Astonishing Next Generation (IC)

[Rupudska]

26 August 2035
06:29 AM
Washington, DC

It was summertime in Washington, and as usual for Akane for as long as she'd lived in The District, she was absolutely miserable.

Not due to any jackasses calling her a "filthy mutie", a "furry", "mutant scum", or whatever like that, no. The first and last were slurs, and the second was technically true, based purely on appearance, and nothing these east coast pansies could say could possibly compare to the condescending, paternalistic bigotry of the West Coast.

No, the things that were causing her misery were the dreaded Potomac Valley summer humidity's ever-presence, she was covered in fur, and the nearest Metro station to Loyola was too far to simply walk. You had to bike, if you wanted to get there by the time classes started at the ungodly hour of seven, or take a rental scooter. She opted for the former via city-wide rideshare, since the rental scooters were always broken, anemic, or both.

(technically there was a closer one across the Potomac, but that meant going across a bridge on a bicycle as a hairy abhuman over a river in summer with no wind and an air temperature of 78 degrees Fahrenheit. No thanks!)

So, here she was, at an intersection, panting like a dog due to heat and running on two jelly donuts and a cup of metro station coffee, with two fat guys in suits in a fifteen-year-old Mustang shooting her glares.

"Fucking mutie," one of them muttered through the partially-open window, like she couldn't hear. She flipped him off right as the light turned green, and continued pedaling into a right turn as they went straight.

"Fucking jackasses," she muttered herself as she finally came within sight of the Loyola campus, not too far from Georgetown University.

Finally, she was here. She could find her locker, kick back in homeroom, and reeeeeeelax as the first day of school was always the least important. Nothing more than teachers strutting themselves about like peacocks, pretending to be friends, or getting a head-start on power tripping, just like any other school. Just because it was abhuman-only, in her mind, made it no different.

[Danceria]

08/26/35
Dawn of the First Day
Dominic "Dom" Dotani

Loyola Academy for the Gifted, Washington D.C.
06:29, Local Time

---

It was certainly a lot more humid than back home, even in the height of summer. The school uniform, while classy, still was a pain to sweat through. Times like these Dominic was happy to control his own sleep schedule, more or less, but it still seemed like he just rolled out of bed with phantom bags under his eyes.

Life on the east coast was indeed a culture shock for the Midwesterner, who’s experience of a “metropolis” was the Twin Cities. Sure, they were within spitting distance of the frickin’ White House, but he never saw traffic this bad before, and preferred to bike as well. Going slowly somewhere is better than driving, or getting on a bus-heaven forbid he fall asleep and wind up halfway across the District, the deans would probably never let him hear the end of it!

While calmly arriving at his destination, and rummaging through his locker for the appropriate notebooks and syllabuses, Dominic saw a familiar streak of tan and black. Being here for little over a week he barely knew a few people outside of recognizable powers and his own “nicknames” for them-plus his “list of POI’s”, a good old fashioned paper notebook that helped him get into the habit of detective work. With a bemused smile, Dominic wondered what his younger self would think of being in a school for abhumans such as this. Perhaps invest more time in martial arts, in case one of the tougher abhumans decides to throw a tantrum. Superheroes tended to rely more on showy displays of force rather than brain or coding acumen-but perhaps that’s how he’ll make his own mark.

Sitting a few seats to the right of (and one row in front of) Ah-key-neh...or was it Akane? ...The Tanuki chick, did Dominic plop his seat, and organized himself with a personal laptop and latest coding project he was dissecting in front of him, and the notes for homeroom to his right including sharpened pencil. Compared to the exuberant and disorderly shapeshifter, Dominic exuded a nerdy calm and discipline-something no doubt would rub people the wrong way as being a “try hard”. High school is still high school, no matter how much money you pour into it for fancy equipment and uniforms...doubly so with the inclusion of high powered abhumans who just realized what hormones are.

