Sky's P.
I had been standing in the hallway long enough to start questioning my own life choices, and of course, the squeaky metal door at the end of the corridor decided to announce our arrival like it was auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack. Groan. Grooooooan. I swear, even the pigeons in the ceiling probably fled in terror.
Mr. Salvador stepped through, acting like this was the grand opening of Disneyland. Yes, sir, because nothing says "fun" like moldy paint, wobbly chairs, and despair. I glanced at the new transferees trailing behind him, clutching their backpacks like they were armor. Their wide eyes reminded me of fish in a net. Good luck, newbies. You're about to become traumatized extras in the epic saga that is Section A.
Siari whispered, nearly trembling, "Why… why does the ceiling look like it's about to collapse?"
I snorted internally. Because it is, genius. But let's see if he survives long enough to notice. Michael, standing with permanent boredom etched on his face, said flatly, "Don't stand under the leak marks too long." I wanted to add: or you'll star in your own horror story.
And of course, my stomach was growling. Again. Hungry… so hungry… My brain insisted on repeating this, but I had to focus. The transferees were about to witness Section A's true horror.
We passed an open doorway, and the transferees froze. Section D. Oh, Section D, with your perfectly aligned desks, crisp uniforms, and hum of air-conditioning. I felt a pang of jealousy… and then laughed. Yep. They have AC. We have death traps.
Cindy blinked so fast I feared his eyes might implode. "Wait… they have AC? Flat screens? Clean windows? Sir! Why are we shoved in the dump?"
Before Salvador could attempt a dignified answer, Perry shouted something about being allergic to cleanliness. Ramiko backed him up with air-conditioning giving them rabies. Naturally. Section A logic.
BB twirled a pen like she had been trained in chaos management. Kittu clapped Wind on the shoulder like a saint, whispering, "You'll get used to the suffering. Non-refundable." My stomach growled again. Hungry… maybe I can eat a chair?
As we trudged past Section B and Section C, the transferees' pale faces were priceless. Every bright bulletin board, every projector, every whisper of normalcy stabbed them in the soul. I watched, suppressing a laugh so hard my ribs might revolt.
By the time we reached the far wing where the labs were hidden, most of the transferees looked like they were about to expire. Perfect. Section A magic.
"Science Lab," Salvador announced, pushing the door open. Inside… chaos. Thirty-six brown chairs, some propped on bricks, tables scorched with chemical burns, graffiti declaring war on human decency.
At the back, Steve the skeleton leaned, sunglasses taped to his face, one arm missing, looking like he had personally survived the apocalypse.
Riyo gasped. "Why is the skeleton wearing shades?!"
"Because he saw the truth of Section A and couldn't bear it," Angel said solemnly. Yes. Canon. Steve has seen the horror. Just like us.
Michael corrected, "Yo, that's Steve. He's basically one of us." Skiez was laughing so hard she nearly dropped her notebook.
Siari looked horrified. "Sir… there are actual burn marks on the tables. Did someone blow this lab up?"
"Multiple times," Denz replied casually. "Chemistry got… spicy."
Charlie, ever hopeful, asked about the fire alarm. "Doesn't work," Kika said smoothly. "We just run and scream."
And my stomach growled again. Hungry… I could eat a chair leg… or maybe Steve's sunglasses. Anything edible.
I shook my head and thought: Corny author alert! Yes, I know, this is exactly what the author wants you to think right now. All dramatic pauses, horror-filled hallways, wobbly chairs… very original. Bravo, author. Very subtle.
Section A, our beloved dump, our home. I looked around and silently thanked Steve, the scorched tables, and the duct-taped computers for preparing me for life. Also… still hungry.
Oh, the Math Lab. Calling it a lab is generous. Honestly, it's a miracle any equations survive here. I trailed behind the transferees, trying to act like thirty-six brown chairs—half of them wobbling like they had existential dread—was normal. Spoiler: it's not.
The chalkboard leaned against the wall at a dangerous angle, a caricature of Mr. Salvador riding a dragon plastered across it like some medieval warning sign. If dragons existed, they'd probably burn this room themselves out of embarrassment.
Blessing muttered, "This isn't a Math Lab. This is a war zone."
I snorted silently. Yes, Blessing, and the war zone comes with complimentary hunger pangs. Speaking of which… hungry… I'm so hungry… maybe a chair leg…
Perry, of course, couldn't resist, flipping his pencil like a baton. "Mathematical trauma zone," he announced proudly. I wanted to clap. Or cry. Or eat my own backpack.
