Welcome to another installment of "I can't believe I just wrote this."

To American school students, and whom else it may concern:

(From Erica Carle's "The Intelligent Student's Guide to the New World Order")

"What is the New World Order?

The essence of the New World Order (NWO) or world management system is that it is management by social engineers, rather than government based on a written constitution. How you are affected by this management system depends on what the social engineers decide the system should do for you and require of you. The social engineers and system managers think of themselves as scientists applying the scientific method to the control of group behavior. Your behavior and your relationships are regarded as the subject of investigation and control by those who call themselves social scientists." (Consider The COVID-19 pandemic - the group pressure tactics refined by these scientists to subjugate us to ridiculous government mandates and to vaccines whose deadly effects are censored by the mainstream.) "You are among their test animals, and you have no say in, and often no knowledge of, experiments that involve you. If the NWO is totally implemented, your independence, individuality, and freedom will be gone.

...

At one time the goal of those who planned the school curriculum in the local communities seemed to follow the wishes of parents and the needs of students. Now, however, those sociologists who have the power to affect policy in the public schools do not concern themselves with what you need, what your parents want for you, or with respect and support for the United States Constitution. Their primary goals are to CONSOLIDATE policies, COMMERCIALIZE instruction, CLASSIFY individuals, CLAIM jurisdiction, establish CONTROL, and train you to fit obediently into their world management system without hesitation or protest.

...

If you do not want to be a sociologically controlled and semi-ignorant member of the United Nations' New World Order, you need to recognize the importance of knowledge and reject attempts at emotional manipulation and knowledge limitation. The problem-solving and decision-making system of education uses you, plays on your emotions, and tries to alienate you from those who should be closest to you. It creates animosity between you and your classmates, wastes valuable learning time by forcing you to form opinions and listen to the uninformed opinions of your classmates, and discourages intelligent and moral behavior."

Tl;dr: MODERN "NEW WORLD" SCHOOLS = BRAINWASHING CENTERS AND SOCIAL EXPERIMENT LABORATORIES

Chapter 2

"My metallic feathered friend... it's important we sink these kids into the illusion they are choosing their own destiny, when in truth, their destinies are being chosen for them." - Small World Academy Founder

CAUTION. POLITICAL INCORRECTNESS AHEAD. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.


Dark silence enveloped a space, but was perturbed by the clinkering of a key, the twist of a knob, and ray of light as a door opened. Clay stood in the doorway holding the knob, while Omi peeked in from behind. The door creaked open wide, and Clay reached out to flip on the light switch.

"Here's your boardin' room, buckaroo."

Omi received his key from his new friend, and stepped past him into the lit room. He studied the area. The walls and floor lay barren, not unlike a solitary confinement cell, but the monk boy didn't mind; in fact, he was smiling the whole time.

As he wandered over to a bed and desk arranged in a corner nearest the window, Clay took a few slow steps after him. The tapping of the cowboy's boots came to a stop as he stared at the mattress Omi was boosting himself onto.

"I shall never lay on a bench again," declared the child as he flopped on his back and swept his hands over the mattress' soft surface. "Aaah."

Clay continued to stare as he held Omi's unwieldy backpack underneath his arm. Eventually, he spoke.

"Huh. You don't got two beds?"

"What do you mean?" Omi was now lost in the comfort of laying on a cloud.

"Oh it's just..." Clay put a fist on his hip and shifted his weight. "I thought you'd have another bed in here. For yer roommate an' such? There weren't two in mine neither but I figured it was cuz I'm a lil'... um... broadsided."

"I do not understand your concern."

Clay let go of his hip, poofing his doubts away. "Maybe this school's safe enough without any kinda buddy system." He gently set Omi's bag down at the foot of the bed. "Want me to help ya unpack?"

"No need. I shall tend to that on my own." Omi arose and slid off the bed, grunting as he landed on the floor. He tip-tapped over to unzip his bag, then reached in to pull out layers of crumpling papers and stack them neatly. Next, he pulled out some of the folders he'd bought from the Small World school supply shop, and began filing the papers into them as part of an honest organizational effort.

"Ah. Hmm."

Above, Clay watched with bemused interest as Omi sorted through his materials. The monk seemed overwhelmed with so much all-consuming tripe. During the shuffling, a gleam captured the cowboy's eye. He leaned in toward Omi's backpack, discovering a shiny round object buried inside.

A new thought popped into his skull. "Hey Omi, you got an alarm clock. What time is it?"

Omi diverted from the folders he had tiled on the floor. "The time?" He reached into the backpack, uncovering the temporal device. Analyzing it, he answered, "...The long hand is at five minutes to eleveeen... of the clock. Or is it... o'clock?"

"O'clock. Ain't there some shindig, er, meetin' we gotta go to today?"

"Let me see. I did put the schedule in one of these folders." Acting as would a professional file clerk, Omi picked a folder up, flipped through it, and happened to spot the freshman schedule near the back. He removed it and read carefully. "It appears you are right. There is an 'Orientation Rally' at the... 'Unistadium.'" He squinted as he decoded the fine print. "Mandatory for all newcoming students. Absence may be punishable by... expulsion?"

Clay frowned at the word "expulsion." "When's the rally s'posed to start."

"Uhh..." Omi checked the event's corresponding period. "Eleven o'clock?"

The color immediately drained from Clay's face.

"Oh, it begins in five minutes," Omi deduced. "If we are tardy, we could prepare a tactfully worded letter of apology so that our discipline will be less severe."

But there was no time for more paperwork. Clay seized him by the arm, making him lose hold of the schedule, and railroaded him out of his room without pause.

"H-hey!" the monk's stunned cry waned.


At a corner of the expansive Small World, there nested a round, futuristic chrome stadium capped with a glass dome. Much gabfesting abounded inside; the stadium's thousand seats contained students of manifold lineages scattered entirely throughout. The stadium's floor, meanwhile, exhibited a large, dormant projector machine that was based in the center.

Having navigated their way to the entrance, the Texas cowboy and his little monk partner appeared atop a flight of stairs that declined multiple rows. On sight of the Unistadium's crowded inner space, Omi was undeniably captivated, but in his trance, he walked onward without heeding the descending steps.

Fortunately, Clay tugged him back before he went for a nasty tumble. "Whoa Omi!" the wrangler cautioned. "If ya fall you'll be rollin' over and over."

"Oo." Omi raised his brows at the downgoing stairs and blinked. "Thank you my friend."

He stabilized his feet, whence Clay thought it was safe to release him. Now that he was alert, the monk sucked in a breath to begin a proper first step, but as he prodded one foot forward, he felt claws grabbing his shoulder. He glanced behind, then up. The claws belonged to a smiling, business-suited lady with an aquiline nose, classy earrings and bun hairdo.

"Bonjour! Would vous like me to find you a seat?" she asked in a cheery - not to mention thick - French accent.

Omi's foot retracted. "Um... yes!" he answered in surprise. "Most certainly."

The French woman heightened her smile toward Clay, who had to process her a bit before removing his ten-gallon hat in earnest and holding it to his chest - as per a gentleman. "M-ma'am!" he stuttered. "Sorry. We're 'bout a tick late."

"Ahhh, c'est not a problem," solaced the woman. "We are still ushering students. They are overall complying to our arrangements, but ouf, there are so many!"

"I imagined there would be. Every color and creed's invited."

Fitting her hands behind herself, the lady scanned the cowman as he stood stiff. She returned her eyes to Omi, and perceptively articulated, "Zee two of you are already such friends, n'est-ce pas?"

"Uh, yeah!" Clay avouched as lightly as he could. "I'd say we're a couple o' newborn calves out on the same romp."

"HAH. Magnifique! Come with me, s'il vous pla?t." With a perky nod she reached out and led the two boys down the stairs.

When they arrived at a snug middle row, the French usher motioned the boys to the closest available pair of seats - right at their end by the stairway. They silently marched to position; Clay rotated around and flumped into his chair, while Omi crawled into his. Once the monk had finished situating himself, the cowboy put his hat back over his straw-hued hair and tipped it to the usher. She in turn gave him a thumbs-up and tapped back up the stairs on her heels.

Omi watched her leave. "She was pleasant," he determined. "Our peers would do well to learn resemblant manners."

"Amen," went Clay.

The duo was just about to direct their attention to the center of the stadium. However, without warning they heard the usher lady tear a shout. They darted their eyes to her - across the stairs and up a higher row of seats. There, she had arched herself at a group of gender-mixed Middle Eastern students who were wearing tunics, and who also appeared to be as close as family.

"H?! Le klatch of you were ordered to spread out!" the French woman screeched. She pointed with a talon. "You, skip over a few seats. You, vous are coming with me to the other side of the stadium! GET GOING, ESP?CE D'ANDOUILLES! CHOP-CHOP!"

In absolute fear the Middle Easterners obeyed her and split to the new locations she had pinned for them. Clay and Omi were unnerved by the scene.

"Sweet barbecue sauce on a steak. That's a modern female?" Clay was addedly shocked by her betrayal of muliebrity.

"Why were those students separated?" Omi had to ask. "They looked so happy together."

He twined one hand with the other as if in prayer for the Middle Easterners' well-being. But that's when the strange rustling of feathers opportunely approached him.

"Because you gotta be free, buddha bud!"

The bald child turned his head a smidge, before meeting the beaked face of a googly-eyed school mascot who was now examining his soul. He let out a scream and hit the back of his seat.

"Ee-YAAAH!"

"Kid?" The man in the bald eagle suit raised a wing. "KID! Calm down! I'm just a peppy bird of prey who wants to offer you some complimentary snacks! Sheesh!"

Sure enough, yoked around his neck was a concession tray he had cradled. It was laden with shish kabobs, cans of soda and bags of chips that came in a variety of flavors. While not there at the stadium for a game per se, the mascot wore a jersey flaunting Small World's school colors: blue and green.

Omi remained glued to his seat's back, clinging it tightly. "Pardon me mister - whaddid you insinuate by 'gotta be free'?" questioned Clay regarding the mascot's unsolicited slogan. "Far as I'm concerned we're already free as canaries. America's the freest country on the face o' this earth." He placed his hand on his heart to underline the statement.

