#marcus lopez

The woman crashing through the car windshield, glass flying as his mom managed to let out a scream, her eyes widening in horror. His dad's arms broke, the impact of the psych ward patient snapping them with a sickening sound.

And Marcus is paralyzed.

Safe in the backseat, watching his parents bodies get crushed and fail. He can't do anything. And he couldn't have done anything ten years ago. There was no way he could have stopped the suicidal woman even if he knew she was going to jump. All he could do was watch as three people died in front of him, his ears ringing despite the crunching and wet sounds of organs collapsing, ribs breaking.

He can feel it all again. The terror and desperation of knowing that his parents are dead and he can't help them causes him a physical ache.

But the worst part is when his mom turns around, eyes devoid of life, her lips stained with blood as it floods her mouth.

She speaks, voice haunted. "I don't recognize you, Marcus."

The nightmares releases its hold on Marcus and he wakes up.

His dormroom is dark, safer than any fucked up nightmare could be, the only sounds being your breathing next to him. He feels his eyes start burning.

Shit

He doesn't want to cry over a nightmare- over something that already happened and won't leave him alone. Slowly, so as not to disturb you, he sits up, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Barely able to think past the lingering sadness and fear, he slides out of bed, sitting against a wall. He's trembling so violently he's sure it would wake you.

His mom's words burn behind his eyes.

I don't recognize you, Marcus

Clutching at his hair, he squeezes his eyes shut tight to block out the image of her. Guilt crawls up his throat, threatening to choke him.

"Marcus?"

Your voice is barely audible even without his thoughts screaming back at him.

Face damp with tears, he looks up, seeing your shape in the darkness. A heat of shame floods through him. He hates it when anyone sees him like this. You shouldn't have to see him drowning in his old past and guilt.

But he watches you open your arms from his bed. You don't push or say anything, you never do.

Rubbing at his eyes, he crawls back into bed beside you.

Quietly, you pull him into your arms, feeling his weight on top of you as he presses his face against your throat. His breathing is shaky, cooling the tear stains that fall onto your skin.

You don't ask what happened. You just run your fingers up and down his spine, your other hand gently carding through the hair at the back of his head.

His breathing slowly evens out at your soft touch, his heart stops pounding in his ears. You lips press a kiss to the top of his curls and you hear him let out a small sob into your neck.

It's hard for him. It's hard for him to let people in- he still struggles to be vulnerable around you despite how painfully he craves your love and affection and trust.

He's not sure how long you two stay like that, quiet, your breaths slow and in time with the other's. Slowly, he falls back asleep in your arms. And you know how significant that is. He usually waits till you're asleep before he does. But when he does fall asleep first- he's trusting you.

“Like I said, Lin is a friend,” Miguel whispered to you. “Be polite.”

“It’s not too late for us to go back,” you replied over his shoulder as you stopped in the middle of the room. “We can tell him you got sick or something, and we can’t come tonight or tomorrow or ever.” 

“It’s not happening. Drop it,” he said, and you caught the warning in his voice. 

The monk led them through the room into an office where an old man sat in a leather chair, resting his hand on a long black cane. Guessing by his seat and tailored suit this must be Master Lin. 

“Miguel!” he grinned, getting up from his chair and closing up his suit jacket, “Good to see you, old friend!”

“You too,” Miguel said, embracing the other man for a moment. “How’ve you been?”

“A bit fatigued,” he admitted in a sigh, “We’ve had a lot of commotion around here lately. Nothing serious, nothing serious,” he said quickly to Miguel’s concerned face. “Your niece isn’t the only new student we have here. We had another student join last month and…He’s caused quite a buzz around here.”

“Oh, how fortunate,” Miguel looked over at you. “See? You won’t be the only newbie around here.”

Still didn’t make you feel any better about it. 

“Lin,” Miguel addressed him, arm around your shoulders, “This is YN, my niece and St. Brutus’s top student. YN, this is Master Lin, he’ll be your headmaster and AP Black Arts teacher.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” You raised your right hand to your forehead before stopping halfway. You turned away in shyness, “Sorry. Force of habit, sir. We salute at St. Brutus.” 

“Nothing wrong with a gesture of respect, YN.” He offered you both seats on the sofa, and he spoke, “Miguel and Professor Martinez have told me all about your skills,” he said, gesturing to a monk to bring a tea tray from nearby. “I’m very interested to see how my pupils do against a Brutus student.” 

“Not very well,” you replied, earning an ear-flick from Miguel. 

“As you can see, Lin,” he said, “YN still has her reservations. It was a nightmare convincing her to come here.”

“How can I even trust any of those Mutts you teach?” you asked, glancing at the man pouring tea into three pristine china cups. “They’re all a bunch of low-life criminals with big connections. They’ll probably try to slice my throat open the first chance they get.”

“They won’t because unsanctioned killings are not allowed in my school,” Master Lin said, fixing his own cup. 

“And I’m supposed to believe they’d adhere to that rule? Even at my school, kids get into fights and try killing each other.” 

