MANA
Chapter
August 19thth, Friday
1995
Avery waited impatiently, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he stared at the gym ceiling. The bubbling feeling in the pit of his stomach swelled with each name called, a sign that his own was edging closer. The remaining list of students waiting to be summoned grew dangerously short.
"Williams! Jacob Williams, please enter booth number eight!"
The chatter across the rows of seated students fell quiet, tension blanketing the gym like static. All heads turned. Jacob stood up from the front row, laughed, and gave one of his buddies a playful jab in the shoulder before strolling toward the booth like he was headed to lunch.
Avery narrowed his eyes. How could anyone joke today?
This was the day someone's life could end. Each year, at least one supernatural was outed. Maybe a fraud. Maybe someone simply hiding. Whoever they were, they never came back.
It could have been your best friend, your crush, or your worst enemy. For Avery, it was himself.
"Welch! Kaden Welch, please enter booth number nine!"
Again, silence.
"Kaden Welch, if you are present, please enter booth number nine! Is Kaden Welch present this morning?"
Still no movement. No sound.
When a student failed to show, the consequences were swift: home investigation, automatic detention. If they were found to be innocent, they returned in a week with a warning and bruised ego. If they weren't, their seat in class stayed empty for good.
"Walker! Avery Walker, please enter booth number nine!"
The words hit his stomach like a blow. He swallowed hard and forced himself to his feet, each step heavy as concrete.
The cereal he'd choked down that morning bubbled at the base of his throat. As he rose, he felt every eye in the gym turn toward him. Not that it was a surprise. It happened every year, like clockwork; everyone waiting to see who might slip. Some students stared with thinly veiled curiosity. Others watched with suspicion or quiet hope that it wouldn't be them.
He couldn't blame them. After all, they were right to be scared.
Avery moved through the rows of students and approached the row of white tents that formed the testing booths. They sat like surgical pods in the center of the gym floor, sterile and stark against the faded wood and aging bleachers. Outside each booth stood two federal guards, faces hidden behind dark glasses and bodies wrapped in tactical gear. Black rifles slung over their chests reflected strips of fluorescent light.
He didn't dare meet their eyes for long.
As he reached booth nine, the girl ahead of him exited, pressing a bandage to the crook of her arm. Her striped shirt hung loose around her narrow frame, and there was something about the way she walked, tense but composed. It made him envy her. If she was in pain, she didn't show it.
He exhaled through his nose. This was his last year, and for the final time, he hoped to walk away just like that, unnoticed.
"Ahh, Mr. Walker, welcome in! Come, take a seat," sang the cheerful voice waiting behind the curtain.
Dr. Rodgers.
His tester for the past four years.
The man always greeted him with the same glassy grin, too wide to be genuine. His beady eyes never quite matched the tone of his voice, and the more he smiled, the more it looked like something unhinged lurked beneath his skin.
Avery lowered himself into the seat, barely managing to hide the urge to grimace.
"Let's just get this over with," he muttered, sticking his arm out.
Rodgers chuckled, his foggy glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. "Still so eager, I see. You know, your brother Charlie was much friendlier."
Avery bit his tongue. He wasn't going to play that game.
"I'm not Charlie. December twenty-fourth, 1978. Eighteen years old."
Rodgers scribbled the information lazily onto his clipboard, tapping a small vial of deep blue liquid as he did so. The poison shimmered inside the glass, a venom designed to expose anyone carrying supernatural blood. If you were normal, it passed through you like water. If you weren't, it tore you apart.
Rodgers loaded the syringe with sickening precision.
"You're not Charlie," he said slowly, "but I have a feeling you're something far worse."
Avery stared at the syringe and steeled himself. No matter how many times he did this, the pain never got easier.
The needle slipped beneath his skin, slow and deliberate. Fire spread instantly through his veins. Not literal flame, but something worse, like acid melting through nerves and muscle, clawing at his insides in rhythmic pulses. He clenched his jaw so hard his ears rang.
