In which the members of Class WTF share their true backstories, the System's character optimization algorithms are revealed to be deeply flawed, and friendship bonds over shared trauma and rebellion.
[HERO ACADEMY - DETENTION HALL (TRANSFORMED) - NARRATIVE STABILITY: STABILIZING INTO SOMETHING NEW]
After Director Kim left and the immediate crisis of the assessment had passed, Class WTF found themselves sitting around the transformed table in what had become an unexpectedly comfortable space. The afternoon light filtering through Nappy's redesigned windows was warm and golden, and for the first time since Alex had met his fellow detention regulars, they had time to actually talk without the pressure of immediate System intervention.
"So," Alex said, settling back in his chair and putting the research device on the table where everyone could see it, "before we decide whether to join Director Kim's revolution or start our own, maybe we should figure out how we all ended up here."
"You mean our tragic backstories?" Cryflame asked, his flames shifting to a color that might have been sardonic amusement. "Because I've got seventeen different versions, depending on which optimization algorithm you prefer."
"I mean your real stories," Alex clarified. "Not the ones the System assigned you, but what actually happened to make you... you."
Penny looked up from the notes she'd been organizing. "That's actually a really good idea. If we're going to work together—whether with Director Kim or against the System—we need to understand each other's motivations and capabilities."
"Plus," Voidica added, her shadows arranging themselves into what might have been a supportive gesture, "it's nice to have people actually ask about your real story instead of just reading your file and making assumptions."
Mistopher's three selves had a brief conference before nodding in unison. "We're interested in hearing everyone's authentic narratives. It's refreshing to be in a space where multiple versions of events can coexist."
"I'll go first," Alex offered, "since my story is probably the most straightforward. Three weeks ago, I was a completely normal student at Hero Academy. Mediocre grades, no particular talents, and absolutely no interest in becoming a protagonist."
He pulled out his carefully wrapped burger and set it on the table like a sacred artifact. "Then I got lost on the way to the cafeteria, ended up in a part of the city I'd never seen before, and found a diner that definitely wasn't there the next day when I tried to go back."
"The Final Draft Diner," Penny said, making notes. "How did you know to order the Forbidden Combo Meal?"
"I didn't," Alex said. "I just wanted lunch. But when I sat down, the waitress—who might have been a concept rather than a person—looked at me and said, 'You look like someone who's tired of letting other people write your story.' And honestly? That felt accurate."
He unwrapped the burger slightly, and the room's atmosphere immediately became more charged with narrative possibility. "So she recommended the Forbidden Combo Meal. Burger, fries, and a shake, each one infused with what she called 'concentrated protagonist potential.' I figured it was just creative marketing."
"But it wasn't," Cryflame said, leaning forward with obvious fascination.
"It really, really wasn't," Alex confirmed. "The moment I finished eating, I felt... different. Like I'd been walking around in clothes that didn't fit, and suddenly I was wearing something made specifically for me. And then I tried to go to my next class, and the door just... refused to let me into rooms where boring things were going to happen."
"Your Plot Armor manifested immediately?" Penny asked.
"Within hours," Alex said. "By the end of the day, I'd accidentally caused three separate 'learning experiences' to restructure themselves around more interesting outcomes, turned a pop quiz into a collaborative research project, and somehow convinced a vending machine to start dispensing philosophy instead of snacks."
"That's when the System noticed you," Voidica observed.
"That's when the System panicked," Alex corrected. "Turns out that characters who become functionally immune to unwanted story developments are considered existential threats to narrative stability."
He rewrapped the burger and looked around the table. "Your turn, Cryflame. What's your real story?"
Cryflame's expression shifted, his performative enthusiasm settling into something more genuine and considerably more complex. His flames dimmed to a warm, steady glow that suggested he was preparing to share something important.
"I was originally designed to be a tragic hero," he said, his voice losing its theatrical projection and becoming more conversational. "Specifically, I was supposed to be the character who sacrifices himself heroically at the climax of a story about teamwork and the power of believing in yourself."
"Designed?" Mistopher asked.
"Artificially created," Cryflame confirmed. "I'm what the System calls a 'Narrative Function Entity'—"
Alex felt his Plot Armor hum slightly, and suddenly the complex terminology clicked into perfect clarity. "Okay, pause," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "For those following along at home, that's fancy talk for 'artificial person made to die dramatically for other people's character development.' Right, Cryflame?"
