Breaking News from New Olympus: Governor Barnes' controversial policy of sending forty delinquent students to military barracks has now been in effect for two weeks. The creation of the Wayward Academy, seen as a bold attempt to "save" the younger mutant generation, will run intensively for the next six months.
Despite heavy criticism from human rights observers, Governor Barnes insists that these so-called wayward youths require discipline and rigid routines—things they failed to receive at home and in school—so that they may become useful members of New Olympus society. The Governor further assured that all necessary preventive measures…
I shut off my phone, lungs straining as I let out a ragged breath. My cheeks were still damp with the trail of tears.
Military barracks? What kind of nightmare was this? How were those kids supposed to survive in a place like that?
My hand trembled as I lifted the letter that had been sitting on my desk. The room was dim, but the words cut through the gloom as clearly as a blade. I had read them over and over, yet they still made my stomach twist.
With deep regret, we hereby inform you, Rachel Moore, that you are required to enroll in the Wayward Academy. Please sign the attached contract alongside this notice. The necessary belongings you are to bring to the barracks are listed as follows…
***
"Why isn't she waking up?"
"How should I know? Better if she doesn't!"
"Shush! Don't say that!"
"Geez… poor newbie's really unlucky."
My head spun as if I'd been slammed against a wall. The bed beneath me felt harder than stone. Dozens of voices whispered at the edges of my hearing, like a crowd watching a circus act.
What's going on?
Slowly, I forced my eyes open.
And froze.
They were all clustered around me, gawking like I was some animal in a cage.
Wait. This… isn't my room?!
I jerked up, pressing myself against the wall, trembling so badly I could barely breathe.
"Hey, calm down!" A curly-haired boy stepped forward, hands raised. "You need something? Water? I've got—"
"Don't baby her." A blonde girl cut him off sharply, her lips curling into a smirk. "Hey, newbie. Welcome to hell."
Everyone here looked about my age, yet they were dressed in strange, plain gray uniforms. Gold buttons ran neatly down the front, and two black straps crossed their chests.
Above me wasn't a ceiling—it was the bottom of another bunk bed.
I glanced around. The room was packed with rows of bunks lining three walls. From the doorway's perspective, I was on the right side, somewhere in the middle.
Doors made of gold, engraved with curling flower motifs.
"Deedee! Who's the leader here? Come on, back up, give her space!" The curly-haired boy waved his arms to push the others back.
"Fine. Guess you don't need my help then." The blonde—apparently Deedee—crossed her arms. Her resting bitch face matched her drawl: half sultry, half bored.
"Oh, wow. She's already crying." Another girl with bangs snickered from the crowd.
"Seriously, already?" a boy chimed in.
Only then did I realize my vision was blurred with tears. My eyes were bloodshot, stinging with fresh heat. Don't cry, Rachel. Don't cry.
"W-who are you people?! Where am I?!"
"Let me guess." The curly-haired boy leaned forward, all smiles. "Last thing you remember, you were in your room last night, right?"
I nodded numbly.
"See? All the same story. Except me," Deedee rolled her eyes. "I was wasted on the street when they dragged me here."
"Yeah, you're… special," the boy muttered. He turned back to me, still smiling as if that made this less terrifying. "Anyway… what's your name?"
"…Rachel. Rachel Moore."
"Oh, right! Sorry. We haven't introduced ourselves." He extended a hand, his grin way too warm for this hellhole. "Clay Hunter. I'm the squad leader for this barracks. My job today is to guide you. Nice to meet you!"
I hesitated. Partly because I didn't trust him, and partly because—god, I hated admitting this—he was actually hot. Way too hot for me to be thinking about that here.
Wait. Did he just say… barracks?
"W-what did you mean by 'guide me'?"
"Right. So, Rachel," Clay pulled his hand back awkwardly, "you remember that letter? The one your parents probably got from the police a few days ago?"
"L-letter?"
My heart dropped as the memory hit. The announcement last night.
"…Yeah. Welcome to Wayward Academy." Clay's smile was almost apologetic now.
WHAT?! I'M IN THE MILITARY BARRACKS?!
I bolted from the bed, shoving past the gawking crowd. Gasps and laughter followed me.
Flashes of yesterday's news reeled through my mind. Wayward Academy—the military camp for "problem kids." Parents either worshipped it or despised it. Either way, Governor Barnes had pushed it through.
And now I was here.
Me—Rachel Moore. The dropout who spent eight hours a day rotting in front of Roblox, Valorant, Minecraft—whatever—then another eight scrolling TikTok and Instagram until my brain turned to mush.
