3-year old Brock Lee giggled while the stuffed airplane tapped him on the head. His parents watched him curiously search for what had struck him. He whirled around in circles, laughing and gaining speed, until his mom threw a stuffed teddy bear at him. Then he stopped spinning, looked around for the mysterious taps, and spun in circles on the granite floor again. A huge smile crossed his face when he discovered the stuffed teddy bear and airplane beside him. He threw his head back at his parents to peer at them upside down and giggled hysterically. He had figured out the attackers.

“You know, him spinning in circles reminds me of the project we are working on at work. The top secret time travel one,” Andrew, the baby’s father, commented.

“Yeah,” Neene, his wife, agreed. She adjusted her glasses, perked up her ears, brushed her short, curly hair to the side and sat up straight. The topic of time travel possessed an allure to her mind. “You mean the theory of general relativity.”

“Precisely. The movement through closed timeline curves, the worldlines that form closed loops in space-time, allowing objects to return to their own past.” Neene’s husband explained.

“Ok, but how——“

The glass door behind the Lee family shattered into myriad pieces. The sound split their eardrums and fear lurched into their hearts. Brock stayed oblivious to the sudden noise, still entranced by his stuffed toys. Neene spun around to face the intruder head-on. The shock on her face was as readable as an advertisement. Andrew stood up and transmuted into a fighting stance, one that was not menacing whatsoever due to his nerdy appearance. He breathed hard through loud gasps and kept the fear that so badly wanted to escape in the back of his throat.

“So the question is how, you ask, Mrs. Neene Lee? How what? How do I take over the world? SMART! SMART is the answer! But in order to get SMART to work, I must drain all your knowledge on time travel!” the intruder cried out devilishly and held a green laser pointer at Neene’s heart. Then he pressed the button and a green laser beam struck her heart.

She squirmed in agony and terror gripped her heart. Rage filled her veins and turned her blood ice cold like a winter. She felt angry and helpless. Her anger only increased as helplessness overwhelmed her heart. She was in a catch 22, but a more serious one than ever. Her anger and helplessness were interlocked in a battle for who would consume her entire body first. Sweat dripped down her face while she continued to wriggle and struggle against invisible ropes. Blackness enveloped her view and the ice cold blood passed into her lungs, freezing and rendering them useless. She took her last breath and flopped to the ground, dead.

Andrew could only gape and watch as his wife was murdered in cold blood by the mysterious intruder. He glared at him intently, noticing queer physical features on his face. A long gash ran diagonally across his entire face, colored a dark, faded red like dried blood. His lips were chapped and dry as a desert; the intruder enjoyed picking his lips frequently. He also had deep, dark circles below his eyes, which gave the impression he was not a heavy sleeper. A tattoo on his right leg read ART. His pants covered the rest. He was short and stout like a teapot with a bald head that reflected the sun’s rays.

The father was in tremendous shock at the sudden death of his loving wife, but remained unflappable and held his fighting stance. He figured he could take on the intruder, however more muscular and tough he seemed. The strength of emotion would propel him forward.

Just as the father was about to throw a swinging punch at the intruder’s head, six bodyguards dressed in coats and ties tackled him from behind and flung him to the ground. They stood over him with their arms crossed, no emotion on their faces. until their boss, the murderer of Neene, strolled into the circle. He pointed the laser at Andrew, whose mouth was wide open, not wanting to scream for fear of showing weakness. Then the intruder clicked the button and the laser ejected a single beam before impatiently marching out of the house with his bodyguards without another word. The baby, who had finally noticed his dead mother and dying father, was spared.

Andrew’s face was stone white. Whether from fear or the struggle to breathe, the baby could not tell. It cried. Louder and louder by the minute, finally understanding what had happened, finally understanding what was going to happen. Not caring that he was left untouched by the intruder, not angry either. He had not learned the emotion of anger yet, for he had not yet experienced it. With deep rasps that sounded like a cacophony to Brock’s ears, his father instructed the baby to stop crying. Andrew took two deep breaths before his final one was upon him. He inhaled deeply and spoke softly, barely audible due to the creakiness and pain hidden within, “Always remain calm, Brock Christopher Lee. Never get angry. Ever.” Those were his last words. That was his last breath.