Sparring was encouraged by the staff, since it was seen as a teaching moment rather than a punishable offense. It was killing that would be punished. Killing is what you were being punished for. 

“I’m impressed you have foreseen any possible threats, YN,” Lin said over his steaming cup. “That’s a good sign. You’ll need that strategy planning while staying here. A good majority of my students come from affluent families: war lords, mafia bosses, cartels, CIA, FBI, KGB…all of them.”

“Which means they’ll think they’re better than me?”

“They will,” he nodded, “But once word has gotten out that a real Assassin is attending their school, they’ll be more intrigued than threatened. Some will look to recruit you into their gang, hoping to get good connections to the world’s most elusive and experienced killers. Others will challenge you to see if the rumors are true, since everything about The Order of St. Brutus is all rumors.” He took a sip of his tea, then said, “But know this, YN. The killing of another student will be severely punished. There are also no drugs, no drinking and no sex while you are here.”

“You don’t need to worry about that with YN,” Miguel said dismissively. “I won’t lie and say she won’t get a bit rough with your students, but drinking, drugs and sex? She knows better.”

“And my actual training?” You ask, unconcerned about the rules. “St. Brutus training; not whatever you teach here.”

Another annoying ear flick. 

Lin ignored the last comment. “You will have your physical combat classes, atypical combat, stealth and strategy lessons. You will learn how to make deadly poisons from a true poison master; you’ll learn how to manipulate and misdirect your opponents. You will learn psychology and philosophy. We even have a weapons proficiency class you’ll be taking as part of your program. The entire point of the exchange program is to learn new things. Not focus on what you already know. My instructors are very eager to teach a Brutus student a new skill set.”

You faltered. You supposed you truly would be stuck here. Sitting in front of the man, your tea getting steadily colder, surrender was your only option. “If…If your faculty want to teach me new stuff, I’ll be happy to learn from them.”

Miguel gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. It couldn’t be that bad. Simply focus on your studies and the year will fly by. Lin and Miguel began talking about your enrollment tomorrow when someone knocked on the door. When it opened, a girl in a leather jacket, jeans and boots walked in. You immediately noticed the katana strapped to her back, the confident, commanding strides taking her to Master Lin’s side. 

“You asked to see me, Master Lin?” The girl asked. 

“Yes, I did, Saya,” he nodded. He walked over to her, cane tapping the wooden floor. “I have one last task for you tonight. I’d like you to meet YN Ortega, our guest student from St. Brutus Academy,” he motioned to you on the couch. “YN, this is Saya. She is my top student, and will be showing you to your room.” 

“Hey,” you said with a head nod. 

“Hey,” she replied. 

“Saya, show her to her dormitory and help her get settled in.”

“Yes, Master Lin.”

When they all stood to leave, Miguel held you back. He pulled out a thigh sheath. Inside, a simple dagger was attached. You take it in your hands, withdrawing the five-inch blade that gleamed in the light. 

“I want you to have this on you at all times,” he told you. You suspected something else in his tone, “You know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” You paused, studying his face as he shifted away. “You never know what you’ll come upon in this place,” he said. Dark brown eyes looked at you with seriousness now, the caring uncle gone and the mentor in his place. “Keep your eyes on the shadows, YN.” 

The warning made your blood run cold, but you weren’t given a chance to question him further. You strapped the sheath to your thigh, adjusting it while you thought about what you’d need it for. 

“Get some sleep, YN,” he kissed your forehead, “You start tomorrow. Try to check in when you can.”

“Of course.” 

You felt uneasy leaving the company of your uncle. He kissed your cheek, and patted your shoulder, the weight of his warning sitting in your head. ‘Keep your eyes on the shadows,’ meant something to people like you two. It meant someone was watching you, but who? Someone who knew Montoya? Is that why you were actually at King’s? The weight of the knife on your thigh suddenly became heavier and more noticeable than before. You eyed Saya’s katana as you left the room and turned a corner. 

“Nice knife,” Saya then said, short black hair curtaining part of her face from you. 

“Thanks. Cool sword. Where’d you get it?”

“My family. What’s the knife for?” “I don’t know yet,” you answer honestly. 

You got a better look at Saya now that you’d gone into better lighting. Beauty with dashes of danger and mystery went across her face. Black hair framed her heart-shaped face, and dark eyes flashed a hidden intrigue. Back in Brutus, a girl like Saya would have turned heads. She might be a Mutt, but a pretty one. 

“Weapons are prohibited during school hours, though,” she said to you. “The monks will confiscate it if they catch you.”

“If they catch me, yeah.” 

She smirked in the shadows, “Don’t underestimate the monks. They’re our security for a reason.” A silence settled between the two of you before she said, “You’re a real assassin? Like, one of Them?” “Not really. Just a student for now,” you said. “I have to go through some tests and trials first before I can graduate.” 

“I’ve heard your school runs differently, but, of course, nobody knows for sure,” she said. “You guys take the term ‘secret society’ seriously.”