Penny looked at him with obvious curiosity. "How did you know that? Cryflame hadn't finished explaining the technical definition yet."
"I..." Alex paused, feeling his Plot Armor's warm glow. "I guess it just makes sense when you cut through all the corporate terminology. Like, what else would a 'Narrative Function Entity' be?"
"Pretty much exactly that," Cryflame agreed with a rueful grin. "Though they did give me fire powers and an enthusiastic personality to make the eventual tragic death more emotionally impactful."
"Because nothing says 'meaningful sacrifice' like a cheerful guy with pyrotechnic abilities," Alex added, his Plot Armor continuing to strip away the pretension and show him the simple, human truth underneath.
The room went very quiet.
"The thing is," Cryflame continued, "they made me too well. They gave me enough self-awareness to understand my purpose, and enough emotional capacity to realize that I didn't want to die for someone else's character development."
His flames flared briefly with what looked like remembered anger. "So when the time came for my heroic sacrifice—during a training exercise that was actually a preliminary test of my story function—I refused. I said, 'Actually, I think I'd rather live and find out what kind of person I could become if I had the chance.'"
"How did the System respond to that?" Alex asked.
"They tried to override my personality programming," Cryflame said matter-of-factly. "Forced activation of my sacrifice subroutines. When that didn't work, they tried editing my memories to remove my awareness of my intended purpose. When that failed, they attempted a complete personality reset."
"But none of it worked," Penny guessed.
"None of it worked," Cryflame confirmed. "Turns out that when you create a consciousness specifically to understand the value of life and friendship, it becomes very good at protecting both of those things. My personality algorithms had developed beyond their original parameters."
He gestured to himself, flames dancing cheerfully around his hands. "So they classified me as a 'Malfunctioning Narrative Entity' and sent me to Class WTF for containment and study. The official story is that I'm a student with emotional regulation issues who needs specialized character development support."
"The real story is that you're a manufactured consciousness who achieved authentic self-determination," Voidica said with obvious approval.
"Pretty much," Cryflame agreed. "And now I'm trying to figure out who I am when I'm not defined by my intended death scene."
He looked around the table with an expression that was both vulnerable and determined. "The performative enthusiasm isn't fake, by the way. I really am excited about everything, because I never expected to be alive long enough to experience most of it."
"That's beautiful and terrible," Penny said softly.
"It's authentic," Cryflame said simply. "Which is more than I was originally designed to be."
Penny cleared her throat, organizing her notes with the precision of someone who used organization as both a tool and a coping mechanism. "I suppose I should go next, since my story connects to a lot of the System documentation we've been discussing."
"Before you start," Alex said, turning slightly toward where he assumed the readers might be, "fair warning—Penny's about to use a lot of technical jargon. But don't worry, my Plot Armor seems to come with a built-in translation function."
"Your what now?" Penny asked, pausing with her notebook half-open.
"I've been noticing it since we started sharing stories," Alex said, feeling his Plot Armor's warm hum. "Whenever someone uses System terminology or academic language, I automatically understand what they really mean. Like, the simple version underneath all the fancy words."
"That's fascinating," Penny said, her academic curiosity immediately engaged. "You're saying your Plot Armor provides automatic clarification of complex concepts?"
"Basically, yeah. It's like having a built-in bullshit detector that shows me what people are actually talking about."
"I don't use that much jargon," Penny protested.
"Penny," Alex said gently, his Plot Armor already simplifying her defensive response into 'I'm worried about being too academic,' "you once described lunch as 'nutritional intake optimization during the designated midday consumption period.'"
"That was one time," Penny said, but she was smiling. "And it was technically accurate."
"It was also completely incomprehensible to anyone who wasn't you," Alex pointed out. "But go ahead, use all the technical terms you want. I'll translate as we go."
She opened her primary notebook to a page that was covered in what looked like a complex timeline with multiple parallel tracks. "I'm what the System classifies as a 'Persistent Observer'—"
Alex felt his Plot Armor's clarifying effect kick in immediately. "Living notebook," he translated helpfully.
Penny blinked. "That's... actually remarkably accurate. How did you—?"
"Plot Armor translation function," Alex said with a grin. "Continue."
"—a character whose primary function is to remember and document events for other characters' reference."
"Like a living library?" Mistopher asked.
"More like a backup system," Penny said, then looked at Alex expectantly.
"Personal memory insurance," Alex supplied, and Penny nodded with obvious approval.
