The Natural Order

Cass Detention Center

As the disciplinary officer locked the gates of Cass Detention Center, dread settled over Tristan. The officer’s shoes clicked on the tiles of the endless hallways, fluorescent lights blaring overhead, while Tristan hurried after, pressing his hair over the scars that had turned the left side of his face to mince.

Each step took him farther from the freedom he had glimpsed so fleetingly. His three-year sentence stretched longer than ever—he was fifteen now; by the time he left, his peers would have earned their drivers’ licenses, graduated from high school, and headed off to glamorous colleges around the country.

I’m sure you can find your way from here, the disciplinary officer said, cutting through Tristan’s thoughts.

Tristan nodded and trudged off toward his cell.

Just before he reached the door, five hulking delinquents sauntered down the hall, blocking his escape in both directions.

Tristan’s stomach dropped.

It was Cob and his gang, the same bullies who had mercilessly harassed Tristan for his first month at Juvie.

How come you get special privileges, huh? Cob demanded.

Can I pass? Tristan asked dully. He knew where this was going.

Cob’s lip curled. When Tristan tried to retreat a step, Cob lunged at him and grabbed him by the collar of his jumpsuit.

Tristan scrabbled at Cob’s arm, but he was no match for the bully, who loomed a head taller than him.

Cob yanked Tristan toward him so fiercely Tristan gasped for breath. You’ve got influence with some higher-up. I need you to use it to get this mailed from outside. He thrust a padded envelope, fashioned from what looked like taped-together paper from one of his classes, into Tristan’s hands.

When Cob released him, Tristan’s airway felt permanently crushed; he massaged his throat, struggling to draw breath.

I won’t do your dirty work, he wheezed. What are you trying to do, order drugs or something?

He shouldn’t have said it. But after standing before his brother’s grave and reliving the awful night that had landed him in Juvie, he was feeling reckless. Ready for a fight.

Cob laughed nastily. Ooh, so he does have a spine. This’ll be interesting.

His gang chuckled.

What do we need to do to persuade you? We could frame you for stealing the lunch lady’s jewelry, but that wouldn’t be much fun. What if we set a whole box of rats loose in your room?

Leave me alone, Tristan snapped. I’m not getting in trouble for you. Besides, I don’t think I’ll be allowed out again.

I don’t believe you. Cob made a grab for Tristan’s arm, but Tristan jumped out of the way just in time.

Help! Tristan yelled, hoping someone was around to hear. It would get him in major trouble with Cob’s gang later, but he should be transferred soon anyway. He just had to survive long enough to get out of this hellhole.

Cob’s gang closed in around him.

When Tristan opened his breath to shout again, Cob’s largest crony tackled him to the ground.

Tristan landed heavily on his hip. Pain shot through his leg, but he swallowed his yelp.

Wuss, Cob spat. You’re just asking for trouble. C’mon—let’s teach this privileged little asshole what happens when people mess with me.

With practiced speed, two of Cob’s cronies pinned Tristan to the wall by his arms, while the other three started punching every inch of him.

Fear and rage clouded Tristan’s vision. He strained to pull his arms free, but to no avail. Several times he managed to kick his assailants in the knees, but they hardly seemed to notice.

Go on, you can do better than that, Cob taunted. He landed a punch in Tristan’s stomach, winding him.

As Tristan doubled over, Cob’s cronies released him, and he crumpled to the floor. His ribs were on fire—he curled around his chest, making a strange choking noise that didn’t seem to belong to him.

No one was coming to his rescue.

Now Cob’s gang was kicking him, each blow lancing though him like a hammer strike.

Fury mounted as Tristan took the beating, his body coiling tighter with every kick. If he were stronger, he would kill Cob. He wanted to break his nose, to smash his skull. To make the bullies suffer as much as he had at their hands.

Rage blinded him, numbing the pain.

He couldn’t take it any longer.

With a roar, Tristan surged to his feet.

Cob’s gang was momentarily thrown back, but they closed in on him once more.

Punch me, Cob taunted. I dare you. He looked delighted by Tristan’s show of temper.

Tristan raised his arms to block another blow as it came his way.

I thought so. You’re nothing but a crybaby.

Though he had no chance against Cob—though he had more reason than ever to keep his head down and stay out of trouble—Tristan could hold back no longer.

He threw himself at Cob.

The older boy was as solid as a wall, but something strange happened. Tristan felt an odd rush, as dizzying as vertigo, and the next thing he knew, Cob went flying.

He hit the wall with a crack and slumped, unconscious, to the tiles. A line of blood trickled from one nostril.

