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Chapter 11: Waking Nightmares, Talent Show Tyranny, and the Locker Room of Doom
Leon's POV
I woke up like I'd been uppercut by insomnia, suplexed by anxiety, and body-slammed by regret. My alarm didn't even get the chance to scream—I was already awake, staring at the ceiling like it owed me rent money.
7:00 AM detention. On a school day. Before coffee. Before breakfast.
This was war.
I threw on clothes that may or may not have been clean (define clean) and stumbled out like a cryptid caught mid-migration. The kind of blurry figure you see in grainy footage narrated by conspiracy theorists.
And just when I thought I might get five seconds of peace—
BAM.
Locker door. Slammed. Inches from my face.
I flinched like someone threw the entire Saw franchise at me. And who was standing there?
Xander.
Of course.
He didn't speak. Just stared. Like he was scanning my soul for structural weaknesses.
"Uh… morning?" I offered, easing back like he was a rabid wolf and I was made of ham.
No reply. His gaze lingered for a second too long before he turned and walked away—like a final boss who hadn't loaded all his attacks yet, but would.
Note to self: carry garlic. Or a taser. Or Gwen.
---
Detention. Again. Yay.
I always say, nothing better than a 7AM detention. Only lasts two hours before school starts. Just long enough for your soul to consider leaving your body.
Same room. Same seat. Same silent war.
MJ refused to look at me. Gwen looked like she had looked at me and regretted it. Felicia blew bubbles like her gum was her therapist. Liz was doom-scrolling like she was reviewing my funeral arrangements. Roxy winked like she hadn't caused half this mess in the first place.
And me? I was fighting sleep, side-eyeing guilt, and plotting a full-blown talent show revolution.
"You look like hell," MJ muttered, charming as ever.
"I live there," I replied. "Rent's high, but the vibes are immaculate."
"I heard you're organizing the talent show," Gwen added, without turning.
Cue Flashback:
Principal Merton summoned me like a reluctant chosen one and handed me a clipboard like it was cursed.
"Your job is to make the talent show less embarrassing than last year. That includes auditions, rehearsals, tech, stage management, promotion, and discipline."
"I'm one teenager, not the Avengers."
"Then use your detention squad."
"You mean the Avengers of Petty Chaos?"
She nodded solemnly. "God help us all."
"Amen, sister."
Flashback ends.
"'Organizing' is a strong word," I grumbled. "More like being emotionally blackmailed into producing a musical trainwreck."
"Oh," Liz said. "So your usual life. But with glitter."
Felicia cackled. "Tell me you're making it scandalous. I want fireworks and drama."
"I was thinking less explosions, more not-dying," I muttered.
Roxy leaned in. "You need help?"
"Depends. Is this Goblin Roxy talking or Responsible Roxy?"
"Yes," she said with a grin.
"Count me in…" MJ said, then paused. She was clearly contemplating auditioning with her band.
"Well, I've always wondered what it's like to be Simon Cowell," Gwen mused, not looking up from her phone.
"I've got nothing better to do," Liz added, casually livestreaming all of it like I was a reality show contestant.
And just like that—I had five highly unpredictable co-producers.
---
Cue: Creative Audition Flyers Montage
We "made" flyers during lunch. Meaning: Gwen designed them, MJ printed them, and I handed them out while dodging food like a war correspondent in a cafeteria free-for-all.
But something changed.
People noticed me. Talked to me.
I wasn't invisible anymore.
Maybe there was more to life than surviving high school on sarcasm and shame.
Then—Xander walked by.
No words. Just a look.
One part "You ruined my life."
Two parts "I've chosen violence."
Three parts "Is that a vial in my pocket or am I just full of rage?"
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After School: Let the Auditions Begin
The auditorium had the acoustics of a tin can and the scent of crushed dreams.
First up: a kid playing Despacito on the recorder.
Second: a tap dancer who forgot the "tap."
Third: a mime. Nobody told him we weren't doing interpretive silence.
Now I know the talent audition flyer says, "The Talent in you" but this just takes it up a notch!
Luckily the girls helped.
MJ judged like she was American Idol.
Gwen ran sound with a sigh quota.
Felicia flirted with every attractive upperclassman.
Roxy took notes—and doodled hearts around my name.
Liz was actually useful, probably because she feared what chaos would erupt if she wasn't.
Everything was going… passably.
Until he walked in.
Xander.
He strode down the aisle like it was a battlefield, his boots echoing like boss music.
"Didn't know you had a talent," I said, clipboard ready for impact. Damn I sound so cool.
He smiled. Not friendly. The kind of smile you see before Gotham explodes in fear toxins.
"Figured you could use a little chemistry," he said.
My spine made a noise it shouldn't. "Why'd you say 'chemistry' like a threat?"
He didn't answer. Just pulled out a guitar. Sat down. Started playing.
First off, where did he pull out that guitar from? His ass!?
And he was good!!
Like unfairly, "Are you possessed by Hendrix?" good.
The kind of talent that makes you question if you've ever actually heard music before.
He finished with a dramatic flourish, hair flip and all.
Even Gwen raised an eyebrow.
"Damn," MJ muttered. "That was hot."
"Unacceptable," I whispered. "How is the jock more talented than me?! This breaks every rule of high school hierarchy!"
"See?" Xander said, voice dripping with smug. "I belong here."
"I don't like this arc," I mumbled. "I want a rewrite."
---
That Night: My Bedroom
The buzzing was back.
I stared at my hand. Just a hand.
Until it phased.
Right through my bedsheet. For half a second.
No warning. No logic. No thank you.
"Okay," I muttered to the ceiling. "Am I dying, mutating, or being recruited by Professor X?"
The ceiling didn't answer. Rude.
I sighed, flopped back, and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow meant more auditions. More chaos.
More… whatever the hell my body was doing.
And Xander?
Xander was planning something.
I could feel it.
---
Meanwhile…
In a hidden chamber beneath the school's pool (because yes, of course we have one), Xander held the vial again.
Half empty now.
The glow in his veins—purple, unstable, wrong.
On the wall behind him:
A printout.
A photo.
Of me.
Labeled: Subject One. Target.
He stared at it, muttering, "They all think he's funny. Charming. Some chaotic prince of idiots…"
Then, under his breath, almost a hiss—
"…but when it comes out… I'll prove he's a fraud."
His fingers clenched the vial. His eyes burned with madness.
"One of them. One of those… mutants."
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