“Well, well, well. If it isn’t our little time wizard. I have to say, it took us quite a while to figure out you were anything more than a slow, incompetent kid. But, man... what you do with time is impressive! Poor Antonio was totally confused when he smashed that wall on your first day.”
Slug glances at his English teacher, managing to keep a straight face for only two seconds before bursting into laughter. He knows it’s the potion, but Mr. Perkins, being as dull and bland as ever, doesn’t exactly help.
“Do... you... know... what... Gnat... calls... you?”
“My dear boy, I couldn’t care less.”
“He... calls... you... Macbèèèèèèh?... your... goaty... get... it?” His laughter rolls slowly and deeply through the classroom.
“You can laugh all you want, boy. I don’t care. You’re the one tied to a chair.” His voice sounds pompous and loud, as if he’s playing the lead in a Shakespearean drama. His hands rub together, like a villain in an old black-and-white movie. It only makes him laugh harder. But then, almost imperceptibly at first, his facial expression begins to shift—or rather, the outer layer of his face seems to dissolve, revealing a new one. An altered, sinister version, exuding cold, heartless pragmatism. All the usual bumbling pompousness of his English teacher is gone. The transformation is so profound that it even penetrates Slug’s intoxicated mind, and when he begins to speak, even his voice is completely transformed.
“For starters, let's find out what you know, or – even better – what the four of you know. And don’t bother stalling, hoping your friends will save you. They've all been neutralized, especially that fiery girlfriend of yours. She was the biggest nuisance of all.” Only now, and only because of Max, does Slug feel a wisp of fear color his chemically induced carelessness.
“But... she... just... went... to…”
“Damn, you talk slow,” Perkins interrupts. “Yes, we know she went home. What do you think? Three generations of that wretched family live in that house. Three generations of defiance, undermining the very foundation of our school. Of course, we keep an
“Is... everything...”
"Okay? Yes, she's unharmed, if that's what you mean—although that won't last long." Perkins' voice is saturated with an unmistakable desire to hurt something or someone, not because he needs to, but because he wants to. For the first time, Slug sees him for what he truly is: a sadist, barely concealed beneath a thin veneer of English civility, continuously rubbing his hands.
“If you keep talking this slowly,” he continues, “it’ll take ages to get any answers. So, here’s how we’re going to do it: you keep your mouth shut, I’ll ask yes-or-no questions and you only nod or shake your head. Understood?”
Maybe the potion is wearing off, maybe it’s just the fear, but flashes of clarity begin to pierce his drug-induced care-freeness, each lasting a bit longer. With all his willpower, he clings to them like a drowning man to a lifebuoy, desperately trying to extend each one. Every time he feels the urge to laugh, he holds it back a little longer. At first, it doesn’t seem to have much effect, but he persists. Excruciatingly slowly, he regains control—first for a millisecond, then one, three, six seconds—as he wrestles his mind free.
“Some of us feel we shouldn’t take any chances and should eliminate all four of you on the spot,” Perkins continues, oblivious to Slug’s mounting resistance. “Personally, I think you’re just a bunch of losers who’ve been extraordinarily lucky—though maybe that’s a talent in itself.” He chuckles. “Alas, it’s not up to me. Mastro is convinced we’re on the brink of The Turn, The Collapse, the End of Times, Armageddon—the Breaking of the Balance. The apocalyptic disaster we’ve prepared for over generations.” His eyes grow distant, as if gazing into a transcendental sunrise, witnessing the long-awaited king returning—a small dot on the horizon, cresting the hilltops of a lush, rolling landscape, banners catching the morning breeze, a forest of spears erratically reflecting the early sunlight—like in the books he loves so much.
“We were meant to achieve great things,” he nearly whispers. “And then... your friend was born.” From that moment on, everything unraveled. It all just fell apart in slow motion: divisions, schisms, arguments, insubordination. All because of that cursed girl.” His whisper is nothing more than a hiss now. “This has to end. So, I need to know, who asked you to look for the list? Who betrayed us? Who...?” Suddenly, he’s distracted by a sound from outside. Footsteps, fast and light, pass their classroom and fade away. With a jolt, Slug realizes it must be one of his friends. Who else would be running through the school in the middle of the night?
Something approaches again... not footsteps... something else... Suddenly he realizes it sounds exactly like the nails of the German Shepherd he once had, clicking on the kitchen floor, only much louder. It races past their door and around the next corner with tremendous speed. Now, there’s nothing left to laugh about. Panic has burned away the last remnants of the potion. No drug can dull this level of terror. His stomach clenches, and finally he starts tugging at the zip ties.
Perkins, who has been listening intently, turns back. "Three down, one to go. Time to get serious with you," he says, smiling ominously as his gaze shifts to a small, worn, chipped box on his desk—something Slug only notices now. At first glance, it doesn’t look particularly special, until it slowly rises and floats into Perkins' open hand.
“You see, my young friend, my colleague Scroptz would probably feed you to his dogs, but I value a bit more subtlety and finesse. There’s too much crudeness in the world as it is.” While he’s speaking, 7, 8, 9, 10 beautifully decorated silver needles rise from the box. Slug doesn’t know what to make of it, but when he feels his fingers straighten without him ordering them to, the inevitable dawns on him. He tries to bend his fingers back without success. He’s read about this in spy novels and horror comics and there’s nothing he can do.
When each needle is positioned four centimeters in front of each finger, Perkins speaks again.
"As you can see, you're not the only one with a 'talent' here. This school is filled with people like us. It seeks us out and brings us together—for the greater good. Why do you think my own daughter attends?" With a shock, Slug finally realizes where he's seen his constant hand-rubbing before. Wilma Flintstone. Is she his daughter? Five minutes ago, that thought might have made him laugh out loud, but the potion is all but dissolved, now it only chills him. Eyes wide, he stares, petrified, at the ten sharp needles moving toward his fingertips.
“I’m sure you get the idea. It’s not rocket science and although it won’t win me the Peace Nobel Prize, it’s rather effective. Remember, you do this to yourself. You can stop this any time. If you tell me what you know, these needles will return safely to their box instead of being inserted under your fingernails.” Slug's entire body is shaking with fear; only his hands remain perfectly still. He’s lost the ability to speak, yet as the needles inch closer to the tender flesh beneath his fingernails, he begins to laugh—loudly, uncontrollably, hysterically—not from the potion’s effects, but from sheer, unadulterated panic.