"Hm. Glad you're honoring the ol' US of A like a true patriot. Almost brings a tear to my eye." The eagle mascot wiped his wing under one googly eyeball; his words, however, were thorned with mockery.

"Well..." Ignorant to the mascot's sarcasm, Clay jutted a finger. "Most of that honor belongs to Texas."

As though his pep energy had deflated out of him, the mascot slouched at Clay and exhausted a sigh. "C'mon. Is Texas all you cowboys are capable of thinking about? Here's a question junior: can you name three of the other forty-nine states?"

"Sure. There's New York, which is where Small World's at, and there's... umm..." Clay scratched his chin. He became disquieted by his apparent lack of interstate education. "Oh. Uhhh, heh. I may need a map to jog my wit."

(Was this guy serious right now.)

"Tsk-tsk." The mascot shook his feathered head. "This is exactly why we're trying to scatter these cliques. Otherwise they can't see out their bubble." He spanned one wing to the crowd of successfully randomized students. "Listen, we've got this senior, the Administrator of Intertonal Affairs from the Student Diversity Management Bureau, whose prime job is to resolve conflicts 'across the spectrum.' A gal you never want catching you break the school rules."

Clay got uptight, which baited the man to enclose on him sadistically. "Here's a secret," he pecked. "She announced at the opening council assembly that you freshmen have to quit being so sentimental about your heritage, because all it's doing is weighing you down with extra baggage. Remember, the ONLY way to reach your potential is to free yourself from your past. That's the future; better get used to it!" On that chirpy note, he plucked one of the meat sticks from his concession tray and offered it to the antiquated, embittered cowboy. "Care for a kabob?"

After two sniffs of the skewered morsels, Clay wrinkled his nose. "That ain't real meat. Much obliged, but I'll pass." He reclined in his seat and looked the other way.

The mascot next offered the kabob to Omi. "You kid?"

He jangled it enticingly. Omi unglued himself from the back of his seat, and, chary as could be, took it with both hands. "Thank you, although I do not wish to spoil my lunch," he remarked.

"We'll wait for the homesickness to set in." With his mission completed, the sinister eagle mascot waddled on, leaving the monk and cowboy alone. Omi bit off a vegetated meat chunk and chewed, kicking his feet as dissonant mechanical noises began to whir in the background. By extension, the lighting in the Unistadium began to dim. Clay peered up, realizing that the glass dome above them had waxed gray and opaque, in effect darkening the environment, such that the only remnant light was of the electrical type. White blue glowed from the projector in the stadium's center, and naturally, the eyes of the new students were drawn to it.

The projector's vent panels suddenly burst with the intensity of a supernova, and a three-dimensioned global hologram matching the diameter of the stadium's floor enlarged midspace for the students to behold.

"WELCOME EVERYONE," echoed a nebulous, digitized, piping female voice. "FROM UKRAINE, TOGO, ONTARIO... FROM PERU, ICELAND, AND AFGHANISTAN... WELCOME, TO SMALL WORLD ACADEMY. WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY WITH US AS YOU GROW INTO BOLD, COST-EFFECTIVE ADULTS. BY PROVIDING YOU WITH CUTTING-EDGE LEARNING TOOLS, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO..."

The globe hologram rotated high-definition visuals over its surface.

"A FLEXIBLE AND DIVERSIFIED FACULTY..." It rolled camera footage of multiethnic teachers lining up next to each other in front of the courtyard's global fountain. The teachers smiled and waved at the camera by compulsion.

"A TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR LIBRARY WITH SUPPLEMENTARY NET DATABASES CONVENIENTLY ACCESSIBLE..." Next it charted the labyrinthine interior of the Small World library; the shelves upon shelves of books spiraled into whirlpool formations.

"PROGRAMS THAT WILL CHALLENGE YOU TO OPTIMIZE YOUR STAMINA AND TIME MANAGEMENT SKILLS..." It flourished heaps of homework and exam sheets falling from the sky like confetti.

"AND A STUDENT BODY TO SUPPORT YOU AS YOU CLIMB THE LADDER OF SUCCESS..." It wheeled a generic drawing of diverse teenagers encircling the Earth.

"SMALL WORLD WILL BE THE KEY THAT UNLOCKS YOUR DOOR TO THE GLOBAL CORPORATE STAGE. WITH ITS COMPREHENSIVE PEDAGOGY AT YOUR DISPOSAL, WE URGE YOU TO AIM HIGH, EMBRACE YOUR AMBITIONS, AND ABOVE ALL, NEVER LOOK BACK!"

As Clay heard this, he gulped, filled with dread by the decree.

The hologram displayed the prompt: "CHEER FOR SWA SCHOOL SPIRIT," as the Unistadium's invisible surround speakers began quaking electronic dance beats. Hundreds of students responded by cheering their blocks off.

Ever-sensitive to decibels, Omi dropped his kabob and slapped his hands over his ears. "This noise is TRULY bothersome! Ow. My head."

When the music equilibrated and the pandemonium sedimented, the hologram's voice continued.

"NOW THAT WE AT SWA PLEDGE TO MOLD YOU INTO THE SUPERHUMAN HIRELINGS YOU WERE DESTINED TO BE, LET'S DISCUSS WHAT THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA HAS ACCOMPLISHED FOR US AS A WHOLE. AFTER DEFEATING THE EVIL EMPIRE OF GERMANY IN THE FINAL WAR..."

An illustration video on the hologram played, chalking how the United States army of yesteryear assailed and destroyed a strongly bolstered German fortress.

"AMERICA BECAME THE WORLD'S NUMBER ONE PEACEDEALER - TITLE OFF RECORD."

The drawing of a US tank fired a missile into the fortress, blowing it to smithereens.

"ITS CHIEF PETROBANKING EXECUTIVES HAVE WORKED WITHOUT PTO TO BRING LIFE-SAVING PROSPECTS TO EVERY NATION, IN THE END UNITING US THROUGH THE USE OF AN ELEGANTLY POWERFUL OIL SYSTEM." The image of an oil drop with a smiley face blipped over the war doodles. "YOU ARE ALL A PART OF IT, AND IT'S YOUR JOB AS EARTH'S PEACETIME GENERATION TO ENSURE THE SYSTEM THRIVES AS WE CREATE A REALM VOID OF HARDSHIP TOGETHER! NOW, LET ME HEAR YOU SAY: 'THE MONEY WE MOVE WILL SAVE THE WORLD! UTOPIA BELONGS TO US'!"

Another prompt was displayed under the first, with the single word "UTOPIA." Many students yelled, "THE MONEY WE MOVE WILL SAVE THE WORLD! UTOPIA BELONGS TO US!" as they pumped their fists.

"THAT'S IT!" encouraged the voice. "SCREAM 'UTOPIA BELONGS TO US' TO THE FARTHEST REACHES OF THE GLOBE!"

"UTOPIA BELONGS TO US!"

"BLAST THROUGH THE BORDERS! WHAT BELONGS TO US?"

"UTOPIA!"

So far, the Orientation Rally was achieving its goal seamlessly.

Amid the deafening crowd, Omi grimaced and twisted a pinky in one ear. Clay paid him mind. "Ya okay?" He dug into his pocket, and presented the monk a couple of earplugs. "I got these."

"YOU GUYS ARE GLOBAL SUFFERING'S BANE!" honeyed the voice. "IT'S TRICKLE-DOWN ECONOMICS! EARN, SPEND, AND BE THE ULTIMATE ENGINES FOR LIFE ON THE PLANET! BE HEROES!" And the electronic dance music beat fiercer.

With all this pepping going on, it was quite the change of scenario when a lone lad - specifically, a British lad wearing a fleece sweater - rose from his seat and crossed his arms in order to be conceded the platform. "Excuse me," he said, his deeper voice resonating throughout the stadium via the acoustics. "Ahem. Could I have a word of my own, please?"

The student cheers died down, killing the school spirit buzz. Once an adequate level of silence had roosted, the boy imparted unto the hologram a subdued refutation.

"Whether you're just an automated voice or not, are you seriously here to dictate that we owe America our entire livelihood? That we should each pay a debt by enslaving ourselves to its petrocorporate in exchange for kudos from Mother Earth? How, is this any different from surrendering to Germany and its previous machinations to convert the world into a rigid dogsbody mill?"

Sobriety heavied the air of the Unistadium like a London fog. At an intermission, the British teen surveyed the surrounding crowd. "Neat. Can anyone else answer to this glut of sanctimonious grandstanding we just flattered?"

The silence endured, growing evermore ominous. But soon (and rather bizarrely), a tunnel opened inside the holographic projector. Up from it sprang the silhouette of an unidentified flying object. Within the translucent globe, the object sprouted a pair of wings and flapped them. It launched forth with one flap and penetrated the hologram's surface. Rippling through the hologram's giant-lettered cheer prompts, it emerged into the open above the Unistadium's crowd, revealing itself as a robotic bird... and the true hostess of the rally.

"You ask a lot of questions, huh?" the bird giggled, her voice more personal without surround sound enhancement. She shined with reflective aluminum, and her beaked head was a pale cyan composed of plexiglass, bald as an eagle's. "Fine. I can ask questions too!"

Neither Omi nor Clay were, for lack of perspective, expecting this.

The Small World eagle mascot distributing concessions to the students halted along the stairs and rustled around. He waved his wing to the fellow avian levitating in the air. "Morning boss!" he squawked.

The robot bird illuminated her head to cast an interrogation light on the now-startled Brit. "Who was it that, after winning the Dark War against Germany, convinced the nations to cease weapon production and disband their armies so Earth could sustain our era of peace?"

Omi's expression livened as he absorbed this info.

The robot impended toward the Brit. "Who was it that introduced the oil standard to the world's poorest communities so they had hope for a better tomorrow? Who was it... that crushed Germany's skin metric so that people of every tone could compete on the international job market?"

Unable to rebut, the lad merely shrank back, and spoke to her with the calm anxiety only a bona fide Brit could pull off. "...What exactly are you?"

Clay was agape, wondering the very same thing.