Horror lodged itself in Tristan’s throat; he staggered back a step until his back collided with the wall.

What had he done?

Hurried footsteps clicked down the hall, and a pair of guards burst onto the scene.

Who did this? the first guard bellowed, pushing one of Cob’s cronies out of the way.

As one, Cob’s gang pointed at Tristan.

I’m sorry, Tristan said in a rush. I didn’t mean to do anything. They were beating me up, and I—

Seizing Tristan by the upper arm, the first guard marched him away from Cob’s unconscious form. The second knelt beside Cob and said, Someone fetch a nurse.

Neither guard seemed to notice the bruises that were blooming on Tristan’s neck.

Near the entrance to the detention center, Tristan was dragged into a sterile office where a disciplinary officer sat riffling through paperwork.

What now? he asked sharply. Isn’t that the kid who was just granted visitation privileges?

The guard shrugged. There was an unconscious kid, and a few witnesses said this one did it. Looked like there was a fight.

Thank you.

Once the guard was gone, the disciplinary officer laced his fingers together and studied Tristan with a grim expression. You do realize this is a serious offence, don’t you? This sort of behavior can result in a longer sentence.

They started it, Tristan said desperately. It was an unspoken rule that you did not rat out the bullies, but even if he said nothing, they would make his life hell after this. They were beating me up, and I just tried to defend myself.

He did not mention the inexplicable feeling that had come over him, the rush of power that had somehow given him the strength to defeat Cob.

Even if that were true, you escalated the fight, the disciplinary officer said. You—

A knock at the door cut him off. He left the room to speak with whoever stood outside, and when he returned, he beckoned Tristan to follow him.

A woman has come to see you. She’s from the rehabilitation facility you were invited to transfer to. The officer’s mouth settled into a hard line as he regarded Tristan. I expect her to withdraw her invitation once she learns about your behavior today. If that happens, you will need to attend a hearing. Your sentence will be extended if the boy you injured sustains any lasting damage.

Tristan felt cold. The officer’s words seemed to come from far away.

If he couldn’t persuade the experimental rehab center to take him, he would be facing at least three more nightmarish years at Juvie. Cob would make him pay for what he did.

Tristan wasn’t sure he could survive much longer here. He might lose his mind.

He had to persuade this woman to take him away.

The Academy

Tristan’s heart pounded in his throat as he followed the guard to the visitation room. He knew he looked like the worst sort of criminal, with the new bruises on his neck and the gruesome scars on his face—he would make a terrible first impression.

The woman who had come to speak with Tristan looked remarkably out of place at the detention center. She was young and pretty, her brown hair pulled into a bun, her eyes kind behind her narrow glasses.

Tristan Fairholm, is that right? Standing, she shook his hand.

Tristan nodded warily, one eye on the guard standing behind the young woman. He took a seat opposite her and smoothed a hand over his dark hair, making sure it covered the scars that disfigured the left side of his face.

My name is Darla Merridy. I am pleased that you accepted a place at our academy, but I wanted to go over a few things before we leave.

Tristan’s stomach tightened. This was where she would drop the news that his place had been revoked due to his behavior.

We received your records before we invited you to join us, but I wanted to talk through what happened—to hear your perspective.

Darla Merridy glanced at a stack of paper on the table before her. When Tristan tried to read it upside down, she tilted it away from him.

You were arrested on charges of accidental manslaughter, vehicle theft, driving without a license, and arson. Is that correct?

Tristan nodded.

However, the charge of arson was later dropped, as there was no proof of what caused the fire in your father’s home. You claimed in court that you borrowed your neighbor’s car to flee an earthquake that occurred at the same time as the fire in your home. Could you please describe what happened the night of the crash?

Did she really expect Tristan to do this? He had spent the past six months trying to block the memories of that night from his mind; to recall it now, especially after seeing his brother’s grave just hours ago, would wreck him.

When Darla Merridy remained silent, expectant, Tristan took a deep breath. He had to do this. He needed to leave Juvie.

I was—at home with my brother one night, he began haltingly. As he spoke, the scene rose again before him—his father’s house, the new puzzle he’d bought for Marcus, the moment it started. We felt the house shaking, and we realized it was an earthquake. We tried calling my parents, but they were both away. Then the house caught on fire, and we called 911, but the guy thought it was a prank. We ran outside, and the whole street was moving. I thought the trees might fall over and crush us if we stayed there.

Tristan took a ragged breath. His eyes were stinging; he wasn’t sure if he would be able to go through with this.