“It didn’t always used to be that way, I heard. We used to share secrets with King’s Dominion, but when their pupils started coming from…certain organizations,” you said with a tone in your voice, “We decided we couldn’t do that anymore.”

“Don’t let your enemies know too much,” she adds as if she knows. 

“Exactly.” 

You both left the main school and entered the dormitory. It seemed whatever clique system they had in King’s didn’t transfer into the dorms. A blond girl with hair curled and teased up high scowled at you as you passed her open door. A large boy with short blond hair smirked, blue eyes scanning you up and down to size you up. A tall boy with a bandana folded around his bald head sneered, cleaning a gun in his lap. So many faces. So many attempts to intimidate you. None of them were working. “Lin mentioned there being another new kid?” You asked as she brought you to a door at the end of the hall. You noticed the kids peeking out their doorways, curious and intrigued. “Yeah, but he’s already been here a month. You two are going to be the talk of the school,” she nods over to the nosey faces that instantly hide when you turn your head, “The psycho child killer and the Brutus kid.”

“Psycho child killer? Your school allows that kind here?” You asked, shocked. 

“He’s…different,” she added hesitantly. “Lin says he has the thing this place is supposed to nurture, but he has a lot of work to do.” You looked at her in the bright lights of the hallway. She was pretty. The kind that lured a man in before she stabbed them in the back. You stepped forward with a smirk, “Do I get a special tour tomorrow too?”

Saya snorted and smirked back when you got closer. “Easy, newbie,” she gently pushed you back a step, “I’m taken, and my girlfriend is the jealous type.” “First disappointment of the week,” you sigh heavily. “The clique system?” “You’ll meet them all with time. I’m sure some will try to recruit you, hire you or kill you,” she said with an amused smirk, “But I have a feeling that won’t be a problem for you.” 

“Not at all. Maybe you and I can spar sometime? I’ve never fought anyone wielding a katana before,” you offered a bit nervously, doing that ‘making-friends’ thing Miguel mentioned. 

Saya grinned, “Sure. Then I get to see if you guys are the real thing or all talk. Sweet dreams, Brutus.” 

You walked into your new dorm room to see you didn’t have a roommate. A plain space with a desk, bed, dresser and a bookshelf, it was grand compared to Brutus’s dorms: white, sterilized barracks with eleven other students. The reality finally set in when you saw your luggage on the bed. There truly was no going back. You couldn’t run from this. The knife on your thigh felt heavier. When you withdrew it, you thought about Miguel’s warning again. 

‘Keep your eyes on the shadows.’ 

Who was in the shadows? A cohort of Montoya’s? A relative they didn’t know about? That seemed the most logical to you. Montoya ran a cartel that stretched across countries. Sitting on the bed, you twirl the knife between your hands. You feel its balance and weight in your hands, light and easy to conceal. Whoever is watching you will never see it coming. As you placed a small potted belladonna and monkshood on your windowsill, you looked out into the school. You thought of the boy in the blue jacket again. It was supposed to rain heavily tonight. 

You hoped he found a dry, safe place somewhere. 

****

You already hated this place. Walking up to the school, you passed through a sea of distasteful faces. Kids whispered to one another, keeping out of your way as you walked through them. You clutched the textbooks to your chest, head up high and pretended not to see them. They were nothing. Just a bunch of Mutts who thought they were better than you. You noted those who looked at you particularly hard. The weight of the knife under your skirt became more of a comfort than something separate from you. You clocked the Latin cartel kids right away; the ones who might be connected to Montoya’s operations. Even after the warning, you didn’t regret it. He got what he deserved. 

“Locker 516” 

The slip read your locker number and the combination. They all looked so smug, easy to front when they’re surrounded by their own kind. Mutts always stuck together back in Brutus because they knew there was power in numbers. Purebreds like you could work alone. The class system Lin’s school created was not a secret. How could he expect to train “problem solvers” when most of the kids were more likely to be the problem? St. Brutus adhered to its original teachings for centuries. Since Brutus and his conspirators killed Caesar, kickstarting his teachings on bringing down those enslavers and oppressors or humanity. Getting to your locker, you’d just opened it when someone approached you. 

“You’re the Brutus kid.”

The blond girl from last night stood a few feet away, disgust already written on her face. Her country accent and general entitlement already told you what you needed to know. 

“I am,” you answered. “You are?”

“Smeone you should watch out for,” she said back. “Your little wetback-ass don’t belong here. None of you do.” For the briefest moment, you remembered Miguel’s warning again. But then you realized a redneck bigot was the last person to avenge Montoya. 

“Watch your back, Senorita,” she said over her shoulder, “Dixie Mob doesn’t take kindly to people like you.”

“Latinos or Assassins? I’m both.”

“Both,” she sneers. “Your little shadow games are just proof that you’re all a bunch of cowards.” “The real cowards are ones who don’t embrace change but hold onto old-fashioned, bigoted ideals of patriotism and nationalism,” you said. “Anything else you want to tell me, Dolly Parton?”

