Note before I start: This is from Killua's point of view. I don't mention
his name anytime here, nor do I describe him, so I'm just telling you
beforehand that this is Killua. Okay, read.
Ch.1: Four Strange Happenings
Actually, part of me wanted to pity the poor teacher. As the young, blonde, twenty-year-old professor stood up on the podium, trying to teach, the students mockingly threw paperwads and spit spitballs at him. Several times, now, the poor teacher had tried to quiet down the class. To the side, the student aide looked at her nails and cleaned them on her nail file. A few times, he looked at her beseechingly, but she just gave him a lazy, hooded glance and continued checking her nails. When she was done, she started on her feet.
The students laughed. I laughed too, though a little part of me told me that it was wrong that students should be so disrespectful to any teacher, whether he was a Green or not. But even as I cackled again and tore another sheet of paper out of my notebook and crumpled it up, I told myself that I was having fun. I wasn't really, of course, but if I held back, the other Azures would look at me funny, and I'd had enough of that for some time.
This lasted for quite some minutes. The teacher managed to write the date and his name on the board before an especially boisterous student named Ubogin got up and grabbed the eraser and erased the carefully written words. Being a Green, the teacher couldn't lift a hand against him; he was a Violet, the highest status. For a moment, everyone wanted the teacher to attack the stupid student (he was too big for his stupid boots anyway), but that would just end up the teacher in disgrace and ultimately FIRED from the school systems for all time and the student excused without anything more than a detention or a verbal reprimand. And Ubogin treated those punishments like parties: when they were here, they were fun – if they weren't fun, he made them fun for him. If they were constricting, all he had to do was show his Violet armband on his arm and the teachers would grumble.
There weren't many Violets at this school, actually. It didn't really matter how much money they had – but rather what Color they were born into. If Ubogin was a Violet from birth, then he was a Violet for life because that was the highest status any citizen could achieve. People like the teacher, whose name was Kurapika Kurata, didn't rise up because he had a lowly job, could barely earn enough money to pay his rent (if the manager of the building was a higher Color than their tenants, they could raise the price), and could barely afford to eat at the cafeteria. Some of the students said that he couldn't even afford a present for himself at Christmas. Pathetic, of course, but that was the way it went. Plus, he probably wouldn't rise up in Colors at all, because he had participated in the Rebel Color Movement of 1989 and the government had actually caught him. According to those who were also caught (and probably made up a whole bunch of lies), Kurapika Kurata had been one of the main ringleaders.
And maybe he had been. But certainly, he didn't look like a ringleader now. He looked like a highly distressed, highly P.O.ed teacher who couldn't exactly take any more abuse. And just as the class started to throw more paper, more junk at the teacher, trying to make him attack them so he would get fired, he just calmly stopped writing, and went over to the desk. As the students watched, he booted up the computer amid a barrage of rather nasty spitballs that came from the right side of the room, and called up something.
And then, he did something completely uncomprehensible. He smiled faintly, and started typing rapidly. Once in a while, he would look up. The paperwads and spitballs stopped, and the students stopped. They couldn't get out of their desks (they were locked on the side) unless the teacher gave the release button a tap. How Ubogin got up earlier was quiet simple; very early in the year, he had broken his lock and just pretended to have it locked every time the staff walked around checking desks. On top of that, he probably bribed the janitor to let him leave the desk alone anyway. The teacher stopped typing, closed down the computer, and turned back to the board. Quietly and thoroughly mystified, the students copied down the four ways to determine a variable and then the outlines of Shakespearean writing afterwards.
Never had the class passed so quietly. When the bell rang, we got out our reading books and read for the allotted thirty minutes that was determined SSR by the school board (all Violets). A few times, Ubogin and some of his buddy-buddy pals threw a few ball of paper the teacher's way, but with an ease that he had not shown before, the teacher dodged all of them like they were simply passing butterflies.
When the bell rang again, we filed out in a single file, something that had never happened before. Once outside, our class met for an unofficial 'meeting' to see what happened. Immediately the study freaks were called upon, and Ubogin smacked a hand above little Shizuku's head and demanded what she thought of the teacher's behavior.