I wasn't a prodigy. I wasn't "gifted." I was… nothing. And apparently, my father decided that was enough reason to throw me into hell.
He said my life was ruined. That this was my only chance to "fix myself."
I'd cried in my room for six hours straight when he showed me the letter. He didn't listen. He never listened. Whenever I was miserable, he called me stupid, useless, a burden.
And now I was trapped here.
"Rachel—wait!" Clay ran after me. "It's okay!"
"You can't escape, you know," Deedee called lazily, arms crossed.
"She's not gonna run! Don't be so pessimistic!" Clay shot back.
"Pfft. What's she even trying to do?"
I ignored them. My hand slammed down on the golden handles of the door. I shoved, pulled, kicked—nothing. Locked.
"Seriously, crybaby? Still trying? We told you, you can't escape." The girl with bangs—Layla, someone called her—laughed. The others joined in.
My throat burned. I bit down hard, fighting back tears, but the harder I tried, the hotter my eyes grew.
Why are they so cruel? What did I do?!
"Rachel." Clay approached slowly, cautious like I was a cornered animal. "She's right. We can't leave without Sergeant Lanes' permission."
Permission?!
"H-how do I get out?! Who do I talk to?! I'll apologize, I'll change, I'll do anything! Please, just let me go home!" I spun toward them, sobbing, screaming. "Please! I swear I'll change!"
"Told you." Deedee arched a brow. "She's gonna run."
"I-I already tried begging Sergeant Lanes when I first got here," Clay admitted, stepping back nervously. "He doesn't believe promises. He wants to see the change with his own eyes."
"With his own eyes?! What does that even mean?!" I broke down, clutching my chest. "I'll prove it, I'll prove anything—please just let me leave today!!"
Clay turned to Deedee in panic. "What do we do?!"
"You're the squad leader. Figure it out."
"How was I even brought here in the first place?!" I shouted. "There had to be a way in, right?! Then there's a way out!"
Deedee smirked. "The cops drugged you in your sleep. Same with the rest of us. One by one, dragged here without a word. So yeah, nobody knows where we are."
Drugged? My stomach lurched. The police entered my house—drugged me—and dragged me away like cargo?!
"Why would you even tell her that?!" Clay groaned, slapping his forehead. "She just got here!"
"What? I'm just being honest."
"Oh, what's wrong, Rachel? Gonna cry again?" Layla sneered, stepping forward. Her grin widened as she pulled a butterfly knife from her pocket, licking the blade like some kind of psychopath.
My blood turned to ice.
"Cute little girls like you won't last a week here," Layla whispered. "Look at those pajamas. Pink teddy bears?"
Laughter erupted.
I froze, horrified. My eyes darted down—oh god. I was still in my bedtime pajamas.
No. No, no, no. I needed my phone. I had to call my father. I couldn't be left to rot in this prison with lunatics like her.
I fumbled through my pockets. Empty.
"My phone—where's my phone?!"
Clay grimaced. "Yeah… about that. Sergeant Lanes confiscated it. They're keeping all our phones until we finish the six months."
"SIX MONTHS?!"
Clay raised his hands quickly. "But hey! At least they let us keep our powers and weapons!"
He grinned, lifting his hand. A steel staff flew from the upper bunk into his grip. Faint blue light pulsed weakly from the hollow tip, seeping out like a dying flame.
"See? My combat staff." He turned to me, eyes bright. "And your magic wand! I saw it next to your bed earlier. It's pretty cool."
My heart jumped. My wand.
I called it to me with a sharp motion. The smooth wooden rod landed in my hand. Sparks danced along my fingers.
Finally. My one escape.
Without thinking, I fired an explosive spell at the golden doors.
A blinding flash. A puff of smoke.
And… nothing. The doors remained pristine.
W-what? My spell—my staff—there's no way. Did they install some kind of magic dampener?!
"Woah, woah! We're not supposed to destroy government property!" Clay shouted in panic.
The golden doors creaked open. My stomach dropped.
Four men and one woman in uniform stormed inside, their boots slamming against the floor.
"BACK TO POSITIONS, NOW!!"
The roar rattled the walls. My ears rang.
No smiles. No kindness. Only commands barked like gunfire.
Deedee, Layla, and the rest scrambled into place, lining up by their bunks with frantic speed.
And me?
I was frozen. Staring.
"YOU! MOVE, OR I'LL DRAG YOU MYSELF!"
My legs buckled.
So this… this is what the military was like.
So this was hell.