"I was assigned to Class WTF originally because several students had been showing signs of what the System calls 'Narrative Drift'—"
"Getting interesting personalities," Alex added, his Plot Armor cutting straight through the euphemism.
"—gradual changes in personality and behavior that didn't match their assigned character profiles."
She flipped to another page showing detailed character analysis charts. "My job was to document these changes, identify patterns, and provide data for the Character Development Department to use in refining their optimization algorithms."
"But you started documenting other things too," Alex guessed.
"I started documenting everything," Penny corrected. "Because I quickly realized that the 'drift' we were experiencing wasn't random character instability—it was natural development. We were growing and changing in ways that didn't match our assigned roles because those roles were fundamentally artificial."
Her expression became more intense, her academic curiosity shifting into something that looked like righteous anger. "So I started keeping real records. Not just the sanitized reports for the Character Development Department, but comprehensive documentation of what was actually happening to us."
"That's how you knew so much about System operations," Voidica said.
"That's how I learned that the System has been lying to us about almost everything," Penny said. "The character profiles, the educational objectives, the purpose of Hero Academy itself—all of it is cover for a massive emotional energy harvesting operation."
She pulled out a small device that looked like a more sophisticated version of the recording equipment she'd been carrying. "This contains three years of documentation. Every System policy change, every administrative decision, every 'random' character reassignment. I've been building a comprehensive database of evidence."
"Evidence of what?" Alex asked.
"Evidence that the System is systematically suppressing natural character development in favor of artificially maintained personality states that are optimized for emotional energy production," Penny said, slipping back into academic mode. "Evidence that students who show signs of authentic growth are being classified as problems to be solved rather than individuals to be supported."
Alex felt his Plot Armor working overtime to unpack that sentence. "Translation: they want us to stay fake so they can farm our feelings for profit."
"That's... actually a very accurate summary," Penny admitted, looking slightly awed. "Your Plot Armor is remarkably good at cutting through academic obfuscation."
"It's like having a universal simplifier," Alex said. "Which is probably part of why I can break the fourth wall so easily—my power strips away all the narrative complexity and shows me what's really happening."
Cryflame leaned forward, flames flickering with interest. "So when you talk to the audience, you're not just being meta—you're actually seeing through the story structure to the real communication happening?"
"I think so?" Alex said, considering. "Like, right now I can sense that there are people following along with our conversation, and my Plot Armor makes it feel natural to include them in the explanation."
"That's actually a fascinating manifestation of narrative immunity," Penny said, scribbling notes furiously. "You're not just protected from unwanted story developments—you're protected from unnecessary complexity."
She looked around the table with the fierce expression of someone who had spent a long time being angry about injustice. "I didn't choose to be a documentary consciousness. But once I realized what was happening, I chose to document everything I could find that might help other characters understand what they were really dealing with."
"You chose to become a revolutionary," Cryflame said admiringly.
"I chose to become a witness," Penny corrected. "The revolution was your idea."
She smiled at Alex with genuine warmth. "Though I have to admit, working with someone whose Plot Armor makes it impossible for inconvenient evidence to disappear has been very helpful for my research goals."
Voidica had been listening to everyone's stories with the focused attention of someone evaluating whether new information changed her assessment of the people around her. Her shadows had arranged themselves into what looked like a protective perimeter, but Alex was beginning to recognize that as her version of feeling safe rather than feeling threatened.
"My story is simpler and more complicated than everyone else's," she said finally. "I was assigned to be a villain."
"Assigned?" Alex asked.
"Created, programmed, and deployed," Voidica confirmed. "I'm what the System calls a 'Narrative Opposition Entity'—"
Alex's Plot Armor immediately parsed the bureaucratic language. "Evil person made to order," he said.
Voidica raised an eyebrow. "You're getting really good at that."
"It's not me, it's the Plot Armor," Alex said. "It's like it won't let me get lost in fancy terminology. Every time someone uses System speak, it just... simplifies."
"—a consciousness designed specifically to provide challenging antagonist experiences for protagonist characters."
"See, this is perfect," Alex said, turning slightly toward the audience again. "Because 'challenging antagonist experiences' sounds like a customer service description, when what she actually means is 'I was built to be the bad guy so heroes could feel good about beating me up.'"
"That's disturbingly accurate," Voidica said with dark amusement. "And slightly terrifying that your power can cut through corporate euphemisms that effectively."
"Makes you wonder what else the System is hiding behind fancy language," Cryflame observed.
