Insights and Outsights

Most schools offer a wide variety of degrees, hoping to be the stepping stone to dozens or even hundreds of possible careers. Wrathbone’s Academy of the Supernatural and Paranormal turned this concept on its head. The school offered a single career path that many coveted but few obtained. Nicknamed the “WASP” or just the “Academy,” the nine-story stone building sat in the heart of Vassensstad like a watchful giant, crowned with a dome of jade.

The main doors opened just twice a year: once in August, to let in hundreds of eager students clad in cyan learning robes; and once in May, to release a far fewer number, each graduate now clad in the royal blue uniform of the WASP Hunters. The doors themselves were 18 feet tall, crafted from red oak wood, and studded with enough salt-laced iron to keep any entity short of a Class III from breaking in… or out.

At precisely 1:30 in the afternoon on this humid August day, the doors swung shut. There were other exits, of course, mostly around the kitchen and garden areas of the ground floor, but they were reserved for the Academy’s teachers and staff. For the students, leaving was the last thing on their mind as they settled into the fourth and fifth-floor dormitories, preparing for their first classes of the year. The dull, echoing boom of the closing doors six floors below hardly registered with Xander Ryans as he paced down the hallway, muttering to himself before stopping in front of a classroom. Pausing for a moment to swallow his nervousness, Xander walked through the door.

Teacher Dustin Chavez’s unmistakable bald head greeted Xander as he entered, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lighting. The rest of Chavez’s face hid behind a newspaper bearing headlines like “Instructor Damian Saga Pronounced Dead after Assyrian Moth Encounter” and “Salt Mine Strike Enters Third Week.” An ancient grandfather clock behind Chavez’s desk told Xander he was a few minutes early, so he chose a desk near the back of the room and silently took in his surroundings. The walls were bare save for the clock and a blackboard with “INTRO TO THE PARANORMAL” scrawled across it in chalk.

Chavez was engrossed in the paper, paying no mind even as the classroom door banged open and a gaggle of chattering students crowded in. A girl with a blonde ponytail approached where Xander sat. He grinned nervously at her, but without so much as a glance in his direction, she threw her bag on the desk and motioned several other students over.

“Yeah I can move. Thanks for asking,” Xander muttered under his breath, relocating to the back row. He’d considered standing his ground, but causing trouble on day one didn’t sound appealing. Besides, the ponytail girl was kind of cute, and from the number of books stuffed into her leather bag, she had the brains to back it up. Xander figured it was worth staying on her good side, at least for now.

Right as the clock struck 1:45, Chavez laid down his newspaper, stood up, and began writing on the blackboard. The room fell silent as the students watched him–some with nervousness, others with hope gleaming in their eyes. Xander felt nothing other than a burning sense of curiosity.

Chavez set down the chalk and turned to face his audience. He’d drawn a rudimentary chart: three columns, marked I, II, and III, leaving plenty of space underneath each numeral.

“This may be an introductory course, but I trust that you all know what a Class is?”

Ponytail girl’s hand shot up. Chavez glanced at her, which prompted her to regurgitate a passage from one of the books crowding her desk.

“Classes are the standard used by both the Academy and the general population of Vassensstad to categorize the paranormal–”

“I asked for confirmation, not definition,” Chavez’s tone was cold. Xander noticed the girl’s ears turning pink as the Teacher continued: “Still, it’s nice to know at least one student has done the assigned reading. How many of you have completed the assigned chapters?”

A few students raised their hands.

“And how many of you haven’t looked at the syllabus yet?”

Quite a few more students raised their hands.

Chavez sighed. “Half of you will be gone in six months. That’s not a threat, it’s just how the Academy works. If it were me, if I’d just been admitted to the most prestigious school in the city with a single shot at becoming a Hunter, I wouldn’t take that for granted. But the sheer number of students I see every year that expect daddy’s money to carry them farther than the front door tells me that maybe I’m the only one who sees it that way.”

Several students shuffled in their seats. Xander sat up straighter, folding his hands on the desk and doing his best to look like he belonged.

“This is a class about Classes,” Chavez continued. “We will be defining, understanding, and learning how to respond to every known entity in each Class. This knowledge is a fundamental part of every Hunter’s toolkit, and I am not exaggerating when I say it’s the difference between life and death.”

Chavez paused for a moment, letting his last sentence hang in the air. Ponytail girl was scribbling frantically in a notebook, her ears still burning. A thought poked at Xander: where were his books, or his copy of the syllabus? He countered it immediately, telling himself that students forget their things all the time and that it wasn’t important right now. Xander was exactly where he needed to be.

“Who can give me an example of a Class I entity?” Chavez asked. Several hands shot up. The Teacher pointed to a girl with her dark brown hair woven neatly into a shoulder-length braid.

“A Wrat,” she answered.”

Chavez picked up the chalk and wrote “WRAT” in the first column. “Perfect example. Obviously paranormal, but such a low threat that even a six-year-old with a salt shaker could handle one. Anyone else?”

This time a boy with shaggy brown hair and round glasses spoke. “A Fragment?”

Chavez added it to the list. “How many of you have seen a Fragment today?”

Several students raised their hands, including the girl with the ponytail. She looked back at Xander, more of a glance than anything. He grinned at her again, but she had already looked away.

Third time’s the charm. Hopefully.

“If you haven’t yet, I guarantee that’ll change by the end of the week,” Chavez said. “The Academy has the highest population of Fragments in all of Vassensstad. They–”

A thick-shouldered boy with a buzz cut raised his hand, cutting Chavez off. “What’s the best way to dispose of them?”

Chavez blinked twice. “Of… Fragments?”

Buzz Cut nodded.

