Cas never wanted to be a general. He still doesn't. He doesn't even want to be in the Guild. Cas wants to be a writer, though he isn't very good, and he hasn't told anybody. Remy doesn't even know.

Cas doesn't even know why he agreed to this school if it specializes in Abilities, and he does not incline to enter a career field modified specifically for Abilities. He probably only did it for his parents. Now they can say, "Oh, my daughter Remington has won gold medals and went to nationals in violin. Our adopted son? He's alright, too; he must be to get into Crowlland, of course," instead of trying to shove his existence under the carpet.

Knowing Cas, he really could do something he hates for the benefit of those he loves. Especially when he has something to prove.

Holme sets another paper in front of him, "Now, this is your schedule for this term. Usually, only students with elemental Abilities are put into a combat class, but there were no other open classes, so you'll be spending the ending of your school day down in the barracks. Any questions?"

Cas takes another sip of his coffee. It's almost gone, now; he'll have to ask Aaron where he can get a new one. He'll save that one for later, though.

"No."

Holme smiles, "Well then, welcome to Crowlland Academy."

Two

When Cas enters what he was told is his first hour, everyone stops what they are doing as if someone froze them. Even the teacher stops writing on the blackboard to stare.

Aaron claps him on the shoulder, "Ms. Simmons, good morning. How's your dragon?"

Cas has always wanted a pet dragon. The small kind that is roughly the size of a Newfoundland. Of course, a dragon would never fit in his family's small apartment; it barely fit them.

He would name him something menacing like Venom or Fang.

Having a dragon named Snippy would be cool.

Ms. Simmons doesn't change her features, but with the mention of her pet, she seems less likely to bite a head off.

"He's doing better," she responds. "Age is doing a number on old Marco. Can you believe his eightieth birthday past just last June? It seems like just yesterday Father brought the egg home for me. I was three..."

Cas' eyes widen; that makes her eighty-three. Cas can't imagine living that long, let alone teaching.

"Well, I'm certain if he continues to eat the pills the doctor prescribed, Marco will live strong for another decade."

Can't say the same about Ms. Simmons, though.

"This is Cas. The new transfer student. Say hello, Cas."

What is he? A dog?

Speak, Boy.

Woof.

Maybe someone can buy him a collar for Christmas; Cas: if lost, return to--

Aaron nudges him with his elbow, and Cas snaps to attention.

"Hello, Ms. Simmons," he says, as charmingly as he can, smile and everything.

"Good morning," she's straight-faced, once again, as if showing any kindness toward Cas would end all self-respect she has. "Go take a seat. The class will start shortly."

The boy sitting next to Cas is sleeping; at least, that's what he thought since he's resting his head on the desk. Then he noticed his eyes are open. Then he noticed that he hasn't blinked at all. Now, Cas can't stop staring at him, waiting, just waiting for those eyes to blink. They don't.

"You can stop staring now," the boy whispers, not looking away from the board.

Cas snaps his head forward, "Sorry."

The boy looks at him, and he realizes his eyes are more like a snake's than a human's: green with black, vertical slits. His smile is conniving, and Cas has an uneasy feeling that he might devour him whole.

"What's there to be sorry about?" He looks back to the front. "Personally, I think it's flattering you can't keep your eyes off me, but don't be too obvious. People might think you're a freak."

I am a freak, Cas wants to argue, but he decides it's better if he doesn't pick a fight with Snake-boy. Cas has to make a friend, and since his roommate worships the feline incarnate of Satan, Snake-boy sounds like a safer option. Cas looks down at the piece of paper in front of his company, and in an impeccable cursive scrawl, Salem is written on the name line.

Murder and witch hunts suit him, Cas decides.

"So," Salem drawls out, as if he has all the time in the world, "What brings you to this soulless place? Was it the reputation? People put so much power in a name. Crowlland Academy: where the future rises. More like the future diminishes. This school eats your will to live little by little until poof! You're a mindless minion in the Guild's game."

Well, isn't he morbid?

"If you hate this school so much, why are you here?" Cas asks. Morbid or not, he's never met someone who doesn't love the idea of being a student at Crowlland.

Wordlessly, Salem flips his palm up; strange markings cover his left wrist. He doesn't know what the markings mean (not many people do), but he knows what it represents. Salem's parents had debts, and they sold him to the guild to pay them. He's little more than an educated slave.

Salem covers the tattoo with his sweatshirt sleeve. Cas is pretty sure you aren't allowed to wear something over your uniform, but no one has called him out on it. If he were a teacher, Cas would be scared to call him out on it, too.

"Try having your parents explain to you that your life is nothing more than a bargaining chip."

There's something bitter in Salem's words as if the taste the words leave in his mouth is the worst thing. Any person would say Salem's angry. It's a reasonable answer speaking how he delivers himself. The only reason Cas knows any different is because he can't help himself.

Salem's mind is dark, covered in black ink. Everything is static. Faces crossed out in memories and when someone is speaking, all you hear is the static, wordless and deafening, as if Salem has spent his life trying to forget what people normally want to remember.

He's not angry; he's damaged.