"I – I think we should check the school records", Shizuku stuttered. The whole class, thirty-three in all, trooped to the library. With Shalnark in our class, we could just about track down any action any teacher had done on the computer in the last twenty-four hours. After madly typing, Shalnark summed it all up: new news was bad. Very bad.
Everyone in the class now had an 'F'. Even the study freaks (several which of threw paperwads) got 'F's, which was rather surprising, seeing how their grades, even if they paid no attention in class, still remained up in the 'A' category. The even worse news, as everyone knew, was the school was out in two weeks. Which, of course, meant that we wouldn't be able to bring up our grades high enough to pass before the year was over. And even though who had 'A's in the first semester would get at most a 'C'. This was not appealing news.
"Course of action!", Ubogin yelled at the top of his lungs. The librarian was only an Azure; she couldn't do anything, just glare at him for a moment, then look back down. "We have to get some people to beat him up. That'll teach him to mess with us!", he crowed. A few brows turned down; it didn't occur to the overgrown Violet that even if they DID beat Kurapika Kurata, the Lowly Green as we liked to call him, he still could have the grades remain as they were. As far as I knew, he had been a leader in the Rebel Color Movement in 1989, right? That mean he had some backbone. But before anyone could say anything, Ubogin had already heralded two other boys and me to the front. "Beat him up", he instructed us gleefully, and I could see the gold tooth in the back of his jaw even though he was no more than sixteen years old. "I want him BROKEN by tomorrow!"
Leorio, Gon and I looked at each other. "Get it?", Leorio said sarcastically. We knew what he meant; by nature, Leorio was a peaceful soul who never raised a hand against anyone unless they truly needed it. He was training to be a doctor – or so I heard. I couldn't imagine why Ubogin would chose him to beat up a teacher when he barely knew how to throw a punch.
"Probably wanted more 'backbone' on me or something", the tall would- be-doctor muttered as we walked back to our classroom. But almost immediately we stopped, and the whole class of thirty-three stared up into the face of Kuroro Rushihiru, teacher of C-12D. Every student that came from his class was perpetually odd. They grouped together on the field at recess and at lunch, talking about things that wasn't healthy: Shakespeare, the study of biological differences between Darwin's chickadees, and Confucian philosophy. The other five sophomore classes regarded them as mentally unclean, having been tainted with the disease of learning. Some of them actually weren't bad to talk to – after you got over the fact that they compared everything with either Hamlet or Oscar Wilde.
"May I help you, gentlemen?", the ever-pleasant, perpetually-smiling teacher asked. Some people said that he wore a mask all the time; no one could smile for 24 hours. Students whispered that he even smiled in his sleep and that he was still a virgin. Probably true, because no one could ever imagine him in some sleazy lady's arms and madly making out with her. A few students coughed; the passing bell had started to ring. Still, the dark-haired teacher wouldn't let us go. Giving us a soft smile, he chided, "Now, now, it's not good to plot against teachers, especially one that has been so nice to you for this whole year."
This of course, caused the whole class to either look away in pain or snort. Kurapika Kurata had not been a nice teacher. One could call him downright stingy with the points. None of us took into account that even the quiet failures of the class and the gaudy girls who braided at each other's hair and gazed longingly at the males in magazines all day got full participation points. None of us took into account that after progress reports, he was always, always willing to change grades – even if the points had always been correct. Kurapika Kurata, in our eyes, was the meanest teacher to ever come our way. Plus, he was a GREEN, that that totally made him inferior to us.
"So what?", Ubo defended. "He deserves it."
The teacher looked like he was about to say something else, but then abruptly turned and walked out of the door. Before he left, I caught a glance as he stopped by the library desk and laid a reminiscing hand on one of the books on the desk. The librarian gave him a glance, but he was already out the door and into the hall. Some of the students behind us looked at each other; was it just us, or did Kuroro just look angry? He was unruffle-able. He was smiling, always hiding what he was brainwashing in those poor students. We filed back into the classroom. Today was most definitely odd.
In the middle of class, suddenly the door opened, and Kuroro stepped in with a brisk pace. He gestured to Kurapika for a moment. To our shock, he clasped the blonde's shoulder in a friendly manner as they walked out. All of us sighed in relief as Kurapika absently brushed it from his shoulder. A Violet touching a Green? It was sacrilege, almost, like throwing a baseball into the most expensive department store downtown. It was in front of everyone, and the worst thing you could do. Greens weren't stupid, I guess. They were just unlucky. That's it, unlucky. They were unlucky to be born into such a class. But that wasn't our fault! Our system was, by the most part, just, wasn't it? I didn't doubt it, just went along with it. Why should I complain when it put me in one of the higher classes?
