Hanuman Ranyx Academy. This large, tall, box-shaped set of buildings has clearly been standing for quite a few years, though it has been a school for less than a decade. Its once white walls are stained yellow, and its large windows are so dirty that they look perpetually foggy, impossible to look in or out of. Despite the establishment of a new school, no one has bothered to chase off the homeless people who continue to take shelter right outside its walls. The people of the town know that the school is a Higher Education school of some sort, but for what, no one can quite tell, as all sorts of students come in and out of the building from the equally dilapidated dorms situated nearby. No one much cares, either. The students themselves call it nothing more than “the Academy” and seem to study every topic under the sun. As such, it’s come to be seen as simply a very ugly “finisher” school. Are they wrong? In some ways, no, but in some ways… nothing could be farther from the truth.
Today is orientation day. No uniform has been issued, so while some students arrive dressed in suits, others come casually in hoodies or slacks. They trickle in past the homeless folk and the yellowing walls and make their way into a large, empty room with a concrete floor and a high ceiling. The room is completely unadorned, ugly and grey, with the only light provided by a couple of windows on the far end, and a three large, swinging lamps that shed a dull orange glow over the assembly. The students stand in the center of the room, apparently not quite sure what to do, but as they are milling about, a man very crisply dressed and with an extremely refined manner, walks up to the stage, his steps so light, one could barely hear it. He stands up at the front of the room, for a long moment unnoticed by the students, then coughs just twice.
Slowly, everyone turned their attention to him until there was complete silence, all eyes on him. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood very straight, unnaturally still as he surveyed the people before him. As soon as the silence had seemed complete for almost a full minute, he opened his mouth and spoke, “All of you standing before me were hand-picked and recruited for two qualities.” His voice seemed to boom and echo in the large room, but his tone was sharp and no-nonsense. “The first is a demonstrated ability and desire to hold your tongue under any circumstance. The second is a drive to succeed at an impossible goal. How you were recruited, how you even found out about this organization is none of my concern. My concern is what to do with you all now that you’re here. Most of you are no doubt under the false impression that this Academy is a military school – that we shall have training camps, multi-million dollar simulators, and early-morning wake-up calls. That assumption is incorrect. You are not here to train your bodies, though there will certainly be a bit of that. You are here to train your minds. Knowledge and martial arts will be your best friends. Discipline and observation, your daily sustenance. Magic is prohibited unless specifically allowed. At any time, we may ask you to leave. You have all sworn oaths not to divulge anything you learn from the moment you step onto our campus, to the day you either graduate, or are expelled. If you break this oath, we will know and then we will kill you.” He paused, then continued in his serious monotone. “That was a joke. Probably.” Probably? Everyone looked around, whispering a bit. The man spoke over them, silencing the whispers. “My name is Vice President Cornelius Jackman. You will address me as Vice President, or VP Jackson, if you must. As far as you are concerned, this is a kingdom, and I am its regent. My word is law. Now, may I introduce the lovely Dean Hatchett, and yes, that is her real name.”
Up walked a woman who looked much more casual. She wore a friendly smile and was dressed in formal attire that was loosened stylishly. When she spoke, everyone couldn’t help but immediately feel at ease. “Hello there, new recruits. My name is Marilyn Hatchett. You can call me whatever you like, don’t feel obligated to call me Dean, or anything. Vice President is such a stickler for rules. I don’t much mind breaking them, but I certainly expect you not to. My job as dean, after all, is to enforce the rules. Break the rules, and I will kill you, and that is not a joke.” She said the whole thing with the same casual and friendly tone, but some kind of glint in her eyes left no in any doubt that she was much more serious than the Vice President. She stepped down without another word, smiling and waving as she went. Everyone’s eyes watched her as she went, not quite sure how seriously to take her. What was wrong with the people in this school? She called out behind her, “Good luck finding your way around!”
That was when they all realized they’d never been given any kind of orientation package or map. They were not even told where to go. How were they supposed to find anything out here? They looked at each other, all wondering, when a small voice coughed at the entrance. People turned to look, worried that one of the staff members had returned. Instead, they saw a very normal-looking girl with short black hair and a bland expression on her face. Casually, she said, “They told me to come here, because new recruits can never figure it out.” She gave a heavy sigh. “This whole room is a map, if you know how to look. Your schedules can be found on blocks according to your first initial and the number of letters in your middle name. For your own sakes, I suggest you never be late. Classes start tomorrow.”