"I'm the Monitor Eagle. But to conserve deciseconds I go by my acronym, ME." The robot giggled again. "I'm the artificial intelligence that runs this school. And I just gave you your first history lesson. You're welcome!"

From his seat, Omi leaned to Clay with the utmost discretion. "Psst. What is an 'artificial' intelligence?"

Clay whispered back a simple yet intuitive response. "It's a type o' computer I think."

The Brit looked sad from ire confusion. "An AI? Really? A bloody AI is assuming the role of Small World's headmistress?"

"Of course!" ME exclaimed. "A human doesn't have the bytes needed to manage progressive data on thousands of students. And since Small World was conceived as the benchmark for efficiency in education, an AI specializing in adolescent brain development would be optimal." She slit her cyan eyes. "What's wrong with that?"

"Hmph. Nothing if you're pragmatic. Carry on then." The young lad sat down to let the rally resurrect from the dead, but he kept his arms crossed to convey his lingering skepticism.

ME switched off her headlight, easing the tension that the Brit's critique had begotten. However, the robot also wanted to reassure those intimidated by her unfamiliar presence. "If you're by any account suspicious of AI units, there's really no reason to be... especially not in this millennium!" She flapped up and began orbiting the global hologram, whose HD prompts had gone to static. "As for myself, I was designed to evaluate the cerebral tempering of students as they advance through Small World's G.L.O.B.E. curriculum, whether the students are black, white, yellow - you name it!"

Omi gasped at the third color mentioned. He shook Clay's arm excitedly. "Did you hear her?" he told the underwhelmed cowboy. "I am yellow!"

"This android lets me interact with you guys individually, but the 'real' me lives inside the school's mainframe." ME swiveled her head to the hologram and flashed her eyes at it. It responded to her directive by unveiling the womb of a computer hub, with a glowing pink orb fixture on the ceiling and tentacle wires linked to server racks that padded the chrome walls. "See that room? I made it a restricted zone after an incident, but every other rule at this school is drafted and enforced by the student councils' administrators. Trust me, I'm WAY more fun than them." ME broke from her orbit and round-tripped back to the young crowd. "I'll prove it! C'mon, SCREAM!"

She flashed her eyes to up the volume of the stadium's quaking music as she started performing a series of aerial acrobatics. In addition, her eyes flashed at the hologram once more, compelling it to flare blue and green and terraform into a glittery, pirouetting planet.

"Utopia's in the palm of our hands, SWA! We're the ones who can make it reality! Leave the rest of the schools to rot with the old world that would rather crawl on the ground than fly! We're the freest, bravest, and the greatest! Home of the Earthlings and FUTURE OF EARTH!"

The Unistadium thundered with a thousand student roars. United by vainglory, nearly everyone jumped up and started dancing to the music. Even Omi, who had stayed seated, began to get jiggy with it, yet he first stopped to take Clay's plugs from him and stick them in his ears so he could enjoy himself while submerged in the noise. The monk blissfully moved his upper body as Clay huffed, his school spirit all but absent.

The Monitor Eagle recovered from a high-end flip and hovered in place to gauge her effect on the students who'd attended. She scanned each of them face by face, tone by tone, her optical sensors working to collect the data she sought. However, when her sensors passed Omi by, she froze to zoom in on him. As she inspected his joyful countenance, his dimensions, and his klutzy dance patterns, text scrolled across her HUD.

ALERT. HUMAN CLASSIFICATION UNKNOWN. CLOTHING IS TYPICALLY WORN WITHIN ASCETIC COMMUNITIES THAT TO THIS DATE REMAIN ENCLAVED TO MOUNTAINOUS REGIONS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD. FURTHER RESEARCH RECOMMENDED.

"Hmm." ME blinked the text out of her robotic eyes. "What a unique specimen. I'll definitely be monitoring you!" Given her self-task, she flapped off with the vigor of a busybody to scan some more students.


As there were no housing divisions beyond gender, Small World's cafeteria resided in the junction coupling the boys' wing, girls' wing, and the hallways branching to many, many classrooms. The cafeteria approximated the scope of the courtyard outside, and its lunch lines wove around columns and the cafeteria's center kitchen, which served dishes from virtually every land imaginable.

Among a regiment of famished students, the cowboy and monk slid their food trays along a line. At one section they stopped, where Clay lifted Omi so he could select from the multiculinary feeding trough.

"Ooh. That looks appetizing, and that, and that..." Omi pointed at various spreads. "But..." In an instant the monk redacted. "No. I must practice what my masters taught me and survive on the bare minimum. ...I will try that and that." He decidedly pointed to a pan of meager peas, then to another of bland meatloaf. Stumped by Omi's choices, Clay nonetheless quietly serviced him by taking the selection utensils, picking the food, and plumping said food onto Omi's tray. Quiet he remained as he set the tyke down so he could grab his own choice - steak - with a pair of tongs. Below, the monk watched him prepare a heap of substantive goodness.

As Clay moved further along, Omi stood remote, rotating his head on a whim to observe the cafeteria's table arrangements, where no adult superintendents, or angry French ladies, were present. He was estranged in noticing that while a few differently toned-and-dressed kids were sitting together, most had regressed to their same-groups, the result of a supposedly failed rally experiment. His eyebrows sank, but his friend called for him quickly.

"Omi, get along! I'm pickin' out more grub yonder!"

The child's brows went into liftoff as he recentered on the Texan. "Okay!" he called back, holding a palm by his mouth. "I shall be joining you shortly!" He took a final glance at the dining students, then slid his tray on down the line.

After ponying up their lunch money, at one small table standing apart from the rest near the edge of the cafeteria (i.e. far away from the noisome noisiness of their peers), the monk and the cowboy ate, sitting across from each other.

"So whadjoo think of the rally, Omi?" Clay sawed at the gargantuan porterhouse slathered on his tray with a fork and knife. "Crashed bangin' as a lightning storm didn'it?"

"Yes, it was, how shall I say..." Omi concentrated from his food tray into the distance. "Lively. But not as informative as I had desired."

"You don't think it was all hootin' and hollerin', do ya?" Clay wavered. "I sat on what that genteel feller said - who spoke to the flyin' robot? Now I wanna believe America's got our interests at heart, but see... Germany tried forgin' its own utopia on earth too, and lookit how it turned evil and almost conquered the whole world."

Omi picked up a juice box from his tray and sipped out of it.

"I hope America never kowtows to tyrants the same way. Texas is off the table." Clay paused his steak-cutting when he realized Omi's expression was blank. "Those plugs still in yer ears partner?"

The child removed the juice box's straw from his mouth. He reached into his left ear and popped an earplug out. "One of them. I am not familiar enough with world politics to comment," he confessed. "What has the country of Germany done that is so terrible?"

"Why, it kept folks like you from havin' as equal rights as the lighter-toned, fer starters." Clay counted on his fingers. "It brainwashed people, invented weapons of mass destruction, rose an army of Frankensteins who near annihilated anyone in their range. ...Don't tell me ya haven't learned about what happened durin' the Dark War."

"I rue that I was not yet exposed to such important facts." Omi twiddled with his straw. "Everything I have read so far in America has involved dictionaries, kitchenware, trucks, and a most popular genre of news referred to as 'celebrity gossip.' Still, I am without doubts that Small World Academy will teach me much more."

"That's why it was built." The cowboy bit a piece of porterhouse from his fork. "Mm," he faded into another subject between chews, "admirable you ain't the sort to need any outer motivation to learn like the other boarders 'round."

"Hm?" Omi lifted a spoonful of peas to his mouth.

"There's a lot more goin' on than the school's warp and woof." Steadfast on his food, Clay pointed to all the bright electronic placards wrapping the columns throughout the cafeteria. Chewing, Omi studied the myriad of them with fervor. The placards advertised competitions, and little else, ranging from chess, spelling, math, to art, cooking, and economic debate.

"Those activities... they are... contests," Omi ascertained. "Why are they not simply lessons?"

"It's what I said when I did." Clay stuck his finger on the table. "Motivation."

The monk felt that his cowboy friend would not elaborate, even if asked, so he withdrew from any further inquiries (momentarily). Unsatisfied with the discussion, he hummed as he picked up his fork so he could eat his meatloaf. After spearing out a shriveled lump and chomping, his eyes bugged. Obstructed, he began vocalizing urgently through his mouth. He was now awestricken at something... or rather someone.

Out of benign curiosity, Clay cranked his head in the direction Omi was bugging, his own mouth full like a squirrel's. The duo spied a certain tan kid walking along the fringe of the cafeteria. Hand in one pocket, headphones on the ears, and a gym bag hanging from one shoulder, he moseyed over to a vending machine plugged against the wall. As soon as he stopped in front of it, he jostled his shirt sleeve until a roll of dollar bills slipped into his grasp. He unrolled two and finessed them into the machine's dollar slot.

Omi finally swallowed. "...It... it is him!" blurted he.

"Who?" A speck of meat flew from Clay's gob.

"HIM! He instructed me on how to retrieve money from my Small World bank account using a mysterious machine!"

Clay revolved to the monk, not too enthused by that fact. "...You mean the ATM," he said flatly.

"Yes, that. Now, I must steer him to my location." The short child decided he would stand up tall on his chair and wave at the stranger. "HI - "

But he was interrupted when Clay clattered his porterhouse silverware, lunged over the table and clamped a hand on his mouth. The Texan peeked over his outstretched arm at the latino, whose rap-blaring headphones kept him oblivious to Omi as he bobbed his head and searched for an item to select.

When Omi's mouth was uncovered, the monk rigidified, totally blindsided. "What?"

"Not smart." Clay receded to his chair. "From where I am, he looks like trouble."

"Trouble? How can you sense it?" Omi sincerely wanted to know. He plopped back down.

"Er... well uh..." The cowboy peeped around shyly. He sloped in to whisper what amounted to an excuse for his odd behavior. "I don't wanna sound backward, it's just... he ain't dignified. What I'm tryin' to say is... by the way he's into his tunes and the loose garb he has on... he don't respect nobody."