A decade later…



Brock raced through the bank vault, attempting to control his breathing, albeit unsuccessfully. Akin to the other three times he had tried his hand at stealing. He was not the best thief. He was fast and fleet-footed, strong and athletic, but that was it. He did not have much experience in the field; he did not know when to hide or when to make a break for it. He only knew how to make a break for it.

The bag of money shook in his hand like wind blowing paper off a desk. In his hand, the plastic bag stolen from Wal-Mart, contained upwards of seven thousand dollars. It would be huge if he actually pulled off the theft. Mainly because it would be his first ever successful attempt. He sprinted from the vault to the opposite end of the large atrium, which contained multiple fake vaults to deceive thieves like him, to the exit door. In the moment, he completely forgot to conceal his entrance point like most thieves do, in case they got caught, they could use the same entrance point another time. A brief breeze from the slightly ajar entrance window blew his thickly matted hair to the side.

Once the thief arrived at the exit door, adrenaline flooded his veins. It was happening. He was successfully stealing money. So he would no longer have to live at that horrible orphanage again. So he could do something with his life. Happiness enveloped his body like a cloud of fog, acting as security for Brock.

He threw open the exit door, breathing quickly but calmly and started to sprint out…

Spring! Spring! Blare! Blare! Blare! Blare! Shouts! Footsteps!

Brock did not know what occurred around him. As soon as he had stepped out of the exit doorway, he felt stuck to the ground like glue. His feet would not budge. He peered at the ground anxiously, which only confirmed his worries. A thief trap. All bank vaults have tiled floors. This is so they can conceal thief traps, similar to animal foot traps, which spring up from below the floor and cannot be seen on the surface. He had been caught by a thief trap. Now Brock could only wait for the rest of the trouble, which was just beginning, to arrive.

He sighed outwardly and the only thought that sped through his mind was what he would say to the people who would soon arrive. Obvious he was a thief, given his ragged and rugged appearance and the bag of money in his hand. So lying was out of the equation. He itched his face furiously, collecting dirt in his fingernails from the disgust on his unwashed face. Angrily, he threw the bag of money away and awaited his bleary-looking future.

Alarms continued to blare around the whole bank. There were shouts from the customers to make sure the thief did not get away. There were shouts from the bank employees to calm them down. There were shouts from the bank employees and customers to the policeman to arrest the thief. The shouts permeated through his eardrums and into his brain. The names they used: thief, criminal, worthy of arrest, money taker, stealer. Brock was ashamed.

The footsteps were louder then. They were closer, probably just around the corner from his view. The floor beneath him rattled as the footsteps neared and his heart was gripped with fear. His mouth suddenly felt dry. If someone asked him a question, he would not be able to respond. His lips felt chapped. His mouth was stuck in his throat, no words would come out. Nerves had annexed his body.

Two police officers. Three bank employees. They all held guns pointed at Brock. The thief raised his hands in surrender, unable to say anything to defend himself. He breathed calmly to appear relaxed at first glance. His insides were a different story. Calm did not exist; it was absolute chaos. His heart, lungs and mind freaked out and blanked at the same time. Nothing made sense. His vision slightly blurred.

“Oh wow, that thief trap actually works,” one of the bank employees scoffed. She was Angela, an elderly, pessimistic, blonde woman who was the bank’s assistant manager.

“Surely,” the younger policeman of the two, Caleb, agreed. A bright smile crossed over his baby face. It seemed chasing criminals was not the job for him.

The more logical policeman spoke up, although a quieter guy. “But, if this guy is a thief, what did he steal? There is no bag of money in his hand. Let’s go interrogate him.”

