The knocking on the door was the loudest he had ever heard fist on wood. It wasn't the banging noise on the door that jarred his concentration off track, but rather the reason behind the blasted knocking. He hears it yell unspoken threats to him behind one of the 20 identical wooden doors that line up and down the hallway. He knew this moment would come, but expected it to arrive much later. He truly doesn't belong in this clan. No one in the Clan of Knowledge is allowed to be wrong.
Five seconds pass, and the fist bangs on the door three more times.
He makes no effort in answering the door and instead gazes at it knowing that it will give forced entry to those behind it when they ...view middle of the document...
After being apprehended, the students are said to have been changed in some way. Their minds altered , their brains, washed of the grime that allowed their logic to break apart.
He knew he had to leave, to run, if he wanted to stay being himself.
He wondered what his next move would be. In his dull gray nightwear, that matched the entire layout of the neat dorm room. He pondered at his next move. When fully focused it seemed as if time had stepped aside and left him to his own doings, in his own world.
In the deep, black canvas of his mind, colored dots shoot across each other like the protons and electrons of atoms. The dots play around until they became one fuzzy image.
In the dimness of his gray dorm room he squinted,
The fuzz cleared and the image became distinguishable. A photograph, of the gray square room he sat inside. The photograph showed him, sitting at his computer desk table. His pale face illuminated by the blank white light of his computer screen. His gray shirt, gray pair of sweatpants, almost faded into the wall behind him. He was crouching heavily over his desk.
Soon the photograph doubled. An almost exact copy, but with a single difference that could have been easily missed if one was not careful. His body raised over the table a few inches higher. His angle, was now only slight.
The two photographs double once again, like a reproducing cell. The new photographs are of the same thing but not quite exact. The slightest of differences can be caught, if examined hard enough. Then there was a constant pace of images flowing out of the black canvas of his mind. The photographs, plentiful in all of their detailed glory, turned into story boards, that played into scenes, that played over and over in his mind. He studies the scene that plays on repeat. Once confident that he knew exactly what to do, he acts.
The fist bangs on the door three more times, as expected. These knocks were the loudest out of the three. He knows that they've realized that he isn't going to answer. It will be a matter of seconds until they force the door open in some way.
He stands up and away from his table, sliding his swivel chair at an angle under the door knob, and heads straight for his mattress. He tosses the pillow and bed sheets aside. He didn't have the most muscular build, but the mattress was not all that heavy to begin with. He lifts it off its frame with ease. He places it vertically against the door. It limps forward, the bottom half leaning on the chair, the top on the door. He walks quickly to his window. The red carpet under his bare feet are at awe at his precision, his steady pace. Twisting a small lever in the middle of the windowsill, the panes split into fours down the middle and slide into the wall. A cool wind brings with it tiny droplets of fore coming heavy rain. At five stories up, the cool night air of NuLight City feels especially fresh against his cheek. Letting out a breath he stares up for a split...