"Your grades, Master Galal. Your grades are not what they used to be."
Mr. Whitaker's voice carried the weight of quiet authority as the last of the students filed out of the glass covered amphitheater. The holographic galaxy above their heads had already dissolved, leaving only the faint hum of the energy shields.
Galal stood near the front, hands clasped behind his back. " but Sir, my grades are still good," he said, respectful but firm.
"Ah, yes. Still." Whitaker tapped the word like a drumbeat. "Which means you know they've slipped." With a flick of his wrist, he activated his watch. A pale blue hologram sprang into the air, lines of Galal's past and present scores scrolling beside luminous graphs. "You were at the top of the class when I began teaching you history lessons. Now Xavier and others have passed you. May I ask why?"
Galal shifted his weight. "There's no real reason."
"No problems at home?" Whitaker's tone softened, probing carefully.
"No, sir. Nothing like that." Galal's gaze drifted to the teacher's desk, its surface glowing with faint starlight.
"So…?" Whitaker waited, one eyebrow raised.
Galal exhaled, a quiet sigh that felt heavier than the room. "Don't you ever think," he began, waving a hand to encompass the polished walls, the humming shields—maybe even the entire city beyond, "that all this… is just temporary?"
Whitaker tilted his head, puzzled. "What are you getting at, Pasherbast?" He used the boy's true name for the first time, the syllables carrying a subtle reverence.
"What I'm saying," Galal answered, voice low, "is that we don't know the real reason the Scryvians withdrew from the war. We're told the Fallen Heroes injured their commander, but that's not enough to stop an invasion. They kept fighting for years after, and even now we clash with their scouts. I'm afraid that when they return, we won't be ready."
Whitaker leaned back, pushing his thin glasses up the bridge of his nose. The faint star-maps on his coat shifted like constellations stirred by wind. "Master Galal, I understand your worry. I fear it too. But that is for the Earth's military to bear, not a student of the Orion Institute."
Galal held his teacher's gaze, silent.
Whitaker sighed, the sound soft but weary. "I get your concerns, truly. But while you're here, focus on what you came for. Knowledge, discipline—these are your battles. Because you've spoken honestly, I'll let this be a warning. But if your performance slips again, I will have to inform your parents. And you wouldn't like that, would you?"
Galal gave a small shake of his head.
"Good. You may leave. Remember—worrying about what you cannot fix solves nothing."
As Galal turned to go, Whitaker's voice dropped to a near whisper, more to himself than to his student. "I sincerely hope this peace lasts… for all our sakes."
---
The corridor outside glowed with a soft indigo pulse, footsteps echoing like distant thuds. Galal barely made it three steps before another voice called out.
"Pash! Why did History ask you to stay back?"
Caoimhe leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a grin tugging at her lips. She was his age, maybe a month younger, her Irish accent curling lightly around the words.
"It was nothing serious," Pash said, smiling cause she said Mr Whitaker's nickname, it was the name that almost all his classmates addressed Whitaker in secret . "Why must you know everything, Caoimhe?"
"Because someone has to keep you out of trouble." She tilted her head, brown hair sliding over one shoulder. At five foot four, she barely reached his chin, but the spark in her green eyes made her presence hard to overlook.
"You know," she added, mock-pouting, "that attitude isn't going to win you a girlfriend."
Pash chuckled. "Okay, I'm sorry, who wants a girl friend anyway" He clicked his tongue, amused at how easily he'd shifted her attention.
"Come on," she said, grabbing his wrist. "Let's get to English before we're late."
They moved through the bright corridors, green vines trailing light along the walls. Students streamed past, voices buzzing like static under neon.
As they reached the next wing, Caoimhe slowed. "By the way, I won't be able to pick Nefri up from school with you today. Something important came up at home. Can you tell her not to be mad?"
"Sure," Pash said. "What's so important?"
"Oh, it's—" She answered as they entered into a classroom already filled with students.
---
Dusk draped itself across Foxtrot City by the time the final bell rang. Pash made his way toward Foxtrot Elementary, the skyline ablaze with shifting holograms and the faint shimmer of the orbital ring above. A sleek black device—rested against his back, its alloy frame catching the setting sun light as he approached the school's gate. The sign flickered with cheerful letters: FOXTROT ELEMENTARY.
He didn't have to wait long.
"Brother Bast!" A small, bright voice rang out.
Nefri bounded toward him, a purplish schoolbag bouncing against her shoulders. Her grin lit the fading evening like a lantern.
"There's my favorite little sister," Pash said, crouching to meet her eyes.
"Huh? Where's Sister Caoimhe?" Nefri craned her neck, scanning the crowd with eager eyes.
"She couldn't come today," Pash explained. "But she promised to make it up to you."
"Awwww." Nefri's lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout. Caoimhe was, in Nefri's words, "the sister she never had."
Pash ruffled her hair. "Come on, let's head home. I've got homework waiting—and a surprise."
He unclipped the device from his back and set it on the pavement. Nefri's eyes widened.
"Yay!" She hopped in place, her excitement drawing curious glances from nearby parents.
The device looked like , black plating edged in soft violet light. Pash tapped a recessed button. The machine unfolded with a soft whir, panels sliding outward until a sleek glider emerged, its edges pulsing with a cool azure glow.
"Welcome, user Pash," a monotone AI voice greeted him. "How may I assist today?"
"Thanks, Fin. Navigate the safest route home."
"Serializing… safest path located. You may begin," the AI replied.
Pash scooped Nefri onto his back and stepped onto the glider. The surface molded around his feet, a firm but supple grip that promised stability even in midair.
"Hold tight," he said.
"Yay!" Nefri squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck.
The glider hummed, lifted, and then—
Zrooom.
They shot upward, neon lights streaking beneath them. Buildings slid past in a blur of glass and holograms. Other gliders and hoverboards dotted the lower airlanes, their tail-lights glowing like fireflies. The evening wind carried the scent of ozone and distant rain.
Above, the sun slowly move towards the west. Below, the city pulsed—a living circuit of light and shadow.
For a moment, Pasherbast let the worries of war and whispered fears fall away, replaced by the simple joy of flight and the sound of his sister's delighted laughter.
*******