Fear took over Brock’s mind. It clouded his logic and common sense. His world felt upside down. His hands shook as they stood in the air in surrender, wringing back and forth like a rocking chair. What would he say when they asked? He couldn’t say…

“Wait a minute here!” a man behind a wall of bodyguards shouted. He stepped out from behind them, wearing sunglasses. His face was noticeable anywhere. A long gash ran diagonally across his entire face, colored a dark, faded red like dried blood. His lips were chapped and dry as a desert; it seemed the intruder enjoyed picking his lips frequently. He also had deep, dark circles below his eyes, which gave off the impression that he was not a heavy sleeper. A large mustache with bits of food stuck in it surrounded his scarred mouth. He wore shorts which exposed a tattoo, one that read in all capitalized letters, WE ARE SMART. He was short and stout like a teapot with a bald head that reflected the sun’s rays.

He seemed awfully familiar, but Brock was unable to place him. The orphan felt a connection to the man, albeit it was weak and emanated dark memories.

“What do you think you’re doing here?!” the man shouted. “Do you think you’re gonna arrest this kid? I don’t think so! He didn’t even steal anything!” The assistant manager opened he mouth to speak, but the man silenced her with a wave of his hand. “He hasn’t even stolen anything! There’s nothing in his hands!”

The two police officers slowly put their guns down. They seemed scared of the short, stout man. They did whatever he instructed without question. Same with the three bank employees. They shuffled their feet backwards to make way when the stout man approached the thief. Brock winced as the man walked toward him. Fear clouded his mind. He tightened his hands at his sides until they became fists, ready to attack. Why was the short, stout man coming to him? Brock hardly knew him, except for a weak connection from meeting a long time ago, a meeting the thief did not remember. But he sensed the connection and was sure it existed.

The man got up on tip toe and in Brock’s face. However, there was no hint of madness on his face, only kindness. The man grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth, and stuck out a clammy hand for the thief to shake. Brock awkwardly shook the man’s hand, but his face and hand muscles had fully relaxed. Something about the man’s appearance seemed harmless.

The man reached down beside Brock’s foot to type in the code that sprung the thief from the trap. For the duration of the time his foot was trapped, it was numb and clogged his body’s blood flow. When the trap was released, the feeling of the toes rushed back in so fast he was minimally light-headed. He staggered, but with the help of the man, got back onto his feet.

“So what now, Mr. Shimmerman?” the younger policeman inquired, loaded gun still in his hand.

“You let the kid go, that’s what. And it’s Sir Shimmerman to you, youngster.”

With that, Mr. Shimmerman snapped his fingers thrice, and his bodyguards marched over to escort him and Brock out of the bank. There was no resistance from any of the bank employees or police officers. Brock was excited to leave, but also scared. Why Mr. Shimmerman? Why was helping him? What was his deal?

A sparkling white limousine awaited Mr. Shimmerman, his bodyguards and Brock. The thief was escorted in and his eyes widened in awe. He had never seen a car so spacious. There was a lounge area with couches, a flat screen plasma TV and some seats in the front. A snack bar accompanied the lounge with a computer room in the back. Brock had never seen so much wealth concerted in one area before. His thoughts of possibly being kidnapped were erased.

“So, what’s your name, son? Is it… Brock Christopher Lee?” Mr. Shimmerman asked.

“Uh… yeah. How did you know?” the thief was confused.

“I just know those sort of things. Anyway, you are the person SMART has been waiting for."

The word SMART rang a bell in Brock’s mind. He searched his brain inside and out, but came up with nothing. However, he could have sworn he had heard the word before. It was not a happy memory, though.

“SMART stands for School for Masters of Amazing Revolutionary Transformation. It is a renowned boarding school for only the smartest people in the world. You have been recruited to go. It is where we are going now. ”

“Wait a minute. We are going to the school now? What if I didn’t want to go there? What then?” Brock was tired of the world moving so fast around him. Already, from a bank arrest, he was going to school. For the first time since his parents had died. From the car accident. At least, that was what his neighbors told him.

