Finally, after a dramatic delay—Mikey Grant has arrived.
The girl who had been scanning the crowd earlier finally spotted him and broke into a bright smile, joining the others in a round of polite clapping. Mikey Grant stepped onto the stage beneath a wide glass canopy that flooded the hall with soft, natural light. Sunlight shimmered off the marble floor, catching on the polished edges of chairs and the glint of graduation medals. The air had that heavy, ceremonial hush, like everyone was waiting for something official and boring to happen.
Mikey cleared his throat at the podium. A small, stiff-looking note card sat there, perfectly centered. He picked it up, skimmed the contents, then let out a quiet scoff. Without a word, he set it back down. The principal, standing just off-stage, looked like she might faint.
"Hello, class of 2344," Mikey began, leaning casually into the mic.
"My name is Michael Grant, but let's be real—you all know me as Mikey. Apparently, I'm your valedictorian. Which is a title you don't really try for; it just sort of shows up because your grades were... decent, I guess."
In the second row, his father, Desmond Grant—the newly appointed Vice Secretary of Defense of the Council—sank back into his sleek white chair, let out a long sigh and slowly lowered his face into his palm.
"They gave me this five-minute speech I was supposed to read," Mikey went on, gesturing loosely to the card. "Very emotional, very moving. Probably had a metaphor in it. But I figured... you've all been sitting here long enough. No need to drag this out and frankly I don't wanna."
"Here's the short version: thanks. For the classes, the teachers, the whatever. It's been... fun? I guess?"
Some students laughed quietly. A few clapped again, unsure if they were supposed to.
"Oh—and I know he's been waiting for it," Mikey added, already grinning.
"You've probably all heard of my dad—Desmond Grant, the new Vice Secretary of Defense. So... congrats on the promotion, Dad. I love you."
He pointed playfully toward his father. Desmond sat up straighter as the crowd burst into applause, turning toward him with curious glances. He rose, smiled like he was on a campaign poster, and gave a stiff wave.
"Thank you! Thank you!" Desmond called.
As the cheering quieted, he locked eyes with Mikey and mouthed something serious, something very much like we're going to talk later. Mikey just chuckled to himself.
"And that's about it," he said with a shrug.
"After today, I'll probably be working with my dad in the Council. Doing... something. We'll see. Anyway, I'm starving. Have a good day Class of 2344."
He started to walk off as the crowd sat in momentary silence, unsure whether that was really the end. Then Mikey turned back, one hand still halfway in his pocket.
"Oh yeah—and Forever The Council Shall Reign."
He raised a lazy fist into the air, more out of obligation than passion. The crowd didn't miss a beat. As one, they stood, fists raised to the dome above them.
"Forever The Council Shall Reign!"
Cheers and applause erupted again, bouncing off the marble and up into the sunlight streaming through the glass. Mikey walked offstage with a grin, late to the ceremony but, somehow, right on time. Mikey stepped off the stage to the sound of trailing applause echoing beneath the glass dome above. The light poured down through the arched canopy, catching reflections off the polished marble floor as he moved. The bright, open hall still buzzed with scattered cheers and murmured conversations, but Mikey's attention had narrowed to the tall figure walking straight toward him.
His father.
Desmond Grant's expression was unreadable, but there was a certain sharpness in his step—like a man about to deliver judgment.
"You were late," Desmond said, voice low and firm.
"You know what that means."
Mikey stiffened. His eyes shifted to the ground, catching the shimmer of sunlight across the marble tiles. For a second, the space between them grew tense and still.
"Yeah...I know."
A pause stretched.
"That's right," Desmond said, a grin breaking across his face. "You're making dinner."
Mikey looked up in disbelief, then laughed as his father burst out in deep, hearty laughter.
"Knew you were gonna say that." Mikey said, shaking his head.
Desmond pulled him in for a quick hug, strong arms clapping him on the back.
"I'm proud of you, son."
Mikey smiled against his shoulder.
"Thanks, Dad."
They stepped back, the moment warm but brief. Then Desmond's tone shifted again, returning to business.
"On a serious note—how'd you even get here that fast? The system told me you left the house, what, five minutes before you got here? You shouldn't have made it on time."
Mikey's face froze. Just a flicker.
"I...found a way."
Desmond narrowed his eyes slightly. "Go on."
Mikey opened his mouth—nothing came out. He blinked, on the verge of saying something ridiculous, when the tension was broken by the sudden appearance of three men in sharp black suits. One of them, tall and broad-shouldered with a closely cropped beard, slit eyebrow and dark voids for eyes and slicked back brown hair, stepped forward with an easy smirk.
"That isn't Desmond Grant, now is it?"
Desmond stepped past Mikey and leaned in close as he passed. "We'll continue this at home," he murmured, then gave his son one last pat on the back and turned with open arms.
"Payne! You actually came?"
They shook hands with the kind of grip that only came from history—long, complicated history. The man—Payne—stood even taller than Desmond, which was saying something.
"Of course I came. Congratulations on the promotion."
Mikey instinctively tried to ease away, hoping to slide under the radar. But Payne spotted him.
"And this must be Michael. Valedictorian, huh?"
Mikey stopped mid-step and slowly turned. "That would be right."
Payne reached out for a handshake, and Mikey took it—firm grip, polite nod. The man's hand was large and rough, like someone who spent just as much time in the field as in meetings.
"He looks just like Darla—spitting image," Payne said with a nostalgic smile. "Got his looks from her, I'll tell you that."
Desmond laughed and gave the man a light punch on the arm.
"Oh shut up, you prick."
Payne chuckled at the jab and turned back to Mikey.
"Name's Payne, by the way. Payne Morrison."
"Oh, I know, Mr. Morrison. My dad talks about you all the time. And you're always on the news... being Secretary of Defense and all."
Payne gave Desmond a quick side glance.
"Looks like I've got a fan. Kid's sharp."
Desmond gave a small, proud nod.
"Well, it was nice meeting you, kid," Payne said, his voice dropping an octave. "Stay safe out there. People are crazy these days."
Something in the way he said it made Mikey's stomach turn. It wasn't what he said—it was how he said it—like it wasn't just advice. More like a warning. His dark eyes lingered on Mikey just a moment too long.
"Yeah… you too," Mikey replied, nodding.
Payne turned to Desmond, his tone shifting again.
"I have an update on the... package we were discussing."
"Good. Let's talk." Desmond said, his posture immediately more formal.
But Payne only gave a small shake of his head and glanced meaningfully toward Mikey. Desmond nodded back, understanding.
"Mr. Morrison and I have to talk about some work stuff," Desmond said, turning to his son. "I'll see you at home, okay?"
He gave Mikey one last hug, tight and brief.
"Sounds good, love you."
"Love you too, son."
Mikey watched them go—his father and Payne walking off side by side, their conversation already dropping into low tones. Something about the way Payne carried himself made Mikey's skin crawl. He tapped the side of his head as he turned and began walking toward the exit, marble floors echoing beneath his steps.
"Weird guy, aye?" he muttered.
H.E.L.P's calm synthetic voice was activated again.
"What makes you say that, Michael?"
"I dunno actually," Mikey murmured. "Just... something about him creeps me out. 'Bigger than I thought he'd be."