Intermediate Communication Studies 202

[pugsmuggler]

The Eldabaran Gracia campus was as industrial as its students, overwhelmingly modern, with sweeping hallways gilded in glossy white and textured aluminum, doorways shaped from frothy blue glass, and ceilings the arced up like a whale’s ribcage. Eldabaran Gracia was not a school of excessive grandiose, but it was a school of considerable wealth. It had to be. Being a reputable school of technology and science among a galaxy full of competitors required up-to-date resources and tools. Of course, Eldabaran’s far-reaching range of technological equipment were not for play, and enrolled students became increasingly aware of this their first year — several dropped out within the first semester. Everything was focused, clinical, and serious, and newcomers certainly couldn’t help but notice how remarkably clean everything was, from the pale-washed walls to the reflective, slick floors.

Calibri would have noticed on that particular day, that the halls weren’t, as they normally were, populated with students poring over notes last minute or having conversations about recent test results. The halls were instead quite empty. Class 318-C, Intermediate Biochemical Pharmacology and Toxicology, was similarly empty. A class that normally hosted around 50 students (give or take) now hosted lines of empty desks and unused lab equipment. Down the stadium steps of the classroom and sitting with his feet propped up on center desk in front of the projector screen was Garamond, reclining back in the professor’s chair with a small glass of brandy. He smiled when Calibri came through the doorway.

“Good to see you again,” Garamond said. “It’s been what? Two years? How old are you now?”

Comments

[tactician]

Calibri stopped short, feet skidding to a halt beside each other right on the brink of the entranceway, toes of his feet inside, the heels still in the hallway. It wasn't that the sight of Garamond had surprised him - in fact, it took a second for him to even spot the man in the professor's usual seat, regardless of how big his frame was. It was simply that uncommon that such a question would be directed at him (and it had to have been, considering there was probably no one else on the campus within a quarter-mile radius).

The students of Eldabaran Gracia were renowned for their focus and perseverance in undergoing its infamously strict curriculum. Its graduates commonly moved on to greater things worth boasting about, whether it be politics or medicine or hyperdimensional science. That intelligence meant that they knew when to take advantage of a rare school year break and almost all of them had long since flown off to their home planets once their last class had ended - most of them, at least. Calibri was still very obviously here.

The students of Eldabaran Gracia also happened to have another thing in common: most of them seemed to stay away from the curious boy with chemical-burned hands and an odd, icy disposition. Neither interested in politics or networking, Calibri obviously had made no effort to get to know his fellow students and those that had worked with him out of classroom necessity hadn't required long before noticing his unsettling fascination with all things deadly. As children of the educated elite, they were taught to tolerate all cultures and races but toleration was one thing and friendliness was another - not that Calibri made any effort to correct the situation.

Calibri took a moment to quietly survey his situation - empty classroom, empty hallway, and one familiar face sitting in his professor's chair, distinctly out of place. Staying where he was, Calibri lowered his hand from the doorframe and quietly canted his head barely five degrees to the left as he frowned - a calculated gesture of slight bewilderment. He couldn't think of a possible reason as to why Victor Garamond would be here with his feet on the table (contaminating the work space), asking his age.

"Eighteen, two months and fourteen days," Calibri answered shortly, scanning the room once again for a clue.

[pugsmuggler]

When Calibri awoke, he'd find himself in a laboratory— just not the one he was used to. The circle's visiting ship was small, but it had an impressive medical wing. The walls were crowded with equipment, and whether occupied a computer or a line of test tubes and beakers, not one counter was bare. There were a few technicians scattered about, working on various projects. None seemed particularly concerned with Calibri, and considering he was tagged and with on an IV drip they had been done with him for quite some time. Calibri had been out for awhile. Despite the blinding bright whiteness of the room and the deceitful lack of windows, the big digital clock on the wall read an hour late into the night.

It a few minutes later still until Garamond came in to check on him. He had changed out of his suit, but he was still dressed garishly (at least for Calibri's standards) in a roan colored button-up and an onyx wrist watch. He smiled when he saw Calibri was awake. "About time you came to," Garamond said. "Hungry?"