[Lancearc]

Baqir, as was the case every morning, was half-aware of his mind slowly shrugging off the shroud of slumber. Even as he felt his eyes open to what he always liked to imagine as gentle sunlight streaming in through his window, he could make out only the cacophonous sounds that made up the District's busy morning. Car horns blaring impatiently some ways down the street, the robotic "wait" of a crosswalk sign counting down its final seconds, the jangling of a dog's leash emanating from just below his apartment window as the pup attempted to sprint free of its master's grip.

Sitting up in his bed and sliding a hand through his characteristically knotted morning hair, Baqir groggily swung his legs out over the side of his bed and glanced toward his nightstand. The sounds of early-morning D.C. began to quickly melt away as the sights of his bedroom took shape before his eyes, the strange grey-blue "fogginess" that often obscured his rich brown irises dissipating for the time being. With his eyesight came an invigorating jolt, the familiar sensation of incredible strength returning alongside his vision.

The red digital clock blinked at him repeatedly from the top of his nightstand. 6:03 it read, Baqir acknowledging it briefly before letting his feet hit the ground and preparing for the day. Despite the consternation that plagued him as he went to bed the previous evening, he managed to get a surprisingly restful sleep, unplagued by the mysterious terrors or ominous figures which he swore often appeared to him.

Baqir went about getting himself dressed and readied in silence, finding it rather difficult to navigate the cramped room -- about which was scattered books, football equipment, and some laundry he'd been too lazy to yet tidy up -- without use of his sight. When he finally slid his laptop into his schoolbag, he did so with a hefty sigh. This would be the first time he made the journey to the academy for some time, which always caused him a bit of anxious discomfort.

Baqir was unspeakably grateful for the opportunities Loyala provided, true. Not only was it a continuation of his general education, but it was a place where he could exist among abhumans, unafraid to display and take advantage of his inborn abilities -- even encouraged to do so. He was similarly grateful to be in one of the few nations that offered true legal protection for people like him. It was the general public, though, that so often gave him pause. Certainly there was still a sizable portion of the populace in dissent with the official decision.

Some of Baqir's peers were used to shrugging off slurs and hatred like water from a duck's back, but Baqir's own experience caused him to take almost every jab directed his way deathly seriously, wondering if these strangers might be yet another group of crazed radicals bent on his eradication. In Jordan, Turkey, across Greece and Bulgaria, well into Germany and France, Baqir was aware of such groups, lucky enough to have only encountered one such organization in his home country.

It was for this reason he loathed the journey to Loyola, loathed being spotted in the uniform that some may recognize. It was easy enough to conceal his nature to those unfamiliar with the academy's attire, at the very least, but branding himself for all to see made him uncomfortable daily.

Finally making his way from his bedroom and to the front door of his humble home, past a TV that was still paused on one of the latest abhuman films (which were surprisingly still a fairly popular genre, which Baqir found ironic given the common disdain for those like him) Baqir emerged into the early morning humidity and carefully reached up to ensure the slight gelling he'd applied to his hair would hold. The humidity itself was a secondary concern of his, the foremost being the terrible toll it took on his thick hair, so susceptible to making him look like a rabid animal if left to the elements. Pleased that it would at least survive the journey, he blinked once and opened his eyes to darkness.

Sound came cascading back to him. The angry grumbling of two men bumping into each other on the sidewalk just as Baqir reached the bottom of the stairwell mingled with a cat meowing for attention somewhere in one of the apartments, drowned out at once by a city bus chugging around a corner a block or so down. Baqir was enamored with the sounds of the city, partly because his impressive hearing made even the most subtle performances in the urban orchestra apparent. Little escaped his notice, which became something of an issue he had to overcome in the classroom, with the scratch of pencil against paper and clacking keyboards often overwhelming him with audio. He had learned to tune out most of these distractions early on during his return to formal education, though.

