MONSTERS!
The word, bold and accusing, stared back at me from the glowing screen of my laptop. Beneath it was the standard, dry-as-dust governmental document everyone had to study, but I'd read it a hundred times. I scrolled past the headline.
The creatures, designated "monsters," originated from Gates, interdimensional portals whose provenance remains undetermined. Their objective in this incursion is clear. DESTRUCTION...
My eyes skimmed the familiar text. Cities ruined, heroes rising from the ashes, villains seizing chaos. Then, the part that always made my heart thump against my ribs: the classification of abilities.
Prism (P): Supportive. Healing, buffs, area effects. Non-combative.
Aegis (A): Defensive. Durability, shields, endurance.
Catalyst (C): Offensive. Primary damage, speed, flashy power.
Zenith (Z): Adaptive. Extremely rare. Multi-role capability.
Ranks from F to S. My fingers itched. Everyone had a theory about where they'd land. Most kids at Claymore High prayed for anything C-class or above, dreaming of the spotlight, the merch, the adoration.
But me? I didn't just want an ability. I needed to be a Catalyst. Or, in the wildest, most secret corner of my heart, a Zenith. The all-rounder. The one who could stand alone. Anything but a Prism. The very thought of being shoved into a supportive, background role made my skin crawl. It felt like a cage.
A smile tugged at my lips as I read. It was boring, bureaucratic text, but to me, it was a promise. A future. It lit a fire under my—wait, no. What a stupid phrase. If my actual ass was on fire, I'd be screaming, not daydreaming about energy blasts. Why do people even say that? Maybe it's—
"CHO! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!? WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE! AGAIN!"
Camila's voice, powerful enough to pierce through walls and my thick skull, shattered my thoughts. I jerked, nearly sending my laptop to the floor. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" I yelled back, slamming the device shut. The screen went dark, taking the glorious words with it.
I scrambled, throwing on my jacket and grabbing my bag. A whirlwind exit from my room, a shout of "Okaasan, I'm heading out!" toward the kitchen, and I burst out the front door.
Camila was already there, a vision of impatient perfection. Her uniform was crisp, her dark hair neatly tied back. She tapped her foot, arms crossed. The look she gave me could have curdled milk.
"Cho?" she said, her voice deceptively calm. She rubbed her temples.
I offered my most disarming, lopsided grin. "Yeeeeees, Camy~?"
"How long have we been friends?" she asked, cutting straight through the charm.
"Since we were in diapers. Obviously." I shifted my weight, knowing where this was going.
"Fifteen years," she stated. "Fifteen years of my life spent herding you. When are you going to grow up?"
I put a finger to my chin, feigning deep thought. "Hmm. Depends. What's in it for me?" The cheeky smile was back.
"You're an idiot." Her sigh was a masterpiece of long-suffering exasperation.
"Yes," I agreed, stepping closer. "But I'm your idiot."
Instead of the usual eye-roll and reluctant smile, her expression remained serious. She turned on her heel and began speed-walking down the sidewalk. A cold knot formed in my stomach. She was really upset.
"Camila, wait! I'm sorry, okay? I'll make it up to you! Probably!"
We walked in strained silence to the train station. The usual morning chaos swallowed us—the screech of brakes, the press of bodies, the muffled announcements. We squeezed onto the last train, finding two seats wedged together. The rhythmic clacking of the tracks filled the quiet between us.
I couldn't stand it. "Sooooo," I drew the word out, poking her shoulder. "Aren't you even a little excited? Today's the day. The StarLight Ceremony. We find out… everything."
She looked at me, one eyebrow arched. "You, of all people, should know I have zero interest in that circus. My future is planned. Pre-law. It does not involve spandex or property damage."
"Fine," I grumbled, slumping back. "You're so boring. We could've been an amazing duo. 'Camila and Cho, the Unstoppable Pair!' Has a ring to it."
She turned fully to face me, her dark eyes intent. "Listen to me. I care about you. So what I'm saying comes from worry, not from wanting to crush your dreams." She took a breath. "You need to grow up, Cho. These aren't just daydreams anymore; they're delusions of grandeur. The world doesn't owe you a Catalyst ability. You need to be grateful for what you do have—a sharp mind, a family, friends. If you don't have a power, or if you get something… less flashy… you need to accept it. That's reality."
Her words were a bucket of ice water. She was right. Camila was always, infuriatingly, pragmatically right. But the thought of acceptance felt like surrender. It felt like giving up on the only thing that had given me a sense of purpose since…
Since that day.
A memory, sharp and unwanted, flashed: the smell of ozone and dust, the ground shaking, a terrifying roar that wasn't an animal, the blinding light of a Prism's barrier flickering just in front of me, and a figure, standing between me and the chaos, turning their head for just a second…
I shoved the memory down, deep. That was the past. Today was about the future.
The rest of the train ride passed in a thick silence.
Claymore High School was buzzing with a frenetic energy it usually reserved for championship games. Students milled around the gates, voices pitched high with nervous excitement. The usual cliques were abuzz with speculation.