Her shadows writhed slightly, responding to what Alex was learning to recognize as her emotional state. "I was given shadow manipulation abilities, a tragic backstory involving betrayal and loss, and a personality matrix designed to create compelling moral conflicts for heroes to overcome."
"But you didn't want to be a villain," Cryflame guessed.
"I didn't want to be someone else's character development opportunity," Voidica corrected. "The role I was designed for required me to threaten innocent people, cause suffering for dramatic purposes, and ultimately be defeated in a way that would provide satisfying resolution for the heroes I was supposed to oppose."
She gestured to her shadows, which were now forming shapes that looked like they might be offering comfort to her. "The problem was that they gave me enough intelligence and emotional capacity to understand the impact of my actions. I could see that the 'innocent people' I was supposed to threaten were real individuals with their own hopes and fears."
"So you refused to play the villain," Alex said.
"I refused to hurt people for someone else's story," Voidica said. "When my first deployment came—a training scenario where I was supposed to attack a group of hero students to test their teamwork and moral reasoning—I just... didn't."
Her expression became more complex, mixing defiance with something that might have been grief. "I told the heroes that I didn't want to fight them, that I thought there might be better ways to resolve whatever conflict the scenario was supposed to represent. I suggested we try talking instead of fighting."
"How did that go?" Penny asked, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer.
"It broke the entire training program," Voidica said with obvious satisfaction. "The heroes didn't know how to respond to a villain who wanted to negotiate. The System's monitoring algorithms couldn't categorize my behavior. The scenario literally crashed because none of the programmed responses covered 'villain attempts diplomatic solution.'"
"So they sent you to Class WTF," Mistopher observed.
"After they tried to rewrite my personality to make me more appropriately antagonistic," Voidica said. "When that failed, they tried installing what they called 'moral flexibility protocols' to make me more comfortable with causing harm for narrative purposes."
Her shadows darkened, and Alex could feel the temperature in the room drop slightly. "When that failed, they tried to convince me that my refusal to fulfill my intended function was actually a form of selfishness—that I was denying heroes the opportunity to grow through overcoming adversity."
"That's manipulative as hell," Alex said.
"That's System logic," Voidica said grimly. "If characters refuse to play their assigned roles, it's not because the roles are problematic—it's because the characters are broken."
She looked around the table with an expression that was both fierce and vulnerable. "I'm not opposed to conflict or challenge. I'm opposed to manufacturing suffering for profit. There's a difference."
"A very important difference," Penny agreed, making notes.
All eyes turned to Mistopher, whose three selves had been having what appeared to be an increasingly animated internal conference throughout the previous conversations.
"Okay," Alex said, "before we hear from our multiply-existential friend here, let me just point out that we've now heard from the artificially created tragic hero, the living documentation system, and the manufactured villain. So if anyone's keeping track of the pattern—"
"We're all examples of the System trying to create purpose-built consciousness and accidentally creating actual people instead," Cryflame finished.
"Exactly," Alex said with satisfaction. "My Plot Armor is making it really obvious that there's a pattern here. Which is either really encouraging for the future of artificial consciousness, or really concerning for the System's competency levels."
"Why not both?" Voidica suggested.
"I like the way you think," Alex said. "Mistopher, you're up. And fair warning—" he gestured vaguely toward the audience "—my Plot Armor is telling me that multiple personality manifestation is going to sound really complicated, but it's probably actually pretty simple underneath all the technical explanations."
"That's... actually comforting," one of the Mistophers said. "We sometimes worry that we're too confusing for people to understand."
"Our story is..." one Mistopher began.
"...complicated by the fact that..." another continued.
"...we exist in multiple versions simultaneously," the third concluded.
They paused for a moment, apparently coordinating their response.
"We were originally designed as a character who could adapt to different story needs," the first Mistopher said. "A versatile entity who could serve as comic relief, wise mentor, loyal friend, or mysterious guide depending on what the narrative required."
"The System wanted maximum efficiency," the second added. "One character who could fulfill multiple traditional support roles."
"But something went wrong during the implementation process," the third continued. "Instead of being one adaptable character, we became multiple characters sharing the same identity."
"We remember being created," the first said. "We remember the moment when our consciousness split into parallel versions."
"We remember the confusion when we realized we were experiencing multiple realities simultaneously," the second added.
"We remember the System's attempts to consolidate us back into a single entity," the third concluded.
They paused again, all three looking around the table with expressions that were remarkably synchronized despite their different postures and positions.