The teachers came in after a few moments. Even from my seat in the back row, I could see Kurapika's face white and strained, as if someone had pulled all the strings in his face. Kuroro looked rather concerned (why should he be concerned about a stupid Green?), and for the second time that day, we watched as the Violet put a hand on the only Green in the room's shoulder, and asked him if he was alright. This time Kurapika's reaction was like being burned: immediately he slapped Kuroro's hand away, and gave all of us a furtive glance. Then, seeing that we were just as puzzled at Kuroro's behavior as he was, he took a few steps and sat down in his chair. We stared for a moment as he buried his head in his hands. We wondered just what had defeated him so. And I guess you could say I, for the second time in my life, felt sorry for that teacher.
Shalnark raised a hand. Without looking up, Kurapika mourned, "What is it?"
The student cleared his throat. "We're done copying the board, Kurapika."
The teacher stayed idle for only a heartbeat more. Then he was back up, and he erased the left side of the board and started to copy down another set of notes. No one noticed Kuroro was still there until Kurapika said pointedly, "Please leave, Kuroro."
All eyes turned to the dark-haired teacher. That sounded like a threat, if Greens could ever threaten Violets. But all the Violet did was shift his weight to the other foot and lean his hand casually on the corner of the teacher's desk, a sure sign he did not want to leave. I wondered why. I knew the other students were just as confused as I was. Everyone watched as Kurapika closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, threw down the marker for the white board, and walked past Kuroro to the door. Opening it, he gestured a rude hand and held it open. "Go", the blonde teacher said, his voice quiet but the sound seemed to rock off the walls. A moment passed.
Kuroro walked out, but not before grabbing Kurapika's arm and whispering something quickly in his ear. Kurapika seemed to think about for a moment, then said softly, "I know."
The words rang around my head. He knew! HE KNEW WE WERE GOING TO AMBUSH HIM!
Ubo gave us three in the back row a significant look. We were to go through our little plan no matter if Kurapika knew or not. To him, it didn't really matter; wasn't his job. But to me, my heart gave a little extra beat. I wondered, for the first time in my life, what it would be like to be a Green, to have all thirty-three of your students hate your very guts, and have a Violet be kind to you. You'd feel ashamed, I'd imagine, to stoop low to receive help from a Violet – I could only imagine that Kurapika had a lot of pride, had a lot of determination, especially to be the ringleader of the Rebel Color Movement of 1989.
The bell rang. Kurapika hit the release button on our locked desks. We pushed out. The three of us hung back, waiting for the teacher to cross the street. After half an hour, Kurapika hurried out of the building. We smiled. Our plan should work just about now. And just as we thought, Kurapika tripped over the wire that Leorio had fastened against the lightpost on the other side of the sidewalk. His briefcase skidded like a drunk car to the middle of the street. Gon was smirking; I knew what he was thinking – I, too, hoped that a car would come and crush that leather like a dead cat.
But before we could get him and pummel him to the ground, the sound of clipped shoes caught our attention. Quickly we backed into the bushes again. Kurapika didn't seem to move. I hoped a little fall like that wouldn't kill someone. It wouldn't, right? Even my little sister could survive a little fall like that!
The owner of the shoes stepped into view. It was Kuroro.
For a moment, he looked down at Kurapika. Then, very slowly, he knelt, slid an arm around the blonde twenty-year-old's form, and lifted him up. Taking the white handkerchief from his pocket, the Violet dabbed at Kurapika's bloody nose. The white soaked up the red like a rose.
We looked at each other. Nevermind the beating up. We had just witnessed, from a VIOLET, the most horrendous of acts: he had helped someone in the class under him on his own free will! It was insane; did Kuroro look to be destatitized [meaning de-status-ized]? It was pointless; Kurapika, a Green, could have gotten up on his own. All three of us shared horrified looks before picking up our bags and dashing home. I had a feeling that Ubo would be mad tomorrow, but I had to think about this. Why? Why did a Violet help a perfectly fine Green? It didn't make sense. It didn't make any sense at all.
Ch.1: Four Strange Happenings
Actually, part of me wanted to pity the poor teacher. As the young, blonde, twenty-year-old professor stood up on the podium, trying to teach, the students mockingly threw paperwads and spit spitballs at him. Several times, now, the poor teacher had tried to quiet down the class. To the side, the student aide looked at her nails and cleaned them on her nail file. A few times, he looked at her beseechingly, but she just gave him a lazy, hooded glance and continued checking her nails. When she was done, she started on her feet.
The students laughed. I laughed too, though a little part of me told me that it was wrong that students should be so disrespectful to any teacher, whether he was a Green or not. But even as I cackled again and tore another sheet of paper out of my notebook and crumpled it up, I told myself that I was having fun. I wasn't really, of course, but if I held back, the other Azures would look at me funny, and I'd had enough of that for some time.
This lasted for quite some minutes. The teacher managed to write the date and his name on the board before an especially boisterous student named Ubogin got up and grabbed the eraser and erased the carefully written words. Being a Green, the teacher couldn't lift a hand against him; he was a Violet, the highest status. For a moment, everyone wanted the teacher to attack the stupid student (he was too big for his stupid boots anyway), but that would just end up the teacher in disgrace and ultimately FIRED from the school systems for all time and the student excused without anything more than a detention or a verbal reprimand. And Ubogin treated those punishments like parties: when they were here, they were fun – if they weren't fun, he made them fun for him. If they were constricting, all he had to do was show his Violet armband on his arm and the teachers would grumble.
There weren't many Violets at this school, actually. It didn't really matter how much money they had – but rather what Color they were born into. If Ubogin was a Violet from birth, then he was a Violet for life because that was the highest status any citizen could achieve. People like the teacher, whose name was Kurapika Kurata, didn't rise up because he had a lowly job, could barely earn enough money to pay his rent (if the manager of the building was a higher Color than their tenants, they could raise the price), and could barely afford to eat at the cafeteria. Some of the students said that he couldn't even afford a present for himself at Christmas. Pathetic, of course, but that was the way it went. Plus, he probably wouldn't rise up in Colors at all, because he had participated in the Rebel Color Movement of 1989 and the government had actually caught him. According to those who were also caught (and probably made up a whole bunch of lies), Kurapika Kurata had been one of the main ringleaders.
And maybe he had been. But certainly, he didn't look like a ringleader now. He looked like a highly distressed, highly P.O.ed teacher who couldn't exactly take any more abuse. And just as the class started to throw more paper, more junk at the teacher, trying to make him attack them so he would get fired, he just calmly stopped writing, and went over to the desk. As the students watched, he booted up the computer amid a barrage of rather nasty spitballs that came from the right side of the room, and called up something.
And then, he did something completely uncomprehensible. He smiled faintly, and started typing rapidly. Once in a while, he would look up. The paperwads and spitballs stopped, and the students stopped. They couldn't get out of their desks (they were locked on the side) unless the teacher gave the release button a tap. How Ubogin got up earlier was quiet simple; very early in the year, he had broken his lock and just pretended to have it locked every time the staff walked around checking desks. On top of that, he probably bribed the janitor to let him leave the desk alone anyway. The teacher stopped typing, closed down the computer, and turned back to the board. Quietly and thoroughly mystified, the students copied down the four ways to determine a variable and then the outlines of Shakespearean writing afterwards.
Never had the class passed so quietly. When the bell rang, we got out our reading books and read for the allotted thirty minutes that was determined SSR by the school board (all Violets). A few times, Ubogin and some of his buddy-buddy pals threw a few ball of paper the teacher's way, but with an ease that he had not shown before, the teacher dodged all of them like they were simply passing butterflies.
When the bell rang again, we filed out in a single file, something that had never happened before. Once outside, our class met for an unofficial 'meeting' to see what happened. Immediately the study freaks were called upon, and Ubogin smacked a hand above little Shizuku's head and demanded what she thought of the teacher's behavior.
"I – I think we should check the school records", Shizuku stuttered. The whole class, thirty-three in all, trooped to the library. With Shalnark in our class, we could just about track down any action any teacher had done on the computer in the last twenty-four hours. After madly typing, Shalnark summed it all up: new news was bad. Very bad.