The school was definitely a strange one. Wizards and muggles alike were gathered together, forced to hunt for clues and hone their senses. The teachers rarely ever properly taught, they simply tested and tested and tested the students every day, using verbal pop quizzes. If anyone was late, or received the lowest score on these “VPQ’s” as they were called, they were publicly humiliated in front of the class. If they refused to take this humiliation, they were asked to leave. If they decided they wanted to leave, they were expelled and never allowed to return. Physical attacks were not uncommon either, but no one ever got hurt, mainly just humiliated. People who had been the smartest or fastest or strongest in their class found themselves handled like children.
Time passed like this, their numbers decreasing as people lost heart and decided to leave. By the end of the year, they were all exhausted. They had all come here for one purpose: to train to become a part of a rumored muggle-wizard task force. The only question was, was that really what this school as for, or was it simply to torture them into weapons they didn’t want to become? This rumor could be… well… just a rumor. No one was sure if the legends were true, or just meant to reel in idiots. And of all of the legends, there was one legend surrounding this specific task force that everyone wanted to know – who was the man who had set up this force? Who was the man who had shaken all of the rules so radically? Who was the man who had set up the school? Who was… the President? None of the new recruits had ever seen him, no one knew his name, and while there were rumors that the upperclassmen had met him, nobody was allowing his description to slip from their lips.
They did meet him, however, much sooner than any of them had expected. He was, after all, nobody special. They walked into their classroom one day, ready for class, when they were surprised to see not their instructor, but the Vice Principal. They had rarely seen him since that first day, so seeing him that day was a surprise. He stood with his hands behind his back again, just as straight and stiff as he’d been the first time they’d seen him. He spoke in the same, crisp British tones. “It is your last day of class, as you know, so all of you who have succeeded to make it past this first year will get a special treat. Follow me.” He turned on his heels and strode out of the room, leading them back to the large room they had been to on orientation day. “Wait here.” He commanded, then he left.
They waited. And waited. And waited. No one came. A janitor came in carelessly and began mopping the floors. Still, no one came, and the students all waited. Finally, one girl spoke to the janitor, who’d gone on mopping the floors around them, snapping in irritation. “Should you be here, sir? I think we were supposed to meet someone.”
He looked up at her with annoyed, world-weary grey eyes. His English was good, but slightly tinged with some kind of accent, maybe Russian. “This is my job, miss. This room is only used twice a year, and the rest of the year, I am to keep it clean. Are you sure you are supposed to be here?” He went back to mopping the floors.
The others began to whisper amongst themselves again, wondering just what was going on. Why were they here? What was this treat they were supposed to get by waiting in this boring, furniture-less room? Doubt had been sowed in the gathering. Should they leave or continue to wait? Nobody paid any attention as the janitor continued to mop his way across the wide floor, carefully getting every spot except for the places they were standing. They didn’t notice at all as he mopped his way up the stage, then stood in the center, leaning on his mop casually. He didn’t speak for a long time, just watching them with suddenly keen grey eyes. He let them be uncertain for a while, but when a couple students started taking note of his standing on the stage, he opened his mouth and spoke, again in the slightly accented English, “Well, what are you all going to do?”
They looked up at him. One student frowned and spoke in anger. “Who are you, janitor? Get down from there.”
The man speared the speaker with a silver glare. “Who do you think I am?” All of the students were speechless, not sure how to deal with this sudden insolence. He straightened, and suddenly, the air around him changed. His posture was impeccable, his manner refined, and his gaze unwavering, commanding even. Even in his janitor’s garb, he exhibited a presence that made everyone fall silent, simply watching him, waiting for him to speak. He obliged them by speaking, his quiet voice reverberating within the room, his words stinging with disappointment and his Russian tint completely gone. He walked across the stage, pacing like a caged lion. “Every year this test is given, and every year not one student passes. Not one. The very rare exception becomes the best of all of the students at this academy. Clearly none of you are destined to become one such. I even made it easy for you. Every single one of you has passed me every single day since you arrived here. I have been the homeless man second closest to the gate, never moving from my spot, barely hiding my face, and yet not one of you thought I was suspicious as the janitor. Tell me, recruits, what was the first problem with this?”