“Well, son, I can tell you right now, that you are one of very few, if not none, if you would like to turn down my offer. Thousands of students apply for exactly 100 spots. People pay more than a hundred thousand dollars a year to go. And you are getting the chance to go for free.”

Brock had heard of the school. All his friends in the orphanage talked about the school. It was considered the undisputed best in the country. All of them dreamed of going to the school, of getting a scholarship. But Brock had always dismissed their talk as futile, that no one from their orphanage would ever get a scholarship. However, here was the thief, getting a full scholarship. to the best school in the country. He could not decline. For the sake of bragging rights back at his orphanage.

“Ok, you have a deal, Mr. Shimmerman.”

“Call me Miranda. Also, everything you need for school will be at school. We supply you with your entire wardrobe, technology, food and drink and housing.

Brock sank deeper into the couch with his eyes closed and a smile on his face. The question remained in his brain that had not yet been answered: Why him? What made him more special than the other thousands of kids who applied? He hardly knew Miranda. But it did not matter. All that mattered was that he had been accepted on full scholarship? He couldn’t wait.

The first three weeks for Brock were horrible. Although it was as nice as the stout man described, in terms of the facilities, Miranda left out the part about the people there. At SMART, Brock was an outcast. He was athletic. Not smart. Poor. Not rich. The kids there were smart and rich. He possessed nothing in common with anyone. Also, as soon as he arrived at the school, he did not see Miranda once. He was the headmaster, but rarely walked around the campus and talked to people.

Brock was surrounded by wealth unimaginable to him. The facilities were unlike anything he had ever seen. The learning centers were similar to office buildings. The athletic facilities were stadiums and used by no one except for Brock. It was his escape.

The first two weeks of his time at SMART, he was constantly picked on. Kids verbally abused him, pulled pranks in his room and in the food he ate at the dining hall. By the end of the first week of getting bullied, he was tired of it. He turned angry and developed temperamental issues, picking fights with the kids. He would win every time, but winning only made him more shunned. He did not complain to the teachers, although there were over thirty to complain to. Brock was used to dealing with problems himself.

Soon, every kid at SMART lived in fear of him and did not speak to him. He was alone and helpless at his new school. Every night he went to bed, he cried. There was so much stress. He was failing his classes and no one talked to him. His only escape was playing basketball in the gym.

Every morning, there were also warm-up tests, which were real-life puzzles with real-life consequences if they were not solved. These were the only other category of his life at school where he shined. His problem-solving skills were by far the best of anyone there. He was used to living on the streets. He knew how to solve his own problems. His competition were rich kids with servants to help them solve problems living in mansions in California. The difference was, these “real-life” puzzles to Brock were what he actually experienced every day. Most of them were mazes, which required keen observational skills and the willingness to take risks. Those were the two things Brock knew how to do. It was with those skills that Brock survived.

One morning on a chilly November morning, about four weeks after Brock arrived at school the kids dragged themselves out of bed at the usual 5:30 am for the warm-up test. It lasted around two hours. However, this test was different from the rest. Brock knew it. And it wasn’t just the cold.

The Headmaster awaited the students as they lined up outside the building where the real-life puzzle rested. That was different. It was the first time Brock had seen Mr. Shimmerman since being dropped off at SMART. He waved cheerily, but his wave was met with a look of hard determination and anger on Miranda’s face. Brock turned away, embarrassed. The Headmaster obviously knew what was going on with him and the students at the school. Brock felt ashamed, but there was nothing he could do about it.

The building behind the Headmaster was different. It was differently sized and shaped. The thief saw that it looked more beat-up and old, like this was the first time it had been used in the span of ten years. It looked like a tool shed, akin to most of their other mazes on the outside, but most looked more modern. They were cleaner and the paint was sparklier. The building the students were currently lined up in front of had plaster coming off the walls, and the paint had faded immensely.

The other thing that caught Brock’s attention was the yellow CAUTION tape surrounding the building’s perimeter. He wondered why the tape was there, for there was no tape around the other thirty mazes they had done. It was not like the kids weren’t allowed inside the building. However, the Headmaster silenced the nervously chattering kids with a wave of his hand before saying, “This is the most secret test ever created by SMART, to see your true ability in real world problem-solving. All your valiant efforts for the past four weeks have culminated to this one.” Miranda chuckled nervously.

There was a sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle Brock had seen before. A long time ago, when he was just a baby. A sparkle that could have meant something amazing was going to happen, or something horrific. Once again, the thief could not place it.

Miranda raised an arm with a remote controller in it and pushed one of the buttons, swinging the ramshackle door to the sketchy-looking building open. Creaks emanated from the hinges, creaks that needed badly to be lubricated, when the door slowly opened. It sounded like nobody had opened the door to the building in over a million years.

The teachers, upon instant instruction of the Headmaster, escorted the students into the building. However, they did not go in with the students, the teachers and Headmaster had their own entrance through the side of the building, which would lead into a glass observation tower. From there, they would watch the students either fail or succeed. This system was the case for this exercise, and all the exercises that preceded it. Still, Brock felt something was not right when the door slammed shut. It always did that, but this time, he felt trapped. However, it was too late to turn back now. The real-life puzzle had begun.

The building was freezing cold. Colder than any of their previous test sites. Inside, it looked like an abandoned storage warehouse. Not much prettier than outside. There were stains everywhere on the floor and the walls. The building had one single room, with the glass observation tower in the far right corner, where the teachers and Headmaster sat. The single room was massive, it could easily fit four to five hotel rooms. Then, Miranda rose from the couch in the glass observation tower holding his remote controller. It was the one he always carried around with him, one that seemed to have a million buttons that could do everything imaginable. He gripped the remote so his hand would not slip and pressed one of the buttons.

Suddenly, the walls shape-shifted. It happened so fast no student could decipher what was happening. Except Brock. As the walls changed, interlocked and crisscrossed, the orphan watched and memorized every movement from where he stood to the glass observation tower. Just in case he needed it. It was involuntarily done; his brain innately knew to do it without his body asking. He knew something was not right. He just knew.

Brock could no longer see any of the other students. He was alone in a narrow corridor surrounded on all four sides by stained white walls. Although he felt trapped, he knew he wasn’t. He could get out if he wanted to. The orphan shivered. His upper body was almost entirely numb; when he exhaled he could see his breath as fog in the air. It was that cold. It was as cold as a freezer at the supermarket. He sensed butterflies in his stomach and tried his best to ignore them. Anxiety had consumed him entirely to the point where he was too nervous to budge. All he could do was wait for what happened next.

It occurred quicker than Brock had expected. For the first time all year in the real-life puzzles, he was caught off-guard. Hot, steamy fog ejected from the ceiling in short pumps. It seemed a can was slowly dumping the fog into the maze. The fog was extremely thick and reeked of rotting sewage. The orphan hacked and coughed when it reached his mouth. He furiously rubbed his eyes and sweat glimmered off his back within minutes. He felt like an oven about to explode due to overheating.

His throat wanted water. His eyes wanted to see. His back wanted coolness. He decided it was time to move. His legs felt like lead, but he knew he had to do something. Brock pushed the pain his body was experiencing out of his mind. He set his jaw and sprinted for the glass observation tower, a route that had been carved into his brain from repeating the code: 1,1,2,2,3,3, 4,4. One left, one right, 2 lefts, 2 rights, 3 lefts, 3 rights, 4 lefts, 4 rights. That code was his ticket to the glass observation tower. He would escape into there.

Then, Brock froze in his tracks. He heard someone moaning behind him and turned around to see one of the SMART students crawling on the ground toward him. “Brock," he whispered with a grimace on his face. It hurt him to speak. His name was Elijah, and he was a shy, withdrawn kid who sat in the back of every class and never spoke. Rumors circulated that he was actually a genius, but no one knew for sure. “Help me,” Elijah rasped. He clutched his chest and closed his eyes, still lying down on the ground.

“What hap——,“ The orphan's sentence was interrupted by a loud blast of an air horn. and the Headmaster’s voice came over speakers located around the room.

“SMART is what happened. What you all are experiencing is a fog called Smart which is draining the knowledge out of your brains. Soon you all will collapse and fall down like dominoes; you will feel weak and struggle to breathe. Eventually you will not know what your own name is or where you live. And eventually, you will lose all five of your senses. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. Be happy that the fog only sucks the knowledge out of your brains that are necessary for SMART to happen. Today is the day SMART takes over the world!” The Headmaster ended his speech with a devilish cackle. Or him unplugging the air horn. Brock could not tell.

The orphan turned to face Elijah, whose eyes had turned a bloodshot red. He said to Brock, “Hey Mom, can we go to a dance tomorrow? Or maybe we could go swimming in Manhattan?”

Elijah hallucinated. His brain functioned improperly and was distorted. He reached out a desperate hand toward Brock, an attempt to reach for who he thought was his mom. The orphan wanted to help him, to grasp his hand and help him up. But he couldn’t. He turned away, facing the side of the glass observation tower. Why save only one of the geniuses, when he could save all of them? He charged through the maze furiously; the only thing he could think about was a plan to make Miranda suffer. He had fooled the orphan entirely. And Brock would get him back for that.

More desperate, hopeless geniuses lie on the ground, moaning barely audibly and reaching out desperate hands. Many hallucinated, many crawled, all were rendered useless and brainless. Their bodies could not function. The brain controls almost everything in the human body. Without it, the entire human body is a pile of fat and bones and organs. Brock passed ten more geniuses on his way to the glass observation tower. Some were ones who bullied him in his first week at SMART. He did not help anyone up. He didn’t have time. He only had until just before the geniuses lost all five senses. That moment was approaching fast, so Brock had to move faster.

He reached the observation tower, huffing and puffing. The sprint through the mazes was long for anyone to make easily. Especially since Brock had also successfully formed a plan of attack: break into the glass observation tower, and go all out on Miranda. He was stronger, more athletic and unaffected by the fog, there was no way he could lose that battle.

He stared up at the glass observation tower that loomed above him. He spotted the Headmaster, who lounged in an office chair, drinking some kind of beverage. Miranda glanced outside around the maze until he noticed Brock. He beckoned for the orphan to enter, a cheery grin on the Headmaster’s face. He welcomed Brock into his safety arena. He saw the orphan as only a harmless kid. He was convinced that Brock still liked him, that the orphan did not know of the Headmaster’s treachery. Miranda had no idea what he was in store for.

The Headmaster's left hand which beckoned for Brock to enter the glass observation tower only annoyed the orphan. It angered him and drove him to attack the observation tower with more force than originally planned. He gained momentum with a short charge at the glass tower and scaled the ten-foot high ladder with ease. Then Brock leapt off it with the smoothness of a puma and threw himself into the tower completely surrounded by glass. It shattered into myriad pieces and made Miranda jump to see what had caused the commotion.

The cup containing the Headmaster's beverage emptied onto the floor and created a minuscule puddle of what looked to be iced coffee. His mouth gaped in shock and he quickly rose from his seat to face Brock directly. The mustache. Miranda had a mustache. What happened to it? And where had Brock seen him before? He looked deathly familiar.

Miranda breathed heavily and Brock could smell his breath, which resembled surprisingly tasty fresh mint. The Headmaster’s face was only a couple inches from the orphan’s. Their noses almost touched. The orphan glared, and the Headmaster smiled back.

“What is the problem?” Miranda asked a little shakily. He was definitely nervous. His bodyguards were outside the building, assigned to restrain the teachers from entering the maze. They could not protect the Headmaster from harm. The fear faded from his face within nanoseconds. The cheeky, falsely confident smile returned. However, Brock had not forgotten the small glimpse of the Headmaster’s true emotion and vowed to remember it until he was finished with Miranda.