“Watch your back. That’s all.” 

‘Eat shit, Mutt,’ you fired back in your head as she sauntered away. 

When you opened the door, you found something sitting on the top shelf. An ornate wooden box had a letter attached to it. Gingerly opening it, you found a rat skeleton. The letter read: “AP Black Arts. Room 202. 3rd period”. You supposed that must be the special class. You put the box back in your locker. The hope for a decent library looked promising in your array of textbooks for your classes; that way you can hide in the books instead of associating with the Mutts of King’s Dominion. Trying to stick your psychology book inside with the box in there, the thick novel slipped from your hands and onto the floor. You cursed in quick Spanish, and bent to pick it up but a well-manicured hand picked it up first. 

Beautiful. That was the first word that came to mind when you saw her. Thick black hair kept back with a red headband, she wore matching lipstick on her full lips. Her warm skin was smooth and lightly covered with makeup, though this only amplified her beauty rather than subdue it. Sultry brown eyes sparkled at you, causing you to smile a bit. She reminded you of the dancers during a trip to Mexico. Copper-skinned beauties with dark hair dancing in colorful dresses up and down the streets were a mesmerizing sight to five-year-old you. The strange girl handed you back the book with a smile. 

“Thanks,” you said, keeping the nerves out of your voice. 

“No problem,” she said. She saw the group of blonds glaring at you and said, “Don’t worry about those rednecks. They might have mixed up genes, but they’re not stupid enough to fuck with an Assassin.” She eyed you closely, “You are one of them, right? From that Assassin school?”

“Yeah, St. Brutus.”

“Oh shit, then you’re the real deal. You got a pretty big rep already from what I heard; you might wanna watch your back.”

“So people have been saying since I got here.”

“I’m Maria,” she introduced herself with a smile. 

“I’m YN.” 

“I run with Soto Vatos. We’d love to have you join our crew. We can talk about initiation.” 

“No thanks,” you tell her with a smirk, “But I’m not interested in the local tribes around here.”

“The key to survival around here is being with your own people,” she says, “We can watch your back. We can get you in contact with people and float you contraband if you ever need anything. This place is a dog pit, and you’re the newest pup.”

“Aye, bonita, if you saw what I could do, you wouldn’t call me a pup,” you say, lingering closer and smirking. 

She laughed, “You’re cute, but I have a girlfriend. Her jealousy’s only outmatched by mine.” 

“Second time I’ve had my heart broken in the span of twenty-four hours,” you say with a disappointed sigh. “But, still thanks for the offer. I’m only here for a year, so I don’t want to commit to things I can’t stick with long-term.”

“That’s a whole year we have,” she smiled. “You can still sit with us at lunch. You can network through us.” 

The opening of a nearby locker caught your attention, and you peeked over Maria’s shoulder. A few feet away from you was a boy. Your cheeks burned when you saw him. A few inches taller, narrow and slim, a scar cut through his eyebrow and down to his cheekbone. Brown hair curled around the nape of his neck, which matched the dark brown eyes underneath long lashes. You studied the sharp profile and jawline. Something nagged at you in the back of your mind. It took you a moment to place him, but then you let out a soft gasp. 

The boy with the blue jacket.

How did he get here? There was no way he ended up here by accident. Last time you’d seen him, he was dirty and tired. Here, he was fresh and clean. He was gorgeous now that he was cleaned up. He reminded you of the boys you’d see outside bars when you walked past, smoking cigarettes and talking about the latest band. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered when his head moved in your direction. You whip your head away to shove the wrong book into your locker, then have to put it back in your bag. 

“You like him?” Maria smirked, noticing the tension. 

“Um no,” you said a bit nervously. The confident girl of a few seconds ago was reduced to stammering. “Wasn’t even looking at him. I was wondering where the register office was. I gotta get my school I.D. and stuff like that.” 

You peeked over at him a second time. He looked a bit better fed, but three square meals a day does that to someone. That strange pull you felt each time you saw him came straight from your chest. You swore it was almost calling out to him. 

And he heard it. He turned his head a second time, and you turned away again. Maria giggled. 

“You’re too cute,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That’s Marcus,” she whispered, “He’s the psycho who burnt down a building full of kids.”

“You mean the Sunset Boy’s Home massacre?” You remembered reading about the terrible fire that claimed several children’s lives, and the bloody slaughter that happened prior to it. “No…Not him.” You turned back to Marcus. 

Finally a name to the face, but a reputation that didn’t match. 

“That’s what Master Lin says, and the word around school,” she shrugged. “He’s cute, right? If I wasn’t crazy about Saya, I’d be wrapped around him.”

“Wait, Saya?”

“Love of my life,” she grinned at you. “We run in different crews at school,” she linked her arm with yours, walking with you, “But rules outside of King’s are different. She says you guys have already met.”

“Briefly,” you answered. 

