ESPERSIA: Requiem of a Revolutionary

EARTH, YEAR 2020

James blinked, barely registering the voice calling his name. "James. James! You listening to me?"

His mother's voice sliced through the half-light of the early morning, breaking whatever trance he'd drifted into staring at the ceiling. He hadn't heard the first few calls but caught the irritation in her tone now. He stayed still a moment longer, letting her wait, feeling that small sliver of control.

"I'm serious, James." Her footsteps grew louder, punctuating her words as she approached his room. "Get up. You think skipping school is going to make anything easier?"

James finally pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, eyes settling on a stack of dirty dishes on his cramped desk. He didn't bother to answer. They both knew she wasn't looking for a conversation.

She stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed, her cigarette smoldering between her fingers. It was the same routine every morning. Her, prodding and nagging, coffee in one hand, anger in the other. James didn't need to ask why; he'd been the target of her resentment long enough to know the drill. It was just the way things worked.

Without a word, he grabbed his backpack off the floor and brushed past her.

The door slammed shut behind him, muffling whatever last remark she had tossed his way. James took a deep breath, letting the chilled morning air bite his skin as he stepped onto the cracked pavement outside their building. The sun barely reached past the towering corporate offices uptown, casting the streets in a dull, shadowed light that felt more like evening than morning.

He adjusted his backpack, ignoring the ache in his shoulders where the worn straps dug in. The thought of school loomed over him like a prison sentence. What was the point? It wasn't like he was going to find anything worth learning in a place that taught kids how to stay in line for whatever company might want to scoop them up later. Nothing about it felt real to him—just another extension of the city's machine.

He passed by the sleek, polished storefronts—cafés, tech bars, those luxury stores with their bold ads flashing on every surface. They didn't belong in his neighborhood; they were for the ones who lived in the towers above, the ones with money to burn. His own clothes—a faded hoodie, old jeans, and sneakers he'd outgrown months ago—made him feel invisible in a city that only saw dollar signs.

As he walked, his gaze landed on a massive billboard stretched across one of the buildings, displaying the face of a CEO who'd recently "revolutionized" the banking industry. A neat smile, eyes cold and calculating. James didn't know his father, but he imagined he looked like that—a man who could gut people's lives with the swipe of a pen, smiling all the while.

He turned his gaze away, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hated everything about this—the polished ads, the perfect smiles, the people they were meant for. And, he realized, maybe that's why his mother forced him to go to school. He hated it, sure, but that just meant he wouldn't follow along blindly.

As he walked, James counted his steps, a habit he'd picked up young to pass the time. Thirteen. Thirteen. Too young, his mother would say, to understand half the things he did. But life here made you feel older, like you'd lived through more years than you actually had.

New York had a way of doing that. It wore people down slowly, so you barely noticed until you were dragging yourself through the day. He saw it all the time—neighbors who once had high-rise dreams now working double shifts at corner stores, barely keeping up with rent. Even his mom, who'd once held onto some hope of getting out, was now just trying to make it through each month.

He'd never met his father—one of those corporate types who were everywhere and nowhere, running hedge funds and pulling strings with a phone call. His mother didn't talk about him much, and when she did, it was only with a bitterness James could practically taste. The only thing he really knew was that his father had turned his back on them, cast them aside like an inconvenience.

I'm so tired of it all, he thought.

At least, that's what James kept telling himself. Don't aim too high, don't get tangled up in ideas about a better life—that was the message he'd picked up, directly or indirectly, almost every day. By now, he'd learned to ignore "delusions of grandeur," to shove aside any thought that he could ever rise above his place.

And yet, no matter how much he tried to settle, there was an itch just under the surface, a restlessness that wanted more than just getting by. Somewhere in him, a part resented his reality, while another part held onto that quiet urge for something bigger. It would pull him in, tangling him in his own thoughts until he forgot the world around him.

The loud, shrill ring of the school bell snapped him out of it.

School had just ended.

James walked along his usual route home, idly noting the scenes around him. People bustled in and out of shops, a few street vendors packed up for the evening, and across the street, a line of sleek black cars waited outside a café, probably for a quick pick-up. He barely noticed it all, caught somewhere between the day's events and the thoughts that always seemed to fill his head at this time.