"You can assess a person's character by their outer appearance?" Omi was intrigued instead of skeptical. "That is extraordinary!"

"It's a hunch," Clay emphasized. He flipped back to the stranger. "Let's give him a wide berth and mind our beeswax, 'kay?"

Omi, too, returned to the stranger. The vending machine droned and an object tumbled from the glass display. The monk and the cowboy watched as the tan teen bent down and pulled a water bottle out of the machine's delivery bin, along with some change from the coin dispenser. Then, when he had adjusted his sleeve, their eyes tracked him as he walked toward the closest cafeteria exit.

Unpredictably, he halted midway between the exit and vending machine to face on his right a huge placard overlaying the wall. The placard's caption read: "Varsity Basketball Tryout! Now in Session at the Space Court," and it looped an animation of a ball orbiting, what other than, a basket.

Exhaling through his nose, the stranger took his music player out of his pocket and pressed a button to turn it off. He freed his headphones from his ears and tucked both them and the player in his gym bag. Unscrewing the cap from his water bottle, he splashed a little water into his palm and skimmed it through his hair spikes.

Omi was most befuddled. "What is he doing? ...Oop." He fastened his hands over his mouth so Clay wouldn't censor him. The stranger caught the faintest sound of a question and looked over his shoulder with his brow elevated.

"Wastin' pure water I reckon," whispered Clay. Such was as he perceived it.

The stranger looked over his other shoulder. Circumspect, he rescrewed the cap on the bottle and cached the bottle in his bag, figuring the time was ripe to vamoose. He hurried on past the placard advertisement and down the exiting hallway.

"Welp, there he goes. Phew." Clay was relieved. "Now where were we? ...Oh yeah, what motivates a person. If ya ask me, competin' for the sake of greed, status er clout, is about as worthwhile as storin' milk on a plateau at a desert's noon. Too bad it's a fix among hard-workin' business folk."

Already disconnected from the cowpoke's thought train, Omi stared at the placard that had wrested the stranger's attention. "...Do you suppose the guy was going to that event?" He pointed with his fork.

"Huh?" Clay got an eyeful of the basketball ad. "...Ohh, one o' those. Yeah, I'd be willin' to gamble. Sports're all the rage these days." He revisited his porterhouse, which had been too long neglected.

"Oooo..." Omi cupped a hand under his cheek. "I am curious as to why it is attracting him. Maybe he would be so generous as to show me what this 'basketballing' entails. ...Please let me excuse myself, if you would Clay." Forthwith, the unrelenting monk boy scooted off his chair - leaving his tray of peas and meatloaf cold - and pitter-pattered toward the exit to tag the stranger to his destination.

Clay, however, did not appreciate the abandonment. "Omi!" He shot up in alarm. "Ain'tchoo gonna finish yer lunch?!"

Awaiting a response that never would come, the cowboy sluggishly removed his hat and squashed it on the table. "Dear Lord help us."


There was nil but quiet outside the doors of the Space Court. At first it seemed no action was to be had anywhere in the vicinity. That is, until a whistle blew. The ensuing shouts of guys and squeaking of shoes could be heard across the hallways. Within the court's double door, pairs of feet were moving, not by way of a dance, but to eclipse the other in a bout that tested fitness, hand-eye coordination and reflexes.

On the bleachers circling a dark, round, outer space-themed arena with two exits and a cubed scoreboard, below a black ceiling twinkling with lights and a pixelated marquee scrolling: "GO EARTHLINGS!" under the arena's compassing griprail, there sat an assortment of students spectating the basketball tryout. A proportionate number of them girls, they cackled together while the male contestants on the player bench shading their gym bags waited for a turn to strut their stuff. There was no coach, only a referee, who appeared a tad frail for this job, as his black-and-white striped shirt oversized him and his lanky knees bent inward. The basketball hoops on either end of the court were attached to booms mounted from the ceiling's truss structure. Instantaneously, a ball rebounded off one of the rims, jiggling it.

Without a care the ball sailed to the floor, and two boys frenzied after it. At a court's end beyond the players, there came into view Omi, who had lost track of the stranger, and at his flank, Clay. They both cautiously set foot inside as the double door they opened shut behind them with an echo. When he was done surveying the interior, Clay pointed in one direction, and the duo slinked to the section of bleachers where the other students had congregated.

As the cowboy and monk climbed the stairs to a vacant top row, the referee blew the whistle from his lanyard twice, and an agitated voice echoed on the "battlefield."

"HEY MAN, NO TRAVELING! Turnover!"

"I do not see my astute friend," commented Omi behind Clay as he switched from the stairs to the seat planks. "He might not've shown. Let's just rubberneck the goin's-on for a spell," Clay recommended as they found a spot and planted their haunches.

Right as they had, the whoosh of the ball through a basket resounded, and the students below them clapped. Apparently one of two players had just gotten his derrière kicked. But by whom?

The losing tryout contestant - a white American kid with shorts a-sagging and a crooked cap - rubbed a thigh that was sore and dragged his feet off the court in humiliation.

"That's whatchoo get for tryin' to wig where you can't, boy!" The view panned over to a toughened black teen spinning the ball on his fingertip. He wore a midnight blue drawstring hoodie with an angel wing embroidered, white khaki shorts, and blood red sneakers. His hair was intricate - fade-cut and striped, with a curved and notched flattop. He gave the ball a toss and let it slap into the palm of his hand. "Drop-in from Poserville."

As he wedged the basketball under his arm to wipe his nose, the referee nodded and motioned for the next candidate. A boy sporting matted hair, copious acne and tawny skin hopped from the bench and shed his shirt. As he entered the fray of the court, the spectating students hunkered to watch the next match.

"Where ya from, beef patty?" the black kid snarked. His challenger, innocent as he was, did not fling a comeback. Instead, he modestly nodded his head upward, saying in English, "Nice to meet you," and then, in Tagalog, "Galingan mo!"

"...Excuse me?!" The black kid sounded offended for some reason.

The referee fidgeted the ball from him and skittered on to the midcourt line. After the two players moved to each his own side of the line to face each other, the referee blew his whistle and jumped the ball in the air to begin round one.

Whoever tapped the ball first had done it loud. The referee backed up and scurried along the sideline as the players dashed across the court. Observing the match as nigh as he could from a distance, Omi found himself becoming confused. He peered over and saw that Clay was fanning his mug with his hat, as if the players' exertion were reaching him. The child decided to lean frontward to a laughing, bespectacled black girl who was sitting one row below among her friends.

He poked the back of her head. "Pardon - I do not intend to be a bother, but could you explain to me what is happening?" he queried as the two ballers ran around like maniacs. "What is it they are seeking to accomplish?"

Without even directing her eyes to the yellow boy, the black girl graciously provided him an answer. "The basketball team's recruiting an eleventh player," she elucidated. "They're pitting the captain one-on-one against each of these lovely guys. Whoever beats him by scoring two out of three's IN. He's the team's best so it's tense!"

Omi was aware of who'd won the previous match. "Is the captain that guy - the one in the coat?" He pointed to the hoodied kid who was currently jading his adversary.

"Yup, that's Z'Ka." The girl had a dreamy glint in her eye. "He's super chill, and his ball skills are HOT."

Omi became more confused. "...That sounds most contradicting."

He repositioned himself next to a catatonic Clay. Then, he poked the cowboy's arm, which made him tilt his head over lethargically. "Please Clay," implored the monk, "explain to me what the purpose of this ball-basketing is. Are they training for an army? If so, where is the war? The mechanical bird in charge of the school mentioned to us there are no wars; the world is at peace. Was she incorrect?" The Texan grunted as he hoisted his body to clamp his hat on his head. "Is she not apprehensive to what is occurring at this event? Should we prepare ourselves for an invasion?"

"EASY partner. There ain't nothin' to worry about." Clay fanned a hand to cool Omi's jets. "Basketball's just a sport. A GAME."

"It is a game?" Thanks to that clarification Omi was calmed, but still perplexed. "Then why is it so... so..."

"Big?" Clay finished for him.

"Yes. Why does a game require a big stage if it were not meant to decide the fate of a country, such as for America?"

They watched the Filipino kid puff his cheeks with ferocity as he dribbled the ball toward his basket, only to have Z'Ka skid in his path.

"You're askin' the wrong cattle driver," Clay admitted. "But I've heard jocks spin that it's for if ya wanna learn, what's the word? 'Synergy'? Honestly, if I were them, I'd choose a more useful pastime."

Omi refocused on the match, having naught to do but ponder.

At one offmark section of the bottom bleachers near a pile of gym bags, a posse of nine black guys in street clothes rooted Z'Ka on as he drove the ball he'd stolen to his basket.

"GO Z!"

"Wipe the floor with that rook!"

The Filipino quickened to Z'Ka's left and pounced at him for a revenge steal. However, Z'Ka stopped on the free-throw line and hitched the ball up, letting him fumble out ahead, missing his target. The Filipino retried repeatedly, but Z'Ka kept zigzag-dribbling out of his reach.

"Hop lil' toad!" Z'Ka laughed as his opponent struggled to get close. "Whoop!" He then made an evasive sweep from the sap and blasted past him. He met his basket, leaped, and pocketed the ball impeccably. Applause resounded from the bleachers.

Panting, the shirtless contestant approached the victor of that round with a humble stride. "Ah," he breathed. "You are fast!"

The smug look that was on Z'Ka's face instantly vanished. He caught the ball as it bounced from the floor. An unhinged glare beamed from his eyes through the Filipino's very soul. "Dontchoo vex me with the schmooze," he warned. "Get ready for round two." He chucked it back to the ref.

The players rejoined at the court's midline and waited until the ball jumped. This time, the shirtless Filipino got a hold of it before Z'Ka and dribbled it to his hoop. He was just about to aim and shoot, but he delayed when he positioned his feet; and, as the ball began to leave his hands, Z'Ka threshed into his crosshairs, knocking it from under his nose and seizing control. From there, Z'Ka dribbled over to his hoop and nailed the shot before the Filipino could even hustle up.

