Chapter 2: Approaching Bully
In the sprawling cafeteria, where various sections boasted an array of delectable offerings, the aroma was nothing short of exceptional this particular day.
Peter sauntered in and selected a tray, eyes widening at the prospect of indulging in pancakes and waffles, a rare treat.
As his mouth watered in anticipation, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the fluffy waffle before him.
Most days were defined by monotonous, bland cereals for the orphans, leaving Peter intrigued by the peculiar brown milk that accompanied his morning meal.
He approached the elevated counter, eager for his food to be served.
The lunch lady, with a distinct blend of Mexican and Philippian heritage, stood ready, her newness evident. "So, residing here at the orphanage?" she inquired while setting up Peter's plate.
As she placed the dish on the counter, she continued, "They must treat you well here."
Peter attempted to conceal his incredulous expression, making sure she didn't catch a hint of his skepticism.
"Yeah—perhaps."
"Hey, don't fret, I'm sure you'll find a loving family here."
As Peter picked up his tray, a disconcerting thought crossed his mind.
"What happens to those who turn eighteen and have no parents?"
"Oh, them," she chuckled discreetly. "I have no idea, after all—I'm just a lunch lady."
Peter nodded skeptically, sensing she held knowledge she wasn't sharing.
But what was it?
Were they asked to leave?
Were they placed with new families?
Though an orphan, Peter understood that society often had reservations about eighteen-year-olds.
He observed rows of occupied tables, except one.
Micah.
Approaching him, Peter placed his tray on the table and sat down.
"So, what were you discussing with the lady?" he inquired.
"Just things about this place," Peter replied, attempting to steer the conversation away.
"What things?"
Nope. Peter sighed, reluctant to delve into a topic that could potentially land him in trouble.
"I asked the lunch lady what happens to people once they turn eighteen."
Micah shrugged. "We were never told, just instructed on what we were supposed to do."
"Do you see my point?"
"What do you mean?" Micah said, finally comprehending the shift in dynamics.
Peter leaned in, whispering excitedly, "Why haven't they provided us any hint about what happens to those once they turn eighteen?"
"It's beyond our concern."
Peter was taken aback by Micah's response. Typically lively when it came to questioning authority at the orphanage, now it seemed as if he was—afraid to voice his thoughts.
Peter chose to let it go, hoping it was simply the allure of the waffle that had dampened Micah's spirit.
Taking a bite of the waffle, he relished the flavors, hoping for a momentary escape from the unanswered questions.
Soon, the bell rang, signaling recess.
The students rushed comically, trays in hand, towards the trash.
Peter and Micah exchanged glances, navigating the chaotic crowd.
The field was now a sea of children.
Peter stood up weakly, arms aching, and Micah extended a helping hand. As they rose, they spotted two unoccupied swings.
"Let's head over there," Micah suggested, leading the way.
They settled on the swings, each taking a seat.
Peter, on the right, unwrapped a small cup of applesauce, devouring it with plastic utensils.
"I'm surprised you even bothered," Micah remarked.
Peter looked up in confusion. "I always do this."
"Oh."
They watched the children playing, envy tugging at Peter as he yearned for their carefree happiness.
After what seemed like an eternity, Micah broke the silence.
"I'd prefer not," he confessed.
Peter looked up, a mix of confusion and surprise clouding his expression.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because we're the only ones who think," Micah explained. "We question the rules of the orphanage, and it's through questioning that we advance in this world."
"You're not wrong," Peter realized. "So, how do we get the answers we seek? How do we break free from this cycle?"
"I don't know. I don't have all the answers," he admitted. "But somehow, someday, we might find them."
"So, you're counting on miracles?"
"More on hope than miracles."
Peter stared at the ground, pondering their conversation.
He did have burning questions he longed to be answered.
However, he understood that answers seldom came easily. But how would they ever arrive?
His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a figure, tall and broad with fiery red hair and a round face.
Kirk.
The bully from his first day here.
"Hey, what are you two losers up to?" Kirk sneered, approaching Micah and exhaling unpleasantly.
"Nothing," Micah weakly responded, holding his breath.
Kirk eyed him, then shifted his attention to Peter.
"You're still too scared to talk to Gwen, you pathetic loser."
In a burst of courage, Micah shouted, "Leave him alone, Kirk!"
Kirk turned, his smirk more pronounced, and stormed towards Micah, menacingly close to his face.
"So, now you want to speak up, huh?" he sneered.
The ensuing silence was deafening before Micah was brutally yanked from the swing and thrown to the ground.
"Wanna say that again?" Kirk taunted, his friends closing in.
Peter's breaths quickened, his heart racing in fear of what they might do to Micah.
"Wanna say that again?!" Kirk spat, delivering a harsh kick to Micah's stomach.
His accomplices followed suit, their actions increasingly vicious.
Micah grunted, enduring the relentless assault.
Kirk continued to shout the same abusive phrase, stomping on Micah mercilessly.
Eventually, Kirk caught his breath and swiftly departed with his gang.
Peter rushed to Micah's side, aghast at the sight of his bruised and battered face.
"Are you alright?" he asked, panic and concern overtaking him.
"I'll be fine, don't worry," Micah replied, slowly rising.
He remained propped on his elbow for a while, breathing heavily, as Peter tried to assist him.
Suddenly, Micah closed his eyes and crumpled softly to the ground.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone