Also, you’re worthless and I hate every one of you.” As the intercom shut off, Lorkhan was well aware of the six pairs of eyes furiously boring into him.
“Well, well, well.” During the momentary announcement, it seemed none of them had heard the other group emerging at the end of the corridor. They knew that voice, though; silently fuming, they turned as one towards the sound of the noise.
“Andraaz.” Lorkhan muttered, face dark, as the others fell in behind him. Andraaz smirked, at the centre of his own group. He was shorter than Lorkhan, but broader, hair cropped close to his skull and an ugly scar running down one cheek. It would not have been accurate to say he and Lorkhan were rivals, but Andraaz had certainly made a point of belittling everything he did ever since they’d both arrived at Olympia High. Behind the stout, antagonistic boy were nine of his own compatriots: Morax, his face locked in an eternal sneer. Rhodaan, still looking a little shaken from his own ‘winning’ of the lottery earlier that week. Ipos, the baby-face of the group. Vallax, Algol, Nostraz, the unusually spindly Oriaz, and Gamgin, none of whom Lorkhan knew well or cared to know. And of course, Merihem; he was huge, at least as big as Vortun, grinning whilst the foreign student glared even harder.
“If it isn’t the latest pop sensation,” Andraaz went on, his smirk wide and cruel. “ ‘Lorkhan’s losers’.” His cronies all chuckled at that, whilst Rorke’s hands clenched into fists. Lorkhan didn’t react as blatantly, but his frown didn’t leave.
‘Can I just point out how cliché this all is?” Zuko asked; apparently not, since none of them seemed to be listening. Lorkhan took a step forward, jabbing a finger at him.
“Leave it, Andraaz.” He snarled through gritted teeth. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“No, but it’s so damn funny I can’t not get involved.” He laughed back, hands in his pockets as he and his group ambled over, getting right into Lorkhan’s face. “I can only imagine how you got into this situation…when you lose to a bunch of effeminate Canterlot babies, do you become one of them or something?” He asked. “It’d be a better fit for you.” They all laughed at that, whilst Lorkhan tried just to keep his temper in check, Varvillon muttering behind him.
“We’re not going to lose.” He said flatly, Zuko’s ‘cliché’ comment ringing in his ears for some reason. “Actually, we’re going to win. We’re going to kick the arse of everyone at Canterlot High in this competition, and when they finally admit that we are better than them...it will all be because of us.” He finished, glad none of his own group argued. Andraaz raised an eyebrow, snorting derisively.
“No.” He replied bluntly. “You won’t…you’re going to lose, because you’re a loser. And when you all do, nobody will ever let you forget it.” For a moment, Lorkhan thought the boy was about to do something even more patronising, like tap his cheek. Andraaz thankfully didn’t, chuckling one more time before turning on his heel and marching away. His associates followed suite, whilst the other boys continued just to shoot daggers into the back of their heads.
“Come on.” Lorkhan growled when they were gone, need for both validation and vengeance burning in a way that felt oddly…right. “There’s got to be a music room around here somewhere.”