Delta, ACT I: Mannequin Academy

In Over My Head

I stood, frozen in place, mouth agape for almost a minute as I gazed at the beautiful castle before me--the one that Doctor Langham was already walking in to. I caught up to him with a glimmer of hope growing inside me that he might be telling the truth about this academy.

He turned to me as we entered the building, "Normally the student council president would give you a tour immediately, but we should get to my office and properly address that wound." He waved a very professional-looking student over to join him, then whispered the same thing he just told me, and to notify the headmaster and some professor of my arrival. The student, who I could only assume to be the student council president that the doctor had mentioned, was a bit shorter than me, with long, bright yellow blonde hair and a lean build, wearing what I would later recognize as the uniform of the beta students. A white shirt, with a high and wavy collar, a brown tie, brown striped pants, white gloves, and a brown jacket outlined with gold. He was so focused on what the doctor was saying that he didn't even notice the bloody wound under my hand. This didn't bother me, as I was used to being ignored. While they spoke, I looked around nervously as it sunk in that I wasn't being kidnapped and that I was actually in a real academy. The place dripped with elegant fancy. Directly in front of me was a very wide marble staircase that branched out to each side. The floor was also marble, and looked so expensive that I almost felt compelled to apologize for stepping on it. I spent the rest of my time standing in the doorway bleeding, imagining what this place looked like in it was still a part of the theater.

When the doctor was done speaking, the student rushed away and he kept leading me to his office. There were many students walking the halls, most of them ignoring me, too absorbed in their conversations. One of the students, however, locked eyes with me. And when I say 'locked eyes' I MEAN it. I couldn't look away, not that I wanted to. He had a petite build; snow-white hair; bright, twinkling blue eyes; porcelain skin; and looked like he had never hurt anyone or anything in his entire life. He was wearing the omega uniform, consisting of a white, wide-sleeved shirt with a high and frilly collar; a brown bowtie with a pale rose at the center knot; a brown striped corset; and brown pants. As we made eye contact, the world seemed to slow around us, and I thought for a moment that the knife wound had killed me and I was seeing an angel. As he passed us and eventually looked away, the only sounds I managed to utter were, "Woah--" and, "Who is--" before I walked right into Doctor Langham.

"Are you alright?" he asked, assuming that I was dizzy due to blood loss.

"Huh? Y-- Yeah I'm... beautiful... I mean good! I'm good, that's what I meant to say." I didn't even care that I was rambling like a crazy idiot, because 99% of my brain was still focused on the angelic-looking student that just walked by. Leaving only 1% of my brain to make a complete fool of myself, though that was more than enough.

"Let's take a look at that wound, shall we?" said the doctor, ushering me into his office. He motioned for me to have a seat while he got some supplies from the back storage room.

I nodded, waited for him to leave, then immediately returned to my normal, paranoid self. I started scanning the contents of the cases around me looking for any big needles or paralytics as my past kept haunting me. I didn't find anything, although I wasn't entirely sure I'd recognize my target even if I DID see it. I sat down on the examination table and the doctor returned with various supplies. I laid down as he instructed, removing the bundle of cloth I had been pressing on the wound.

He took a moment to inspect the gash, then picked up a syringe filled with liquid. He aimed the tip of the needle to inject the site of the cut. I grabbed his wrist with a vice-like grip before the syringe even neared my body. Doctor Langham's face whipped directly to mine, looking (understandably) confused, shocked, and upset. "What. Is that," I demanded as I maintained my iron grip on his wrist.