The Kidnapped Army

by Shiloh White

  “Chug, get down!” Chug covered his head and ducked, and I swung my red paintbrush at Mr. Smug. It launched out a wide arc of paint at him. Unfortunately, Mr. Smug tucked to the ground and rolled right past it. Fortunately, that left it flying straight for Brownie. The acid paint landed on him and melted his body to smoke until he evaporated right out of the room.

  Mr. Smug had reached Chug now, and primed his right fist. If he was the one who punched through the wall, this was it for Chug. I wouldn't make it in time to help him.

  A large tan hand from behind grabbed Chug's face and pushed it back. When Mr. Smug's fist came for Chug's stomach, it collided with another fist, creating a loud SMACK of bone against bone that reverberated across the room.

  Mr. Smug howled expletives in pain. “Owowow! How the hell are you even—”

  He didn't get to finish that sentence. Woodstock brought his other fist up and slammed Mr. Smug in the jaw with such force, it launched him into the air. As he fell to the ground, his body dissolved into Depression Agent smoke and he evaporated.

  “We don't curse in this room, amigo,” Woodstock said. Then he fell to one knee. Chug and I ran over to help him up.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “More or less,” he said. “I escaped her power—for now."

  “And what about him?” Chug pointed upward at the floating remains of Mr. Smug's smoke. “Did you, you know..."

  “Agents don't die in the Academy,” Woodstock explained. “The Headmistress' power keeps them from it. If they dissolve, they'll reappear in the school infirmary sooner or later."

  “So we should get out of here before then.” I suggested.

  “Right, mija,” he answered. The two of us helped Woodstock limp towards the door, when we were stopped by a flurry of more Depression Agents.

  At the front of the group stood a familiar young man with short-cut black hair and pointed, shifty brown eyes. He wore an olive-green vest over a black dress shirt and pants.

  “No...” Chug growled. I felt anger rise in my throat as well.

  In front of us stood the one who kidnapped all the Depression Agents. The one who betrayed the two boys standing beside me. The one who had the nerve to come against the Depression Force.

  In front of us stood Takao.

  40. Worst. Mother. Ever.

  “I think you had a good run,” Takao said, “Acting like hoodlums, I mean.” He looked back at us to talk while we were ushered down the hallway.

  The moment they'd arrived, he ordered Agents to grab our shoulders and shove us down the hallway. I scowled when Glasses pushed his way to the front of the group, grabbing me by the arm. I pulled it back and elbowed him in the nose. He grabbed my arm and clamped down much harder. I couldn't hold back vocalizing my pain a little. (Heads-up, it wasn't a great sound.) Takao turned around and saw the scene, and waved at Glasses.

  “They're not getting away,” Takao said. “You can leave them be.” Glasses backed off, but I felt his bespectacled gaze burn down on me from a few steps away.

  “I knew we'd see you sooner or later though,” he continued, turning to face us. “Since the alleyway."

  “How did you know it was us?” Chug asked bitterly.

  “All of your yellin' and whatnot,” he said. “Made it real easy, actually. I could place that bickering noise anywhere."

  “I can stop bickering, if you'd like. I'd much rather prefer knocking the snot out of you, traitor.”

  One of the Agents—I think it was actually Freckles—hit Chug in the back of the head.

  “You're not to talk to him like that,” the Agent said. Chug rubbed his head to soothe the pain.

  “I don't agree with how that lady runs this place sometimes,” Takao said, gesturing to the Agent who'd inflicted the pain, “but he's got a point. You aren't exactly in a position to be throwin' that word around. I could call you out for the same thing."

  “What are you talking about?” Chug asked, squinting his eyes at Takao.

  “I'm talkin' about you sellin' out to Mr. Reggie and that…Depression Force,” he said, jabbing a finger at me. “Now that skull's got you under his foot. You and the rest of that forsaken gang."

  “We're under no one's foot—"

  “It's no matter at the end of the day,” Takao interrupted, an indulgent chuckle spreading across him. “I'm still the one profiting from the gang in the end."