Imelda, ever timid, raised her hand. "Um, sir? Why do the other sections get whiteboards and projectors… but we don't?"
Before Salvador could even start a lecture, Marco cut in: "Because we're the rejects! And the administration wants to see how long we survive without AC before committing arson."
I silently nodded in approval. Brilliant, Marco. Truly. Section A logic at its finest. Also… hungry… maybe this pencil is edible? No… don't…
Finally, we trudged into the Computer Lab. Oh mercy. Half the lights didn't work. The rest buzzed weakly, as if apologizing for existing. Rows of ancient boxy CPUs lined the desks, most with post-it notes screaming: "DO NOT TOUCH – BROKEN."
Joshua stared. "Is that… Windows XP?!"
Cyree snorted. "Windows Who?"
Riyo, bless her curiosity, pressed a key. A faint squeak. Nothing happened. Exactly.
Aroko deadpanned: "We don't learn coding here. We learn patience."
BB, never one to miss a chance, slapped a monitor. "See? Works great!" The screen flickered once, then died. Classic BB logic.
Kika folded her arms, looking like a general inspecting the battlefield. "Why are we in Section A? Why can't we be in a normal section with AC and working computers?"
Silence. Perfect silence. You could almost hear the desks laughing at their own suffering.
Rain dramatically raised her hand. "Because, my dear transferees… welcome to hell."
I sighed, letting my brain wander. Yep. Welcome to hell. Also… author, really? That line? Very subtle. I see your dramatic flair. Thanks for the cringe. Hungry… I could eat a keyboard… maybe Steve…
The transferees stared pale-faced, half-traumatized, half-amused. I tried to focus on internal jokes to keep sane. Steve's sunglasses are probably the only thing keeping this room from spontaneously combusting. Also… hungry… maybe a USB cable? No, no…
By the time we staggered back to our own classroom—the infamous thirty-six brown chairs, some broken, some leaning like they were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil—the transferees slumped into whatever seat didn't collapse under them. My stomach growled again. Hungry… eat a chair? Nah… maybe a piece of duct tape…
Mr. Salvador straightened his crooked tie. "And that concludes your tour. Any questions?"
Silence. Perfect.
Then Blessing raised his hand. "…Can I transfer back to Section F?"
The class erupted in laughter. Salvador groaned. I almost laughed out loud, but my stomach reminded me to stay focused. Hungry… maybe the scorched table would be tasty…
Section A. Chaos. Scorched tables. Wobbly chairs. Duct-taped computers. Hunger pangs. Corny author lines. All of it. And yet… somehow, this disaster was not good
By the time we shuffled out of the Computer Lab, I felt like my brain had been stretched, scorched, and then duct-taped back together—just like half the monitors in there. I followed the transferees, who looked like they were one wobbling chair away from spontaneous collapse.
Grace, of course, was still whispering "slay queen" every two seconds, performing interpretive cheerleading of chaos. Yes, Grace, very inspirational, now maybe slay on a stable surface, please. Also… author, do you really need her to say that right now? Subtlety is not your forte, is it?
Perry and Ramiko were behind her, doing their synchronized "look-how-normal-we-are" routine, which basically meant leaning on chairs that looked like death traps. Kittu clapped Wind on the shoulder, whispering something about surviving the "initiation." I internally agreed. Surviving Section A deserves a medal… or at least a snack. Hungry… very hungry… maybe a scorched table chip?
I watched the transferees tiptoe around the hallway, eyes wide, backpacks clutched like life support. Good luck, newbies. Section A is a mix of chaos, despair, and optional death by furniture collapse.
BB, never missing a chance for drama, tapped a chair and announced, "This is the finest antique in our collection. Guaranteed to collapse in three seconds. Don't sue us if you break a leg—or your dignity."
I snorted. Author, really? Could you be any more obvious with the dramatic setup? Also… hungry… maybe the chair leg would be crunchy enough…
At the back, Steve the skeleton leaned silently, sunglasses gleaming. I gave him a nod of solidarity. Yes, Steve. We all survived worse than this. Except maybe the author's attempts at subtlety.
Riyo, curious as ever, whispered, "Is he… alive?"
I wanted to say, Yes, and he's silently judging the author too.
By the time we returned to our own classroom—the infamous thirty-six brown chairs, some missing legs, fan squeaking like it had a personal vendetta—the transferees slumped into seats, pale and traumatized. I leaned against a desk, rubbing my temple.