Remarkably, the hoodie-cocooned teen had won two out of three without breaking a sweat. The shirtless teen sank to his knees with his skin glistening, his chest heaving. He heard Z'Ka's steps draw near... and was then whipped in his acne'd face by his own shirt, which Z'Ka had so caringly thrown at him.

"First day's headline: you been schooled by the Death Angel." Z'Ka smirked in self-satisfaction. "There's your tee; dry yourself off."

The Filipino boy lowered the shirt and quailed at Z'Ka's breach of decency. He moved his eyes over to the referee, expecting a technical to be called post-match, but the ref was too busy whistling (and shining his whistle) to notice a thing.

While the other spectators jeered at the Pacific Asian, Omi couldn't help but cringe. "Oh," he mumbled, "I feel bad for that guy."

Clay, on the contrary, shook his head callously at the young man. "He got himself in the bullpen."

Prouder than a peacock, Z'Ka skirted the passive referee toward the remaining tryout contestants with a walk that could kill. "Who's next?" he asked.

The contestants were sitting on the bench, hollowed-out and defunct husks.

"Mmm." Z'Ka squatted to the floor like a predator eyeing its prey. "Mamas didn't raise no soft serves," he cooed to them darkly.

There were brief glimpses between candidates to see who would volunteer. As it turned out though, none of these boys felt confident enough to spar with this kid after he'd demolished his latest victim.

The spectators on the upper bleachers chatted away, content with Z'Ka's dominance of the court. Z'Ka's black friends on the bottom bleachers, save for one, snickered haughtily, as if darker skin tone were a factor. Still squatting, Z'Ka impatiently twitched a finger that dangled over one knee. "Sheee-oo, this is pathetic," he ruled. "The entire tryout idea was a mistake from the start."

"Don't count on it!" suddenly echoed a voice from beyond.

Z'Ka's brows furrowed, but he did not turn to the sound. Yet. Through the doorless court entrance opposite to the entrance Omi and Clay had used, there ventured into the arena via echoing steps the tan stranger, carrying his gym bag along with his own basketball. Up at the bleachers, Omi opened his smiling mouth, and Clay braced his seat.

Finally Z'Ka swung his head. "Huh? You wanna be an Earthling proper? There's a roster blank ya needed to fill with us five hours ago. Barred entry for the lobotomized."

"Yeah, about that..." The stranger thumbed his nose somewhere. "Impromptu's more my style."

Incited, Z'Ka stood and faced the new challenger head-on. Looking him over in a cursory manner, he pouted. "So... what? You one o' them browns from lower America wearin' a two-layer and cheap cargos to stay warm?"

Unaffected, the stranger chose to humor the black hotshot. He chuckled as he flicked his ball and balanced it on his wrist. "I'm sorry, brown? I'd actually use the term 'vanilla mocha soufflé.'"

"...Riiight." Z'Ka shaped his hand into a phone and held it to his ear. "Mexico rang - they want their taco stand attendant José shipped back across the border at P.O. Box Skeezy Incorporated."

"The name's Raimundo," corrected the stranger, "and I'm from Rio. Isn't it obvious? You can tell by the looks." Leveling his ball beneath his face, the Brazilian smiled teasingly and bobbed his brows. A clan of girls sitting on one row of the bleachers gasped at the charisma that was on parade, and giggled themselves senseless.

Z'Ka scowled as Raimundo ramped past him - and the "legit" tryout contestants - toward his nine black friends, who appeared somewhat standoffish. He anchored his gym bag a sensible gap from theirs. "Coé!" he greeted casually. "What's up."

"Yeah... uhh. 'Sup," one of them obliged sans a smile. "We're the Earthlings." (But an all-black team.) "You wanna join us, you gotta beat our main boss Z."

The others nodded real stern.

Raimundo was soon grabbed by the arm and pulled aside. Z'Ka released him and spoke to him plain. "Me and my team are from Harlem," he informed. "We've lived this game since day numero uno," he jammed his finger thrice against Raimundo's shoulder, "so we ain't interested in a Brazilian soccer boy who's got dreams of shootin' the hoop when all he produces is fancy footwork."

"Who told you I played soccer?" Raimundo sassed.

"Don't jerk me around man - EVERY Brazilian plays soccer." Z'Ka primped his hood as he sauntered from him. "And that's the only sport you people are worth for, too."

The bleacher spectators laughed in cahoots with the Harlemite, but it reeked of artificiality. Amid the laughs, Omi and Clay shared bewildered glances, remiss as to what on earth was so hilarious.

To buck Z'Ka's stereotyping, a rhythm of bounces dissolved the mirth and resounded throughout space. The Harlem kid lurched back to Raimundo as the Brazilian dribbled his ball to the midcourt. Upon reaching it, he held the ball and gleaned at the basket that hung lengths away. He concentrated, slouched his shoulders, and hunched them as he thrust it from his hands. It soared on an arc, then swished right through the hoop. The spectators were lobbed completely off guard.

One of the Harlem cat Earthlings, contemptuously so, reported to his teammates, "Grass fairy made a half-court shot!"

The ball bounced into the ether. Raimundo shifted to Z'Ka. He placed a hand firmly on his hip. "You were saying?"

Z'Ka snorted. He tucked his hands into his muff pocket, not fazed in the slightest. "Okay, ya lucked out," he rationalized. "We'll see how you fare against another human being, minus the basket."

"Yeah well, unlike you, I'm not surrounding myself with a bunch of groupies to win." Raimundo nudged with his head to indicate all the kids on the bleachers who'd partaken in Z'Ka's diss.

At that, Z'Ka fluttered his nose. "BOY, that nerve's gonna be your funeral toll."

(Un)friendly trash talk done for the moment, the rivaling pair converged at the midcourt, where the referee quivered into the scene holding a fresh basketball. "L-let's have a clean match you two," he suggested, while the two in question matched stares of death.

He blew the whistle and jumped the ball. Z'Ka leaped to knock it, but Raimundo snatched it first and glided by. Z'Ka barely had time to react; he landed on the floor, revolved to Raimundo's course baring his choppers, and chased after him.

While Raimundo was dribbling the ball fast enough for his hair to gust back, Z'Ka zoomed along and curbed him with harder speed. Initially Raimundo feigned being off balance, but as he swayed the ball where Z'Ka wanted to steal it, he rocked it to the other side and ripped to the basket, leaving Z'Ka strung up on a foot. Raimundo aisled the free-throw lane and shot the ball singlehandedly, after which it sank the net.

The spectators began to clap, but when Z'Ka sent a malcontent glare at them, they put their hands away. Omi himself was clapping like a hypercaffeinated seal. "Oh-hoh yes! I've not the faintest knowledge as to how this game is played," he told Clay, "but I would presume my two-shirted friend is performing splendidly!" In the meantime, Clay gandered at the negative attention Omi was drawing.

Raimundo carted the ball back and tossed it to the ref, but Z'Ka dismissed the Brazilian's skills yet again. "Oldest trick in the book." He tailed him to the midcourt to start the second round.

They faced each other, and the referee held the ball with his whistle in his mouth. Chattering racket amped from the bleachers, now that Z'Ka was occupied. "Better read these lips, carioca," the Harlemite dictated to his foe, such that none else could hear. "I'm done goofin' with you."

Upping the tease-o-meter, Raimundo contorted his mouth. "Huh, that's funny. I didn't realize you were."

He had no chance to bask in his burn once the ball jumped. Z'Ka knocked it with a force that could've ruptured its air out, and Raimundo ran with him.

Shoes squeaking, the two fought toward Z'Ka's basket; Raimundo was on defense, trying to predict Z'Ka's next moves, and Z'Ka was testing windows of opportunity. Sporadic, the Harlem kid dribbled the ball between his legs until he saw the latino cant for a steal. He then confiscated it with one erratic step and threw a bank shot that ricocheted from the backboard into the net. The spectators felt safe enough to clap now.

As Z'Ka trotted after the ball, he crooned at Raimundo, "Newsflash: offense is only half the equation! Heh-haaa!"

Frowning, Raimundo blew some hair that had gotten stuck to his forehead. He ran off, revealing Omi and Clay in the bleachered background. With merely a vague notion of the stakes, Omi nevertheless balled his hands into fists against his chest. "Ooh... I am worried that he is in graaave danger," he said. "Of not winning."

Z'Ka stood at the midcourt with the ball, massaging his neck, his confidence fully restored. "Round three - the tiebreaker." He compressed the poor ball in his grip. "JOS?'S EITHER IN... OR OUT."

"Ugh. You and your jokes should go get a room." Raimundo trudged to his position and crouched. He was beginning to show signs of frustration.

"Relax. You don't wanna lose the game by losin' yours, now." Z'Ka yielded the ball to the ref and bent over with a Cheshire grin forming. "Warmed up yet?" he teased to Raimundo's face.

"Don't soak your hoodie," he retorted.

The whistle blew. The ball floated. Instead of attempting to take it, Raimundo decided to refrain and let Z'Ka take it instead. He had a different strategy in mind this round.

Once Z'Ka nabbed the ball and dribbled, Raimundo impeded his path without losing as much energy outrunning him as before. He spanned his arms, mirroring Z'Ka's every move to deny him an opening. Eventually, Z'Ka grew tired of this ploy and figured he would go long-distance. He tried shooting over the human blockade, but Raimundo extended his hand at a critical moment, disrupting the ball's trajectory. It flew toward the basket, but wound up smacking off the backboard.

Z'Ka snarled. He exploded after the ball, only to see Raimundo catching it on rebound and dribbling it away from him. The soles of Z'Ka's sneakers marked the floor as he squealed on it and boomeranged around, intent on thwarting this South American pest at any cost.

As Raimundo crossed over the midcourt line, Z'Ka manifested on his right. The Harlemite aggressively dove at him to snag the ball, forcing Raimundo to pivot and dribble with his back against the basket, farther than he preferred. As he dribbled the ball low to protect it, Z'Ka spaced backward to regain mobility. Sequentially, Raimundo began rotating to the front, and that's when Z'Ka honed in for the steal.

But Raimundo was no clunk. From behind his foot he bounced the ball high, and he torqued his body up with it. He caught the ball in suspension, whirling past Z'Ka as though he were flying. Which disoriented Z'Ka, causing him to falter, stumble, and collapse on the floor. Debased for the Space Court spectators to witness.