The neighbor’s car was sitting in the driveway, and the key was in the ignition. No one was around, and we couldn’t get help, so we were going to drive to my mom’s house. But it was night, and I didn’t have my license, and I—I—

Tristan’s throat closed up as the memories flooded him. From behind the wall he’d built these past months, it all rushed back—the screams and flashing lights; Marcus’s head slumped over the dashboard, his dark, curly hair wet with blood; the police officers cutting Tristan free and dragging him away from the wreck. That cold, terrible voice—He’s dead.

His eyes were burning, and he hunched over to hide from Darla Merridy’s piercing gaze. W-why do you need to know about that?

But her voice was gentle. Because I needed to make sure you felt remorse for your brother’s death. Our academy does not accept irredeemable criminals, and after hearing about your incident today, I was wary. However, I believe you never intended to cause harm.

Tristan didn’t know what to say.

Now, I will fill you in on the specifics on our way to the airport, but I wanted to—

The airport? We’re flying somewhere?

Yes, of course. We have recruited students from around the country, and it would take far too long to drive to the—the facility. Darla glanced at the guard behind her, who stared straight ahead as though unable to hear their conversation. I trust that you have not changed your mind? You are still willing to attend our academy?

Yeah, of course, Tristan said quickly. Why did Darla keep referring to it as an academy? The disciplinary officer had described it as an experimental rehabilitation center.

I’m glad to hear that. Darla smiled warmly. Our academy will open up new opportunities for you, opportunities most criminals would never have. You will move forward without being defined by your criminal record, surrounded by other students who are eager to re-start their lives.

It sounded like a load of motivational crap, but Tristan wasn’t about to argue. Surely it couldn’t be worse than Cass Detention Center.

We have a few forms to sign, and then we’ll be on our way.

Much sooner than he expected, Tristan and Darla were walking through the barbed wire-topped gates of Cass Detention Center for what Tristan hoped would be the last time. No officer escorted them, and instead of a police vehicle, they climbed into an ordinary taxi.

Um…aren’t you worried I might hurt you if we go off without a guard? Tristan asked, though he was not sorry to escape the constant supervision.

I can look after myself, Darla said with a smile. Besides, apart from today’s incident, you don’t have a history of violence.

They drove in silence to the airport. Tristan had expected Darla to fill him in on the mysterious program he would be transferring to, but she merely tapped her fingers against the window, watching the landscape flash by. He said nothing—he didn’t want to give her any excuse to change her mind about him.

When they arrived at Jamestown Airport, Tristan asked, What about my parents? Do they know where I’m going?

Darla climbed from the front seat and held the door for Tristan. They have been filled in with the details of your transfer. I’m sorry—your mother wanted to see you before you left, but she was traveling when I got in touch.

Traveling? Tristan’s parents never traveled. They didn’t have the money for it. Did this mean his mother had a new boyfriend, or had she finally managed to land a corporate job that sent her to important conferences around the country?

He didn’t know, because his parents had not visited him once since his arrest. They hadn’t even called. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed—he was still a long way from forgiving himself for Marcus’s death—but he had felt so isolated, so unwanted, throughout his long stay at Juvie.

Still trying to puzzle out this unexpected news, Tristan clambered from the taxi and followed Darla.

Though the sun had vanished, Darla bypassed the doors into the brightly-lit terminal, instead leading Tristan around a dark corner and onto the tarmac. A small, unmarked plane stood in a pool of light; from the open door, a ladder descended to the tarmac.

Does your facility own that plane? Tristan asked, impressed.

Darla laughed. Of course. Our location is remote enough that we couldn’t do without it.

For the first time since Darla had told him he still had a place at her facility, his relief was tempered by misgivings. What if he was about to become an unwilling participant in some illegal scientific study?

He paused at the foot of the ladder. What is it we’re going to be doing at this ‘academy,’ exactly?

I’m so sorry. The headmaster of the Underground Academy will explain everything as soon as you arrive. I know you must be very curious, but I’m not the right person to tell you. However, she added quickly, as Tristan began to object, I will fill you and your fellow students in briefly on the plane. I couldn’t speak freely with others around. You will see why.

The Underground Academy was an odd name for a rehab center, but Tristan had no chance to probe further, because Darla hurried him up the ladder.

At the top, Tristan raked his hair more firmly over his scars. He realized suddenly that he was still wearing his jumpsuit, and hoped he was not the only one.

After the darkness outside, Tristan blinked and squinted at the bright light flooding the plane cabin. Most of the seats were already full, and their occupants stared at Tristan with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. Only two others still wore their prison garb.

This is Tristan Fairholm. Darla put a hand on his shoulder and nudged him forward. Make him feel at home.