My internal monologue went: This is Section A. This is chaos. This is also a buffet of hunger pangs. Also… author, were you raised in a dump or are you just methodically traumatizing characters for fun? Hungry… maybe Steve is edible…
BB was still pointing out scorch marks. "This is where Chemistry went a little… spicy. Don't touch unless you want life advice and minor burns."
I laughed internally. Life advice… from scorched tables… very subtle, author. Very deep.
Kika, arms crossed, smirked. "If you survive this, you get a medal. Or at least bragging rights. Most of Section F would die within a week."
I looked at the transferees. Some whispered survival strategies. Some muttered about transferring immediately. Some stared blankly, calculating how many snacks they would need to survive this nightmare. Yes… me too… hungry… maybe a chair leg…
Blessing raised his hand. "…Can I transfer back to Section F?"
The class erupted in laughter. Salvador groaned, and I internally said, Author, I see what you did there. Trying to make this dramatic. Also… maybe the transferees need a sandwich. Hungry… very hungry…
I glanced around: broken chairs, scorched tables, duct-taped computers, graffiti walls, Steve the skeleton, and my insane classmates. Chaos. Hunger. Sarcasm. And the author, probably smiling somewhere, thinking this was dramatic tension. Corny. Very corny. But somehow… it works.
Section A was more than a disaster. It was a crucible. A war zone. A family stitched together from chaos, bad author decisions, and wobbly chairs.
And me? I was hungry. And laughing. And silently roasting the author in my head while trying not to eat a desk.
Section A was home.
By the time everyone finally settled—or as settled as one could in Section A—I let myself just look. Thirty-six brown chairs, some missing legs, some leaning like they were auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. The fan overhead squeaked like it had a personal vendetta against anyone trying to breathe. The faint smell of scorched chemistry still lingered, and my stomach reminded me for the fiftieth time: Hungry… so hungry… maybe a chair leg… or a duct-taped monitor… anything edible.
The transferees were pale, exhausted, probably questioning their life choices. Grace had stopped her "slay queen" whispering for two whole seconds—momentarily at least—probably planning her next dramatic act.
Perry and Ramiko perched on desks like kings surveying a kingdom of chaos. Kittu clapped Wind on the shoulder, whispering survival tips with all the solemnity of a war general. I internally nodded in agreement. Surviving Section A deserves a medal… or a sandwich. Hungry… very hungry… maybe I could gnaw on a chair leg for protein…
BB, naturally, was still narrating like the author had written her for comic relief. "Here," she said, gesturing to a scorched table, "is where Chemistry got… spicy. Don't touch unless you want life advice and minor burns."
I snorted. Author, seriously? Life advice from a burnt table. Subtlety much? And yes, yes, I'm hungry… maybe I'll just eat the advice—it's probably low-calorie.
The transferees, pale-faced and traumatized, slowly began adjusting. Some whispered survival strategies. Some quietly laughed at the absurdity. Some stared blankly, probably calculating how many snacks they'd need to survive the next week. I silently sympathized. Yes… hungry… maybe a duct-taped computer…
Blessing raised his hand, already doomed. "…Can I transfer back to Section F?"
The class erupted in laughter. Salvador groaned. I internally muttered: Author, bravo. I see your dramatic "newcomer trauma" scene. Very original. Very subtle. Corny. Also… hungry… maybe the fan? No… too squeaky…
I leaned against a desk, scanning the room: broken chairs, scorched tables, duct-taped computers, graffiti walls chronicling years of petty wars, Steve the skeleton silently judging us all. Chaos. Hunger. Humor. And the author, probably smirking somewhere, thinking this was tension-building gold. Corny. Very corny. But I love it anyway.
Kika smirked. "If you survive this, you get bragging rights. Most people in Section F would die in a week."
I had to nod internally. True. And also… hungry… still… maybe a piece of chalk? Crunchy enough… probably not.
Section A wasn't just a disaster. It was a crucible. A war zone. A family stitched together from chaos, bad author decisions, and wobbly chairs. And somehow, all of it felt like home.
I let out a long breath and smiled. This was Section A. This was home. This was chaos, laughter, scorched tables, duct-taped computers, squeaky fans, hunger, and corny author lines all rolled into one absurd, terrifyingly wonderful package.
And me? I was hungry. I was laughing. I was alive. And I was silently roasting the author while hoping for a snack.
Yep. This was home.