The House of Grey- Volume 3

by Earl, Collin

  “Wow.” Monson propped his chin up on his fist steadying it with his knee. “I didn’t know any of that.”

  “Not surprising,” answered Casey unconcerned. “You’re a scholarship student-”

  A melodious voice easily recognized by Coren’s students sprang from the ridiculously expensive speaker system. Everyone in the hall immediately fell silent like Mr. Gatt was holding the remote control to their vocal cords.

  “Good morning, students. I welcome you to this morning’s assembly and thank you for your patience in dealing with the extraordinary events of the last week. I am truly jubilant to tell you that your long wait pondering unanswered questions is at an end. We have a very exciting guest here with us, with a very exciting announcement, but before we move to that, how about we wake you all up?”

  The question hung before the students, who did not understand. Mr. Gatt smiled.

  “I think we are in need of a little illumination.”

  He paused and shifted his weight dramatically as flames shot up from the floor. Mr. Gatt disappeared in the flash. The Coliseum broke into music. The prelude crashed into the unsuspecting students and spectators, waking the perpetually sleeping and caffeine dependent. The snap and pop of drums rolled opposite of electric guitars, both of which coursed through tweeters and subwoofers, filling the space with a body-beating bass and tummy-turning treble, almost forcing the crowd to its feet. Trapdoors from the floor opened to reveal the rising figures of not one, but two boy bands. Apparently the years of animosity between the empires that were ‘N Sync and Backstreet Boys had finally been put to rest.

  “It is a truly joyful day for past and present teenyboppers all over America-no, the world!” said a barely heard Casey over the crowd. “An ‘N Sync 2/Backstreet Boys Reborn duet is a fortuitous and epic accomplishment.”

  “I don’t know Case,” yelled Artorius over the roar of the crowd. “Can you really call ten people singing a single song a duet?”

  Casey chuckled. “Touché, Arthur. Touché”.

  ***

  A massive explosion of lights and color ricocheted in the halls of the Coren University’s Coliseum as Taris Green, standing among light, dancers and fog, let her hand fall as the climactic crest of her final crescendo crushed her completely captivated crowd. Her brow glistened with sweat and her chest heaved, as she panted while beaming at the crowd. She took a bow as those under her spell smothered her with applause. Monson was right there with them, whooping and hollering with everyone else. He finally understood why Taris was the It girl. He really did.

  “Hot, huh?” yelled Casey through bellowing catcalls.

  Monson nodded. “Totally hot.”

  “Unbelievably hot!” added Artorius.

  “She’s a total cow,” said Indigo.

  “What?” answered all three boys, whipping towards Indigo.

  “Are you having fun Coren?” Taris’ voice blared through a microphone that was way too loud. Indigo’s explanation for her outrageous comment sunk under the weight of hundreds, maybe thousands of answering voices. Monson marveled at the crowd and its response. It must be nice to be loved.

  “Well, we aren’t done yet! Mr. Gatt, why don’t you get out here?”

  On cue, Mr. Gatt came trotting up to Taris’ side, microphone in hand. He replied to her, though it was inaudible, and threw a hand around her shoulder, giving her a little squeeze.

  “Taris Green, everyone!” Mr. Gatt took a half-step back, throwing his hand out and sweeping it across his body like a product model on an infomercial.

  Taris took another bow as the decibel level reached somewhere between a jackhammer and a jet engine. Laughter broke out as the pop idol gave her history teacher a booty bump and playful smile over her shoulder. She ran back towards the curtains and disappeared behind them.

  The sound in the auditorium hit a new level as the excitement reached its peak. Adults and students alike were on their feet hollering their admiration and affection. It was some time before Mr. Gatt could get the crowd under control.

  “Now that we have your full attention.” He almost screamed to have his voice heard over the crowd. “I’d like to introduce you all to someone.”

  A wave of uncertainty made its way through the whooping holler of the massive crowd, pushing against the current of known and comfortable. Minds kicked into analytical overdrive as they started to question the identity of this mysterious visitor. Mr. Gatt smiled deviously as he noticed the perceptible change in his audience’s attitude.

  “Mr. Gibson, if you would be so kind.”

  This simple statement was so completely unexpected that the tension ratcheted up several degrees as the name “Gibson” came from hundreds of parted lips.

  Casey whistled in agreement with the collective sediment. “Arthur, you don’t think he means Aaron Gibson, do you?”

  Artorius looked just as dumbstruck. “I don’t know who else he could be referring to.”

  Monson rolled his eyes. He did not know who Aaron Gibson was and so, of course, he was the only one who did not know the significance of this particular development. He tried to get his friends’ attention.

  “Case, Arthur, I know you’re probably getting of tired of answering questions like this, but who is Aaron Gibson?”

  A screeching noise of unknown orgins, like fingernails digging into an unsuspecting chalkboard, forced a real and figurative recoiling as crowd members shrank back or turned away, hands to ears and eyes closed. A startling sight greeted the reporters, guests and student body when they finally opened their eyes. Dozens and dozens of MIB filed through the aisles of the Coliseum, goose-stepping like the remnants of the German Reich. They moved in unison, gesturing sharply as they made their way down the rows, their sunglass-covered faces holding no hint of an expression. Each MIB came to his respective position and stopped. They slapped their hands to the side, in unison turning their attention away from the stage, and stood motionless, watching the crowds of people from behind pitch-black lenses. Their final maneuver also marked the end of any perceptible noise, the final traces of their sounds echoing slightly and dissipating.

