Work Text:
SETTING THE STAGE:
Earth 19XX, following the encountering of the Voyager space probe with intelligent life, humanity entered a new era of intergalactic immigration between Earth and the newly discovered (By Terrans, the name of sentient life progenerated on Terra Firma I) The life in question? The Alternian empire of her Imperious Condescension.
Prior to contact with Earth it was the standard order of operations for this empire to conquer all life it encounutered, and render the population of the planets they inhabited either into slaves or slag. But on Earth, something unexpected happened.
Super human Metabeings fought back. Forming organizations and groups to ever vigilantly watch the sky above the blue marble.
This led to a treaty with the empire lest the super beings take the war to the Alternian homeworld and do something insane like blow up a nuclear bomb that would set off a chain reaction in the planet’s atmosphere. ((<<Looking at you Hubbard>>))
One of the primary tenants of the treaty entailed the humane treatment of the lower classes of the hemospectrum within Alternian culture. Where Alternia saw an opportunity to both spy on their new “friends” (enemies) and potentially breed a race of super soldiers out of their weakest, and Humans saw an opportunity to begin their era of space exploration on a different foot from their last era of mass exploration, with kindness and humanitarian egalitarianism as the primary driving factors instead of … well… that.
Superhero society on earth has existed for several decades at this point with multiple generations of heroes and their allies having come and gone, leading to the systemization of the process of superhero education and training. Educational facilities sponsored by the government but no longer publicly available to the masses after incidents such as the mass attacks on the populace of the school children of Japanese Hero institute UA, in 20XX, have lead to the formation of the International SKY HIGH Initiative.
In which the institutions have been put aloft and made constantly mobile within personalized cloaking fields making them nigh undiscoverable. Flight paths are planned around them and any planes that would be on a collision course with these nearly invisible from the outside flying schools will be mysteriously redirected.
Naturally, with this many people working on a project of this large of a scale, even with telepathic heroes able to control people’s minds and erase memories, the existence of these schools is an open secret. While their location may not be known, it is well known they exist and alumni aren’t afraid to wear their school color’s with pride.
Leading us to today. On an unsuspecting suburban street corner at a normal bus stop in a neighborhood not far from here.
MEANWHILE:
An unassuming yellow school bus pulls up to an otherwise normal suburban bus stop in a small town culdesac, in the suburbs of a big city. The side of the bus says, School Bus and nothing else but a number, 69.
The prototypical school bus stop sign folds out from the side of the vehicle and the emergency lights come on. The bus’s air brakes screech as the whole lumbering ensemble slows to a rattling halt. Then, with an express woosh of air, the bus lowers a full foot and the doors swing open.
To greet no one.
No one is at the bus stop.
Suitably, the doors to the bus swing shut.
However, as they do, a lanky but also somehow petite teen runs up to them. His feet pad hard on the pavement as he barely holds onto his backpack, the whole thing swings wildly around his deerlike frame.
“STOP THE BUS.”
He shouts frantically.
KARKAT VANTAS
Age: 15, Freshman.
The boy wears almost all black except for the trademark white toes of his Converse(™) sneakers. The black on black ensemble over his alien light grey skin stands out starkly against both the blue sky and fresh green of the rolling lawns and manicured trees behind him.
As he reaches the idling yellow gas guzzler, belching smoke into the hazy autumn morning, Karkat balls up his fist and bangs on the door of the bus. It doesn’t budge, it doesn’t even flex. As if it were made of steel.
He gasps audibly and winces, wiggling his hand in pain. He switches tactics and hands, instead rapping urgently at the glass with the corner of his smartphone.
Inside the bus, sitting aloft in their cramped “cockpit” the driver turns to face the frantic teen trapped outside. From over the top of their aviator sunglasses and under the brim of their yellow baseball cap, the busdriver peers down at them unamused. For one long minute they stay like this, frozen, like rivals in the rain in a cheesy western. Eventually, they do; however, press the door release button.
The door swings open with a hiss of air that blows Karkat’s shaggy bangs back off his face.
The driver shakes their head and scoffs audibly.
“You’re lucky I don’t just leave you here, Vantas.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bullock,” Karkat mutters, chastened. He reaches out and grabs the handrail to pull himself up.
As he steps onto the bus Karkat spares a glance behind him at the door of number 420 Dallas St. The house next to him. It remains closed.
Karkat sits on an empty seat at the front of the bus and looks out the window as Mr. Bullock sets the bus under way.
Karkat stares at the empty seat beside him. He shakes his head and rubs his face inhaling deeply as he does so.
“Nothing’s gonna change, my ass.”
The bus jettisons itself off of a ramp and into a chasm, wings fold out from the side panels and the wheels fold up as jet turbines pop out the back wheelchair access door functionally turning the whole bus into a plane. The aircraft flies off into the sky.
“NEXT STOP, SKY HIGH.”
LATER:
The scene on the lawn of the flying school is a spectacle to behold as the bus makes it’s final approach.
It soars into the parking lot where several of the more ambitious students have parked their self made flying cars or hover vehicles.
By the entrance to the school a particularly embarrassing display of a student being dropped off by their super parent and they are being made to say I love you before being allowed to walk into the building.
The wheels fold down and the bus bounces hard as it makes its landing. It rolls to a stop in a bus parking spot.
Everyone filters out of the bus.
As Karkat steps down he takes it all in and looks to the student landing pad as students who can fly are landing and walking towards the school.
As expected, he sees Dave and his twin brother Dirk float down.