It was at that moment that Brock remembered. He remembered where he had seen that face before. He remembered the shattering of glass, the man screaming, his parents dying without a word. Except for his father’s dying wish, for Brock to never get angry. He had forgotten entirely about that request while at SMART, and would forget again. Rage consumed him. It was this man, Miranda Shimmerman, that had killed his parents. The same man that had treated him so well by inviting him on full scholarship. He was a master of disguise, a traitor, a back-stabber. A faker and an actor. He deserved to die.

“I will kill you! I will murder you, just like you have murdered all the people at this school! Just like you murdered my parents! I know what you are up to, Miranda!” Brock knew the Headmaster was scared. He had witnessed the fear on his face. However, Brock could not contain his anger. The words hurled out of the orphan’s mouth before he could stop them. Then his feet and arms, and eventually his entire body, charged at Miranda. Brock’s muscular arms picked up the weak, stout man and threw him against the wall.

The anger pumped through the orphan’s veins. It was uncontrollable. He was in the zone, and the only way he would get out of it is if someone made him egress it. Tears formed in his eyes and blurred his vision. His heart rate tripled. He held the Headmaster by the collar of his Brooks Brothers white button-up shirt, about to finish off his life with a final blow to the head, when Miranda rasped, “Wait!”

The sudden interruption of his anger zone halted the blow. His arm involuntarily stopped. His zone was broken. The tears slowly dissipated. His heart returned to its normal pace. His breathing was still faster than normal, but not nearly as fast as a few seconds ago. His mind was cleared. No longer did anger cloud his mind. “What? You have ten seconds, and then you are done! For good!”

“I…” Miranda struggled to breathe, since Brock tightened his grip on the murderer when each second passed, “Think you should join me.” The sentence caught the orphan’s attention. He released his grip on the Headmaster, whose face transmuted from pale white to normal. Miranda fell back, slumped, gasping for air.

“And why would I do that?” Brock inquired angrily. He wanted to kill Mr. Shimmerman, to end his worthless life, but he knew the man could be on to something.

Now able to speak freely, without anyone preventing his vocal chords from working, the Headmaster said, “Many reasons. #1, to help me, who helped you get a full scholarship to the most prestigious school in the nation. Although that was just to show off to the public that this school does accept diverse, dumb kids, to convince people born into poverty that they have a chance to attend this fine institution. In reality, they don’t. You need to be rich and smart to come here.”

Brock held back the fist that he so badly wanted to shove down Mr. Shimmerman’s throat. It was all a ploy. He did not belong at SMART. It was out of his league, out of his reach. That was what Miranda said.

“Second. Think about it. Why don’t you just join me? You don’t belong at SMART, the kids here shun you. It’s painful to say, I know, but it’s the truth. I will give you all the knowledge I am sucking out of these rich kids’ brains. I can also tell you how great SMART is, and what you can do to help! We can just put the past in the past, where it belongs, although we both know it was a tough one. So let’s forget about it. Third. Be honest. I can easily kill you. You are athletic, strong and angry. I have weapons. The same weapons I used to kill you parents, I will use to kill you."

Tears formed in the orphan’s. Tears of anger and sadness. The rage that bubbled up inside him was he like nothing he had ever felt before. It was so intense, so fiery. He felt like a volcano about to explode. He calmed himself by telling himself it was okay. He calmed himself by revisiting his parents’ death.

Meanwhile, Miranda glanced at the peculiar face of his adversary. He sensed the orphan was not interested in joining him. That left him only one other option. To show him who was truly the alpha dog at SMART. Through force. He reached into his pocket and removed the green laser known as Anger. It was a top secret weapon developed by the US government, as a part of a new style of fighting called Painless Deaths. No more guns, tanks, machines, blood-filled deaths. Painless Deaths were lightweight and silent. The Headmaster adjusted his grip on the laser and pointed it at Brock. It will be over soon, Mr. Shimmerman soothed himself. He pushed the button. It would only be a minute before the orphan in front of him dropped to the ground, dead.