  Not a second passed before a theatrical mix of blindingly bright colors streamed and pulsed for an entertained but confused crowd. Everyone searched for human movement desiring the next act, the next shock. Bright spotlights flared and buzzed around like drunken bees until what seemed like a randomly chosen moment, when they focused on the back of the domed space. The massive screens to either side of the stage flared as a man waltzed towards Mr. Gatt. The teacher watched him patiently until he neared. They greeted each other in hushed voices.

  “So, Coren,” yelled Mr. Gatt, “do we have your attention?” The crowd roared in response.

  “Then please take it away, Mr. Gibson!”

  “I’d be happy to, Mr. Gatt.” Monson flinched. The man’s voice was raspy and guttural, a very sharp contrast to soothing tones of Mr. Gatt. The man continued speaking.

  “I have someone who wants to meet you all.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “And I think it’s about the time for him to drop in.”

  The clinking of machinery led the disconcerted audience members to turn their heads skyward and gape in surprise once more. A massive hanging platform descended from the ceiling. A previously unseen camera zeroed in on the man standing in the middle of the platform. He was wearing a dark suit, a dark mask, and dark gloves.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, students and teachers, reporters and paparazzi, I have the distinct pleasure of introducing to you-Christopher Baroty!”

  Chapter 37 – Christopher Samuel Baroty

  “I am Christopher Samuel Baroty.”

  Shock and confusion permeated the air as the audience sat completely dumbfounded. The collective thought was plain on the face of every individual. Christopher Baroty, the one and only, was here, at Coren, riding a suspended boardwalk floating towards the concert-like set up in the Coliseum. Of all the unexpected developments, this su
rely topped the rest. The projection screens focused in on the man who was said to be one of the most influential on the planet. As one would envision, Christopher Baroty’s dress was immaculate yet very odd. A dark crisp suit with a white oxford shirt and black silk tie was basic enough, but that is where normalcy decided to check out and go on vacation. Moving down, the perfectly pressed cuff transitioned seamlessly into black leather gloves that glistened slightly from the passing stage lights. Lastly, in a true show of neurotic behavior, Christopher Baroty wore a mask: a black leather mask with holes for the eyes and mouth. It was the type of mask that would not be out of place in a bank robbery or carjacking. He spoke in an earthy tone that was warm and experienced. Monson was not surprised when the tone struck him as familiar.

  Casey, as always, was first to cite the obvious. “Dude, what’s with the mask? Is he just being melodramatic or what?”

  Artorius and Monson both leaned towards Casey.

  “There’s no way of really telling.” Artorius adjusted his massive frame in his too-small seat. “Maybe he’s just really ugly. Who knows?”

  The three boys snickered.

  The floating scaffold lowered noisily, the churning of gears highly audible. The concussion wave created from the appearance of the CEO of The Baroty Conglomerate still weighed heavily upon people’s minds. After all this time, to finally make an appearance and in this most dramatic of ways, was absolutely unbelievable. The collective breath of the crowd seemed to draw and release in unison as they waited.

  After what felt like a multiple of lifetimes, Christopher Baroty’s airborne barge touched down and connected, clicking as it docked. He walked towards his assistant, Aaron Gibson, all eyes on him. Gibson did not waste time as his boss neared him, and fell in behind as Baroty took center stage.

  “A wise man once told me that power is a function of reality. That if you lack power, whether it be the power to control your circumstance, power to subvert your weakness, or power to withstand trials, that all you must do is attack your reality. It was the authentic and overwhelming reality of hatred and corruption that the Allies faced in World War Two when evil men tried to overcome decency and peace. Those of the greatest generation fought and overcame that reality by replacing it with one of their own. Time and time again, the faith of individuals in a common cause has brought about change. You are the harbingers of that change. The youth of each generation holds the unique position of progenitor and sentinel of the future-the future that will happen with or without you. Education is the one true way to attack your reality and safeguard that future. You, Coren University students, have an unprecedented opportunity to shape the future as leaders in every field possible. You can attack the current reality by becoming cognizant of the strength of your position. Six months ago, my reality was attacked when unknown assailants caused the destruction of my lifelong dream. My bridge, Baroty Bridge, was not just a mass of concrete and steel. It was a collective ideal formulated and constructed in preparation for the unification of the human race-”

  “He sounds like he’s running for president.” Artorius for a second time leaned in, gesturing to Monson and Casey. “Maybe he’s announcing his candidacy.”

  “Or getting ready to rule the entire world; take your pick.” Casey snickered. “Regardless, the mask might make it difficult to pull in campaign contributions.”

  Artorius grinned. “Yeah, I can see it now: ‘Christopher Baroty for President. If you don’t vote for him you’re a maskist.”

  Casey shot Artorius a sideways glance. “A ‘maskist’?”