Everyone in the class now had an 'F'. Even the study freaks (several which of threw paperwads) got 'F's, which was rather surprising, seeing how their grades, even if they paid no attention in class, still remained up in the 'A' category. The even worse news, as everyone knew, was the school was out in two weeks. Which, of course, meant that we wouldn't be able to bring up our grades high enough to pass before the year was over. And even though who had 'A's in the first semester would get at most a 'C'. This was not appealing news.
"Course of action!", Ubogin yelled at the top of his lungs. The librarian was only an Azure; she couldn't do anything, just glare at him for a moment, then look back down. "We have to get some people to beat him up. That'll teach him to mess with us!", he crowed. A few brows turned down; it didn't occur to the overgrown Violet that even if they DID beat Kurapika Kurata, the Lowly Green as we liked to call him, he still could have the grades remain as they were. As far as I knew, he had been a leader in the Rebel Color Movement in 1989, right? That mean he had some backbone. But before anyone could say anything, Ubogin had already heralded two other boys and me to the front. "Beat him up", he instructed us gleefully, and I could see the gold tooth in the back of his jaw even though he was no more than sixteen years old. "I want him BROKEN by tomorrow!"
Leorio, Gon and I looked at each other. "Get it?", Leorio said sarcastically. We knew what he meant; by nature, Leorio was a peaceful soul who never raised a hand against anyone unless they truly needed it. He was training to be a doctor – or so I heard. I couldn't imagine why Ubogin would chose him to beat up a teacher when he barely knew how to throw a punch.
"Probably wanted more 'backbone' on me or something", the tall would- be-doctor muttered as we walked back to our classroom. But almost immediately we stopped, and the whole class of thirty-three stared up into the face of Kuroro Rushihiru, teacher of C-12D. Every student that came from his class was perpetually odd. They grouped together on the field at recess and at lunch, talking about things that wasn't healthy: Shakespeare, the study of biological differences between Darwin's chickadees, and Confucian philosophy. The other five sophomore classes regarded them as mentally unclean, having been tainted with the disease of learning. Some of them actually weren't bad to talk to – after you got over the fact that they compared everything with either Hamlet or Oscar Wilde.
"May I help you, gentlemen?", the ever-pleasant, perpetually-smiling teacher asked. Some people said that he wore a mask all the time; no one could smile for 24 hours. Students whispered that he even smiled in his sleep and that he was still a virgin. Probably true, because no one could ever imagine him in some sleazy lady's arms and madly making out with her. A few students coughed; the passing bell had started to ring. Still, the dark-haired teacher wouldn't let us go. Giving us a soft smile, he chided, "Now, now, it's not good to plot against teachers, especially one that has been so nice to you for this whole year."
This of course, caused the whole class to either look away in pain or snort. Kurapika Kurata had not been a nice teacher. One could call him downright stingy with the points. None of us took into account that even the quiet failures of the class and the gaudy girls who braided at each other's hair and gazed longingly at the males in magazines all day got full participation points. None of us took into account that after progress reports, he was always, always willing to change grades – even if the points had always been correct. Kurapika Kurata, in our eyes, was the meanest teacher to ever come our way. Plus, he was a GREEN, that that totally made him inferior to us.
"So what?", Ubo defended. "He deserves it."
The teacher looked like he was about to say something else, but then abruptly turned and walked out of the door. Before he left, I caught a glance as he stopped by the library desk and laid a reminiscing hand on one of the books on the desk. The librarian gave him a glance, but he was already out the door and into the hall. Some of the students behind us looked at each other; was it just us, or did Kuroro just look angry? He was unruffle-able. He was smiling, always hiding what he was brainwashing in those poor students. We filed back into the classroom. Today was most definitely odd.
In the middle of class, suddenly the door opened, and Kuroro stepped in with a brisk pace. He gestured to Kurapika for a moment. To our shock, he clasped the blonde's shoulder in a friendly manner as they walked out. All of us sighed in relief as Kurapika absently brushed it from his shoulder. A Violet touching a Green? It was sacrilege, almost, like throwing a baseball into the most expensive department store downtown. It was in front of everyone, and the worst thing you could do. Greens weren't stupid, I guess. They were just unlucky. That's it, unlucky. They were unlucky to be born into such a class. But that wasn't our fault! Our system was, by the most part, just, wasn't it? I didn't doubt it, just went along with it. Why should I complain when it put me in one of the higher classes?