“No bro, I’m telling you that ‘Rap-God’ was already a better track, and Godzilla might be better Lyrical Miracle Whip but it pales in comparison to his earlier stuff.”
“Dave, I honestly do not care.”
“That’s your problem, bro, you don’t have the drive to get any better”
They continue their conversation and both seem to completely miss that Karkat is there as they walk into the school.
“Coool… welcome back Karkat, welcome back to school.”
Karkat puts his head down and pulls up his hood. He puts his earpods in and shuffles into the school building as the bell rings.
LATER:
Karkat sits at his desk. The really awful desks, the "Xillennial Chiropractor" kind. The Ones with the chair attached to the tiny little polystyrene “ergonomic” desk with the shelf for the books underneath.
He does his best to bunch his hoodie up against the uncomfortable connecting bar that would otherwise be digging into his grubscars through his shirt, and slumps over bored.
At the front of the classroom his homeroom teacher, a sidekick human– sorry, they go by different terms now, Former Hero Support, Jake English, is enthusiastically writing his name on the board.
The chipper professor turns to the class and in a thick, obviously fake, British accent, he proclaims; “Cheerio chaps and lass’s and those betwixt and oh dear, my greeting has gone of course hasn’t it, fiddlesticks.”
If Karkat could shoot lasers out of his eyes this man would be dead where he stands. He glares at this incredulous buffoon as he parades in front of the class.
“Haha, anyways, I’m your homeroom professor for this year.” The 30 year old smiles awkwardly. “You can call me Jake, Mr English, or Professor.”
Professor Jake walks to the front of his desk.
“Now I want to get to know all of you, but before I can, I need to see all of your lovely faces! So, you in the hoodie by the window, shades off please.”
Karkat looks over at the kid in the red hoodie and shades. It’s Dave.
Dave’s face visibly reddens.
“Sir, they’re medically necessary.”
“I’m going to need to see a note for tha-”
“He has one.” Karkat says abruptly, standing up.
“Mr. um….”
“Vantas”
“Vantas, thank you, I’m going to need you to sit down and not interrupt my class or other students.”
Professor English paces in front of his desk as he addresses the two teens.
“If Mr. . . .
“Strider”
“...Strider, again, thank you.” Jake clearly is not pleased with Karkat’s continued interruptions and he moves towards the grey teen.
“If Mr. Strider has authorization to wear sunglasses on a medical basis then I will need him to bring those forms with him into my classroom, I cannot simply make exceptions for any Dick, Tom, or Charley that comes along.”
Mr. English’s accent slips as he leans into his lecture.
Karkat doesn’t falter.
“If you actually did your job and checked with the nurse on the status of your students before term began you wouldn’t need Dave to do your job for you.”
“Detention.”
Karkat deflates. It was the expected result. Of course it was. How could it not be, challenging an authority figure on their own turf. The consequences now reaped, having been sewn.
“Sit down, Mr. Vantas.”
Karkat sits down.
“Mr. Strider, if you do not take off your shades then you too will have detention.”
“No can do, teach. Doc says I need ‘em dude.”
“Then you can join Mr. Vantas in detention.”
“Siiiiick.”
“Well then, sorry to get all ruffled under the collar on day one, I promise I’m not the type to be so cruel.”
The class continues on and Karkat looks back at Dave. Despite the dark shades covering his eyes, Karkat is positive the boy is avoiding his gaze.”
He turns and watches the clock.
Which moves slowly towards 9:00am
tick
tick
tick
IN THE CAFETERIA:
Karkat gets to a mostly vacant table and sits down with his tray of bland looking food with a heavy thud. The tray clanks hard on the table and the carton of milk bonks over. Karkat does not immeediarely choose to pick it back up, letting it sit there sweating its condensation in the midday sun.
As he stares at the milk two more boys join him at the table.
Dave and Dirk sit on either side of the melodramatic boy.
“So, I heard you got detention, K-Kizzle.”
Dirk says casually sliding into the bench next to Karkat. He drops his paperbag next to the emo’s tray.
“You didn’t have to do that, now we both have detention.” Dave says, staring off into the distance.
“You certainly weren’t going to stand up for yourself.”
“Na, dog, I was just about to go all captain my captain, on his faux-British posterior.”
“Sure, and pigs can fly.”
“Funny you should mention that actually.” Dirk chimes in grabbing his phone out of his pocket, he scrolls frantically until he sees a picture and enlarges it.
The picture is a selfie of him and Dave holding a squirming pig several meters in the air.
“Arghhh, you never take anything seriously do you.”
“Maybe you just take things too seriously bro.”
“Ugh, whatever. It doesn’t matter. At least now you’ll have to spend time with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“OH JEEZ!?” Karkat’s face reddens and pink tears peak at the bottom lids of his yellow eyes.
“I DON”T FUCKING KNOW.--” He turns to face Dave directly, “MAYBE THAT YOU'VE BEEN AVOIDING ME SINCE MARCH!?”
Karkat leans in towards Dave, and despite their height difference he almost towers over the much taller boy.
Dave seems entirely transfixed however as he looks straight at Karkat’s face. His cheeks slightly 'pinken.'
“Dave!? Earth to Dave?” Karkat snaps his fingers and waves his hands in front of Dave's face, his nubby claws nearly grazing Dave’s hair as he does so.
“I… I need to go.” Dave says in a hurry. Before he quickly flies away. Leaving Karkat to fall over onto the Cafeteria bench without the other boy to support him.
“…WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!!???”
Dirk just looks at the disheveled alien and shrugs as he opens a pudding cup.