Baqir made his way to the crowded bike rack just a few meters from the bottom of the stairwell, stopping to kneel and unlock his black bicycle. Hopping on, he took off down the familiar path he'd navigated so many times before. There was a time when he feared riding only be sound, but he had since gained confidence in his ability to effectively anticipate vehicles in the road and the hurried pedestrians on the sidewalk, who often walked with heavy, rushed strides. He had more than once managed to ram into someone on their way to work and been harshly chastised for the embarrassing encounter, but those incidents had become rarer over time.

Baqir had also learned a degree of restraint when making his way towards the campus by ear, as it was easy for him to naturally push himself to superhuman speeds when pedaling -- a dangerous prospect for both himself and those unlucky enough to be in his path should he ride carelessly.

Though the heat of Washington's summer phased the Jordanian little, the stickiness of its air was a source of near-constant anguish, particularly when paired with the academy's uniforms. Designed without much comfort or breathability in mind, the snazzy get-up was also a certifiable prison of sweat.

What weighed on him more than the humidity was the gazes Baqir knew were on him as he closed the final few kilometers to campus, as some began to recognize the uniform. Even in utter blackness he could picture the faces to match with the whispers he rode past, uttered without the knowledge they reached his ears clear as day. Alien, freak, mutant.

Uninspired and typical, sure. Baqir had heard worse and been treated worse by more threatening men. Still, he let the sound leave his ears when the remarks became more frequent. Thankfully when his vision returned, he was within sight of Loyola.

---

The sounds echoing through Loyola were...not quite as charming. Lockers slamming and students plopping into their seats in classrooms lining the halls lacked the life of cities like Amman and D.C., even if most of those roaming Loyola were among the most interesting people one could hope to meet. When he finally arrived at his destination, he decided to scan the room briefly.

Baqir noted a pair of familiar students, though not exactly friends. He always had a certain amount of pity for Akane, the fur-covered girl who seemed to carry herself as though she would be insulted to have anyone pity her. Still, it was easy enough for him to conceal his nature during his day-to-day, people would rarely suspect him of being an abhuman. Akane on the other hand was one of those who had to bear the full brunt of abhuman hatred every day. There wasn't much that could be done to hide who she was.

The other was Dom Dotani, who he only really knew as a generally pleasant person. Nothing really brackish or exceptionally charming at first glance, but kind enough, and with an apparent affinity for plenty of interests outside of his abilities. Technology suited him.

Baqir sighed slightly here, preparing himself to take a seat and hopefully chat with his classmates, typically another thing he was loathe to do. He had intended to make an effort to engage a bit more with his peers, however -- he had no family in the States, and approximately the same number of reliable friends. If he ever found himself in a jam, he really wasn't certain how far Loyola would go to help him out.

Taking a seat at a kind of midway between his only other two classmates, he nodded a small acknowledgement and "hello."

"So the excitement begins," he said as he unpacked his computer. "A fox, a coder and a uhm...sometimes blind guy walk into the prestigious Loyola Academy. And I guess they still aren't the most interesting people in the room," Baqir finished with the slightest of grins. It didn't exactly come naturally to him, but he did find it easier to relax when addressing his peers.

[Theyra]

Turan Naghiyev
August 26 2035

Relax, Turan, just relax, that was he was thinking as he rode his bike to Loyola Academy. Pedaling his way past the unfamiliar streets and stopped briefly at a crosswalk. His first day at the academy and he is nervous. He should not be, the academy is just like any other high school. Expect it is a school made up of only abhumans and he has to wear a school uniform. Which he did not mind much wearing it and the summer heat in D.C is almost similar to the heat back home in Azerbaijan. Which means at least he is somewhat used to it, living in Pennsylvania did not help. He hated the cold there and seeing snow for the first time was something he would not forget.