Head down, trying not to meet the eyes of his fellow inmates, Tristan stumbled down the aisle. The only seats remaining were next to a muscled boy who reminded him painfully of Cob, and beside a sharp-faced girl with long, black hair, at the very back of the plane.

When Tristan sat beside the girl, she turned to study him with a frown; she had dark eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose.

Mind if I sit here? Tristan asked in a choked voice. No conversation with a fellow criminal at Cass Detention Center had gone well, but this time Tristan was determined to find allies. If he was stuck here for another three years, he would do anything possible to avoid the treatment he had received at his bullies’ hands.

This girl did not seem too hostile, though. Sure. I’m Leila Swanson, by the way. Leila continued to scrutinize him, finally asking, What happened to you?

Tristan pressed his hair firmly down. Nothing.

Thankfully Darla spoke just then, drawing Leila’s intense gaze to the front of the plane.

Now that everyone is here, I wanted to answer a few of your questions, she said. "Your headmaster will tell you everything, but before you worry any longer, I want to emphasize that we are not going to another detention facility of any sort. You have not been recruited for rehabilitation, but because you have a special aptitude for using a certain power most people cannot touch."

Tristan thought immediately of the odd feeling of strength that had surged through him when he fought Cob. Beside him, Leila was frowning.

Some of you may know exactly what I am talking about, while others will take months of study to access this power. At the Underground Academy, you will learn to harvest power and use it. Once there, your criminal records will no longer matter, so I suggest you take this opportunity to think very carefully about your behavior. She shot a sharp look at a boy whose messy black hair fell in waves around his neck. Make yourselves comfortable. We have a long flight ahead.

In the silence that followed this abrupt change of subject, Darla disappeared into the cockpit.

Seconds later, shouts and muttering broke out from the students.

What the hell was that about? a boy near the front yelled. Come back and explain yourself properly, woman!

She’s insane, a red-haired girl said haughtily.

Tristan said nothing. Merridy’s vague explanation of this power sounded a lot like magic…. Yesterday he would have laughed along with the others and thought her mentally unbalanced, but after this morning…

What did she tell you when she picked you up? Leila asked. Did she say the same thing about an experimental rehab program?

Tristan nodded.

Why did you agree to go, then? It seems a bit fishy, signing up for a program where you aren’t given any details about how long you need to stay or what’s expected, doesn’t it?

"Why did you agree to it?" Tristan countered. He didn’t want to explain how Cass Detention Center had made him feel—like he was slowly suffocating. If he had been forced to stay the full three years, he might have lost his mind.

Leila grimaced. I made mistakes. Stole from the wrong people. They were discussing whether I’d get my sentence extended if I didn’t stop, so I figured if I transferred to a new facility, I’d get a clean slate. Maybe there would be some loophole that would let me get out early. She glanced toward the cockpit where Darla had disappeared. What she was saying, though— Leila lowered her voice. I don’t know what sort of place we’re heading to.

Maybe it’s an asylum, Tristan said darkly. What do you think she meant by ‘power’? Do you think she’s telling the truth?

Of course not. It’s probably some crap about changing our lives—‘you have the power to start over if you just try hard enough.’

Tristan’s stomach tightened, but he forced a laugh. Yeah. That sounds about right. Maybe he was going insane after all.

Tristan felt sick as the small plane bumped its way north—not because of the turbulence, but because he was afraid his hold on reality was crumbling.

He had obsessed over the night of the crash so many times it had taken on the feel of a dream, made up of the dry, clinical words that had been used to describe the fire and the car crash at his trials, mixed with terror far stronger than any visual details he could recall.

Could he be certain there really had been an earthquake that sent him fleeing that night, borrowing his neighbor’s unlocked car and driving without a license in his desperation to reach safety? Or had he somehow imagined it, and convinced Marcus to believe his delusion?

Yet Leila did not seem mentally unbalanced. Nor did the other passengers, some of whom were deep in conversation, while others stared out the window, apparently unwilling to talk to their seatmates. In the row ahead of where he and Leila sat, a boy with messy brown hair laughed uproariously—he was not afraid of whatever waited for them.

Tristan decided he would reserve his judgment until they reached their destination. Once he saw the facility that would become their new home, he would be able to tell from the high fences or armed guards or barred cells how secure the place was. He had never been in a mental hospital, but he assumed there would be some giveaways that could not be hidden—bedrooms locked from the outside or obvious means of restraint.

Wary of speaking to Leila any longer, for fear she might probe into his past, Tristan slumped back in his chair and let his eyes drift closed. As he let his guard down, the bruises from his beating earlier that day began to throb with renewed vengeance.