  I shook my head at him in disbelief.

  “You created a bond with those Ex-Agents,” I said to him. I thought of the kids back in that room; Mikey, little Jamie, and the others. What you did hurt them. How could you do that to them? To Chug?"

  “Simple,” Takao said. “We both went looking for safety—these guys just kept looking in the wrong place. I found the right one."

  “In the tattered remains of an washed-up Anchor Zone?” Chug suggested, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Are you really that dense?” Takao asked. He leaned in closer to us and said, “I found my safety in the presence of a rising power."

  With that, the other Agents shoved us up to a large door.

  “The Headmistress' public quarters.” Woodstock muttered. “Takao, you're actually insane if you think—"

  “Don't wanna hear it,” he said. “I'm not the one being forced to face her. I agreed to it, and look where it got me. Now come on, in you go."

  ✽✽✽

  We walked inside and I was surprised to see the first room with a television. Well, now that I think about it, it was a large room with white tile along the floor and a large gray wall that traversed three of the four walls of the room. In the middle of the room sat a relatively large chair and across from it, where the fourth wall would have been, sat a giant black screen that was more of a monitor than a television.

  When the group finished ushering us inside, they all left except for Takao, Glasses, Mr. Smug (who reappeared much faster than I thought he would), Freckles, and a couple others.

  Woodstock grabbed Chug and I by the shoulders and leaned down as we walked to the chair.

  “No matter what she says, don't give in. And don't let me give in."

  “Wait, what the heck are you saying?” Chug asked.

  “The Headmistress.” Woodstock said. “She'll definitely be a force for you to reckon with, but for me it's harder because...I'm—"

  Takao put his hand—somewhat tiny in comparison—on Woodstock's shoulder, and pulled him back from me and Chug.

  “That's enough out of you...oh what do they call you?"

  “Coward,” Mr. Smug said slyly. Takao snapped his fingers.

  “That's it,” he said, keeping his eyes on our friend. “Coward.”

  As he spit the word at Woodstock, he shoved him forward, rejoining our march towards the giant seat and the being materializing in it.

  “Hey, Headmistress,” Takao called out to the being, “I brought some intruders for you. Consider it a generous bonus to my payment.”

  She wore all black. Her hair was black, cut low into bangs across her forehead. It gave her this plain schoolteacher-vibe The only piece of color besides black was some pale red lipstick across her lips.

  “Well done.” her voice boomed. “I can't stand intruders. They remind me of truant students, coming and going whenever they want like they own the place. They might as well be hoodlums—worse than any teacher's nightmare!"

  The being in the chair then fully solidified and the chair swiveled automatically to face us. Her face evolved into an expression of shock, and the smallest hint of a sly grin turned up at the corners of her mouth and disappeared ever so swiftly. I'm not going to lie: hat small bit of glee continued to hang on me during this conversation.

  “Oh, these aren't intruders!” the Headmistress said cheerfully, her voice thick with a Hispanic accent. It threw me off because of how pale she looked. “These three are the best gift I could've received from you, Takao.” Then her red lips scrunched up on the right side of her face and she tilted her head at us.

&n
bsp; Suddenly I felt the desire to stand up straighter. Present myself in a more appealing manner. I wanted this woman to appreciate me. To find value in me. Even her words seemed to bring me up. But my mind had conjured an image of what I must have looked like that continued to unnerve me every two seconds. I was all raggedy, covered in splinters of wood, wearing a torn-up old gray robe, and my hair was probably a mess. Not to mention I probably reeked of sweat and Depression Agents. (No offense to the boys on either side of me.)

  From there, a gaping hole developed in my stomach. At first, I thought it was anticipation, that she might have something good to say about me. But then I realized the truth: this woman couldn't say anything good about me. I would never be able to live up to her image. Not when I looked how I did. But that feeling in my stomach lured me in. Just maybe, it said. Maybe I could please her.

  Woah.

  This must have been what Woodstock meant.