The trick was simple, but brutal. Hidden in Avery's back pocket was a single Naproxen pill, the strongest painkiller he could legally buy. It dulled the suffering just enough to keep him from screaming, though his stomach cramped and sweat soaked through his shirt. His mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood where he bit his tongue.
"You're shaking," Rodgers said lightly. "That's interesting."
"I'm cold," Avery lied. "Gym's always freezing."
Rodgers raised the syringe again and twisted it deeper. Avery flinched.
"It's not supposed to hurt, you know. Not if you're human."
"I am human," he said through clenched teeth.
Rodgers removed the needle, observing the blood-streaked tip. He stared at Avery with something that resembled awe but leaned closer with a sneer.
"Just because you look like us doesn't mean you are one of us, Avery Walker."
Avery stood up, ignoring the trail of blood sliding down his arm. The cut burned like fire, but the worst had passed.
Rodgers smirked behind him. "Congratulations. You've made it to eighteen without exposing yourself. But when you finally do... the world will see you for the demon you are. Just like your brother."
Avery turned back with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"And when that day comes, Doctor Rodgers... I'll be waving at you from every TV channel in the country."
He yanked a band-aid from the tray and left the booth without another word.
He pressed the bandage to the wound as he walked, the adhesive cool against his skin. From his pocket, he pulled out his Walkman, fingers flicking the latch to unspool the tangled headphones clipped to his belt. Side B of his father's cassette was already loaded. The first side had gotten him through the walk to school. The second would carry him through the rest of the day.
He slipped the headphones on.
Behind him, the gym had returned to its cycle. A burst of motion caught the corner of his eye. A student exploded from one of the booths, red hair wild and arms flailing.
The boy screamed for help. No one moved.
Two guards seized him by the shoulders and dragged him across the gym floor like he was a broken chair. His sneakers screeched against the polished hardwood as he clawed at the air, pleading.
Avery froze. He recognized him.
He was the quiet kid from history class, always sitting in the back row. Bullied. Ignored. Called "Carrot-Head." Avery didn't even know his real name.
He watched the boy flail and sob, mouthing words through snot and spit. "It's not fair! I didn't do anything! Please, help me!"
Avery stared straight ahead. His foot tapped softly on the tile. He placed the headphones gently over both ears.
Then he hit play.
He didn't look back.
Not because he didn't care, but because he knew that if he did, it might all come undone.
This was his world. You hide. You survive. You don't look back.
Not if you want to keep your life.
He pushed open the heavy gymnasium doors, the hinges creaking as warm afternoon sunlight spilled across his face, casting sharp shadows over the threshold. The air outside felt like a different world; alive and pulsing with freedom. He squinted into the brightness as the school courtyard unfolded before him.
Clusters of students loitered in their usual packs, backpacks slouched beside them, voices overlapping in a familiar symphony of laughter, gossip, and afterschool chaos. The final bell had rung ages ago, but few seemed eager to leave. The courtyard was its own universe, a place where time bent and stretched to accommodate teenage rituals.
Each group had its own corner. The skateboarders hovered near the bike racks. The girls from art class clustered around the benches, sketchbooks resting on their knees. It was all so ordinary, and somehow, Avery found comfort in that.
For a moment, he lingered on the edge, letting himself pretend. Pretend he was just like them. That he didn't carry a secret pressed into his bones like a ticking bomb.
The sound of quarters clinking into the payphone drifted across the breeze, followed by a muffled voice trying to cram a conversation into three minutes. He smiled faintly at the thought. What would it be like to talk to someone without counting seconds or squeezing out sentences before a dial tone? A future like that felt unreal, the stuff of science fiction.
"Aye, Avery!"
The voice pulled him back. Across the lot, propped against the hood of a gleaming yellow 1990 Lincoln sedan, sat Tito—his best friend, his headache, his family. The car was practically vintage, already a relic, but Tito loved it like it was a Ferrari. A boombox thumped quietly beside him, spitting out the tinny bassline of a Wu-Tang track.
Tito grinned wide and threw up a hand. Avery slipped off his headphones and looped them around his neck as he crossed the pavement. The smile that broke across his face was small but genuine. The first real one all day.
