Chapter Text
September 17th, 1994
﹍﹎﹎﹍
Ears assaulted by the echo of the final train whistle and the sound of shoes hammering against concrete, he plunged himself past the train doors just as they swallowed his remaining view of the platform. Two hefty suitcases slammed against the adjacent wall, rolling away from where he knelt huffing, hands planted firmly on his knees. Half a dozen heads turned in a slightly irked fashion as Scar fumbled to stow away his belongings, but the man couldn’t care less. He was just relieved he made the damn train.
Shuffling down the dimmed aisle and mumbling apologies as he went, he caught sight of his seat with a breath of relief. The carriage was partially empty aside from the odd hybrid and common commuter, but his row was entirely vacant. Scar hummed pleasantly as he occupied his space by the window and slipped off his rucksack as delicately as possible. The sun had hardly risen, and as the train jerked forward he glimpsed an amber wave threatening to spill over the cityscape. It was near impossible to witness himself up before dawn— Scar’s guiltest pleasure was ultimately missing his alarms — but he’d have to get used to such early starts. His new school was uncompromising when it came to their rulebook, and Scar had worked hard enough to know the rarity of his offer.
With only ten places open per year, The Academy sought itself to find the highest performing students throughout the country, worthy of becoming the world’s next generation of Watchers. It was an unimaginable opportunity and Scar recognized it fully, but the idea of abandoning his lie-ins wasn’t something he was particularly thrilled to do.
“Tickets please. Tickets.”
A greying man, doused in a perfectly ironed suit and uniform cap, shuffled wearily down the aisle with a stale expression. Scar prepared his Academy ticket; a pearlescent letter adorned with golden lettering, and the gentleman finally approached. Scar flashed his crinkled paper to the ticket inspector with a vibrant grin and received an arched brow in return.
“You’re heading to The Academy?” His flattened tone mirrored his doubtful stare.
“I believe so?”
Scar questioned himself for a moment, and the inspector lowered his gaze to critique Scar’s casual attire. He didn’t appear to be travelling to the country’s most prestigious school, reserved only for the most intelligent scholars. In fact, his wrinkled crewneck and sagging jean shorts hardly presented him as academic at all. Nobody knew where The Academy was located, and even less was known about the students who went there. Scar wasn’t setting much of a stellar example.
“Very well,” the inspector held the ticket out as if offering him a cigarette, and Scar pocketed it gingerly. As he turned his back away, the window was suddenly alight — its corners glowed a hazy yellow and Scar could distinguish the sun bleeding past the city’s outskirts as it overwhelmed his vision. He pinched his brow to readjust his eyesight, focusing on the desolate rural landscape and embracing the way his stomach churned.
An acceptance letter for The Academy was an indescribable achievement, and the world Scar lived within made it all the more rare. Inhabiting the entire globe was a population that harboured unique abilities. It was common knowledge that each individual fell within a certain category, each determining the prejudice they’d receive within their community and more severely, the government.
Society had always viewed animal types as harmless; passive and containable, apart from a species renowned for becoming extinct over a decade ago. He remembered his parents cheering at the television when the news flooded in — the last infamous Blade Whip had been captured and killed someplace upstate, but Scar never indulged in that rabbit hole.
Many of his friends were elemental types, known for causing the odd bunsen burner to erupt in Chemistry practicals and water sprinklers to activate during corridor rushes. Scar fell comfortably within the physical category, admired for his superhuman strength and agility that, combined, earned him The Academy’s singular scholarship. His teachers had always pushed him exceptionally hard, but Scar had an academic drive like no other, a surprising attribute considering his clumsy demeanour.
Climbing the list for government cautious were energy and psychic types. Scar commonly heard news downtown of crashes caused by sonic blasts, or criminals who’d convinced their victims the incidents never happened. Watchers were notoriously showcased to contain the situations without fail, but Scar was prompt to witness the scenes in person once they were broadcasted on the news. This generation of Watchers, however, didn’t always have the situations under control. Scar believed he could do a far better job.
Becoming a Watcher wasn’t straightforward either. They were a controlled group of esteemed entities, assigned with the sole purpose to watch and protect. Any incident that was reported to involve a ‘dangerous entity’, some Watcher would be there. Aside from their tedious work they were practically celebrities, and the public loved them.
Yet another reason Scar longed for that title.
Regardless, there hadn’t been a solid group of Watchers for a decade — Scar had revised his history books many times over, and members seemed to continuously be on rotation. He wondered whether their guards had been lowered after the final Blade Whip’s execution; nothing could trump how dangerous those creatures were, and Scar suspected the Watchers assumed nothing as dangerous could ever threaten them again.