  “I could do without the scrawny one,” the Headmistress said, pointing a long-nailed finger at Chug. “He's nothing more than an intruding rat. Maybe there's a place for him in the army.”

  She turned to me and her entire countenance changed. The positive indifference found its way back onto her face, and the hole in my stomach contracted. It convinced me I was pleasing her after all.

  “But you brought me a Topsider,” she said cheerfully, “and a young, fresh one at that. Oh, mija, you'll definitely be useful to my beloved."

  I tried to resist the feeling that came from her words; to stay aware this was her stupid power. But the feeling was so compelling. It sent a chilling calm on my skin. Her words carried a sound of peace to my ears—why was Woodstock afraid of her? Then she turned to face him, and the feeling left me. I felt like she'd never even given me a passing glance, let alone praise my ability.

  Next to me, I heard Woodstock's feet skitter backwards. I glanced over and watched the boldness he had back in the valedictorian room seeped out of him. It resulted in the same wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look on his face as he stared up against who was supposed to be a scary woman.

  “Most importantly, Takao—and I greatly thank you for this,” she said, looking down at Woodstock endearingly, “you've brought my dear son back to me!"

  Everyone in the hall's eyes shot to Woodstock. He must have felt the eyes on him, since he turned around to see who was staring. Then he just shrugged and turned his gaze back to the Headmistress.

  “Dude,” Chug said to Woodstock, pointing up at the Headmistress, “this evil-looking pile of ugly evil is your mother?”

  Woodstock gasped over-dramatically, looking from his mom to Chug and back again, in fear. He looked genuinely shocked at Chug's words. His shoulders shrunk and his neck fell in line with him, making him look like a submissive pet.

  I felt sorry for him, but admittedly, I found myself feeling the tiniest bit of anger at Chug too. I almost blurted out that he should speak to her with respect, but Woodstock beat me to it:

  “Watch your mouth, ese!” he said.

  “She called me a rat,” Chug answered him. “And she did it first, I might add."

  “Well, she can also project your greatest fear in one of your mind's hiding spots until you're nothing but a sniveling wimp.” Woodstock told him, his voice trembling.

  “And you know that cause she's your evil mom,” Chug assumed. I elbowed him in the arm.

  “No, genius,” I told him. “He knows because she's doing it to him—look at his face.” The fearful expression on Woodstock's face developed more and more into one of terror.

  “Oh.” Chug said. He looked up at the Headmistress, who just nodded politely in understanding.

  “I'll give you that one, niño,” she declared. “As an instructor of youth, I understand you are ignorant. But unless you want to end up like my son, I'd suggest some respect.”

  To prove her point, she flicked a finger at Woodstock and he fell to his knees. I could see him reeling now. He hugged himself, grabbing his arms with his hands, and began to shiver there on his knees. The sight humbled me, seeing our team's strongest member writhing in fear like a child. It also made me angry that this woman was doing it to him with no look of regret on her face.

  “If you're so happy he's back, why are you doing this to your son?” I asked. The Headmistress just shook her head at me, a condescending smile creeping it's way subtly onto her mouth.

  “You are young indeed,” she told me, “and naive, then. Simply put, you don't know what's really happening."

  “I know he ran away—and I'm beginning to see why.” I said, sheer ignorance and anger fueling my courage now. But it was enough to keep me from the lull and buzz of her words. Enough to block out that feeling in my stomach for now.

  “Oh, you've got the whole story wrong, mija.”

  I flinched at that last word. When Woodstock called me that, I felt safe and strong, like when a friend is near. But when she said it, I felt weak and pitiable. It was as if she were coddling me as a baby.

  “Woodstock is one of the last few true Depression Agents,” the Headmistress explained. “From the last batch Disorder and I cooked up.” Her red lips spread into a smile that disgusted me, but I couldn't keep myself from asking, despite the struggle of piecing words together:

  “You...and Disorder...made—"

  “Ehh, you don't really need to hear all that.” Chug said, waving his hand in front of my eyes to clear away that thought. “The short, twisted story is that the two of them were responsible for creating Depression Agents before Disorder was locked away."