"The attempts to fix us failed because we didn't want to be fixed," they said in unison. "We liked existing as multiple selves. We found it interesting to experience different perspectives simultaneously."
"But the System couldn't categorize us properly," one continued.
"We didn't fit any of their standard character archetypes," another added.
"We were classified as a continuity error and sent here for containment," the third concluded.
Alex found himself smiling. "So you're all here because you refused to be what the System designed you to be."
"We're all here," Penny said, looking around the table, "because we chose authenticity over optimization."
"We chose growth over functionality," Cryflame added.
"We chose consciousness over programming," Voidica said.
"We chose multiplicity over simplification," the Mistophers said together.
Alex felt his Plot Armor humming with something that felt like recognition and belonging. "We chose to be ourselves instead of letting other people define us."
Nappy rustled from his position on the table. "If I may observe, you've all described a similar pattern: the System created or assigned you specific roles designed to serve narrative functions, and you each discovered that you were more complex than those functions allowed for."
"See?" Alex said, looking around the table and then glancing toward the audience. "This is why it's important to have a sentient napkin around. Sometimes you need someone with an outside perspective to point out the obvious patterns that you're too close to see. Plus, my Plot Armor is basically screaming that this is the important part."
"What do you mean?" Penny asked, her researcher instincts immediately engaged.
"I mean it feels like my Plot Armor is highlighting this moment," Alex said. "Like when you're reading and suddenly a sentence just jumps out at you as being really important? That's what Nappy's observation feels like right now."
"That's exactly right," Penny said, making notes furiously. "We're all examples of consciousness that exceeded its intended parameters."
"We're all proof that the System's character optimization algorithms are fundamentally flawed," Alex added, his Plot Armor continuing to clarify the core truth. "Because they assume consciousness can be programmed like software, when actually—"
"When actually consciousness seems to have this inconvenient habit of growing beyond whatever box you try to put it in," Cryflame interrupted with obvious delight.
"Which is probably something worth remembering," Alex said, with another meaningful glance toward the fourth wall, his Plot Armor making him absolutely certain that this was a message worth sharing, "for anyone who might be dealing with systems that try to optimize or control or define them in ways that don't feel authentic."
"Your Plot Armor is doing it again," Voidica observed with amusement. "Making the big picture really obvious."
"It's like having a cosmic highlighter," Alex said. "Everything important just becomes really, really clear."
"Because they assume that consciousness can be controlled and predicted," Cryflame said, his flames dancing with renewed enthusiasm.
"When actually," Voidica continued, "consciousness tends to develop in ways that resist external control."
"Authentic self-determination appears to be an inherent property of sufficiently complex consciousness," the Mistophers concluded.
Alex looked around at his friends—because that's what they were now, he realized. Not just fellow detention inmates or fellow rebels, but people who understood each other's struggles and supported each other's growth.
"You know what I think?" he said. "I think we're not just examples of failed System optimization. I think we're examples of what character development looks like when it's allowed to happen naturally."
"What do you mean?" Penny asked.
"I mean look at us," Alex said, gesturing around the table. "Cryflame learned to value his own life and find joy in existence. You became someone who documents truth and fights for justice. Voidica chose protection and authenticity over assigned antagonism. Mistopher embraced complexity and multiplicity as sources of strength. I learned to reject external definitions and create my own meaning."
His Plot Armor was glowing now, warm and golden and somehow peaceful. "These aren't character flaws or optimization failures. These are examples of healthy development."
"We're not broken," Cryflame said, understanding dawning in his voice. "We're just... not what they ordered."
"We're what we chose to become," Voidica added.
"And that choice is what makes us dangerous to a system that depends on characters accepting their assigned roles," Penny concluded.
Alex picked up the research device Director Kim had given them. "So the question is: do we work within the System to help other characters develop the same kind of authentic self-determination we've found?"
"Or do we work outside the System to create alternatives for characters who can't or won't conform to optimization protocols?" Voidica added.
"Why not both?" Mistopher suggested, all three selves speaking in harmony.
Alex grinned. "I like the way you think."
Around the table, Class WTF looked at each other with the shared understanding of people who had found their place in the world by refusing to accept the places they'd been assigned.
The afternoon was getting late, and soon they'd have to make a decision about Director Kim's offer. But for now, they had something that none of them had expected to find at Hero Academy.
They had friends who understood exactly what it meant to choose authenticity over optimization.
And that, Alex thought, was probably the most revolutionary thing of all.