"The Noble School" — a great name for an empty place. If you tried to count its famous graduates, you wouldn't need your fingersa, a closed fist makes a perfect zero.. And trust me, that fist wasn't meant for math there. A fight scho... Sorry! An ordinary school on an ordinary red planet. No, this wasn't that planet from our neck of the woods (and since aliens haven't started reading my book yet, we both know which one I mean). From here, our sun look like a tiny dot; it was simply a "star" that bothered the local astrologers. Its position frequently ruined the day for local Capricorns.
Right now, these creatures are going through their fifteenth Dark Age, while humanity claims to have only two. They have keep only a third of their knowledge. Matter teleportation, independent robot servants, and the ultimate: millions of memes... Then there were the 'minor' details — the tech that made life easy, kept them safe, and kept them alive way too long. The list of their lost tech is too long. Oh… did you think they actually managed to keep that? Sorry. Yet even that remained part is greater than everything humanity has created or understood in its entire history.
This alien civilization trashed its environment so completely that oxygen now has to be made in factories. Where they once produced the toxic waste used for cleaning dust out of phone charging ports or belly button, those very oxygen plants now stand. The air has a sweetish smell, and thank all saint it isn't salty like it used to be. Don't even get me started on the water and the plumbing... No wonder their history had a plump dictator. They've truly plumbed the depths of craziness. He ruled for five or six years and completely turned a blind eye to the environmental problems and the melting glaciers. Just a clown with a crown, tearing the system down. Fire joks for a burnt future. Aliens cracked up so hard the glaciers cracked from the laughter, and burned holes right through the ozone.
You're probably going to ask me, as the author... Oh, you didn't ask? Well, I've just gone and smashed the fourth wall again, and now there's a draft ruining your view. My apologies! Let's get back to the question you supposedly asked me: 'Where the hell are the local names?' Here's the thing—there aren't any and won't! Their language is a mix of Babylonian and Finnish, something like a children's nursery rhyme or a yodel. So... we'll settle for comparisons, for everything. Let's call our hero Wilder. The name is rare and unpopular, much like he is in his school. And while others lunched in the cafeteria, he was busy receiving "delicious" blows to the face from the most determined group in the class.
"So, Wilder, how'd that hit feel?" While one of the bullies was gathering "feedback," another blow to the head flew the boy's way.
"Knock-knock, sunshine!"
"Oh, Mr. Wilder! Someone's at the door, don't make 'em wait no more!"
"Gh-kh..." — Wilder tried to gasp something out, but took a heavy one straight to his lips.
"It's Mr. Fist—and 'e's 'ere to give your 'ead a twist!"
Bullies laughed so loudly that a teacher peeked out from behind a door, he slammed it shut immediately before being spotted. Intervening was a dead end. They weren't going to listen anyway, and ruining the zero authority he had left wasn't exactly part of the plan. Meanwhile, a punch landed square on Wilder's nose. A bone cracked inside, and blood burst out like a fountain, nearly soaking the bully. For Wilder, this was a moment of real joy. The end. He knew the script: usually, they'd just "play around" and let go, but this time, they'd taken it too far. Well, well—and things were looking decidedly unwell. They'd crossed the line from simple rough play. Fine. Let's call it a lesson for their future selves for them. Now that things had turned too serious and messy, they'd get uncomfortable and scatter. Maybe they'd even leave him alone for the rest of the year. This blood was his ticket to freedom. And indeed — for a few seconds, the hands holding him in a death grip loosened. It seemed they were ready to let him go.
Wilder was already picturing his return home: the routine of hiding bruises with foundation, grabbing some ice and a snack from the fridge. Well, he'd be missing dinner again today. He was sick of explaining away the bruises to relatives. Other parents might be different, but his would always find a way to make it his fault: his strange behavior, his failure to fight back, or even the path he chose to take. They'd never even dream of suggesting a transfer, because they're convinced the school is 'Noble' and actually stands for something. There had been an attempt to enroll him in boxing, but his genes had failed him. For Wilder, it was easier to pull on his headphones and fall asleep as fast as possible.
«Ya right piece o' work, you! Go' blood all over me fist, ain'tcha?» Another blow flew into Wilder.
«Ha-ha! Give 'im a proper schoolin', eh, Bucks?» The group was thrilled.
«You're a bleedin' marvel, Wilder! 'Ow'd ya pull tha' off, then?» They managed to mock him even as they struck.