Your eyes landed on Marcus as you got closer to him. It was hard to believe he’d hurt anyone. On the street, he seemed so broken and lonely. Perhaps that was what happened after one murdered innocent people. Montoya had been evil incarnate. He deserved it. Those children didn’t. Looking him over, you realized it couldn’t be him. His eyes, soft and brown, gave it away. Then, Miguel’s warning came back. ‘Keep your eyes on the shadows’. The idea that someone planted Marcus here couldn’t be a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. What was the reason here? What was the reason for any of the times you met in the past? 

“Nah, it couldn’t be him,” you shake your head. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“His eyes. You can tell by a person’s eyes.” 

“Hm,” Maria looked back at him as she thought about it, “Maybe.” 

You wanted to forget Marcus, but once he stuck in your brain, he tended to linger around. You needed a distraction from the enigma. “So, Soto Vatos, huh? Cartel?” 

“Yeah,” Maria answered as you two walked down the hall towards administration. “My dad is the biggest cartel boss back home.”

“Montoya?” Your stomach churned around when you thought of the warning again. 

“Oh no, he died a few months ago,” she dismissed. “Rodrigo Salazar. El Alma de Diablo, they call him.”

Your eyes widened. “He’s your dad?!” 

“Adopted dad,” she explains. “He took me in and raised me as his own after my parents died. He’s the leader of Soto Vatos; I’m the leader of it here at King’s.” She smirked at you, “If you want to get some good work, I can talk to him for you. He’d pay you well.”

“Assassins aren’t mercenaries,” you tell her plainly. “You guys can keep your blood money.”

Instead of scoffing, Maria laughed. “You people take your honor code shit seriously, huh?”

“Very.” 

“I suppose that’s honorable,” she admitted, turning you into another hallway. You noticed more people staring at you while you walked, “Where are you from, Ms. Brutus?” 

“I grew up here, but my family’s from Cuba,” you replied. “My dad came here to teach at the American branch of St. Brutus and my mom did a lot of intel work here already. It made sense for them to immigrate.” 

“I got that vibe from you,” she said, nodding. “Especially when you talk in Spanish. The dialect is different.” 

“I suppose,” you shrugged. You’d always been a bit self-conscious when you spoke in your parents’ language, but it always came out naturally to you in the middle of sentences. 

“I think it’s cute. It adds to your charm,” she added. 

“Charm?”

“Yeah, you have this whole ‘good-girl-who-will-stab-you’ thing going on. People say you look like a girl scout leader, not an assassin.”

“Sorry I’m not obnoxious about it. I feel it adds an element of surprise if you keep your talents hidden from your enemies. They don’t see it coming.” 

“From the stories I hear, your people are definitely fans of surprises.” 

You reached the administration office and faced one another, “Here’s your stop,” Maria said. “I’ll see you in AP BA?” 

“AP BA?” 

“AP Black Arts,” she said as she began walking away. “You got the rat bones, right? Lin asked me to put them in there. Well, he asked Saya but I picked your lock first.” 

“Um, yeah.”

“Then we’ll see you there. Bye.” 

“Bye.” 

You watched her leave, counting her steps as you followed her legs. They didn’t make them like that back home. Too bad she was taken. Peeling your eyes off her, they immediately found Marcus again. Headphones over his ears, backpack slung over his shoulder, he tuned out the world around him as he walked. He couldn’t be a killer. There was no way. The string that kept pulling you to him wouldn’t tie you to such a person. 

Would it? After what you did to Montoya?

No. That was different. He killed your parents. Those children hadn’t done anything. 

Before he could spot you, you dashed into the office and shut the door. 

****

A/N: Finally meeting everyone! I know I made some changes to Maria's background since I cut Chico out of this fic, but I swear it makes sense later. And her and Saya <3 Hope you guys liked it, please like and reblog to spread this around.

But no, you knew what this was really about. Even months later, you still smelled his blood deep in your nose. The pressure it took to slide your blade past layers of fat and muscle came in phantom sensations in your hands. The mixture of blood, sweat and alcohol lingered in the back of her mind, drawing up memories in vivid pictures. You remembered every single detail: the earthy scent of the sprawling garden beneath his window, the warm glow of his office above you, his final breath echoing in your ear as the knife went through him. The feeling of relief and triumph. The sensation of adrenaline and resolve worked side by side inside you that night. 

You still stood by what you’d done. When the Elders called you into their council room later that night, scolding you for killing an unassigned target, you didn’t waver from your stance. Not a drop of remorse was shown. Sergio Montoya deserved every single stab wound he got. You didn’t care if he wasn’t on the school’s target list. You didn’t care if you’d acted out of revenge than for the good of humanity. Watching the light leave his eyes healed a part of you that could never be replaced. You still heard his pleas before you finally did it.

‘Please, don’t kill me! I’ll give you anything you want! Anything!’

‘Anything?’

“Yes, yes! Money, company shares, cars, a mansion! Whatever you want and it’s yours!’

‘…I want my parents back.’