"Ooooooh," they deplored. They were ashamed to see Small World's basketball honcho disengaged.

With Z'Ka out of the picture, Raimundo dribbled readily to the basket, while the eyes of the spectators traced him. At his hoop, he leaped in the air, supercharged with momentum. He executed a slam dunk, almost tearing the rim apart in the process.

And thus, the spectators took a breath of solemnity before fearlessly applauding the new guy for his triumph.

"Whoooa!" Whiting out the noisy cheering, Omi tipped to the edge of his seat. "Did he... win?"

"That he done did partner," Clay drawled.

The referee wiped his brow in sweet relief, and motioned through by sticking up his hand and blowing his whistle for a prolonged period to end the tryout. He pointed his finger at Raimundo - Small World's eleventh Earthling had now been found. In acknowledgment of this, the ineffectual contestants on the lineup bench were depressed. They stood from the bench one by one, and crawled off with their gym bags in a pitiful menagerie.

Incidentally, Raimundo realized something and withdrew from the celebration to retrieve his ball, which had been sitting alone out of baseline court bounds. The spectators began dispersing from the bleachers, while the black Earthlings jogged over to fetch their fallen captain.

Having gotten to his feet with their aid, Z'Ka grunted as he brushed off his shorts. Raimundo approached him and the Earthlings with his ball in tow. "WOO!" Z'Ka howled. "I hate to admit it - I was a bit tone-edged with you Rai. Your hoopin's raw tier." He offered to fistbump. "Welcome to the team."

"Thanks." Guardedly, Rai accepted the invitation, and the fistbump connected.

The Earthlings surrounded him to butter up their novel addition. They commended him, patted his back, and high-fived him plenty. A multitude of the spectator students were dawdling about in court space to socialize, and also to observe the team reception.

Atop the bleachers, a gaggle of four giggling girls agreed on a "plan" and cascaded down the stairs. On the court floor they flocked the Earthlings, who quickly got the memo and ganged way so they could push toward Z'Ka and Rai.

"Hiiiyeee!" they trilled, grinning wide.

Z'Ka corkscrewed to them grinning as well. "Ladies, how's the world treatin' ya?" He spread his arms as if to give them a hug.

"Z," begged the black girl with glasses, "will you please let us talk to the Brazilian? Pretty PRETTY please?"

Hearing this, Raimundo blinked at her in annoyance. "Y'ello. I'm right here."

He was ignored. "Go ahead; our tropical man deserves the love." Z'Ka winked deviously at her and bowed away, opening the floodgate for her and the other young women to swarm their superbly confounded new boy toy.

"You were incredible Raimundo!" felicitated a redheaded girl toting a purse and a flowered bobby pin clipped above one ear. "And how you went and undid Z'Ka with that last move - totally wild! Can I sign your ball?"

"Ehhh..." Rai glanced down at the ball sheltered in his arm, then at her. "Why not?" he replied, smiling. "I can't nix a girl with cute hair." He presented it out of kindness.

The girl giggled and coyly coiled her hair strands around her finger.

Everything seemed to be going just peachy in the company of the opposite sex. Alas, Raimundo had no idea that this redhead was carrying not one, but a whole stash of pens in her purse, and she brandished a rainbow to distribute among her friends.

"Here guys, you can sign it too! A colored pen for each of us!"

"Okay!"

"Swee-hee-heet! Gimme!"

"Do you have one in fuchsia? I want fuchsia!"

"Oi, what - " Rai thought he only gave permission to the redhead. All of them were now taking - or not taking any - turns scribbling on his personal possession.

"So what's Rio de Janeiro like?" inquired a short chunky white girl. "Is it as postcard-picturesque as it is in the travel guides?"

"It's gotta be more beautiful than a postcard, Ena!" chided a Native American girl in a midriff-baring tank top.

"I heard it's dangerous to tour there by yourself," the bespectacled black girl added. "...N-no offense!"

"None taken, but - WHOA, watch the fingers!" Rai had to spin the ball to avoid being marked on.

When they were finished, the girls recapped the pens and handed them to the redhead. "Thank you sooo much!" the redhead exclaimed.

"Yeah, but - "

"EEEEEEE!" The girls squeed in delight and stampeded off, blowing a hurricane in Rai's face as echoes of high-pitched laughter tapered out to the neverlands.

Now that the Brazilian was by himself (fixing his 'do), Omi, who had been abiding on the bleachers patiently enough, registered the clearing and declared unto his chum, "Ah, he is alone at last. Come Clay," he issued a forward wave, "now is our chance!" He pushed his haunch off the seat plank and headed for the stairs.

"Omi, this ain't smart. Period!" Clay outstretched his hand to stop the monk, but to no avail.

On the floor, Rai stored his vandalized basketball in his gym bag. Its surface was muddled with girls' names, tiny hearts... even phone numbers. Afterward, he pulled out the water bottle he'd bought from the cafeteria vending machine. He unscrewed the bottle's cap.

"I could use a vacation from Crazytown." With that, he lifted the bottle and began to drink.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR VICTORY, FRIEND!" pierced a voice. It made the Brazilian do a massive spit take. When he was done wiping his mouth, Rai hesitated to look over his shoulder, but did so anyway, to lock eyes with a familiar yellow boy who was now standing there in his presence.

"...Eh?!" He coughed, twisted around, then veered as Omi beamed up at him blindingly.

"Remember ME?" The monk anticipated a "yes," like a child unwrapping a gift at his birthday party.

"Ummm." Rai shifted his eyes, pretending to forget. "Who are you again?" He gestured with his bottle.

"Do you not recall assisting me with my school shopping? Oh... it is because I did not formally introduce myself. I am Omi. And you are Raimundo, correct?"

"Yeah?"

"It is an honor." Omi reached out with both hands to shake Raimundo's free one. As Clay reluctantly approached, Omi ended the handshake and introduced the Texan. "And this fellow beside me is Clay. He has helped accustom me to Small World Academy as well."

"'Kay. Hi." The carioca wasn't sure how else to greet him.

"Howdy." And the cowboy wasn't sure how to carry the introduction.

"When we saw you in the cafeteria during lunch, Clay said that you are not a very dignified or respectful person," Omi gabbed out of nowhere. "But allow me to remedy that error on his behalf."

"OMI!" Clay threw his hands up at the monk. This introduction just went south.

"...I knew someone was watching me back there," Rai muttered. He folded his arms, hardly entertained by the thought.

The cowpoke rattled his head and frantically waved "NO!" Yet the monk kid persisted. "He was uncertain of your character based on your appearance, but I have come to the conclusion that appearances can be VERY deceiving indeed! At this event it is clear that you demonstrated no less than absolute civility to your basketballing opponent, whom you bested with a grace that is to be found only in the most respecting of people. So please, forgive the prejudice of my other friend and let us associate together."

After that ramble, Raimundo glazed his eyes toward Clay, who returned an awkward stare, then hogtied his hands behind his back.

"...Yo, cowboy," Rai began.

Clay dithered to reply. "...Yeah?"

"If you're gonna talk smack about me, do it up front. Keep it straight."

Delicately, Clay lowered his hat to hide his sheepishness at having gossiped. "Oh, uh, 'course. Heh-heh," he tittered. "For a minute there I could've sworn you were mad - "

"But don't think I'll take it lying down." Rai narrowed his eyes as a warning.

Nervously, Clay cleared his throat before explaining himself. "Let's rewind a little." He rolled two fingers about each other. "This's my first day at a deluxe learnin' corral and I've never been in a hodgepodge this max. Sorry if I still got some... erm... predisposition."

"Eh. No harm no foul." Rai unfolded his arms, seeming to have cooled. He pointed down at Omi with his water bottle in hand. "So what're you doing in league with this breakout from daycare? You and him don't really see eye to eye." Awaiting further explanation, he took a swig.

Omi traded off-kilter glances with Clay. Clay proceeded to expound on the monk's situation the best he could. "Well now that's just it - he's only a lil' feller. He was by his lonesome by the time we started chewin' the fat, an' he needed somebody to look out for him. No one was around to help him integrate. Uh, where'd you say you were from Omi?"

"I do not know where I am from," replied Omi quietly.

Clay clutched his belt in absent-minded agreement. "Ah that's right, it was - wait, WHAT?" His arms fell like sandbags.

Nearby, Z'Ka was prating with a couple of his teammates. He caught ear of the cowboy's exclamation, and thereafter went mute. He, along with his fellow blacks, peered over at the technicolor triad. The short yellow kid in particular held his interest.

"Yes, I do not have any recollection at all where I was born, or which monastery I was fostered in, for that matter." Omi became visibly distressed, the more the reality dawned on him. "...It is unfortunate."

"Wow." Rai lowered his bottle and screwed its cap on. "That bites."

"You're tellin' us you don't know where your home is?" Clay was dismayed. "Or which flag you salute?"

"I suppose now that I am living at Small World, I can consider myself an American." Omi shrugged. "But my caretakers at the refugee center had identified me as a 'Displaced World Citizen.'"

Z'Ka perked when he heard those last three words. Promptly, he stuck a finger to his lips to hush his friends, then slowly unstrapped his phone from his shorts' velcro pouch. On it, he set the speaker to "Eavesdrop Mode" to begin a forbidden audio feed he and the rest could listen to. He leered overhead, now in on the trio's conversation.

"How do you know you're a human?" Rai imposed.

"I may very well not be, but I DO possess eyes, ears and a mouth. Perhaps not a nose... but also hands and feet." Omi raised a foot, exhibiting it in all its tininess.

"Him bein' human is a no-brainer to me," proclaimed Clay. "What's important is we gotta find out what fenced him outta his homeland and made 'im wander abroad. Cuz bein' stranded in the world without rhyme - just ain't right."

"Well you guys have fun. I've got my own agenda." Rai stepped to his gym bag and entombed his water bottle. "Uhh, Clay was it? Might wanna check out the dough in that monk's pocketbook; maybe it's a lead."