Hit after hit… blow by blow. Wilder woke up with a splitting headache. He clutched the bridge of his nose — it throbbed even harder than the drilling pain in his temples. Dawn was still far off, which meant he'd have to endure until the alarm went off, trapped in aching reflection. Another heavy morning. Ten years had passed since the day he first took a truly serious hit. Before then, his body had known only bruises and scrapes — no one had shown real sadism. That day was burned into his memory. He'd ran home without a word to his teachers, causing a serious phone call from some 'administrator behind a closed door'. His parents, in turn, tore into him. There he stood, covered in bruises, head hanging low, listening to them complain about the nerve of skipping class. It was that classic testosterone-fueled logic: the victim was the villain for not standing his ground, for choosing flight over fight. In those days, before school shootings and school psychologists had been reinvented, he just took the hits.
He closed his eyes again, and the continuation of that scene appeared before him:
"Can you imagine, Francine? We could carry an entire missile complex! We just need to buy them out. It's not cheap, but I'll take them for, say, ten each, and flip them for forty-five. What do you think?"
"Oh, George... You were a math student, yet you still haven't learned how to count. That's a bad deal."
"Here you go again! I'm getting an order from the authorities themselves, and all you do is look for the negatives. It's massive money — four times the profit!"
"First of all, you try selling them for that price. The Federals say one thing, but in practice..."
"In practice, it's the same thing!"
"No, George! They always have one thing on their tongues and something else in their pockets."
"You're just jealous, aren't you?"
"No, I'm trying to pull you back down to earth. If it were that simple, someone else would have done it by now."
"Oh, you're always clipping my wings!"
That was their eternal argument at the family table. Wilder sat beside them, his face was covered in thick foundation back then. The nose job didn't happen until later, once the swelling had finally gone down. He just said he's fallen. But that day he's praying that in his current state he wouldn't pestered with questions. He buried himself in his food. And the food... every year it grew worse. Artificially grown vegetables and meat harvested from stem cells. You should have seen the smug face of the cook in the commercials, he grinned so wide it looked like his face would crack. He held that pile of poop like it was a gourmet meal, as if it were something finger-licking good. After enduring his time at the table, Wilder would flee to his console. In that cocoon of a virtual world, he spent his entire fragile childhood, commanding entire civilizations in simulators and strategies. He never truly got to taste the joys of school socialization.
"The dream came back. Then the nightmare followed again, and I spent until five a.m. analyzing that dinner piece by piece. I wasn't "thinking back" I was just replaying the situation in my head." Wilder leaned over, his eyes fixed on a single point on the floor.
"Interesting... Have you ever dreamed of anything good?" The alien asked, without looking him.
"My brain just puts back together old nightmares. Are you suggesting there are new ones ahead? Statistics say it's likely."
"No, I meant pleasant dreams, have you ever actually had them?"
"Is that a necessary rule for best performance?"
"Of course. Look, you've had the nose job; the nose is perfect now. I believe you're worrying over nothing. Let's give the world a smile!"
"It still hurts in my chest. The past triggers this pain like the press of a button..."
"It's all imagination. Here, take my content on the subject; it explains everything..."
"Enough. My word limit has been reached. I will not be returning to see you."
"Wait, Mr. Wilder! You haven't even tried the method yet—what will your mother say..."
The psychologist began selling his method, shouting about its benefits and ways to boost testosterone. Meanwhile, Wilder hurried down the hallway, head lowered. It was an old habit from his school days—he was like bait for predators, so he did his best to stay off their radar. Some get strength, some get brains, or at the very least, creativity. Wilder was simply late for the starting perk and that is why he's in such a hurry always.
Walking under the burning sun toward his dorm room, Wilder searched for even a single drop of moral strength within himself. He convinced himself he was right to dump that scammer. The alien never actually helped, he just looked for an excuse to push his content onto him as an "extra sale" to the session. During a meeting that wasn't about testosterone, they had spoken about the nature of hatred: where it comes from and why it exists:
"Do you think you could act the same way they do?" The psychologist had asked.
"A peculiar question. I'm beginning to doubt your competence."
"Don't doubt my competence," He gestured carelessly at the colorful diplomas of the best life-programmer in this area. "So, he is beaten and humiliated by strong, brave boys..."
"You aren't particularly careful with your choice of words, and I would raise the issue..."
"Would you protect him? Let me tell you straight: you are stronger than all of them combined."
"Fine, I'll play your game. My answer, based on your starting rules: Yes, I would apply physical force. It is logically justified self-defense."
"Then how are you any better than they are?"
Wilder was in shock. It wasn't a sudden realization that shook him, but the total arrogance with which the psychologist twisted the facts, clearly trying to wring a specific emotion out of him. The final question was the last squeeze of a dry sponge: "Do they even think at all?"