The train jolted as it made its first stop in a rural town, its wheels groaning as it came to a standstill. The station was doused in a curtain of golden mist. Scar rummaged through his rucksack and located his Sony Walkman, a birthday gift from his aunt that summer. Blundering with the cassette tape on his lap, he eventually married both devices and adjusted his headphones. Limp waves of hair spilt over his forehead as music poured into Scar’s ears and lulled him into a yawn. Without time to even register the train’s departure, he’d drifted asleep against the window glass.
﹍﹎﹎﹍
This is the last call for Archery Cove, which is our final stop. When leaving the train…
His album had finished long ago and the intercom droned throughout the empty carriage. Scar had completely missed the train announcement. Rubbing a fist against his eyes, he glanced out the window tentatively. Mobs of people crowded the platform in a bustle of energy and he felt blindly for his rucksack, simultaneously scanning the station. With an awkward toss over the shoulder, he meandered down the aisle towards his belongings. The overwhelming chatter of people mingling could be heard beyond the train doors and with an enthusiastic roll of his shoulders, Scar hauled his suitcases onto the platform.
Archery Cove was a coastal town, and the station’s architecture was far from modern. Exposed beams elevated the wooden infrastructure that wrapped delicately around the platform’s perimeter and there was a hint of sea salt in the breeze. Scar’s agile legs wove through the crowd, headphones rhythmically beating against his chest as they dangled from his neck. Elemental types reunited on the platform with yips of laughter, autumnal leaves spiraling around their bodies as they joined with a hug. An avian fanned its wings, signalling its location to a friend across the crowd, and Scar found himself stumbling past a blur of feathers. Train operators circled the ticket office , buzzing into their radios. The exit bled into view and Scar quickened his pace, emerging into an equally busy environment. His head was spinning.
“Scar?”
Stood dumbfounded at the front of the station, Scar looked towards the roadside at a gentleman holding a clipboard. His gloved hand gestured urgently, glances fluctuating between several documents and Scar’s hopeless stance by the building’s entrance. A green Volkswagen was parked on the curb — he could only guess this was his discrete ticket to The Academy.
“That’s me!” He breathed, rolling his cases towards the gentleman with an apprehensive grin.
He flipped over a document, not looking up. “Date of birth?”
“August 19th, 1976.”
“Acceptance letter?”
His scarred paws dove into his jean pocket, retrieving the crumbling ticket. The gentleman cocked his head at him in disappointment: ‘what the hell is this?’ — all Scar could do was smile.
“Go ahead and find a seat.”
Some half-hearted attempt to keep track of the route was abandoned quickly as the hours dragged towards sunset. The Volkswagen ached with the warmth of late September, meandering past shoreside roads and heavily dense woodland in a drunken fashion. The hum of students in the back row was indistinguishable from the van’s droning engine; Scar found himself slipping between admiring the seascape and dreaming, either way blissfully sending him into a liminal state of mind.
It must have been late evening once the van transitioned towards the crackling of gravel. Eyelids smothered in sleep, it came to Scar’s attention that they’d finally arrived at their destination. The vehicle’s mechanical shoulders shrugged as it steeled to a halt.
“Password?” A sugary voice sputtered through the driver’s radio, musically pronouncing each syllable. He tutted quietly, bringing the device to his mouth.
"Don’t mess with me, Cub. You know it’s late.”
“Yeah, yeah, you know I’m just playing.” He hummed. “Come on in.”
Scar had failed to realise the mountainous gates towering over the van until they began to separate with a crunch. The Volkswagen accelerated, peeling off to the left as it wrapped around The Academy’s courtyard; the boarding school’s Gothic facade, although swallowed in darkness, showed signs of life within its walls. Corridors seemed to glow with a narcotic warmth and Scar’s eyes swam with excitement, both hands tingling with apprehension. This was the experience he’d worked towards for years; the dull seminars and countless exams — it had all equated to this moment. The Academy seemed like something you’d see on a postcard, and Scar soaked up in every metre of its existence.
After filing out the van with wobbly feet, Scar gathered his suitcases and instinctively followed suit of the older students who were now approaching The Academy’s grand entrance with a hungry desire for their beds. The main double doors, at least twenty feet tall, stood in their wake and Scar watched curiously as one student, a ginger-haired ox hybrid, pressed her hoof to a nearby brick. The wall churned, processing the command with a welcoming creak, and the door gradually bent ajar.
“I can’t believe you remembered that!” The praise came from an older boy behind her and the girl instantaneously whipped around, beaming.
As the group slipped inside, Scar found himself fumbling for his belongings. A wave of unease swallowed his senses, feet planted firmly before The Academy’s harrowing doors. He was never somebody to get anxious, but this was a completely different context. He tightened his grip on both suitcases and hesitantly stepped forward, before taking the plunge indoors with a spontaneous thrill. The door slammed behind him with a groan and there was one thing Scar knew for certain.
The Academy was where he belonged.