"Dough?" Clay itched his ear. "Like... money?"

"Yeah whaddid you think, baking dough?" The Brazilian ramped back and got too close for Clay's comfort. "Five thousand USDs and no joke! That's more than my pop brings month to month!"

He stepped away, leaving Clay mighty impressed at (rather than jealous of) the monk. "Woo-wee. I'll be darned. How much didja work at the grindstone to earn that share, Omi?" He skewed at the tiny feller.

"Work? What kind of work?" Omi's naiveté was showing again.

"Uhh, the nine-to-five wage-slavin' kind?"

"As in, a job? I do not think I ever had one of those. Not unless you count ample hours of study and meditation."

"In other words, he got a freebie." Rai shrewdly bounced a brow.

"You're yankin' my boot." The cowboy was ill-equipped to fathom the concept. "He got a handout? Those things exist?" To which he zoned out into the horizon like a dunce.

The eavesdropping Z'Ka expressed unadulterated curiosity, and, after muzzling his phone's speaker, he shepherded his eavesdropping friends into a huddle.

"Y'all heard that?" he whispered to them in their shadowy circle.

"Yeah, that squirt's one o' them refugees droolin' over the American people's pie," noted one about Omi.

"And that's OUR handout pie he's eatin'!" griped the other.

"HSSH! Shut your face up, JP." Z'Ka double-took the monk. "He may be a refugee, but I ain't never seen one so ugly. And man, what's with the pious tent costume?"

"He's a loony banango alright."

"It's suspect," Z'Ka contemplated. "...I'm beginning to think he's working undercover."

"What, you mean like a spy?"

"Not just any spy." Darker shadows cast over Z'Ka's eyes. "A Chinese spy."

"Huh? Okay, now you trippin'."

"No, I don't ever 'trip.' I feel it in my marrow." Z'Ka grew dead serious as he explained. "Remember how in that documentary for world history class, the Chinese ousted the monks from their ancient temples so they could be remodeled into factories? The monks globetrottin' the mountains doin' these weird mystic rituals... which country do ya'll think they came from?" The question was rhetorical.

"Nah Z..."

"Make no mistake, they're suckerin' us with this chub-cheeked toddler they've trained to launch their takeover plan."

"...He don't look Chinese though."

Z'Ka biffed the guy upside the head. "DUH! That's why they're usin' him! The Chinese are banned from America and they don't - ugh, correction - NO ONE looks like that! He must've gotten a skin treatment to disguise himself as an 'exotic' - that way Small World would enroll him to buff its numbers. He'd waltz inside, ask for some guap, then wire it through China's wall when the Monitor Eagle's not monitorin'."

"Z... don't misconfuse, we love you brotha... but you always go off on these red scares and it's not healthy. Real talk: you're searchin' for Chinese plots like they're the boogeyman."

"Comin' from someone who's lost touch with his instincts. Call me paranoid all you want to, but we've got a new war on our hands, and if you can't see it, that's your guys' problem."

"Hey man - don't criticize! We know there's a war happenin'!"

"Yeah, we ain't dumb! We understand what's goin' on!"

"Then act. It's our duty to stop our opposition wherever they pokin' their noses so they can't stage ground in America EVER. Cuz if they do, the world's factory meat. Get my drift?"

Fear smote the two guys' complexions.

"They're the exact same as the Germans our parents fought in the Dark War, only rebranded and repackaged. Now it's our turn to fight."

With his pep talk finished, Z'Ka broke the huddle. But he fit his hands into his hoodie pocket. "Since y'all're doubtin' my intuition," he appended, "I'mma reel the kid in and unmask the dragon underneath personally. Now go catch up with the squad."

His friends exchanged looks. "A'ight. Do whatchoo gotta do. Captain." They departed to join their teammates.

Z'Ka swapped to Omi, Clay and Raimundo, the latter two of whom were still trying to make heads or tails of Omi's predicament. He unsheathed his eavesdrop-configured phone again and pretended he was texting.

"We'd better hope Omi's program covers medical expenses," said Rai. "Hospitals are killer."

"Why're you goin' there?" Clay was not tickled by the implication.

"How tight on is your hat, dude? He's walking mug bait!" The Brazilian exaggerated his hands at the unassuming monk. "His megaton baldness practically glows neon and he'll yap about his account to some rando whenever he gets the opportunity!"

"Hmm. If there are in fact thieves lurking among the student populace," thought Omi aloud, "then prudence is my second name. I will not share my financial information with any of them." He zipped a couple fingers across his mouth.

"Kuh." Raimundo wasn't about to hold his breath.

"Well no thievin' outlaw's gonna touch a non-existin' hair on his head," resolved Clay, "cuz he's got me around to be his bodyguard. That kinda role suits me fine." He straightened his cowpoke bandana.

"Oooh. My bodyguard?" Omi sparkled his eyes up at his noble companion.

"Mm-hm. Wouldn't surprise me if I've been tasked by God Himself, and be that the case, I'll protect our lil' devotee by the Texas state code of virtue."

"Great!" Rai smirked. "You should start charging him."

Thoughtfully weighing his phone, Z'Ka scanned the cowboy from his ten-gallon to his boots. "That prickly street punk can be finagled to a level," he surmised about Raimundo, "but the country boy? He has got to go."

He lowered his phone and trailed his eyes over to the pile of gym bags at the floor of the bottom bleachers. Near them tarried his nine Earthlings, who were in the middle of discussing how a guy's mouthguard broke. He snapped his fingers as soon as he hit upon a scheme.

"Aha! I had a surprise gift for Sir Snitch-a-Lot. Perfect. Time to score a two-pointer."

He nestled his phone in his velcro pouch and strolled nonchalantly to his gym bag at the pile, whistling an upbeat tune. Unzipping the bag, he dug his hand inside without even looking. He slapped his cheek and gasped dramatically when he noticed that "something" was missing.

"Oh crips! I cannot find my petroplatinum watch!" he said as if he were reading off a script. "Somebody must've stolen it! ...YO!"

Reactively, his Earthling underlings rendered him their undivided attention. "Huh? What's up?" one of them pipped.

"MY WATCH WAS COPPED! Which one of you's guilty."

The kids were taken aback. "We didn't cop nothin'!" They grilled each other. "Did you?"

"Nah, you?"

"Nuh-uh, no way!"

"So the perp's not gonna fess up." Z'Ka took from his bag a razor and bit on it.

"Z, we'd never steal ANY o' your stuff! It'd violate our agreement!"

"No duh." After crippling the razor's blade with some chews, Z'Ka spewed the men's shaving implement into his palm, stood up, and roamed toward the Earthlings in a threatening fashion. He twirled the razor in his fingers before tossing it. "Lemme check your bags."

The Earthlings broodingly stepped clear to let their captain begin his inspection. Bending down, he moled through one bag after the other, acting like he was allotting each an equally thorough search. When he leaped to a bag with an unused side pocket, he searched the main compartment... before feeling the side pocket and creasing his lips. He unzipped it and plunged his hand in, at which instant he extracted a lustrous, obsidian-colored watch. He held it up to his whole team, unamused as could be.

One member went hysterical. "YOUR WATCH!" That's when they synchronized their eyes onto the owner of this particular bag: a black teen with braids. The kid bleached and freaked at each of his FINOs (friends in name only).

"D..." Z'Ka spoke low, "this oil-crafted object - this pricey memento my father passed to me on his deathbed... it was in your bag." He shone a damning glare upon him.

"But... hold up, no, NO, this ain't right!" D waved in defense. "I didn't steal your watch, Z! I don't even know how it got IN there! I - UGH!"

His plea was cut by a punch to the jaw, doled out by the bulky black kid next to him.

Raimundo was grinning with cynical wisecracks at a flustered Clay. But he, Clay and Omi were all suddenly jolted from their conversation by a hardwood THUD. They stared over... and gawked.

Rubbing his hurt jaw, D pushed from the floor to his knees and shook his head out of a daze. But three other Earthlings closed in on him from above. They crunched their hands into fists, ready to inflict further punishment.

"NO, STOP! I DIDN'T DO IT!"

They kicked him. Cries of pain were heard, but the brutality was hidden behind the mob. Z'Ka, meanwhile, slithered from the scene with a halo above his head.

Clusters of remaining spectator students looked on from their court mingling, horrified by this black-on-black assault.

"AAH!" one boy yelled.

"OH MY GOSH!" interjected a girl. "Where's the referee?! He needs to stop this!"

Clay nodded at her in accordance, but his expectations were slashed when he spotted the referee cowardly fleeing the court through the double-door exit.

As troubled murmurs increased among the students, Clay waited for one of them to take action - a phone call, running to get help - anything. But the kids just loitered around in a useless state. Some dye-haired tyro techie straight-up waived the crisis. "Hey, let 'em sort themselves out. We shouldn't get involved."

Offscreen, Z'Ka secured his watch onto his wrist, positioned his angle, held up his phone slightly, and started videorecording the event as it unraveled. "Whatchoo gonna do cowboy?" He smirked in anticipation.

Clay grit his teeth at the Earthling bullies. Omi had his eyes covered, but for monastic reasons. "This is not good," the monk cheeped. "That which enters the eyes infects the spirit."

The cowboy raised his fists and mulled over them on what to do. Paralyzed, Raimundo nonetheless noticed this and understood exactly what was going on in his mind. "...C'mon Clay," he told him off, "don't play hero! You'll be stuck in an iron lung for the rest of your life!"

However, it was then, at that second, that the Texan cemented his decision. He spurred on his boots toward the Earthlings with a speed inexplicable for someone of his mass. Rai swatted his forehead, cursed in his mother tongue and refused to watch, whereas Omi peeked through his fingers.

From an overview, the braided, battered black kid lay on the floor in a fetal position, shuddering as he tightened his arms around his stomach. Shadows warped him, belonging to the attackers who were far from done with their correctional session. One attacker lifted his foot to dish out another helping of pain. But a lone ranger appeared from out of the west and bumrushed him. The next thing the black guy knew, he'd bonked his head and was now on the floor seeing stars. A collection of gasps leaked from random students.

