Lance Part 1

“Have any of you ever heard of a device called a ‘gun’?”

The sudden question catches the other boys off-guard. They look at the speaker, another boy with dark hair and glasses. All are dressed in the Arena Island’s turquoise and grey school uniform, their jackets bearing an embroidered gold patch—a crown with crossed swords.

A boy with well-kept blonde hair guffaws, before replying, “Yeah, I have. It’s just a rumor though.”

One of the other boys, the most mature of the bunch, wearing his long black hair in a warrior-like ponytail, inquires, “Why do you ask, Alasdair?”

Alasdair adjusts his glasses. “I was curious. I heard about it for the first time today and wanted to know what you all thought of it or if you had also heard about it.”

The final boy, the youngest of the group, raises his hand. “I’ve never heard of a ‘gun’ before. What is it?”

The other boys exchange looks before Alasdair lowers his voice and speaks conspiratorially, “Well, from what I heard, it was an ancient weapon that could instantly kill a person from a hundred meters away or more. It was shaped like a stick and shot fire from one end.”

“Woah.” The younger boy is impressed.

“From what I’ve heard,” the blonde-haired boy speaks up, “it was shaped like a Karambit but weighed as much as a MKII Sword and made a sound like a thunderclap when used.”

The mature boy finishes by adding, “I heard there were many different versions and sizes of ‘gun’, but that all were as dangerous to the user as they were to those it was used against.”

“That’s crazy,” the younger boy states excitedly, “why would anyone use a weapon like that?”

“Who knows.” The older boy looks disconcerted, crossing his arms. “It is forbidden to speak of such things for a reason. We are better off not wondering about it.”

The group falls into silence. Alasdair checks the time on his AD while the blonde-haired boy nudges halfheartedly at the pieces on the chessboard set up in front of him.

“I think it is about time for me to head home, then.” Alasdair rises from his seat across from the mature boy, prompting one of the four serfs standing by the door to grab a school bag from the wall, which he respectfully hands to the Lord.

The blonde-haired boy and the young boy, who is sitting across from him, begin to play another game. The mature boy calls over his own servant, also stationed by the door. As the boy takes Alasdair’s previously occupied seat, his master smirks. “I do hope you have been practicing Carlisle, or this will be a short match.”

Alasdair’s servant opens the door and the Lord quietly leaves the game room, not wanting to disrupt the deep thoughts of his fellow club members. The pair enter a spotless white hallway, flanked on one side by floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying the beautiful sunset over the island’s coastline. Palm trees and vibrant flowerbeds decorate the school grounds just outside. A gardener is crouched down in one of them, attending to the blooms, one of the rare jobs left that requires a human touch.

The halls are mostly empty as the two boys make their way through the school building, save the occasional student council member running between rooms or cleaning automaton washing the floors, walls, or ceiling.

Through the automatic doors of the school’s main entrance, Alasdair and his servant leave the air-conditioned environment and enter the heat and humidity of the summer. Before they can pass through the grand entrance gate, a boy appears before them, leaving the shadow of a small nearby outbuilding where he was hidden. Alasdair’s servant quickly places himself between his Lord and the stranger, preventing any direct attack.

The stranger raises his hands slightly in a disarming gesture. He is wearing the same turquoise and grey outfit as Alasdair and his servant, without the gold embroidery that only Alasdair’s possesses. His amber hair is messy and unkempt, sticking up or pointing out in any given direction. Dark green, jade-like eyes peer from the mess of hair, flitting from the Lord to his would-be bodyguard and back again. A smattering of freckles cover his cheeks.

“Hey…” he says quietly, the subdued tone of his voice not matching the serious intensity in his eyes. “You’re Alasdair Alison, right?”

With a wary look, Alasdair replies, “What do you want, serf?”

The boy waits before responding, staring at Alasdair in an attempt to convey the importance of his next words. As the seconds drag on, Alasdair raises an eyebrow, his cautiousness giving way to curiosity.

“I’m challenging you to a Duel.”