Shattered glass. A clean-shaven man with odd scars bursts into the house surrounded by bodyguards. Screams. Meanwhile, an entranced baby fiddling with stuffed animals. Oblivious to all the action. That was him. Intruder shouts something about SMART. About how it needed his parents’ knowledge in order to function. Then his mom was the first to die. She dropped to the ground without a sound. Her life was over. His dad was the next target. The laser struck his heart, and he dropped to the ground. However, he was not dead yet...

Suddenly, Brock was thrown out of his flashback by a slight pinching in his chest. He grabbed his heart and felt the rage return. It came rushing into his body all at once like a monsoon. He felt the rage build up, yet helpless to stop it. He clenched his fists. The orphan wanted to punch something, to release the anger from his body, but sensed his body dropping lower and lower. As if he were falling. His eyelids became droopy until they closed. The orphan continued to reminisce about the death of his parents.

His dying father on the ground. His dying wish: never get angry. Ever.

The flashback was over. Brock was thrown back into his reality. His eyes cleared and he saw Miranda gaping at the orphan with the laser in his hand. His eyes were wide with fear and confusion. He did not understand. How had Brock evaded death just like that? He had anger management issues. Brock smiled and wiped sweat off his face. There is more.

He handcuffed Mr. Shimmerman using a rope in the lounge. Why it was in the observation tower, he did not know. He could easily overpower if it was man against man, and that was exactly what he did. Happiness flooded Brock’s thoughts. Anger no longer existed in his body. It had been overpowered by happiness and ecstasy.

After tying Miranda to a wall, he saw the laser which ejected the fog and turned it off. The change was immediate. The kids rubbed their eyes as if they had just woken up from a deep sleep and returned to normal. They stood up and looked to the observation tower, like they were supposed to do, every time they needed help. They saw Brock arresting Miranda and escorting him out of the tower and down the steps. He was the hero. The new kid, the poor, dumb one, was the hero.

A loud cheer arose among the students, who had all gathered into a sort of line in front of the tower. Applause rang out. The students knew the Headmaster was the criminal. The fog had not erased their memory of the last couple hours.

Then, the door to the warehouse flew open. The thirty teachers of SMART along with five other police officers rushed into the building with guns. They saw Brock with Miranda, the Headmaster’s hands tied behind his back. They were so grateful and gasped with joy. They breathed sighs of relief with the knowledge that the students were all okay. The police officers grabbed Miranda and escorted him into the back of the police car, where his bodyguards were waiting to get arrested as well. The police officers thanked the teachers and mostly, Brock, and left. One remained in the warehouse. Another cheer emanated from the crowd.

The teachers congratulated Brock and apologized to him for ignoring him all his time at SMART, asking for forgiveness and welcoming him to come back next year. The police officer pointed to his watch when he made eye contact with Brock. The orphan nodded. It was all happening so fast. When did a kid go from a pariah to a hero in one day? Never.

Brock wished everyone good luck and said, “I cannot wait to come back next year and see you all. As you all know, the school has given us students the rest of the year off since they have to find a new headmaster, and that is not an easy task. But I will come back next year. You can be sure of it!”

The students chanted Brock for President! and the teachers nodded in agreement. “Brock, to ensure that you will come back next year, the student body has elected you President of the School. We need you to come back next year to lead the school! Have a great rest of the year off and see you in the fall!”

The cheers only escalated as he exited the warehouse with the single police officer. Everyone followed him out and watched as the car containing him drove away.

In the backseat of the police car, Brock smiled. He was ecstatic beyond belief. He could not wait for next year. School President? Him? It did not match. It seemed all a dream. He pinched himself to assure himself that it was all real. He had finally found a place where he belonged. His original family was gone, but they were in heaven, watching him. The orphan knew it. He did not belong on the streets, robbing banks. He did not belong with wealthy murderers like Miranda. He belonged with SMART School in Los Angeles, California. One of the finest institutions in the country, on Venice Blvd, Los Angeles, CA. 00235. Yes. That was where he belonged.