For a long moment, no one moved, no one spoke, then one person tentatively spoke, stepping a bit clear of the crowd to make himself more noticeable. “Lack of attentiveness, sir?”
The man turned to look at him. “What is your name, recruit?”
“Aldwin Ba-.”
“Please leave, Aldwin.” The older man’s expression was unreadable and unyielding.
“Sir?” A look of shock covered the boy’s face.
“Please leave the room, Aldwin. You are suspended until further notice. Please leave the room and stay outside until you are called.” He was shocked, but complied, seeing the look on the man’s face.
“Can anyone tell me why I had Aldwin removed from the room?”
The silence was shorter, this time, but the speaker made herself less well-known this time. “Because he gave the wrong answer, sir?”
He turned his head in the direction of the voice. “What is your name?” He asked, his gaze not quite finding the right person.
“Melissa Su-.”
“You may also leave the room, Melissa. Now.” She wasted no time in exiting the room.
He turned to survey the rest of them again. “Can anyone tell me why I had both Melissa and Aldwin leave?” Utter silence, this time, no one dared speak, but the man was insistent. “No one? Come, come, give me an answer. One of you must have some idea.” The room was as silent as the grave. The man gave a little sigh and said, almost in resignation, “If one of you does not speak within the next minute, all of you will be expelled.”
Again, with the panicked whispers. Finally, a timid voice came from the crowd, “We- I don’t know, sir.”
“Very good.” The man said, without much ceremony. “What is your name, recruit?”
“I-.” The voice hesitated, then went silent again.
Their odd new instructor looked at the rest of the crowd. “Is there anyone else who would like to give me the name of the one who spoke? Anyone at all?” His tone was demanding, but besides some more whispering, no one said anything. The man grew angry and loud, “Are you going to defy me? You honestly think I would believe that you wouldn’t know a comrade’s name by the end of the year? Not one of you? Fine then. Anyone who doesn’t know the name of your classmate, is not qualified to be here. I must ask all of you to leave.”
“Sir!” The once timid voice, retaliated, clearly angry, and its owner, a boy with scruffy golden-brown hair popped out of the crowd. “My name is Simon Abbot, and what authority do you have to demand that we all leave? You have not told us your name and status, and even if you had, no one we trust is here to confirm it! You-” he tripped over his words, somewhere between angry and afraid, “you are the one who may not be qualified to be here! What right do you have to command us to do anything?” He stopped speaking abruptly, breathing hard.
There was a hollow silence, as the boy’s classmates looked up at the man and stared, waiting for an answer, maybe a retaliation of his own. They could all hear the sound of the axe of expulsion, falling upon the poor boy’s neck. Instead, however, the man up front sat down with his legs dangling off the edge of the stage, and opened his mouth again. What came out next was unlike either of the two previous voices. It was neither commanding nor irritated nor tinted with a foreign accent. It was simply, calm, quiet, and tinged with almost monotone amusement. “Congratulations Mr. Timothy Bacon, you are the first student in your class to pass the test.” Everyone gaped. What was going on? “My name is Averill Trevelyan, and I am the President of this school, and founder of the goal for which you all strive.” He chuckled quietly, kind amusement in his eyes, “An insane goal, by the way, whatever possessed you all to think of it?” He continued the rest of what he said in that same calm, slightly tickled voice, completely oblivious to each of the students gaping at him slack-jawed. “This academy, as every academy, isn’t supposed to teach you what you already know, but what you don’t know. And as such, this is the first and the last time I will conduct class with you as if you should all know the answers.” He didn’t say anything about not occasionally tricking them again, though. “Please call in the two I sent outside, Mr. Bacon.” He waited patiently and politely, it was as though the grumpy janitor and evil professor they’d seen moments ago had never existed in the first place. Which, of course, they hadn’t.