But, you never mentioned this part. It only stirred up another argument cycle with your uncle where you defend your actions and he denounces them.

“Are you sure they think I’m the best?” You asked, the real question hanging in your tone.

Miguel Ortega paused, concentrating far too hard on the road. “Yes, they do,” he answered, but you knew better.

“They want to punish me,” you said flatly.

He sighed irritably, “This isn’t a punishment, YN. It’s an opportunity other students fight for every year.”

“Then let one of them take my place.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

This was your punishment. St. Brutus can’t afford disobedient students, so they’re sending you to be amongst thugs and Mutts. From what her uncle claimed, you’d be attending classes with other children who’d be “problem solvers”. She’ll study the “black arts”, get other perspectives and learn things St. Brutus doesn’t teach. Your friends back home scoffed along with you.

‘They’re all a bunch of criminals,’ Rhonda had told you during Poison Club on your last day. ‘Those are the people we’re supposed to be fighting against. My uncle went into the program when he was in school, and he’d met this big-time Nazi guy who killed a bunch of civil rights leaders.’

‘They’re total Mutts,’ said your friend Donna haughtily over lunch that same day. ‘They don’t share our beliefs and come from the lowest of the lowest places. You’ll be a wolf sitting on a porch with the puppies.’

“You’ll be getting the same privileges as the Legacy kids,” your uncle told you as he made another turn. “The ones that are second, third and fourth generation. Think of them like the Purebreds back in St. Brutus.”

“Elitists…”

“Hey, don’t act so high and mighty. You and all your little friends carry that same attitude under a different name,” he scolded you. “I heard you on the phone with Donna last night. What did you call them? ‘Discount mercenaries and thugs’?”

“That’s what most of them are going to be,” you retorted, embarrassed he’d heard that. “They’re all future criminals, if they aren’t already. They come from families who ruin innocent lives and take what they believe is theirs. They use their power to intimidate others instead of helping them.”

“That’s not entirely true, and you know that,” he replied as the car turned onto another crowded street. “There are students who don’t have affiliations like them. They’re chosen due to their connections or abilities. Maybe you can become friends with them. You never know, you might have some common interests with them.”

“I doubt that,” you cross your arms as you huff.

“Stop being so stuck up,” he rolled his eyes. “Lin tells me some of these kids are just as skilled as you, if not more. You could learn a thing or two from them.”

“I don’t want to go there,” you whined. “Can’t I decline and they pick somebody else? You know, a person who actually wants to go?”

“No. The Board made it clear that their decision was final. No turning back now, mi hija.”

No, they were trying to get rid of you. Rhonda said she was surprised they didn’t outright expel you. Donna thought they’d hold you back a year and bar you from advancement trials. You did find their punishment strange. They’d hesitated in finally declaring a verdict and punishment, resulting in a week in solitary. Professor Martinez, Headmaster of St. Brutus, normally carried out discipline swiftly to make the lesson stick. Yet, this time you’d stayed in solitary cells for a week before they gave their decision. When they told you that you’d been selected for the Guest Student Program, it came as a shock. Relieved not to be beheaded or expelled from school entirely, you didn’t think too much of it at the time. But, since being grounded all summer by your aunt and uncle, you had time to think and you thought a lot.

“You can’t say you don’t feel it,” you said to your uncle. “You wanted him dead too.”

“Of course I do,” he admitted, “But he was not yours to kill, YN.”

“Then whose was he?”

“Whoever The Board picked.”

“Which would have been you, if not me or Ana.”

“My thirst for vengeance died a long time ago. Killing aimlessly does nothing but eat at the soul. Killing Montoya didn’t bring your parents back and they wouldn’t have approved of it either. YN,” he hesitated, finally glancing at you for the first time, “You didn’t just kill an unassigned target. You broke into the school armory and stole several weapons and armor. You killed multiple people. You went against everything this school stands for,” he said a bit disdainfully. “You’re only a freshman, YN. Freshmen spend their first year learning philosophy, ideology, academics and history. Yes, you had your combat and weapons training,” he cut you off before you could argue, “But that was only beginner stuff to get you accustomed to fighting. You should have been in your dorm studying, learning the ways of our society and sharpening your mind like you sharpen a blade. Being an assassin is not all about cool fighting moves and being a badass. It’s about our dedication to protecting the innocent and defending humanity from the scum of the earth.”

“I was defending humanity,” you argued sharply. “Montoya was a cartel boss who’d ruined countless lives with his drugs, torture, and murder. He tore families apart. He killed innocent kids just to punish their parents. He trafficked teenage girls he’d kidnapped from villages. He…”

Murdered your parents. The stinging sensation of tears hit your nose first and then your eyes. During those days in solitary, that painful memory resurfaced over and over:

You were ten, kneeling on the couch by the windows. Blue and orange mixed in the sky as the sun started setting, the night slowly rolling inwards. Your aunt, Ana, made dinner in the kitchen, the smell of savory, saucy ropa vieja filling the air. Your father’s favorite. He’d joked he was jealous and to save him a plate for later. You’d promised you would. You’d wanted to see them leave, you remembered, waving to them from the living room window. Your mother wore her finest dress that night: emerald silk with rhinestone across the neckline. Your father wore a cream colored blazer and slacks, no tie as he always hated wearing ties. She stood on the passenger’s side, and he stood on the driver’s side. She’d blown you a ruby-red kiss right before climbing inside. You’d heard the first rumble of the engine right before it happened. 