The teachers came in after a few moments. Even from my seat in the back row, I could see Kurapika's face white and strained, as if someone had pulled all the strings in his face. Kuroro looked rather concerned (why should he be concerned about a stupid Green?), and for the second time that day, we watched as the Violet put a hand on the only Green in the room's shoulder, and asked him if he was alright. This time Kurapika's reaction was like being burned: immediately he slapped Kuroro's hand away, and gave all of us a furtive glance. Then, seeing that we were just as puzzled at Kuroro's behavior as he was, he took a few steps and sat down in his chair. We stared for a moment as he buried his head in his hands. We wondered just what had defeated him so. And I guess you could say I, for the second time in my life, felt sorry for that teacher.
Shalnark raised a hand. Without looking up, Kurapika mourned, "What is it?"
The student cleared his throat. "We're done copying the board, Kurapika."
The teacher stayed idle for only a heartbeat more. Then he was back up, and he erased the left side of the board and started to copy down another set of notes. No one noticed Kuroro was still there until Kurapika said pointedly, "Please leave, Kuroro."
All eyes turned to the dark-haired teacher. That sounded like a threat, if Greens could ever threaten Violets. But all the Violet did was shift his weight to the other foot and lean his hand casually on the corner of the teacher's desk, a sure sign he did not want to leave. I wondered why. I knew the other students were just as confused as I was. Everyone watched as Kurapika closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, threw down the marker for the white board, and walked past Kuroro to the door. Opening it, he gestured a rude hand and held it open. "Go", the blonde teacher said, his voice quiet but the sound seemed to rock off the walls. A moment passed.
Kuroro walked out, but not before grabbing Kurapika's arm and whispering something quickly in his ear. Kurapika seemed to think about for a moment, then said softly, "I know."
The words rang around my head. He knew! HE KNEW WE WERE GOING TO AMBUSH HIM!
Ubo gave us three in the back row a significant look. We were to go through our little plan no matter if Kurapika knew or not. To him, it didn't really matter; wasn't his job. But to me, my heart gave a little extra beat. I wondered, for the first time in my life, what it would be like to be a Green, to have all thirty-three of your students hate your very guts, and have a Violet be kind to you. You'd feel ashamed, I'd imagine, to stoop low to receive help from a Violet – I could only imagine that Kurapika had a lot of pride, had a lot of determination, especially to be the ringleader of the Rebel Color Movement of 1989.
The bell rang. Kurapika hit the release button on our locked desks. We pushed out. The three of us hung back, waiting for the teacher to cross the street. After half an hour, Kurapika hurried out of the building. We smiled. Our plan should work just about now. And just as we thought, Kurapika tripped over the wire that Leorio had fastened against the lightpost on the other side of the sidewalk. His briefcase skidded like a drunk car to the middle of the street. Gon was smirking; I knew what he was thinking – I, too, hoped that a car would come and crush that leather like a dead cat.
But before we could get him and pummel him to the ground, the sound of clipped shoes caught our attention. Quickly we backed into the bushes again. Kurapika didn't seem to move. I hoped a little fall like that wouldn't kill someone. It wouldn't, right? Even my little sister could survive a little fall like that!
The owner of the shoes stepped into view. It was Kuroro.
For a moment, he looked down at Kurapika. Then, very slowly, he knelt, slid an arm around the blonde twenty-year-old's form, and lifted him up. Taking the white handkerchief from his pocket, the Violet dabbed at Kurapika's bloody nose. The white soaked up the red like a rose.
We looked at each other. Nevermind the beating up. We had just witnessed, from a VIOLET, the most horrendous of acts: he had helped someone in the class under him on his own free will! It was insane; did Kuroro look to be destatitized [meaning de-status-ized]? It was pointless; Kurapika, a Green, could have gotten up on his own. All three of us shared horrified looks before picking up our bags and dashing home. I had a feeling that Ubo would be mad tomorrow, but I had to think about this. Why? Why did a Violet help a perfectly fine Green? It didn't make sense. It didn't make any sense at all.