Shaken that their own was down for the count, the other seven Earthlings goggled at Clay, anger stoking in their eyes. "Whodoya think YOU are?!" one of them demanded. "You're gonna pay outta the pipeline, fool!"

Clay didn't respond in kind; words were a waste of oxygen. Instead he held his fists and poised, ready to rumble. The snappy kid barreled at him and tried socking a punch, only for the cowboy to grab his arm, heft him, spin him, and throw him across the floor.

"Waaah!" He skidded away on his chin and knees, then flopped flat on his face. The students in the background retreated so as not to be caught in the skirmish.

At the sound of the retributive beating, Raimundo opened his eyes and turned. He and Omi were amazed, for better or worse, by Clay's fighting ability. Behind them both, Z'Ka was filming the Texan in a cozy posture. More anger echoed, followed by more brawling.

Two black kids ganged on Clay next. As they lunged, the cowboy flipped right and left, too slow to pick a move against one or the other, and they successfully grabbed hold of each of his arms. He wrestled with them, but twice their manpower squelched his odds. They forced him into a reverse, and after much resistance, strained his arms behind his back, leaving him vulnerable.

The bulky black kid stomped into range. He cracked his knuckles as he encroached. "Mind if I wash those freckles off with that scarf hangin' 'round your neck?" he asked Clay faux-politely. "I'll give you the heavy-duty special."

Clay puffed his chest out, dogged not to show any signs of intimidation. The hulking teenager stopped in front of him, splayed his legs, pulled his fist away, and started gyrating it, building steam for the pummeling of a millennium.

Before he could swing, however, Clay crouched, grunting as he began bending his arms up with every ounce of muscle he had. His holders' eyes widened when they realized that they were losing contact with the floor; they futilely kicked their legs to regain arm control. They stared hapless as the cowboy rushed them at the Harlem bruiser, awarding him a head treatment when their craniums were smashed into his from both sides, as two ringers on a bell.

DING-DING.

THWACK!

And lo, all the black trio could hear was ringing as they collapsed in a three-way knockout.

The three Earthlings still standing gaped first upon their defeated homies, then to the incarnation of pure unalloyed Texas wrath - whose eyes zeroed onto theirs.

They pushed at each other as they watched him, afraid he would exact justice on them next. "This honky-tonk honky's gone CRACKERS!" They rocketed in the direction of the double door. "LET'S GO!"

Once that subposse of Earthlings had bailed, the beaten remainder of the team scraped themselves off the court floor and fled after them. The Earthling who'd been brutally kicked blinked to life, but shielded himself with his arm at the sight of a shadow. However, it was a friendly shadow. Clay kneeled down to pull him up.

Hence, Z'Ka found the cue to end his recording with a button tap. "Gotcha." As he upended his eyes, he saw Raimundo peering at him suspiciously as he and Omi passed by to rendezvous with the Texas avenger. Yet the Harlem teen retained a carefree expression toward his new "amigo."

"What?" he peeped. "I can't tie the boys on leashes. Loosen up. You and them'll gel."

Rai was left without any ammunition, so he walked on. Z'Ka watched him go with a half smile.

Clay succeeded in returning the accused petroplatinum watch thief to his feet, but instead of a "thank you," the black teen brushed aside further aid and hobbled away to acquire his ruffled gym bag. Then, he took the doorless exit opposite from that of the other eight Earthlings. Clay was concerned about him, yet it was the kid's choice to hoof it alone. Anyhow, in the wake of his heroic deed, the background students applauded and whistled.

Timely, Raimundo and Omi arrived, harboring full astonishment. "Whoa," began Rai, having changed his mood, "major gringo slapdown! You were awesome!"

"Yes, that was quite a demonstration of physical prowess," reflected Omi.

"Ha, you put the scare in those wannabe gang babies, that's for sure." Rai gave Clay a proud, approving nod.

Omi, by contrast, rubbed his bare upper arm as he communicated his unease. "I must be honest; it was disconcerting to see you, Clay, resort to harming others. Could there not have been a peaceful solution?"

"Aah bro, way to ruin the moment." Rai went deadpan at the little guy.

"All due respect, my feelings're mutual with Omi's." Clay hunched as he sighed. "I'll own up to havin' gone excess, but... when someone's bein' mobbed, I gotta fight in their stead. If I don't, my conscience'll hurt me."

"Hrmm." Omi posed like a thinker to consider Clay's dilemma.

"And that's why - " Rai swooped next to the cowboy and clapped his shoulder, "you and I should hang out! With that homegrown muscle you packed, the team's bound not to try anything with me! ...I mean us." He flashed a grin as though he definitely weren't planning to exploit his new pal.

"Hold yer horses," Clay cocked his head, "weren't you the one warnin' me NOT to square off with those varmints? Somethin' about bein' stuck in an iron lung?"

"Uh, yeah, that was BEFORE I knew you were such a psycho-gorilla." Rai play-punched him in the arm. "Legal my man!"

"I dunno if what I did was 'legal,' but okay." The rural American didn't understand Portuguese.

"So now that the three of us are friends," settled Omi, "perhaps we may assist each other with our studies over the course of the semester? I can only expect this school will prove to be EXTREMELY challenging. Intellectually."

"Sure as heck might," agreed Clay. "Sounds fair to me."

Moaning through his teeth, Rai combed his hair over his head. "...Yeah-yeah, that's alright," he finally put out.

"Fantastic! Shall I inquire as to what is our upcoming class?"

The Brazilian sighed. He wasn't too keen on filling Omi in, but... "Guess if I don't spill, you won't shut up about it." He lifted his gaze. "Clay, didn't you say you were a first-year?"

"Yessir," the cowboy confirmed.

"Then for us that would be... oh. Oh no." Rai dipped his hand, then groaned to the high court ceiling.

"ALGEBRA."

Omi's interest was piqued. "Ahh, mathematics? I delight in numbers - almost as greatly as reading!"

"You would." Raimundo tromped over to his gym bag, and pulled out his phone to check the time. "It's in fifteen. Agh, why does it have to be our intro class? Why not something painless, like English or gym?"

"Dunno, but we oughta get movin' while the wind's in us," Clay adjured, jabbing his thumb to the double-door exit. "No sense bein' late."

"Indeed - I do not wish to receive a hundred lashes, or a punishment even more agonizing than that," stated Omi as he felt his back.

Rai scoffed at the kid's overblown fear. "Mellow that yellow. It doesn't matter when we show as long as we DO. Who's gonna notice? The teacher?"

Clay coughed presumptively. "Yeah, I reckon so."

"That's a good one. I'll hand it you - if there's one thing you and Omi both got in common, it's playing marionette to the system." Rai put away his phone, zipped his gym bag, and stretched its strap over his shoulder. "But hey, you're not a total loss. I bet we can hurdle our differences."

Although he stood silent, as he and the Texan fixed on each other, a slight breeze wisping between them. It was grim, foreboding, and fickle.

"...Anyway," Rai resumed with a tact eyeroll, "if it'll make you happy let's blow this court and get to the yawning convention. Or to translate for the rustic: 'let's giddyup.'" With a cowpokin' slap of his knee, he strode off.

Clay didn't budge until his mouth tensed; he wasn't fond of the way the Brazilian was patronizing him. As he and Omi followed Raimundo out, Z'Ka was revealed in the backdrop, still toggling his phone. However, the Harlemite's cellular activities weren't trivial. He was looping his video of Clay thrashing the Earthlings in their Space Court scuffle, verifying that every gruesome segment of every attack the cowboy dealt to them was captured. Au naturel he was pleased with his camerawork, ethical grounds notwithstanding.

"Heh, clay for the potter," he asserted, tapping a button and opening a media platform. "I reckon we send this here evidence to Queenie pronto." He tapped one more button and bided as the upload bar inched rightward.

A message above the bar read: "Delivering Video File to: Administrator of Intertonal Affairs."


Uh-oh, Clay's in trouble. And Omi's next!

Small World Academy is systematically isolating its students under the pretense of global unity. Purposes are yet unknown... BUT COULD IT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH SHANGHAIING YOUNG MINDS FOR CORPORATE GAIN?!

The Monitor Eagle AI reflects the condition of today's "smart" schools. Behind a cheerful exterior, she is very creepily gathering every bit of behavioral, psychological, and physiological data she can on the students to build career profiles.

"Tone" is used instead of "race" in Utopia Dragon's universe to lend a cosmetic spin to the concept and avoid direct parallels to real-world racism.

Germany is going to be depicted as a villainous land with lightning-filled stormclouds... because that's kind of how America views its Nazi history. Although Jewish discrimination won't be mentioned, this version of Germany has oppressed the darker-toned races and perpetuated dehumanizing stereotypes based on ethnicity. Which is actually what the predominantly Jewish entertainment industry has been guilty of, but I digress. Oy vey. *cough* not anti-Semitic just an observation *cough*

Z'Ka is specifically tailored to be Raimundo's rival. His name is a ghettofied spelling of "Zika" (yes, the virus); it's obvious he has traits of narcissistic personality disorder. He hogs the spotlight whenever possible and manipulates the student body into protecting his highly unstable ego. For one reason or another, he's also a crazy Chinaphobe.

Ego-driven ghetto culture emboldens violence - who would've thunk? How educators can maintain the opinion that low self-esteem pushes teens to commit crimes and that self-esteem classes exacerbating narcissism need to exist is beyond me.

I'll touch on this later on, but Raimundo's background is very racially mixed. He was surrounded with black friends in Rio, so it's only expected that he can and will appropriate American "blackness" in order to fit in where he's so inclined.

Meanwhile, Clay's background is very much Christian conservative, so a secular public boarding school environment is outside his comfort zone. Why is he attending Small World then? Answer: it's a secret.

Crucial note: while I myself am opposed to the soul-decaying byproducts of Western capitalism/corporatism, I am NOT a socialist/communist. In fact, here in the real world, America is adopting China's tyrannical communist model for mass surveillance, social crediting and political streamlining, merging capitalism with communism to create a new hybrid: "communitarianism." This is no stretch, because America already adopted the Soviet education system from Russia for standardized global workforce training by the end of the Cold War.