  Artorius smirked outlandishly. “Of course, a maskist-someone who discriminates against people who wear a mask.”

  The boys choked back laughs as applause exploded around them.

  Mr. Gatt was back, appearing seemingly from nowhere. He stepped to Baroty’s side. “Shall we give Mr. Baroty another round of applause?”

  The crowd did so enthusiastically.

  “Mr. Baroty, in the spirit of change and reshaping reality for the better, please tell the students what you have in store.”

  A smile that was easily visible despite the mask broke out across Baroty’s face. “Change? We are going to gut Coren to the core and turn it into a truly unique institution. An institution that will pave the pathway to the very future that has been entrusted to you. Mr. Gibson, if you please.”

  Christopher Baroty basked in the admiration of thousands of people as computer-generated images rippled across the surface of the massive screens. Buildings, many of them new and stylized, appeared one after another in a slide show presentation. Reporters, students, teachers and spectators alike jumped to their feet in a standing ovation as the final edifice slithered into place with the project name and author embossed upon it. It read:

  Rejuvenation Project: 2012 to 2020 – The Baroty Conglomerate. For building a better future and overcoming the shadows of our forefathers.

  ***

  “I think it’s ridiculous. Coren doesn’t need another Rejuvenation Project,” pouted Indigo.

  Monson, Artorius, Casey, Indigo and some of her friends sat around the dinner table reconvening after a very long day. Post-concert and project announcement, the staff forced the Coren University students back into their mundane routines of classes, clubs and after-school activities. The football team was especially vigorous, as the rigorous security checks conducted over the past week had kept them from the practice field. This interruption had been particularly vexing to Coach Able, who thought that football was more important than breathing. In light of his obsession, after the first day back to full practices, it was not surprising to see Casey and Artorius with one foot in the grave once they finally made it to The GM’s main cafeteria. Indigo, on the other hand, had plenty of energy to spare and was spouting all sorts of speculation and commentary on the week’s events.

  “What are you on about, Little Harrison?” asked Casey while poking half-heartedly at some fried chicken.

  “I mean the Baroty Rejuvenation Project is going to completely redo the school. Did you see those pictures? He’s going to double the size of the campus. He’s going to add a technology center-”

  “Hold up Indigo,” interrupted Monson. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  Indigo sneered. “You’d better watch it Grey. You’re already on my list.”

  Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Your list?”

  “Yes, my list. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Monson’s eyebrow clicked up a notch. “Right…”

  Artorius spoke up. “Indigo, why are you so agitated my dear?”

  “Our father and Christopher Baroty are huge business rivals. Indigo has a tendency to take business relationships personally.”

  The group turned in unison to the source of the voice. Cyann stood, as usual not smiling, just behind her sister. She took a seat next to Indigo, the latter grumbling as she did.

  “I don’t take it personally,” sneered Indigo, casting Cyann an annoyed expression. “And this has nothing to do with Daddy. I just think it’s pointless to completely redo Coren’s campus.”

  When no one answered she continued. “There are like four buildings left at Coren that haven’t been gutted from top to bottom, and now he’s going to redo them? Doesn’t that seem kind of redundant to anyone?”

  Casey’s response was swift. “Not if he is really trying to expand the size of the school. The housing alone would be a problem. The Barracks is huge, but-”

  “But it’s not operating at capacity as is! They aren’t even using the western dorms-”

  “Indigo!” The sound of Cyann’s voice instantly quelled the younger Harrison. “The western dormitory isn’t up to code. It isn’t livable. That’s one of the reasons that Baroty is finishing it up.”

  “It still seems fishy to me.”

  “That’s because you have an overactive imagination.”

  For a second time, an unexpected voice joined the throng of conversation. Ignace was standing a
ways from their table looking worse for the wear. Propped up by crutches, her right leg was in a large white cast.

  Jumbled voices spilled from gaping mouths, all sputtering on the same words: “What happened to you?”

  Ignace rolled her eyes as she chewed on her lip. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Does this have anything do with this morning?” asked Monson before anyone else could reply. “You were pretty frazzled when you ran into us right after first period.”

  “I ran into you after first period?”

  “See, Arthur,” said Casey garnishing the conversation. “Ignace didn’t even remember running into you this morning. That’s how insignificant you are.”

  “Shut it Casey,” growled Artorius stiffly. “And she didn’t run into me. She almost ran into you and Grey.”

  “Casey, Artorius, shut up!” snapped Monson glaring at them angrily. “Ignace is trying to talk.”

  Monson about-faced, refocusing on her. “You were saying. What happened to you that is so unbelievable?”

  A smile touched Ignace’s face. A feat in Monson’s opinion, considering that Ignace smiled almost as much as Cyann-and everyone knew how “happy” Cyann was. As expected, Ignace appeared to be out of practice, as the simple gesture was completely saturated with irony like everything had come full circle once he proffered that simple statement to her.

  Monson was not buying it. There was a story here and he wanted to know what had happened to her. Nevertheless, he did not want to embarrass her or put her on the spot. He decided to give her a way out.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Ignace.” Monson attempted to ignore the cynical expression quickly conquering her features. “I don’t want to pry; you can just forget I said anything.”