Turan had gotten used to living in the states and moving to D.C did not affect him too much. He misses his relatives in Pennsylvania though and they plan on visiting him sometimes on the weekends. Plus, his family in Azerbaijan is going to visit him soon. Turan was certainly looking forward to that. It has been years since he has seen his family and it be nice to see them again. If only abhumans were treated better in Azerbaijan, then he would not have to move to America in the first place. Granted for what he has seen and after what happened at his old high school. Bigotry is alive and well in the States.

Finally, he reached the academy and after putting his bike away, he went straight to his locker. Turan temporarily forgot the combination to his locker due to how nervous he was and shook his head. Just calm now, it is just like normal highschool. He thought to himself and after calming down. Turan got the locker open and collected his notebook and other school supplies and as he closed his locker. He noticed a student was passing by him. A girl by the look of it but, instead of walking her class. She was floating and it caught Turan off guard. Collecting himself and took a look at his watch. He still had time to get to class and he wondered how normal this school is going to be.

Finding his homeroom, Turan chose to take a seat near the back of the room. Taking out his notebook and a pencil. Noting that only a few students were in the room. The one that stood out was a girl with animal-like features. Making sure he did not stare at her for too long. Turan felt kinda bad for her since while he can hide that is an abhuman. She could not and he wondered how much hate she has seen from the bigots. Still, today was coming out okay and now he will see if his first day of school will turn out good. Turan does not want a repeat of what happened at his old school and who knows. Maybe he will make some friends and not get bullied. Turan just wants to have a normal school life though how normal can a school with only abhumans will be?

[Of the Quendi]

06:57 AM August 26th, 2035
Loyola Academy for the Gifted, Washington D.C.
Ms. Devereaux's Office

"One hundred billions neurons per human, ab or otherwise. There are more connections in the human body than there are stars in this galaxy. We possess a gigantic network of information to which we have almost no access. While the popular ten percent of the brain myth is just that; myth, the human mind is nevertheless an extraordinary organism over which we exercise extremely limited control and of which we posses a very limited understanding. The purpose of this class is therefore twofold. Firstly we will examine the state of the art of the field of modern psychology to give you a preliminary understanding of the at times rather rudimentary science of the human mind. Secondly, and this is of course the reason why you have all chosen to enroll in my class, we will consider the emerging scientific discipline of parapsychology, abpsychology or experimental psychology; call it what you like. In that part of the course I will teach you how to control, improve and employ your unique ... talents, using the tools of your minds." Geneviève Devereaux declared before smiling out at the ring of chairs surrounding her. The chairs where empty, as was ms. Devereaux's office.

She got up from her chair, a grand armchair that screamed "psychologist" so loudly that Geneviève had acquired it in one of the rare signs of her rather sardonic and dry humor. Geneviève checked her watch, she physically checked it, she didn't just read the mind of someone who knew the time, a procedure that would have been much faster. She pondered briefly the forty five minute lecture she had just delivered to an empty room. She could have done the whole thing mentally in five tops but Geneviève was, for the first time in her life, teaching high schoolers and she knew that they could not be relied upon to be as knowledgable and as smart as the people she was accustomed to teaching. That represented a challenge. Geneviève was accustomed to working with the smartest minds in the world and as she herself had instant access to almost all information she could ever desire she had little experience having to explain things in simple terms or to make her lectures amusing. Even for a telepath of her stature that would require some getting used to.

Geneviève paced through her large spacious office for a couple of moments, rearranging and editing her lecture in her mind. Every word and every sentence, every point and every argument was revisited, adjustments was made and then adjustments was made to the adjustments. Even the intonation she would use on each word, her body language her facial expression. Everything was meticulously and methodologically examined and arranged until her entire lecture was perfect. When she had achieved perfection Geneviève smiled in contentment. She was feeling a small headache coming on but it was manageable, and Geneviève found she was genuinely excited to be teaching at her alma mater, high schoolers or not.