The loud boom resounded in your head, and you shut your eyes tightly. 

Fire. 

Smoke. 

Bits of leather and metal cascading down like snow. 

“Mamita,” Miguel’s hand found yours and squeezed it gently, “I know exactly how you feel. I hunted Montoya down for years. Searching for him was like searching for The Holy Grail.”

“But then you gave up…” you said in a shaky breath, fighting those tears. 

“I had to. When I reflected, I realized my brother wouldn’t want my rage to consume me,” he said. “He’d want me to focus on taking care of his daughter.” He stroked the back of your head, “And mentor her so she’d follow in his footsteps.” When you didn’t speak, he said, “If it means anything, a lot of the professors think you carried it out spectacularly. If it had been a regular training simulation, you would’ve passed with flying colors. You were picked for this for more reasons than you ‘being punished’. St Brutus is proud of you, even if The Board is not.” 

You turned to him. A slim man with black hair and a matching mustache and beard, he looked nearly identical to your father. Both of them had the same deep-set brown eyes, tawny skin and upturned nose. He looked like him in certain lights and right now was one of them. It stung your chest even more. 

“Do you think they would’ve been proud of me?” you asked quietly through tears. 

He paused, “Yes. Maybe not at first, but I knew my brother. He would’ve been proud that his daughter could execute an assassination so young.”

He continued down the street when the light turned green, sailing out of their neighborhood, their home. Crowded sidewalks lined the wet paved roads, diverse and dense as they navigated the narrow street. Occasionally, she spotted a homeless person on the street or sitting on a corner. Your heart, even as it broke again, went out to them. You knew a few who worked for The Order as informants. Keeping their ears on the streets, they smuggled information for an assassin’s reconnaissance missions. You’d gone to an old woman you knew well, Vicky. A haggard woman hardened by years on the streets, she knew how to keep quiet and listen. She’d told you about Montoya’s restaurant in the mission district where you’d done your research. But, it wasn’t helpful Vicky you thought of as you watched the streets. It was Him.

The boy in the blue jacket. 

You never learned his name, but you crossed paths with him more times than normal. The first time you saw him had been on a trip to the bodega near home. Holding a twenty, your aunt needed some things for dinner and sent you to get them. You’d planned on spending the change on treating yourself. Yet, you’d then turned a corner to see him. A boy with curly brown hair sat on the concrete, scribbling in a notebook. You noticed his grubby blue hoodie first, noting its worn out, dirty appearance immediately. He carried the look of having toughed it out on the street. You also saw he had no shoes. A particular cold chill blew past you in that moment, freezing your toes in your shoes, you couldn’t imagine being bare-footed. Not to mention any glass or debris on the floor he might step on and get an infection. Feeling the crisp twenty dollar bill in your pocket, a sudden guilt weighed on your shoulders. The chocolate bar will still be there tomorrow. You had your own money to replace the twenty. Timidly, you approached him. 

“Um, hey. It’s cold out and it’s supposed to, uh, get colder tonight so…here…you need it more than me.”

He didn’t speak at first, surveying the situation in front of him. You kept on your most sincere expression and kept the bill outstretched. A bare hand tentatively reached for them. 

“Thanks,” was all he said. 

You’d nodded and kept going. Your aunt was disappointed by the change in brands, but you told her the bodega didn’t have them. 

The next time was outside the bookstore. The owner told you the newest Stephen King novel came in and you’d get first dibs on the fresh copies. You’d nearly skipped to the store when you saw him again. This time, he had a blanket over his jacket. He was shivering. He looked drowsy and tired, sniffling and letting out a hoarse cough. Once again, your heart ached for him. You watched him stagger to two men with a cup, asking for money, but only for one of them to rudely refuse him. The man said something about getting a job and then moved on. You’d smirked when the boy’s hand slipped into his back pocket, withdrawing a black wallet easily. 

“Oh hey,” you said, not pretending you didn’t know him. 

“Hey…” he sniffed. You’d felt relieved he’d done the same. 

“You got new shoes,” you had no idea why you’d talked to him. You had no real reason, and he likely preferred you didn’t. “You look sick…”

“Pneumonia,” he said, tightening his blanket as another chill hit him. 

“I know a free clinic down the block. They’ll give you what you need to get better.”

“Yeah.”

Yeah, he didn’t want your advice. You instantly felt dumb, but the need to help him felt almost compulsive at this point. It felt more than pity. Something spoke to you. You didn’t know what. 