Turning the next corner, something made him stop. Down the alley to his left, he spotted four boys in familiar school blazers—the same ones his own school used. Three of them had another kid backed against the wall, blocking him in. The kid looked about James's age, his tie a little loose, and his thin-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose as he scanned the alley, like he was hoping someone would notice.

James could just make out snippets of what the three were saying.

"Think you're too good for us, huh? Just 'cause you got a scholarship?" one of them sneered, poking a finger into the kid's chest. 

"Typical rich kids," James muttered under his breath. "Too dumb and too entitled to even understand what they're mad at." But he knew how this would go. Anger was infectious—it spread fast and took over, and being mad had a way of winning these kinds of situations.

He thought about just turning away; normally, he would have. These things usually ended with the kid taking his hits and moving on, and it wasn't his job to play hero.

Yet, just as James turned to walk away, something happened that made him give pause. 

The kid, who was already a bit bruised, voice cut through the alley, loud and clear. "I'd pay you to leave me alone, but I think I left my loose change at your penthouse. Maybe your mom found it—I left it with her last night."

James stopped, his interest piqued. Not bad, he thought, raising an eyebrow.

The lead bully's face twisted in surprise and anger. "What did you just say?"

The kid adjusted his glasses, meeting their glares head-on. "You heard me. Or are your ears as useless as your brains?"

The insult seemed to hit harder than the first, and the boys closed in, fists clenching, eyes narrowed. They were seconds away from pouncing when James stepped forward, lifting his phone high enough for them to see.

"Hold up, fellas," James called out, his voice casual but firm. He tilted his phone so the screen was visible, the record light blinking. "You really wanna go through with this? 'Cause right now, I've got enough footage to make sure you're the stars of tomorrow's viral video."

The lead bully looked James up and down, sneering. "Huh? And who are you?"

"Just a friendly passerby," James replied, holding up his phone, the recording light blinking steadily.

The bully scoffed. "Oh, great. So you recorded us. And why should we care? Go ahead, send it to the school. We're not gonna get expelled." He laughed, shrugging to his friends. "Our dads'll make sure of that."

James gave a half-smile, his voice calm. "Oh, I'm sure you'll keep your spots at school. But I'm also pretty sure your fathers aren't going to love the PR hit their companies are about to take." He nodded to each of them in turn. "Jacob Hanley, son of Gordon Hanley—the insurance giant who loves his family-friendly image. Colin Winters, whose father heads that private equity firm, Cornerstone Investments. And you, Ian Bell. Ring a bell?" He smirked, glancing over the phone's edge. "If you're half as smart as this kid says you aren't, then you'll know exactly what's at stake here."

The three boys hesitated, their confidence slipping. They looked from the kid they'd cornered to James, then back at each other. Finally, Jacob scowled. "Screw it. This isn't worth it," he muttered, pushing past James roughly as he led his friends out of the alley.

"Thanks for the cooperation, fellas," James called out after them, pocketing his phone with a smirk. "I appreciate it."

Once they were out of earshot, the kid adjusted his glasses, looking up at James. "Hey, thanks for the assist."

"Assist?" James turned, arching an eyebrow. "That's one way to say I completely saved you. You were dead meat."

The kid smirked, dusting off his blazer. "Nah, I had 'em right where I wanted them."

James snorted. "Yeah, sure you did," he said, already turning away.

"Wait," the kid called after him, squinting as if piecing something together. "I know you… You're that other kid from St. Vincent's, right? Another scholarship kid. James?"

James turned back, letting out a sigh. "Yeah, that'd be me."

The kid extended his hand with a grin. "Mark," he said. "Nice to meet you."

James eyed him, arms crossed. "I already know who you are."

Mark chuckled. "Nice to know I'm so famous."

"That's not what I—ugh, whatever." James shook his head, but Mark still held his hand out expectantly.

Mark grinned, raising his brows. "Gonna leave me hanging?"

James rolled his eyes before finally reaching out to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mark."

Their hands met in a quick shake, and in that brief moment, something shifted in James's mind, cutting through his usual storm of thoughts. It wasn't calm exactly, but something sharper—clarity, maybe. For once, the chaos quieted, the endless loops of frustration and bitterness fading just enough for him to notice.

"See you around, James," Mark said, his tone casual, like they'd done this a hundred times.

James nodded, a shiny smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah. See you."

He turned to go, realizing that the usual weight that dogged his steps felt a fraction lighter.