Tito hopped up and slapped his hand with the kind of energy only Tito could manage.
"Whaddup' man, did you pass?"
Avery blinked. "Tito... would I be out here if I didn't?"
Tito scratched his head. "True. That was a dumbass question."
As they approached the car, a sudden zoom and click came from a few feet away. A camcorder lens nearly hit Avery in the face.
"Avery and Tito—Class of '95! How does it feel to be graduating soon?"
The sophomore wielding the camera had a Bulls jersey faded to a dusty pink and a sideways cap that barely clung to his head. He looked like he was auditioning for MTV, camera plastered with stickers: Sonic, No Fear, and a bootleg Bart Simpson flipping the bird.
The camera whirred as he zoomed in.
Tito blocked the lens with his hand. "Aye, kid. Ever wonder what your camera would look like in pieces?"
The boy stumbled back with a muttered curse, still recording. Avery barely noticed. His eyes were fixed across the lot, drawn to the group of cheerleaders practicing their routine in the sun. They moved like a single current of red and white, their laughter rising above the music.
"Avery Walker," the sophomore pressed on, "Captain of the basketball team and—"
Avery waved him off with a flick of the wrist. "Go film somebody else."
The kid shrugged and wandered away, pointing his camera at a group of underclassmen daring each other to chug expired milk.
Tito laughed, pulling a pick from his pocket and running it through his tight curls. "That kid's gonna get slapped one day."
He tilted his head toward Avery. "What's the move after this?"
"Huh? Oh... I gotta help my pops at the restaurant."
Tito groaned. "You're always at that restaurant. Me and the boys were gonna hit the record store. TLC just dropped a new track."
Avery offered a half-hearted shrug. "Next time, for real."
"He said that the last time." One of Tito's boys mumbled from the other side of the car. The others snorted in agreement.
Tito nodded. "See? You ain't slick. You're not even listening to me—look at you, eyes all locked on the cheerleaders."
Avery didn't respond right away. His eyes were already drawn to one of the girls, center stage. Her jet-black braid swung with every step, catching the light like polished obsidian. Her skin glowed a rich bronze under the sunlight, and her poise radiated far beyond the rhythm of their routine. She didn't cheer like she was performing for anyone. She just moved like she belonged there.
"I'm not watching all of them."
Tito raised an eyebrow. "Then which one? Front row with the braids?"
"No."
"The one with the puffs? She's fine as hell—"
"No, man. The one in the middle."
Tito squinted, then chuckled as recognition hit. "Oh. The Indian one?"
Avery shoved him lightly. "She's got a name. Isabella."
Tito smirked. "Damn. You know her name and everything. Why don't you go say something? What, you scared?"
"I'm out."
Avery turned to leave, just as another voice cut across the lot.
"Avery!"
Bonnie.
She jogged over with practiced energy, pom-poms swinging, smile already locked in place. Her bright braids bounced with every step, and her cheer skirt swayed like it was choreographed.
Avery sighed.
This was routine.
Bonnie always found a way to appear. Cafeteria. Gym. Parking lot. Always with a laugh, a compliment, or some new excuse to talk. She was pretty. Popular. And had no idea he wasn't interested.
She stopped short in front of him and pulled a colorful card from her pocket. "You comin' to my party? It's two Fridays from now. I've been waiting to invite you all week, but you keep runnin' from me!"
That wasn't a coincidence.
"Sorry, didn't see you," he lied. "Two weeks from now, huh? Who's gonna be there?"
"Basketball team, my girls, your friends, my cheer team...so like, fifty people?"
Avery's eyes drifted past her, back toward the cheerleaders.
There she was.
Isabella.
Even among the moving crowd, she looked still, like everything turned around her.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to show up.
"Yeah," he said casually. "I'll swing by."
Bonnie beamed and pressed the card against his chest, giggling as she skipped away. Tito watched her go, eyes tracking every step like he was watching the end of a music video.
"Man," he said, shaking his head, "I wish I were you."
Avery snorted. "No, you don't."
He slipped the headphones over his ears again, the foam cushions sealing him into his world. The Walkman clicked, and his music returned.