When the three students returned, Avery conjured up several chairs for them, and had all the students sit, continuing to dangle his legs off the side of the platform, very comfortably. “Have none of you wondered why we do not focus on the military aspect of your training? Why our classes are haphazard and at times random and nonsensical? This place does not give you military training, because military training could be acquired at a military school. What we provide you is the opportunity to cultivate obsessive and quick perfection, and it will prove useful to you no matter where you go in the future, but especially if you decide you want to go into the intelligence business. Hanuman. Ra. Nyx. You all call it the Academy, as if it does not have a name. Hanuman is a Hindu god of war and wisdom. He is thought to be a warder against sin and demons, and in possession of both self-control and a quick mind. Ra is the Egyptian god of sun, of light, and in some ways, of creation itself. He was… flexible. He merged with other gods, had enemies, and created children. Nyx is the Greek goddess of night. She is said to be powerful and beautiful, and even Zeus fears her. She gave birth to many things, most bad like Death, Pain, and Blame, others good, like Friendship and Dreams. The people who graduate from this school, are the people who come to embody as many of those qualities as possible, the people who are quick-witted, just, flexible, shining as brightly as the sun, but melting into the shadows of the night. You will deliver death and pain and blame upon others, and you will also protect their families, their friends, and their peace. That is our objective as a school, and it is to this end that we will train you.
“The mistake Mr. Aldwin Barnaby and Ms. Melissa Summerlin fell victim to was telling me their names. It is, of course, silly not to tell someone your name if you know them and intend to work with them in the future, but as Mr. Bacon here has so astutely pointed out, I had made no such thing clear to you. Without telling you my name or occupation, I went up to the front of the room and began barking orders. I really could have just been a janitor trying to trick you. Even now, I still could be just a janitor trying to mess with you, though I will vehemently maintain that I am not. The first point of this lesson, was perception. People lie. All the time, I might add. But the most deadly of lies are lies which are not spoken at all, lies which you see, not hear. I know I said this before, but I will repeat it. I sat the second homeless man to one side of the entrance of the school, every day, and every single one of you passed me every single day, spilling secrets in front of me that were never yours to tell. I walked in as a janitor, and not one of you recognized me as the same man who had sat in front of the gate countless times before. This is not because you are stupid, it is because you are still allowing yourself to be blinded by your perceptions. In a different environment, with different clothes, accent, or posture, people can seem like different people. If you see someone as beneath you, your gaze passes over them as if they do not exist. They become merely part of the landscape. This is what you must strive to do as a hopeful future spy, and what you must strive to thwart as one trying to recognize your enemies. Lesson number one. Perception is both your greatest ally and your greatest weakness. Do not underestimate it a second time. Take in information as completely and impartially as you can, and do not expect that you will always be allowed to stay in your neat, posh little bubbles. There may be times where you must be willing to pretend you are someone you consider much much below your station. To play a certain kind of person, you must first observe a certain kind of person, and do your best to understand them. Lesson number two. Do not stand out. Mr. Barnaby I was going to send you out of the room the minute you stepped out of the crowd to give me your opinion. There are times to stand out, but if at all possible you should refrain from actively doing so. The more you stand out, the more people notice when something is wrong or different about you, the more likely it is for them to report problems and give accurate descriptions if it comes down to that. Mingle, be normal, learn to melt into a crowd. Unless your role requires a flashy personality, you will simply be exposing yourself to danger. Lesson number three? Be loyal, and on this point, every last one of you passed. No matter who it is facing you, or how scary they seem, stick together, protect your own, and lie through your teeth if you have to, to do it. This wasn’t in my lesson plan, but since it came up, I figured I might as well make it clear. Lesson number four – try to be sure what your opponent knows before you say anything. You see, Mr. Bacon, while what you did was by far the cleverest and most commendable thing out of your classmates, I already knew the names and faces of every single one of you, and if I had been the person I was pretending to be, all of you would have been expelled. Class dismissed, have a wonderful break. Oh, and please don’t ruin the test for next year’s new recruits by talking to or about me outside of this class. I’ll be teaching you more once you hit fourth year.” He smiled and waved cheerily as they left, genuinely wishing them well over the summer.
When Timothy Bacon returned to the academy a couple months later, the first thing he did was glance to the right of the entrance, at the second hobo away from them. He caught sight of the long-haired man, looking completely incoherent, mumbling things at the sky. He looked absolutely crazy, and for a second, the boy wondered if it had all been a dream. Then the hobo caught his eye for just the briefest of moments, and flashed a wink so quick, Timothy wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. But he smiled and entered the academy. Maybe Mr. Trevelyan knew this, maybe he didn’t, but the Bacon boy would have bet anything that meeting the founder at the end of the first year was not only a reward, but also a motivation. If they really were going to have him as their teacher in fourth year, Timothy was going to make damn well sure he got there.
(Original date written unknown as it was never publicly published.)