Friday, June 15

  YMPA — Cafeteria

  Mission: N/A

  16:07

  “Good evening, class,” Mr. Robbs greeted. “I hope you all ate well, because I very much did.”

  A smug smile tugged at his face as he glanced down at his soft velvet suit—so crisp it looked like he’d bought it on the way here. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned around and a price tag was still hanging off the hem.

  “Now,” he said, clasping his hands, “before we begin the Opell War, what’s one thing I told you to remember yesterday?”

  One student—the frequent volunteer—shot her hand up immediately. Her hair barely reached her shoulders, and it always looked damp, like she’d just stepped out of a storm.

  “The importance of analyzing,” she said.

  “Mmm. Good,” Mr. Robbs replied. “Not quite.” He began pacing, slow and deliberate. “It’s what I mentioned when Colonel T. Hans facilitated the attack on that secret Mongolian base owned by the FMA—something you had to realize throughout the entire crisis.”

  He looked up, teeth showing more and more as his smile sharpened into mischief. “Tyler.”

  The guy two seats left of Malachi lifted his head. Curly hair, burst fade, golden skin. He’d been staring at his shoes like they were going to whisper the answer back.

  “Tyler,” Mr. Robbs repeated, louder. “Your shoes aren’t going to give you the answer. I don’t assume they will.”

  Tyler didn’t look amused.

  “Something about… not taking things personal,” he grumbled. “Something simple like that.”

  Mr. Robbs snapped his fingers—once, twice, like he’d just heard music. “Yes.” He pointed. “The greatest weapon anyone can use against you is making themselves personal in your life.”

  He began counting on his fingers as he spoke. “Your family. Your friends. Your values. Even your ego.” His tone hardened. “This job requires a stone heart. A guarded mind. Continuously.”

  He walked closer to the front row, looming just enough to make the air feel smaller. I couldn’t imagine how suffocating it was to have a six-foot man towering above you while talking about emotions like they were a loaded weapon.

  “You don’t think clearly when you involve your feelings in the task at hand,” he said. “Because emotions are like a double-edged sword.” He paused. “Are you confused? Yes. Blinded? Yes.”

  He stepped back, voice lowering, turning colder.

  “But those aren’t the most dangerous parts.” He smiled faintly. “No. They’re not.”

  He scanned the room. “Someone tell me what it is.”

  The volunteer girl raised her hand again.

  “Put it down,” Mr. Robbs said instantly. “I want someone from the far back. I need to make sure you’re hearing me.”

  I glanced toward the back rows.

  Malachi’s face was still as stone. September, sitting beside him, leaned forward and looked past the others—who suddenly became very invested in their nails and the girth of their nonexistent beards.

  September raised her hand.

  “September,” Mr. Robbs called.

  “Ambition,” she said. “Desperation. Willing to go to the ends of the earth to get what you want.”

  “Good,” Mr. Robbs said, pleased. “Good. Now repeat that first word.”

  “Am… ambition?” she said, uncertain.

  “Ambition.” Mr. Robbs emphasized it like it was a trigger word. “One thing Colonel Hans certainly had. Sheesh—definitely what multiple Mage Security Task Operatives have.” He tilted his head. “But one thing they can falter in—and if you’re not careful, you can too—is not understanding this: balance.”

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  The room murmured. I didn’t know why, but it was the kind of murmur that meant people were listening now whether they wanted to or not.

  “As agents,” Mr. Robbs continued, “we must learn when to stay in the safe zone.” He pointed toward the board. “Freshmen—if you survive long enough—you’ll learn this next year in Psychological Understanding.”

  A couple people snickered nervously.

  “Have you ever played a football video game?” he asked. “You do a PAT—kick after the touchdown—and there’s that meter… red on both sides, green in the middle?”

  The murmuring shifted into uncertain agreement.

  Mr. Robbs rushed to the board on the slightly raised platform and sketched the meter with a black marker—two angry red ends, a narrow green center.

  “You have to hit the middle,” he said, tapping the green section. “Right in the sweet spot. Maybe I have the mechanics wrong, but you get the idea. Every mission requires you to keep that ambition balanced.”

  He capped the marker and turned back to us.

  “Ambition isn’t bad,” he said. “But like anything, you can have too much and too little.” He paused, letting the line settle. “And if you have too much of something, and it doesn’t affect you… then it probably never mattered anyway.”

  He stepped off the platform and walked back down the aisle toward the first row.