The telepath walked to the gilded door of her office and stepped out into a grand lobby. Her "passive telepathy" as she called it was, as always and rather ironically, active and she sensed the conscious thoughts and the moods of students, teachers and staff in the academy pushing at the frail barriers of the mind. Beyond the academy the thoughts of millions of Washingtonians, Virginians and Marylanders also pushed at her. Rather than be washed away by the tidal wave of human thoughts, of the activities of one hundred billion neurons times millions of humans, to say nothing of animals and plant life that even in a densely populated human city existed in large numbers, Geneviève tried her best to focus on the people of the academy. Not that she was trying to read anyone's mind per se. That would have been unethical. But since she couldn't actually stop receiving the conscious thoughts that the human brain seemed intent on broadcasting loudly and incessantly into her thoughts she allowed these thoughts to wash over her. In through one ear out of the other as it were. Forgotten as soon as it was learned. To have held on to even a fraction of the information Geneviève received that way every nanosecond would have required ten, a hundred trillion neurons. What she was left with was a general averaged impression of the mood of the people in the academy as well as the occasional, usually intensely pondered, thought. She also learned, among other things, which persons was on campus and where they where.

As she walked through the lobby Geneviève thus identified students, faculty and staff alike. She was, not for the first time, fascinated by the albeit rather minute, difference in the minds of abhumans and the neurotypical population. And among them there was quite a lot of diversity. Take Akane Moriyama. Unsurprising a shapeshifter whose natural form differed so significantly from the rest of the humanity had noticeable differences in her thinking patterns, Geneviève thought, pondering why she suddenly felt bothered by the humidity. Dominic Dotani, an observant and studious Midwesterner was showing signs of latent powers just waiting to be awakened. Geneviève had a feeling like she could almost hear the pressure of the powers build up in his mind. Then there was the Jordanian boy, Baqir Abboud. Even Geneviève was not quite so jaded that she could not feel just a pang of genuine empathy for the personal tragedy of Abboud. Suffering was the constant of human existence and cruelty the mark of their species but Geneviève decided that she would offer Abboud her assistance as a psychologist. Not that he seemed much in need considering. Plenty of students seemed to have more jitters about school start than Abboud seemed traumatized. Turan Naghiyev, the Azeri gravity manipulator, for example seemed quite on edge, eager to make friends and fit in, ordinary teenage angst, if perhaps not exactly diminished by his abhuman nature.

In a way, Geneviève concluded the abhumans of Loyola, students as well as teachers, was just that. Ordinary. Abhumanity was at best a minor deviation from the human norm. Only slightly more noteworthy than racial differences or sexual preferences, quite possibly less so than sex. Abhumans led emotional and mental lives so similar to their human peers. That was a comfortable thought, Geneviève decided.

[Danceria]

"So the excitement begins," he said as he unpacked his computer. "A fox, a coder and a uhm...sometimes blind guy walk into the prestigious Loyola Academy. And I guess they still aren't the most interesting people in the room," Baqir finished with the slightest of grins. It didn't exactly come naturally to him, but he did find it easier to relax when addressing his peers.

“Hopefully for now they are.” Dom shot back, a slight smirk on his face as he regarded the Jordanian-though for now the Midwesterner neither knew nor immediately desired to make small talk with the newcomers. Breakfast had politely reminded Dom that it was almost seven in the morning, sweltering even as the sun was still notably in it’s eastern horizon. While homeroom was meant to be more relaxing of classes, both the earliness of the day and school year demanded that he create at least a professional first impression. Especially around Ms. Devereaux, who was rumored to be a bona fide telepath[i].

“Though it might be who we [i]don’t see that could be more interesting,” the Midwesterner followed up, noting the odd opaqueness in the Jordanian’s eyes. Was he blind, semi blind? Something about his companion’s own senses tingled Dominic’s... “the homeroom teacher could be invisible, so let’s try not to cause too much ruckus.” The tone was of course, very merry. Even with his home reputation as a diligent dweeb, he knew better than to be a tattletale to someone who could potentially hurl fireballs. Affability meant survivability in an abhuman high school environment.