And from the tone of her voice, she was angry. But Marcus wondered if she was mad at him or the Principal. Several times he told her about how Mr. Aker treated his students like second-rate citizens, and she even asked him a few times why “that man” as she liked to refer to Mr. Aker still kept his job.
What made Marcus extremely nervous was the attitude the Principal’s assistant had taken. Despite the yelling that was going inside her boss’s office, she didn’t seem to mind at all, like she was used to this kind of thing happening. She just sat there, typing some memo while humming a song that Marcus didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t long before Marcus was asked to go inside the Principal’s office, and what happened next was perhaps one of the most intense moments in his young life. His mother was there, the Principal, a representative from the board of education and Mr. Aker. All of them discussing what would be his ultimate fate. At the end of the meeting, he was suspended for what was left of the week.
Marcus didn’t like school, but that didn’t mean he was a complete slacker. He had a 5.0 GPA and was among the top three of his class, and a burst of anger for a student on his senior year wasn’t reason enough to expel him, no matter how much Mr. Aker insisted on it. After Marcus’ punishment for yelling a teacher was decided, the Principal and the Representative from the Board shifted their attention to Mr. Aker to discuss the complaints filed against him. What became of Mr. Aker, Marcus didn’t know, as he was asked to leave along with his mother.
“I’m sorry,” he said very quietly.
His mother didn’t respond at all, she just kept walking down the hallway, her long chestnut hair swaying left and right with every step she took. But then she stopped right before the first flight of stairs, “go get your things,” his mother said without looking at him.
Marcus felt a sharp stab in his chest. His mother was clearly not pleased that his son was just suspended, even if he was just standing up for himself. That sudden outburst was a permanent blemish on his academic record, which would limit her son’s choices to enter a good school, and Marcus knew it.
When Marcus went back to his classroom, his classmates stared at him, like he was a ghost that had come back to haunt them. He was aching to tell them to stop staring, that Mr. Aker was getting chewed out by the Principal and the Board, but given his state of mind, his words or how he said them, would be have a whole different meaning. So, he said nothing. Packed his things and went to meet his mother at the school gates.
“I have to get back to work,” Evangeline said, her face twisted by anger and sadness. “When I get home, you better be there. So we can have a talk with your father.” Saying this, kissed him on the cheek and Marcus watched her walk down street to take the No.53 bus that would take her back to her job.
With that warning, Marcus knew that when he got home, there would be hell to pay. He just hoped that his father would be a lot more understanding.
Being a teenager, and one that was just recently suspended, he had a lot of bottled up anger. So, instead of heading straight back home, Marcus took a different route.
There was this old Arcade that he used to visit frequently when he was much younger. It was almost hidden from the view of the general public and its precise location was only known to those who had been there before. It was the perfect place to blow off steam.
It had all kinds of games, of chance, skill, and even videogames. It had something for everybody, and Marcus spent most of his time playing the wide array of videogames that were installed at the end of the arcade. Vintage videogames occupied most of the space of the coin-ops, their outdated graphics and simple gameplay made them rather unpopular with the general clientele, who had grown accustomed to virtual reality and realistic gameplay. But these vintage videogames were Marcus’ favorites, there was something in their simplicity that he just found appealing, perhaps these games were the only thing simple in his usually complicated and busy life, and that’s why he liked them so much.
But it had been years since he last visited the arcade, and wondered if it was still open.
After a half-an-hour trip to the downtown area of Telervo, he got off the bus and walked a couple of blocks south and then turned east, which lead him to a narrow street called “Eat Street,” as most of the businesses that crowded the already busy street were restaurants where one could buy cheap, but rather tasty meals. The mixed scent of the cooking done by the restaurants was at times rather unpleasant, and wondered how the people eating their cheap meals could withstand such an awful smell.
Hurrying up the pace, he reached the end of the street and out of the dense cloud of burnt cooking oil, grease and spices. Just a couple of feet more, he thought as he gazed at the sky, that had turned from shade of light blue and warm yellow to a tinge of dark, cool blue and fiery red, the streetlamps flickered for the briefest of moments before remaining lit, casting their pale, cold light on the streets below.
Marcus knew that he was near the arcade when he glimpsed the bright purple and blue neon lights right at the end of the street along with the thumping noise of muffled techno music.
Marcus was too absorbed in his memories about the times he had spent in the arcade with his fellow classmates that he didn’t pick up the warning signs around him, telling him to turn away.
Marcus checked his pocket for change, and realized that he only had a few quarters, just enough for a couple of games and then he would head back home.
It was a mistake he would regret.
Upon stepping inside his once beloved arcade, he was shocked to find out that it had changed drastically. The walls were sprawled with graffiti; most of the machines and games had been dismantled, and used as makeshift tables by those who had claimed the arcade as their own.
Marcus recognized them upon laying eyes on the tattoo on the left side of their faces, an eagle’s head crushing a skull with its beak. They called themselves, “Altairs,” and were infamous for being one of the most violent gangs in the whole city. And Marcus had walked into their hideout.
Marcus tried to leave the arcade, but it was already too late, they blocked the door and formed a perimeter around him. Now he was in real trouble. The blades of their switchblades flashed under the artificial light, drawing closer to him. He had to think fast for a way to leave the arcade alive, but facing against twelve individuals was crazy, and he had no martial arts or personal defense training.
On the nearby table he saw a piece of hardwood that had been ripped out of an old pool table, he could use it to defend himself if he could only reach it. There was a loud noise outside, and Marcus reached for the board and swung it four times, hitting two thugs but missing the other two. A fifth tackled him from behind, pinning Marcus to the floor, the scent of urine and stale beer invaded his nostrils, which made him want to gag but contained himself.