  “I used ambition as the example,” he said, voice precise, controlled. “But apply that to everything. Discipline. Self-control.” His eyes narrowed. “Those are often the defining factors in whether you succeed in a mission—or fail.”

  The lecture ended—at least the talking part—right before Mr. Robbs assigned an online worksheet. I’m pretty sure only three out of thirty-five people were actually doing it.

  I was one of the three.

  Tisiah was not.

  “Camp is probably one of the best parts—if not the best part—of the academy,” Tisiah said, casual. “It’s like an extended P.E.”

  I squinted at him. “You like P.E.?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, offended. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I opened my mouth, did several mouth movements, and produced zero coherent words. “Well—I just… figured you weren’t the type to do sports.”

  Tisiah stared at me. “Connor. I’m in Mageball with you.”

  “That’s fair,” I admitted quickly. “That’s fair.”

  He chuckled, and then a thought hit me hard enough that I felt dumb for not saying it earlier.

  “Also,” I said, lowering my voice, “Principal Renner pulled me aside.”

  Tisiah’s eyes widened immediately, excitement lighting up his whole face. “Oh—she apologized to you?”

  That reaction alone made me concerned.

  “No.”

  His expression fell. “Oh.”

  “She told me Mr. Drails put me in this… secret class.” I stumbled over the name like it was going to bite. “APCC. Advanced—Attribute—no—Advanced Perk Control Course.”

  Tisiah blinked. “That’s for graduating juniors.”

  “But I’m a freshman,” I said.

  “But they won’t know that,” I added quickly. “They shouldn’t, at least.”

  Tisiah scoffed. “Even if they did—Mr. Drails put you there. You think the instructors are gonna kick you out for breaking a dumb rule?” He leaned back. “If you have a Perk, you should learn how to use it.”

  “This isn’t just Mr. Drails,” I argued. “It’s a program across the EMO. You can’t just bend rules if the other superintendents won’t.”

  Tisiah shrugged. “Fair. Fair.” He tilted his head. “Do you know who’s on the roster?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know how I’d get the paper for that.”

  “Do you think Greg has it?”

  “Why would—”

  I stopped.

  Because… that actually made sense.

  If Greg had a Perk and they were putting people like that into APCC, there was a solid chance he was in it too. And if he was, then Mr. Drails wasn’t breaking the rules once, but rather twice.

  I sighed. Hard.

  “Think you can call him?” Tisiah asked.

  I didn’t answer. I just pulled out my spy phone and dialed Greg’s number. If he was in class, he might not pick up.

  But Greg was Greg, so who knew.

  Tisiah stared at the phone like his focus alone could summon Greg through sheer willpower.

  Maybe it worked, because after a few rings, Greg picked up.

  “Yo, fatso,” he said immediately. “Issue?”

  “No issue,” I replied. “Just a question. Two, actually. Are you in APCC?”

  Silence.

  Then— “Oh, he put you there too?!” Greg practically screamed through the phone.

  I blinked like the volume attacked my eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Do you know who’s in that class? Like… a roster?”

  Greg chuckled. “We’re about to be in a class with people like us—powerful, unique, almost unfathomable Perks.” His voice lowered slightly. “You think I wouldn’t try to see who’s there? What if you get beef with one of them?”

  “Just don’t,” I muttered.

  “I can count on two hands how many people hate you,” Greg replied.

  Tisiah’s eyes widened. He pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh and not to panic at the same time.

  Greg kept going. “These aren’t just people who channel power through wands. They can kill you as easily as you can kill them.” His tone sharpened. “And you already know what can happen when they do.”

  “Greg!” I hissed.

  Silence.

  Tisiah glanced around like the wind had just delivered him a sermon.

  Greg cleared his throat on the other end, and it sounded hoarse through the speaker. “Anyways,” he said, calmer, “we’ll go over the roster together once we get home. So just… sit tight. Mom should let me move more now that it’s summer.”

  “Which mom?” I asked, grinning.

  Greg sighed—deep, wounded. “Really funny. Got me there.” His disappointment seeped straight through the phone. “What’s the second question?”

  “That… was the second question.”

  “Oh.” He paused, like that offended him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll see you at your house.”

  He hung up.

  I looked at Tisiah. He looked at me.

  “Don’t leave me out of it,” he said.

  “I won’t,” I replied with a smirk. “You already know that.”

  From the stage, Mr. Robbs bellowed, “I hope the Opell War has you in vigorous conversation—or is it something else?”

  “Oh—sorry,” Tisiah called back quickly. “We’re working—we’re working!”

  I sank lower in my seat and tried to disappear behind my laptop.