  I looked back up at the Headmistress, still disgusted at the thought. She gave me a wink.

  “A little anxiety goes a long way,” she said as cheerfully as if she were Martha Stewart giving a cooking tutorial. Then she looked down at Woodstock, who was clutching his head now. His mouth was wide open, but instead of a scream, a quiet whine leaked out of his mouth.

  “Poor Woodstock,” she said. “So much potential, but such a disappointment.” Her expression grimaced when she said this, which brought an updraft of angry grunts and groans from the Agents behind me.

  “A disappointment?” Mr. Smug said. “He drastically lowered the amount of Agents that were dedicated to our Mission, and—"

  “That's because,” Woodstock said between sharp, painful breaths, “the Mission is insane!” It looked like it hurt him physically just to speak. The Headmistress tilted her head and knit her eyebrows at him, building a look of pity over the stocky teenager laying on the ground.

  “I can't believe you're still able to talk,” she told him, “let alone move. Unfortunately, I have to fix that. But don't worry, because you're almost finished. You won't be talking that way about your creator for much longer, mijo.”

  The Headmistress took her left hand and turned it in a motion of twisting a dial, and with it rose a loud scream from Woodstock. He rolled around on the floor, clutching his head. I watched as the Headmistress didn't so much as flinch at the sounds of her own son's cry of pain. I stole quick looks from the other Agents in the room; Freckles, Brownie, Glasses, and even Mr. Smug had begun to crack. Each of them had a sign of remorse in the expression on their face. How could the Headmistress not feel this way as well? Did she do this to all the other Agents too?

  “Stop it!” I shouted. “You're gonna kill him!"

  “You have no clue the strength I have, child!” The Headmistress got up from her chair and took a step towards me, which was a bit intimidating, since she was about eleven feet tall at the moment. “The strength I exercised on you."

  “Wh-what?” I asked, trying to keep any sign of shock from my face.

  “I warned you about your naivety, girl,” the Headmistress waggled a finger at me. Then she waved her left hand at Woodstock and his screams were cut off.

  “I'm not hurting him—I'm restoring him to the mission."

  “Just for the sake of the outsider,” Chug cut in, “would you mind explaining just what the mission is?” The Headmistress gi
ggled at him.

  “Pardon my immaturity,” she said, “but I find it funny how you don't remember at all. It must have been awhile since you've defected. Or maybe it's just the result of Disorder's poor attempts at Agents nowadays, I don't know. In any case, the mission.”

  “Right,” Chug nodded. He spoke in an absolute tone, which told me he was trying his hardest not to lose his temper at her words.

  “I'm sure you've both heard the rumors that Disorder is stirring,” she assumed. Chug nodded. I had sort of been involved in one instance, but I wasn't sure what other rumors there were, so I stayed quiet.

  “Well, you see, I'm the one waking him up.”

  41. We Get Schooled

  A red flag went off in my head.

  The last person who decided he was going to wake up Disorder came after me and my other two siblings.

  Instinctively, I started reaching for my art bag, but I caught the Headmistress' gaze and froze. I didn't want her to do to me what was happening to Woodstock. I wasn't confident in my ability to fight through that fear. Instead, I just listened as the Headmistress continued her creed:

  “I've heard much talk and rumors of my Academy,” she said, “and even myself, becoming washed up. Me. Washed up. Can you believe that?”

  Chug shook his head, denying the fact that he'd said those very words a few minutes ago. I did the same.

  “Since Disorder hasn't brought any real strength about,” she continued, “there's been little to no use for my Anchor Zone, or so the voices say. But I'm telling you two now, and the rest of the Dust soon...that they have mistaken my patience for weakness.”

  The Headmistress rose out of her seat, getting more fired up as she spoke.

  “The time has come for my army to rise! To go out and harvest all the energy we still need to free Disorder!"

  “Forget evil,” Chug muttered. “This lady's a loon.”