“I…” It was the first time Xander had seen Chavez show any emotion other than slight annoyance. “I don’t know whether to be more offended at your interruption or your question.”

“It’s an Entity,” Buzz Cut began.

“It’s a Class I. Minimal threat. Fragments are the only known Entity that can traverse time like we traverse the first three dimensions. They’ll appear for minutes, maybe an hour at a time, following the same routine as the day they died. As far as we know, Fragments are living that day over and over. Disposing of them would be robbing us of the chance to study a Class I in its natural cycle, an Entity that I will remind you does not know we exist.” His tone was flat, allowing no room for argument.

“Now, Class II’s. Any examples?” Chavez looked around the room, but no student met his gaze.

“Disappointing, but not surprising,” Chavez said. “Everyone knows Class I’s from firsthand experience, and everyone wants to talk about Class III’s and how dangerous they are, but the most common Class is also the most overlooked. We will be spending plenty of time on Class II’s, and I encourage you all to pay close attention. Assuming you are one of the lucky few who make it to graduation, your assessment Hunt will be a Class II. And it’s never too early to start preparing for your Hunt. Now, everyone’s favorite. Examples of Class III’s?”

Hands sprung up all over the room, Xander’s included. The girl with the braid spoke first.

“A Fungre?”

Chavez wrote it down. “Nine feet tall, highly destructive, and releases toxic spores. Great example. What else?”

He pointed to the ponytail girl.

“A Lost?” she suggested.

Xander noticed a hint of what almost looked like admiration in Chavez’s face. “You have done your reading. What’s your name?”

“Julia Hall, sir,” the girl with the ponytail replied.

“Well, Ms. Hall, can you tell me what makes a Lost so dangerous?”

“They can go from passive to aggressive in seconds at random, using emotion as a weapon.”

“Close, but not quite,” Chavez corrected. “Their attacks aren’t random, and despite their lethality, the attacks are almost never intentional. Take a recent example. Have any of you read about the Lost who used to be a salt miner?”

A couple of students nodded, but most shook their heads.

“To sum up, a miner ended up staying in the tunnels past quitting time because he noticed another coworker refusing to leave. Turns out, that coworker had been dead for weeks, returning to his job as a Lost. Whether it was duty, loneliness, or just fear of moving on, we don’t know, but for one reason or another the Entity remained in the shell of the miner. The first miner confronted him after closing time, and Ms. Hall, can you explain why that’s a terrible idea?”

Julia nodded. “Losts refuse to admit that they’re wrong. If you try to correct them, they will force you to understand why they are not wrong, and that never ends well.”

“Exactly,” Chavez said. “Their high emotions make them incredibly volatile. They exist because something in their lives wasn’t complete when they died. The best way to dispose of a Lost is for one to come to that acceptance in its own time, so it can properly let go. If you try to force awareness on a Lost too soon, it’ll push back. It’s one of the best paranormal examples of Newton’s Third Law. The miner found this out the hard way, and what was left of him didn’t even fill a bucket.”

The Teacher continued speaking, but Xander found it hard to focus. His mind swarmed with a million questions: what was the Lost’s reason for staying behind? Why didn’t the miner get help? Everyone knew the stories of Class III’s and how dangerous they were. Curiosity itched at Xander’s brain. He wanted desperately to learn more, but couldn’t remember where he’d left his books. Looking at Julia’s overstuffed bag, an idea came to him, one that could kill two birds with one stone.

Once the hands of the grandfather clock had swung to 2:45, Xander made his move. Chavez ended his lecture and students began draining out of the room, Julia included. Xander stayed near the back of the crowd, keeping an eye on that blonde ponytail. Once in the hall, the students dispersed. Swallowing his nervousness, Xander ran up to Julia and tapped her on the arm.

“Do you mind if I borrow one of your books?” he asked. “I think I misplaced mine.”

Xander had expected a reaction of confusion or annoyance, maybe irritation at the worst, but he never could have foreseen the sheer terror that arose on Julia’s face.

“You can see me?” she asked. Her voice was deathly quiet, and all the blood had drained from her face.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I–” Xander began. Julia couldn’t look him in the eyes, but was instead staring at his chest. Through his chest. Xander looked down at himself for the first time.

“I… I thought you were a fragment,” Julia whispered.

Fear, shock, and confusion rushed to Xander’s mind. “No, I’m a student,” he said frantically. All the questions resurged: where were his books? Why didn’t he get a syllabus? Why was all of his knowledge general, rather than personal? He knew about Vassensstad, could even recall individual houses, but the concept of “home” was sealed in an airtight box that he’d refused to acknowledge until now. He knew what a mother was, and he understood the role of a father, but Mr. and Mrs. Ryans were gaps in what should have been his core.

And now Xander found himself screaming these things, and Julia screamed back. His was a cry of confusion and sadness and desperation, hers of raw pain. All at once the only goal Xander had was to make Julia understand, and he saw that she was so close to comprehension and that if she just knew that he was a student and he did belong here and all he needed to do was borrow one of her books, then everything would be all right.

Xander reached for her. Not with his arms; with what he did not know. But he had Julia in his grasp, and though she turned away and tried to avoid his truth, he held it directly against her mind.

Nearly there–and then an iron blade sprouted from Xander’s chest. He looked down and saw through himself Teacher Dustin Chavez kneeling behind him, tears streaming from his face as he held the blade with shaking hands. He was mouthing words, but Xander could no longer hear. He couldn’t see what was left of Julia, or the screaming students running down the halls, or anything other than the void of Chavez’s mouth, and his mouth seemed to grow wider and wider until the black enveloped Xander. The black was all he knew, and Xander Ryans died, a second and final time.