“Pretty bold from a pansy like you,” a voice said in mock amusement.
Marcus managed to free himself a little to gaze up at whoever spoke. From what he could tell, the man standing just a few inches away from his face was the leader of the Altair, but his appearance was that of a frail and sickly boy, with unkempt platinum hair, his black eyes were empty, but a horrible grin twisted his pink lips. Like the rest of the Altair, he also had his skin indelibly marked by the eagle’s head. But his looked more menacing than the others.
“We were just a little bored before you came in,” the leader said grabbing Marcus by the hair and pulling him up, and closer to him. “The name’s Zael, what’s yours?”
Marcus thought about answering, but instead he spat on Zael’s face. He was expecting for him to get mad, but instead, Zael wiped his face and just smiled. But it wasn’t an honest smile, it was a deranged smile. “You’ve got spunk,” he said as two thugs lifted Marcus from the floor, “you’ll be plenty of fun.”
For the next five minutes, the thugs of the Altair punched and kicked Marcus, to the point of losing consciousness. But they wouldn’t allow that. Each time Marcus was about to pass out, they would inject something into his arm, which woke him up instantly.
After a while, they gave up and Marcus slumped on the dirty floor, bleeding through his nose and mouth, his left eye blackened, his cheeks swollen and purple. He was fading in and out of consciousness. Even in his mangled state, Marcus heard them talk. They were planning to kill him as he “wasn’t fun anymore.”
Quietly, Marcus slowly got to his knees. The pain was intense, but the fear of being killed was even more powerful. He searched for his schoolbag, he was pleased that it was just a few inches away from him, grabbed it with trembling hands, one of the thugs noticed him and Marcus threw caution to the wind, stood up and ran to the door. One of the thugs blocked him, but he pushed him aside, crashed through the door and into the narrow street. It was empty. No one would come to help him.
Desperate, he ran up street while the thugs chased after him. For the briefest of moments, he didn’t feel any kind of pain at all. Was it the drugs they injected him with? Or was it a result from the adrenaline rushing through his body? It didn’t matter, what mattered was that it gave him the strength and speed necessary to lose his pursuers.
He sought refuge inside what appeared to be an abandoned building and hid behind a large bookshelf. He tried to be as quiet as possible as Marcus heard his pursuers on the other side of the wall, shouting obscenities and calling out to him.
After five minutes, maybe more, as his watch was broken, Marcus examined with his one good eye the place he had chosen to hide from those thugs.
It was dark, but he could tell he was inside of an abandoned library. The scent of dust and mildew sharpened the air, and most of the bookshelves were empty or had few books; old encyclopedias, almanacs and phonebooks from a decade ago.
But he wasn’t alone. Someone was calling out for him, or at least that was what he thought. His mind was still fuzzy from those drugs they gave him. He was scared to think that they found him, but his fear abated when Marcus realized that the voice wasn’t male or female, so it didn’t belong to those thugs. Part of him wanted to remain where he was, hidden from view. However, other part of him wanted to follow that voice, which was becoming more and more irresistible.
Gathering the rest of his strength, Marcus slowly stood up. Every fiber of his body groaned and ached, but he searched for the owner of that voice, a soothing voice with like a balm, easing the pain in his battered body.
Marcus approached one of the walls, as the voice seemed to come from the other side. With his fingers he examined the wall, searching for a hidden door, but found nothing. Aghast, he unconsciously laid his fingers on what appeared to be a hidden switch in the wall, and just at hip height a rectangular shaped drawer opened with a rusty sound. Marcus got on his knees to examine what was inside the drawer. At first, he had second thoughts about inserting his hand inside the drawer. What if there was some sort of poisonous insect inside? After surviving a heavy beating by a gang of thugs, to die by being stung was just too cruel a fate.
But the voice was coming from inside the drawer, so, he reached inside and pulled out a small, sphere made of black stone. Was this stone the origin of the voice? But it looked so pedestrian, it had no markings or any features at all that would certify that this small sphere, no bigger than a marble, was the origin of the voice he heard, He couldn’t hear it anymore the moment he held it in his fingers.
Marcus wanted to place it back inside the drawer, but instead, he tucked the black marble inside the pocket of his ragged blazer. He would examine it closer when he got home.
But he couldn’t go home just yet. Those thugs were still out there. So Marcus decided to remain hidden inside the abandoned library for another hour, until he was absolutely certain that thugs of Altair had given up their search for him
An hour had passed, and Marcus was on his way home, taking the only bus that would take him close enough to his house. The passengers that rode the No.60 bus kept asking Marcus that he needed some medical help, as his appearance was that of a man that had been run over by a car several times, and he felt like he was indeed run over, not by a car but by heavily-loaded truck. He told them that he was fine, and that his father was a doctor–a lie, of course–just to keep them off his back.
But what would he tell his parents when he showed up bleeding all over the place and badly bruised? He had to sneak inside the house, Marcus didn’t want to face them, he was sure that he was going to be told that he deserved the beating he got, for going to an arcade instead of obeying a direct order from his mother to head back home.
Even if they didn’t yell at him at all, Marcus didn’t want to worry them. His suspension was bad enough, and even though his nose began to bleed again, by morning most of his injuries would’ve healed. Then he could make up some excuse about how he fell down some stairs on his way back home.
They wouldn’t believe that lie. They knew him far too well.
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