He must have managed to fall asleep despite the turbulence and the pain, because he was startled awake what felt like hours later as the plane jolted violently. He had been dreaming of the earthquake, and it took a long time for his breathing to calm down.

The late-afternoon sun shone directly through the left-hand window, blinding him, and Leila was scrutinizing him with sympathy. Realizing his scars were showing, Tristan pressed his hair firmly over the left side of his face once again.

You all right? Leila asked softly.

Just fantastic, Tristan said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

When Leila opened her mouth, Tristan turned away from her. He didn’t want her asking what happened to his face again.

Before long, the plane began to descend, a thick layer of fog swallowing the sun. Many of the dozing kids stirred, and the boy with the messy brown hair turned and grinned at Tristan over the back of his seat. The boy sitting beside him had his forehead pressed against the window; he was still in his jumpsuit, and his black hair had been dyed an odd, pale yellow on top.

After trying unsuccessfully to engage his seatmate in conversation, the messy-haired boy turned back to Tristan and Leila once more. Leila scowled at him.

You’re Tristan, right? Why’d Darla take so long to get you? We figured you were extra dangerous or something.

Tristan snorted. Well, I’m not. Though he wasn’t sure any of his fellow recruits were murderers.

I’m Rusty Lennox, by the way. That’s Eli. He nodded at the boy to his right, who did not acknowledge him.

Before Rusty could say anything further, Darla emerged from the cockpit to say, We’ll be landing in about thirty minutes. Make sure your seatbelts are fastened properly. Oh, and Eli, Ryan, and Tristan, your street clothes are up here.

Eli finally reacted at this news. Climbing over Rusty’s legs before Rusty had a chance to let him out, he grabbed all three pairs of clothes and chucked one at a huge, intimidating boy near the front of the plane.

Catch, Eli called, tossing a bundle at Tristan’s head.

Tristan fumbled with his clothes, embarrassed that Leila had to see his skinny chest and bruised arms. He had lost a lot of muscle in Juvie, thanks to the flavorless cafeteria meals and long periods of time confined indoors.

Oh my god, Leila whispered when Tristan pulled the jumpsuit off his arms. What happened?

Tristan turned away quickly, face hot. I got in a fight, he mumbled, not wanting to admit how badly he had been beaten up.

Clumsy in his haste, Tristan eventually managed to struggle into the new clothes, kicking his garish jumpsuit under the seat. The clean fabric felt stiff and grainy after the sagging orange uniform.

Makes you feel like a person again, doesn’t it? Rusty said with a lopsided smile.

Tristan just nodded. Meanwhile, Eli stomped on his bedraggled jumpsuit before resuming his seat.

Rusty leaned over Eli and rubbed at the condensation on the window. I’m excited to see what this place is like. I wish it wasn’t so foggy!

Don’t get excited yet, Leila said. This could be much worse than Juvie.

I doubt it, Rusty said. I have a good feeling about this. Anyway, it’s an adventure, isn’t it?

Right, Tristan said dubiously.

Just then, he noticed dark shapes whipping by the wing, their forms indistinguishable in the mist. It wasn’t until the plane jolted and then roared to a halt that Tristan recognized the shapes for enormous bushy pines.

They were in a forest.

He made up his mind then—if this Underground Academy looked like a high-security lock-up, he would make a run for it. There would be plenty of places to hide in the woods, and even if he got lost and never made it out alive, that would be better than the future that awaited him at an asylum.

At the front of the plane, Darla got to her feet to address them once again as a chorus of seatbelts clicked open. Please be sure to—to—

She had to cover a yawn with one hand; the momentary weakness made her look younger than ever.

Please bring all of your belongings with you. We will not be returning to the plane—the school is still a ways from here. And from now on, you should address me as ‘Professor Merridy’ or ‘Miss Merridy.’

Tristan leaned over Leila to peer outside; he could see nothing but heavy gray fog and the ghostly outlines of trees.

There’s nothing to see, Leila said. I can barely make out the runway.

As Tristan descended the ladder from the plane, a chill breeze raked through him. Shivering, he joined Leila and the other dozen or so students milling around on the runway.

The last person to appear through the hatch was a white-haired, round-faced man who had to be the pilot. When he turned to face the students, he was beaming.

So nice to meet you at last, he said cheerfully. He would have made a convincing Santa Claus if he grew a beard and put on a few pounds. My name is Gerard Quinsley, and I’m part of the academy’s faculty. That is, if we ever manage to get there.

Chuckling, he sidled over to Merridy.

Well, that was a boring flight, eh? I always hate flying over clouds. But the headmaster seemed to think it was for the best if—

Gerard! Merridy said sharply. Enough.

Winking at