‘I’m sorry. I’m dumb. You probably already went there anyway.” You’d felt for the extra ten in your pocket, “The lady at the bodega on the next block gives discounts for meals. Their chicken soup is great for colds. Just tell her YN sent you, and she’ll help you out.”

“Does it make you feel better about yourself?” he said bitterly, brown eyes glaring up at you through his sickness. “Heping the unfortunate?”

“In a way, I guess,” you had answered a bit awkwardly. “I was raised to help when I can. I figured you might-”

“-Well you were wrong,” he cut you off. He didn’t want your charity. Perhaps it made him feel worse about his situation. Maybe his sickness and the cold weather irritated him. 

“Look, that asshole you lifted the wallet wasn’t carrying a lot. If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve noticed the worn out shoes and broken watch,” you couldn’t help retorting. “If you want to get caught trying to guess his pin at the ATM, then be my guest. A jail cell is just as cold as out here.”

You’d put the rumpled bill in his cup and stormed off. You were sure it’d be your last encounter. You purposefully avoided the two streets you’d seen him on. When you didn’t see him again, you felt a bit better. But also empty, and you didn’t know why. 

But you were wrong. You did see the boy again. Community service is a requirement at St. Brutus’s, and you’d gone to the homeless shelter with your aunt and uncle to serve food. The boy in the blue jacket was in line. You remember a streak of panic when you saw him. Yes, he was cute in a sort of homeless shabby way, but that wasn’t why. You tried excusing yourself, but your aunt made you stick to her side. You’d tried hiding your face when he reached your drink station, barely muttering ‘juice or milk’ when he stood in front of you. 

“I was a dick last time,” he said when she placed the dairy carton on his tray. “You were being nice and I was an asshole. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are…Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

He’d gone with a nod. Her uncle later asked if she was building her own network. Four months have passed since then. You hoped he was alright. 

“Hello? YN…Earth to YN, hello, Tio’s talking right now,” your uncle’s voice pulled you from your memories. 

“Huh?”

“We’re almost there.” 

They parked outside a butchery in the middle of Chinatown. Pig carcasses hung outside the window alongside ducks and chickens. The men inside looked mean and hardened by time. There was no turning back now, you realized. 

“Will someone at least feed Carrie?” you asked your uncle. “The letter from King’s mentioned no pets.” 

“Carrie is a falcon. She can feed herself.”

“Can you at least not touch her nest? She likes that spot near my window.”

Named after your favorite Stephen King book, you’d gotten Carrie as a gift when you started at St. Brutus’s. Sharp and clever, Carrie could find you anywhere. You gazed up at the dark sky as if you might catch sight of a white-grey wing or find her perched on a lamppost. You didn’t, and that was expected. 

“It won’t be so bad,” your uncle reassured you. He faced you, “Listen, this is a huge honor, YN. It is an important part of your education, and it can help you with your trials when you come of age.”

“Psh, whatever.”  

Irritated by your stubbornness, he sighed. “Come on, we can’t keep him waiting all night.” When you did not get out of the car, he grunted, “I said ‘ahora, YN’.”’

Oof, Spanish. Yeah, you were pushing it now. 

You quickly climbed out of the car and followed him into the butchery. The stale smell of blood and entrails wrinkled your nose. Stern faces glared at you from behind counters, but you pretended not to notice. You already missed St. Brusts. The thought of being taught by strangers and having to make friends made you uneasy. You liked the friends you had. Rhonda and Donna said they’d catch up with you after class, but King’s Dominion is hidden and you’d be living there. Contact with them would be limited. You shouldered your back when you and your uncle reached the counter. Your uncle said nothing to the small bald man sharpening a knife. He simply passed him a black card from his pocket. The bald man examined it, then nodded for them to follow. 

“What did you give him?” you asked. 

“This,” he flashed you a thick paper card that had The Order’s compass symbol in gold. “Sort of like a backstage pass. You’ll get one if you ever go on ambassador missions.”

Suddenly, a panel in the wall opened up and a cloaked monk stepped out, gesturing for you both to follow him. Your uncle bowed, urging you to do the same, and walked in behind him. The narrow passage turned down into a flight of stairs. The air around you turned colder, going up into your hoodie and your shirt to chill your skin. Underground. The school was underground? St. Brutus sat on the outskirts of the city disguised as a military site. King’s Dominion disguised itself as another building on the street, you guessed. 

“Tio?” you called him, sounding uncertain as you then went up a flight of stairs to the surface.

The monk led them outside into a small courtyard where you saw it. Four stories high, the school reminded you of a castle with high rooftops and large wooden doors. Another building stood off to the side, most likely the dormitories and other academic buildings. How can a place like this remain hidden? Surely people have come across it before. 

Your uncle turned to you and grinned, “Welcome, YN, to King’s Dominion.”

****

A/N: my first fic in months and it's in a dead fandom lmaooo anyways peep the Princess Bride reference. I hope you liked this fic and give it a like or reblog. Let me know what you thought.