The morning sun filtered through the grime-streaked windows of the school bus, casting a faint warmth over the cracked vinyl seats.
Aaron’s good mood—a rare, fragile thing built from last night’s training session—remained intact until the heavy tread of athletic sneakers signaled a change in the atmosphere.
Tank decided to, once again, harass him.
This time, abandoning his customary “throne” in the very back where the engine hummed and the noise was loudest, Tank chose to sit directly behind Aaron.
He moved with a purpose that felt heavy; today, he had an agenda.
***
To the rest of the school, Tank lived a life that was enviable and gilded.
He was rich, popular, and possessed the kind of effortless magnetism that made his status as the star running back seem like destiny.
College scouts had begun circling like vultures over a prize, filling the bleachers to watch him tear across the field.
His father, Phillip Pritchard, had already fielded calls from top-tier programs, though he guarded those opportunities like secrets.
But the gold plating on Tank’s life was thin.
Beneath it lay the suffocating weight of a father who didn’t just parent, but micromanaged every calorie, every practice rep, and every social interaction.
At school, there was no sanctuary.
The halls were just an extension of home because Phillip wasn’t just his father—he was the principal.
Every decision Tank made was monitored, every grade scrutinized under a microscope of perfection.
The bus, with its peeling paint and the smell of old diesel and teenage hormones, was one of the few places where the principal’s shadow didn’t reach.
It was a pressurized cabin where Tank’s frustrations boiled over, and he found his release by turning Aaron’s quiet existence into a target for the anger he couldn’t show at home.
***
While sitting behind Aaron, Tank peeled back the foil of a breakfast burrito.
The aroma of truffle oil and high-grade chorizo wafted through the aisle—a meal hand-prepared by his family’s private chef—but Tank just sneered.
“Cold,” he muttered, his voice carrying over the chatter.
“My guy’s losing his touch.
This garbage is spoiled.”
Aaron’s backpack lay open on the seat beside him, exposing his binders and a clean change of clothes for gym class.
With a lazy grin, Tank stood up and leaned over the seat.
“Hey, Freak, my trash can is full.
Mind holding onto this?”
Before Aaron could react, Tank dangled the leaking, half-eaten burrito over the open bag.
Aaron’s eyes widened, and he lunged to pull the backpack away, but Tank was faster.
He slammed a heavy, calloused hand into Aaron’s chest, pinning him against the half-open window with the effortless strength of a varsity running back.
The plexiglass rattled against the back of Aaron’s head.
“Don’t be rude,” Tank chuckled.
Around them, the soft click-click of shutters sounded as his friends raised their latest-model iPhones, the triple-lens cameras catching every flicker of Aaron’s panic in high definition. The source of this chapter is NovelPing.
The burrito dropped.
It landed with a wet, heavy thud deep inside the bag, the sauce immediately soaking into Aaron’s notes and gym clothes.
Tank reached into a designer leather wallet, pulled out a crisp $50 bill, and flicked it onto the mess.
“There,” Tank announced, raising his voice for the entire bus to hear.
“That’s for the cleaning service.
You should be grateful for the tip, Freak.
Most people work all day for that.”
The bus hit a pothole, jarring the riders.
As Tank stepped back, he leaned down, his face inches from Aaron’s.
“Now, you’re going to sit there and hold that bag in your lap.
Keep it steady.
If a single drop of that sauce touches the floor of this bus, I’ll tell my dad the driver isn’t keeping things safe.
One call and you’re walking to school for the rest of the year.
Got it?”
Aaron nodded mutely, his knuckles white as he gripped the straps of the heavy, ruined bag, the heat of the discarded food seeping through the fabric onto his legs.
***
Rykker had been silent for several hours.
This was intentional, as they had collectively decided he should spend his time observing how technology and machinery were integrated into everyday life.
Rykker also agreed to study Aaron’s daily rituals to eventually design an effective training program that complemented both his schedule and his studies.
The goal was to ensure that neither his training nor his academic requirements would suffer; however, despite this productive silence, the unresolved issue with Tank had lingered for far too long.
“Have you attempted to bridge the conflict with words, Aaron?” Rykker asked, his voice echoing slightly.
“Of course I have.
I’ve asked him to stop lots of times and it just seems to spur him on.”
“What would happen if you arranged a summit of sorts?” Rykker’s voice resonated within Aaron’s mind, sounding like the grinding of ancient stones.
“A true parley.
Perhaps if you were to unearth the root of his malice, you might weave a counter for this discord.”
***
The bus reeked of damp gym clothes and soggy paper, a scent now sharpened by the leaking breakfast burrito soaking into Aaron’s history notebook.
Hunched in the third row, Aaron stared at the floor, his heart racing.
In his mind, Rykker paced with restless annoyance.
“I hear you, Rykker, but it’s not that easy,” Aaron whispered, barely moving his lips under the cover of the bus’s roar.
“He’s scary and always has an audience.” Aaron glanced back at Tank, a senior holding court with two laughing cronies.
“He might listen if he were alone, but he never is.”
Suddenly, Tank’s heavy hand slammed into Aaron’s seat, rattling the entire row. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Hey, Burrito Boy!
Hope that notebook isn’t too soggy—I need to copy your homework!” Tank roared, his friends joined in with sneers and jeers.
***
Rykker scoffed, “Where’s your pride?
Your honor?
How long will you allow this mongrel to bark in your face, Aaron?
He strikes your pride as easily as he strikes your seat.
I have seen empires crumble for less insult than this ‘Tank’ offers you daily.
To stand and do nothing is not virtue; it is the silence of the conquered.”
“You don’t understand,” Aaron thought, his mental voice thin but resolute.
“Anger only breeds more of what he is.
My father…
he was all fire and fists.
I promised myself when I was ten that I would never be like him.
If I hit Tank, I lose.
I become the very thing I hate.”
“You confuse discipline with cowardice, Sir Aaron.
A sword in its sheath is still a weapon, but you have no sheath—only a broken blade.
This ‘vow’ of yours is a cage, not a shield.
I am a hero of my world, a leader of men, yet I am bound to a host who would rather drown in a bully’s laughter than raise a hand in his own defense.
It is a bitter draft to swallow.”
Aaron tried to defend his actions.
He knew Rykker was right, but he simply didn’t have the ability, let alone the courage to fight back.
“The teachers say to ignore it.
They say he’ll get bored.
But it never stops.” Aaron gripped his backpack, his heart hammering.
“I’m not a warrior, Rykker.
I’m just trying to survive the day without breaking my word.
If you want to fight, you’ll have to wait until I’m knocked out, because I won’t start it.”
Rykker growls, “Then we wait.
But know this: while you cling to your ‘decency,’ he takes your dignity.
I sense your fear vibrating in these bones we share.
It is not peace you have found, boy, it is paralysis.”