Wilder knew the answer for certain. Thanks to Bucks. The very one who had broken his nose, split his lip, and caused dozens of injuries before and after. But most importantly — he had caused a psychological wound that refused to heal.
Before graduation, he'd been gone to a camp with Bucks. He was the perfect example of raw force. His favorite trick was to shove a weakling so they'd bowl over someone else by inertia. The domino effect. The victim always took the fall: no one ever dared to take out their anger on the strong who started it. Wilder was his favorite target. A sort of "Mammoth Moment" — a peaceful, heavy creature running too slow. Dull Neanderthals hunted such beasts in packs and called themselves heroes only because they managed to bring down a huge body. Yes, Wilder is tall.
In camp, Bucks managed to be friendly — as far as his "alpha-nature" allowed. It was limited to minor jokes. He'd switch from calling Wilder 'Mr. Robot' for his manner of speech, to declaring him the unit's best athlete, insisting he took part in the physical games. He'd even call a Wilder stupid joke a 'creative vision.' He even 'defended' him once, though actually he just tried to start a fight. Fortunately, Bucks ran into someone who held their ground, ready to fight him, not Wilder, and the whole thing ended in a handshake instead of a fight.
Then he remembered another time, when Wilder was just a spectator, not the punching bag. It started small, two friends in the camp trading insults. It's okay. Just warm coals you could walk on barefoot — a little bit of hurt. But... In front of Bucks — critical error. He poured kerosene over the whole warm coals. It's burned! Bucks started whispering in their ears, twisting their words. "He called you careless? That's just a polite way of calling you a dumbass." Word by word, Chef Bucks prepped his famous dish: a brawl between bro. His organizational skill was on full display. Bucks personally cleared a ring for the brawl, excited the timid fighter, and just tricked the other into a rage.
«Saylah, show Raf 'e's bang ou' of ordah!»
"Can't! 'Cause I'm tryin' to apolo—"
«D'ya 'ear tha', Raf? 'E's just called ya a cunt!"
"That's it, Sayler! I'm gonna beat the living shit out of you!"
Bucks made sure there was no room for apologies, no way to retreat. Ten years of friendship stood no chance against Bucks' manipulations. It was disgusting, but that's the Alpha male way, isn't it?
Before it started, he sat down next to Wilder, pulled out a beer, and offered it to him. It felt like a sporting event. Wilder rooted for the timid fighter with all his heart. But Bucks? He just enjoyed the show, giving a commentary on the fight in a deep voice. Suddenly, Wilder felt a fire in his belly. That tiny flicker of a spark had finally hit the dry wood, and his emotions burst into a roar... As if he were a helpless princess, and this rough knight Sir Bucks was his savior. The air grew thick with Bucks' testosterone; Wilder's legs turned to jelly, and he shivered with goosebumps. Every breath and exhale from his bully felt like the ultimate expression of raw power. Wilder suddenly felt the urge to simply give up. To surrender completely to this power and hide under its protection.
One evening at camp, there was a "heart-to-heart." Wilder found his nerve and asked Bucks in front of everyone:
"Why did you choose me as the target for your unprovoked aggression? What benefit did you gain from it?"
«'Oo? Nob'dy was 'avin' a go at ya!» Bucks made a surprised face.
"My nose cracked during your unprovoked aggression. I remember the precise force of that impact."
«Oh… Well, ya got me trainers all muddy back ven, didn't ya?»
"And that made you so furious?.. You were the one who tripped me!"
«Oh… an' anuvver fing, ya talk funny. Bu' when ya get worked up — ya sound like a proper geezer!»
"Alright, everyone, let's make up and pass the mic! Make up, make up, and never ever fight, and whoever fights…" The counselor put on a cheerful act and cut them off.
«Gets it in the balls, then.» Bucks grinned, instantly accepting the rules of the game.
"Careful now, young alien!" The counselor shook a finger playfully.
«Right. I'm sorry to Wilder for tha'!» Bucks squeezed out gruffly.
"Really?!.." Wilder couldn't believe his ears.
"Now, Wilder, my dear." The counselor flashed a plastic smile. "Let's not provoke a conflict. Come on, apologize too, just like he did. You did get his sneakers dirty, after all."
"Fine… I'm sorry too, Bucks." Wilder mumbled.
Everything changed after that campe talk: the bullying became less common and less brutal. Or maybe there were just a few months left until the end of school. By the way, that psychologist had been a "gift" from his mother after yet another argument. She wanted her son to finally understand the "simple truth": parents are never to blame. And in that moment, Wilder realized: Bucks was a gaslighter, just like her.