"—heard a kid from North Side manifested a B-rank Catalyst power last year—"
"—my uncle's an Aegis, says the simulation feels like a bad dream—"
"—if I'm a Prism, I'm just dropping out, I swear—"
Camila and I parted ways with a silent nod at the entrance to our separate homerooms. The air in my classroom was electric with tension. I slid into my usual seat at the back, a vantage point for observation.
Our teacher, Ms. Altea, walked in, and a collective gasp rippled through the room. Gone were her typical baggy sweaters and messy bun. Today, she wore a severe, formal suit, her hair in a tight, elegant coil. She looked like a different person.
"Good morning, students," she said, her voice carrying a new, steely authority. "As you are acutely aware, today is the StarLight Ceremony. You will be representing Claymore High. Consequently, I expect impeccable behavior."
The transformation was so stark it was unsettling. A brave—or foolish—soul in the front row, a guy named Ty with a perpetual smirk, couldn't resist. "Does the 'impeccable behavior' rule apply to you today too, Ms. A?" He grinned.
A wave of snickers spread through the room. I rolled my eyes. Morons.
Ms. Altea's serene smile didn't waver. In one fluid motion, she plucked a whiteboard marker from her desk and flicked her wrist. It shot through the air like a dart, hitting Ty squarely in the center of his forehead with a sharp thwack. He yelped, tumbling backwards in his chair.
The laughter died instantly.
"All students who found that amusing," Ms. Altea said, her smile now showing teeth, "have just earned themselves a month of after-school detention and double homework. Let that be a lesson in… decorum."
A terrified hush fell. Told you so.
"Now," she continued, as if nothing had happened, turning to her laptop. "Let's review the ceremony procedures. Pay attention. This is not optional."
The presentation slide clicked onto the whiteboard.
---
STARLIGHT CEREMONY – PROTOCOL & PURPOSE
· Location: The Hall of Stars (Federal Grade-A Secure Facility)
· Process: Neural synchronization and immersion in a standardized mental simulation. The simulation replicates the psychological distress of a Gate Event, a proven catalyst for ability manifestation. (Note: Simulation is classified as non-harmful; all effects are neural ephemera.)
· Purpose:
1. Identification and Classification of latent abilities for national registry.
2. Commemoration of the First Response Heroes who sacrificed during the initial Gate Crisis.
· Mandatory Conduct: All attendees are required to observe the Memorial Presentations prior to testing. Respect and silence are mandated.
---
Ms. Altea spent the next twenty minutes drilling protocols into us: line formations, ID presentation, appropriate responses to officials. It was mind-numbing. My mind kept drifting back to the four letters on my laptop screen. P, A, C, Z.
Finally, we were herded onto a fleet of buses idling in the parking lot. A quick, frustrating glance showed Camila being funneled onto a different bus with her class. I was stuck with mine.
I claimed a window seat, hoping to be left alone with my churning thoughts. No such luck. A whirlwind of pink hair and kinetic energy dropped into the seat beside me.
"So! What's your final bet?" Penny asked, her eyes wide and sparkling. She was known for two things: relentless cheerfulness and an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone's business.
I had, of course, been completely zoned out. "Huh?"
"Your ability! Final prediction! Come on, it's the biggest day of our lives!" She bounced in her seat.
I forced a smile. "Oh. Right. Uh, Catalyst. Definitely."
"Really?" She blinked, her head tilting like a curious bird. "I totally had you pegged as a Prism."
A cold finger traced down my spine. "What? No. Why?"
"Well, you're always kind of in your own world, right? Super observant but quiet. And Prisms are supposed to be, like, emotionally deep sensors. They feel the battlefield, the team's vibe. That seems more your speed. Plus," she barreled on, oblivious to my stiffening posture, "Catalysts are usually super social, team leaders, center-of-attention types. And Zeniths? They're like, mental gymnasts, able to shift focus on a dime. You're more of a… dedicated specialist thinker."
She said it so matter-of-factly, as if reading from a personal file she'd compiled on me. It was horrifyingly accurate, and it stripped my dream bare, making it sound childish and ill-fitting.
"I… that's not…" I stammered, my face heating.
"Oh, don't worry!" she chirped, misinterpreting my dismay. "Prisms are super important! My prediction for Ty is Catalyst, obviously—all that loud aggression. And Tessa is a total Prism, she's so sweet. Me? I'm hoping for Aegis. Stand strong, protect people, you know? Less spotlight, more substance…"
I tuned her out, turning to stare blindly out the window as her cheerful analysis washed over me. The city blurred past. Her words echoed in my head: Quiet. Observant. Not a center-of-attention type. Was that all I was? Was my dream just a costume that would never fit?
The bus slowed, then turned. We entered a wide, secured boulevard, flanked by tall, polished walls. Ahead, a structure of gleaming white stone and immense windows rose against the sky. It was majestic and intimidating. The Hall of Stars.
The bus doors hissed open. A wave of solemn, cool air washed over us, carrying a faint, sterile scent. The excited chatter died, replaced by a collective, awed hush.
This was it. The simulation would see the truth. It would see the memory I tried to forget, the yearning, the desperation.
It would see if I was a Prism… or something more.
My heart hammered against my ribs, not with excitement anymore, but with a terrifying, fragile hope. I stepped off the bus, following the stream of students toward the colossal doors, my future waiting in the cold, star-lit silence within.