SWORD ACADEMY (censored)

“Big blitzing no!” I roar. “You can’t make me.”

Immature? Yes. Do I give a care? Not even half a care.

“Well, technically, we can’t, and we aren’t,” Atlas notes. My middle brother was delivered with a giant sequoia straight up his butt that immediately rooted.

“Let’s see what happens when someone doesn’t show,” Adley muses. “I bet they’ll do a full Coterie roundup. Prettiest show ponies in Scintilla.” My oldest brother fancies himself a comedian. While I don’t find anything about this situation particularly funny, the idea of my brothers prancing about for inspection does have some merit.

“She wouldn’t put us under that scrutiny,” Asher defends me. He’s wrong—very, very wrong. Can I tell my second oldest brother that? Of course not. It’d hurt his delicate sensibilities. Made of glass, that one.

“What if she kicks them in the junk?” Archie suggests. “Or she could run?” Like always, my youngest older brother is ready to mess around and find out.

“They’d chase her down and drag her there against her will,” Atlas informs us. “The kicking and screaming would be optional.” See? That tree. Never coming out. It’s too deeply rooted.

“The kicking and screaming doesn’t feel optional to me,” I clip.

“Then you lose your vote in lieu of the condition,” Atlas states.

“Fine,” I holster.

“Option A: be dragged there against your will kicking and screaming mentally. Option B: be dragged there against your will kicking and screaming physically,” Archie proposes.

“Your options are garbage,” I complain.

“Cast your votes,” Adley rallies, ignoring me.

Asher sighs, not liking either option. “A.”

“B,” Archie votes.

“B,” Adley echoes.

“A,” Atlas counters.

“A,” Dad says wistfully. “You know I’m a sucker for all my As.”

Our mighty family ladder has five rungs (us kids) and sturdy as heck railing (our dad Bertram). The bottom rung is me, Ainsley Coterie, with such flattering personality traits as balls of steel and a salty sauce shooter (my trigger-happy mouth).

Asher rubs my arm affectionately. “It’s only a week.”

“Five sleeps,” Atlas corrects him.

“Unless her farts sparkle,” Adley jokes.

“They’re here,” Dad announces, pushing off the door frame. “Time to go, Ainz.”

Everyone has to go. The Order mandates all adult citizens attend the first Spark Ceremony following their twentieth birthday. Maybe it’s technically time, but no part of me wants to go chasing after an elusive spark, and I definitely have no desire to hand my future over to some power-hungry punks who can’t be bothered to look twice at anyone that doesn’t sparkle.

Archie’s eyes light with mischief. “You should veto!”

“You can’t veto,” Atlas warns me, putting a lid on the last-minute escape attempt he sees brewing in my wild eyes.

“Better to get it over with,” Adley offers.

“At least it isn’t a full term,” Asher tries to reassure me.

Five sleeps. Not quite a week. I should be grateful. My brothers were forced to study a full term before the ceremony. Am I grateful?

Big.

Blitzing.

No.

“Ainz! I said it’s time to go!” Dad hollers from outside.

My stomach knots. Asher pulls my dysfunctional limbs from the couch with him as he stands up. Archie pushes me toward the door despite me digging my heels into the hardwood and flailing my arms like a drunk octopus. Asher shifts to grab a single tentacle, Adley grabs the other, and together the three of them work to extract me from the house. All the while, Atlas scowls at us like we’re the biggest squibs in the whole of Scintilla.

Outside, my transporters stand draped in blankets. Dad did good looking out. He gave them the old wool ones that are scratchy as heck. I hope they get a rash.

I wonder if they’re annoyed about having to wait. Maybe I should drag my feet a bit more to seal the deal. Current speed: turtle. Projected speed: slug. Primary goal: reminding them why rusty pennies like me are never going to be shiny sparkfarts like them.

Speaking of bags, I have none to bring. I’m allowed to take exactly nothing with me, including the underwear currently covering my snatch. The rules were neatly written out explaining the whole horsecrap thing. Nothing inanimate is transportable.

I wrap myself in my brothers’ arms. When Dad joins us, I want to leave less than ever. S.W.O.R.D. might be making me abandon everything tangible, but I still have the unending love of my family in my heart. Not a dang thing is breaking that bond. Not even when they shatter my atoms to transport me to the academy.

“Pronouns?” a musical voice asks. The vibrato is melodic, wind chimes dancing in the breeze. Better than nails on a chalkboard, I reckon.

“She/her,” I report.

“She/her.” She points to herself, then motions to her partner. “He/him.”

“If you’re embarrassed about the nudity, we can wait until your family returns inside,” he sputters.

“No need. I’m not shy,” I quickfire, immediately regretting the admission. They waste no time handing the blankets back to Dad, leaving their dangly junk waving hello where I’m bent down hauling off my pants. “I want your South Pole introductions as much as your North Pole ones.”

He swooshes a laugh. I scowl in response. When she reaches toward me, I flinch back reflexively. “I’m sorry, but there has to be physical contact to transport,” she pings, correctly reading my touch-me-at-your-own-risk vibes. I place one palm each on their bare shoulders, refusing their outstretched hands.

“Holding our hands will make this easier for you,” she tinkles, fluttering long lashes over silver rings speckled with black. Frig, their eyes are creepy.

“Not kidnapping me will make this easier for you,” I return fire.

“For dark’s sake,” she curses but concedes quickly when my grip tightens on her shoulder.

“Don’t let go,” he booms.

Then POOF! We jet off into the atmosphere, drifting away like a fart in the wind to S.W.O.R.D. Academy.