School Of The Gifted

It's... I'm not sure anymore. I've lost track of time. A new day has begun, the first light of dawn painting the sky in hues of pink and gold over the island. We spent the entire night outside, the cold seeping through my clothes, the sounds of the ocean a constant murmur in the background. Sisyphus said nothing to me, not a word, seated and facing a particular direction as if waiting for something.

Then as if spotting something in the distance, Sisyphus stands abruptly, his movements as precise as ever. He moves to stand before me where i'm sitting, his shadow blocking the rising sun for a moment before he begins to speak.

He begins to speak, his voice flat but clear, cutting through the early morning air. "I am what is called a guide. Some students have one," he explains, his tone devoid of emotion but carrying an undertone of importance. "Think of me as a butler. I am here to cater to your needs," Sisyphus states, his gaze boring into me.

"The school," he goes on, "will teach you the bulk of what you need. They will provide you with knowledge, skills, and challenges that will shape you into what they believe you should become. However, if you find their teachings lacking, if you seek more than what is offered within the confines of the curriculum, I am here to supplement that." His voice carries a hint of something deeper, a suggestion of secrets perhaps.

"I can teach you how to fight," he says, and for the first time since he began to speak, there's a slight shift in his statue-like posture, as if the word 'fight' stirs something within him. "I can teach you how to hunt," he continues, his words conjuring images of not just physical pursuits but the chase for knowledge, for power. "Or pretty much anything else you might require," he concludes, hinting at a breadth of expertise that goes beyond the conventional, suggesting that in this place, learning extends far beyond the classroom, into the very essence of survival and mastery.

I find my voice, the questions piling up in my mind like leaves in autumn. "I have questions," I say, the uncertainty of this place, of Sisyphus's role, pushing me to seek clarity.

"Ask," he responds, his voice as emotionless as ever, "I will answer what I can."

I think deeply, knowing I must choose my questions carefully and phrase them with precision. I've observed the kinds of questions I ask and the one he answers. After a moment, I speak, "You said some students have guides, not all, yes?"

 Sisyphus simply nods, acknowledging my observation. "What is the criteria to get one?" I ask.

"It's complicated," Sisyphus begins, his voice even, "but it largely comes down to potential."

I lean in, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "Potential for what, exactly?" I question, my body and mind itching to know the answer.

And then, in a tone that feels like coated with authority, Sisyphus replies, "Potential to rule over all men."

The statement sends a chill through me, the implications vast and daunting. "How many are there, these people with such potential?" I ask, my curiosity now tinged with a hint of fear.

"I do not know," Sisyphus admits, his voice lowering, "It is a well-kept secret."

"But," he adds. His gaze now even more serious. "You must guard this secret with your life. That you are a potential. Because, should others find out, your life is what it will cost you."

I shiver, the cold of the night suddenly feeling more penetrating. "Why?" I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Power," he says simply. "You and a small number of others in the school earned that potential by natural selection. You were simply born this way.

But power is not loyal to any man. It changes allegiance quickly, never beholden to one person or group. It resides with only those who take it for themselves. If you can take it, then it is yours."

I look at Sisyphus, shock etching my features as I process his words, thinking that this school might just be a place where students are allowed to kill each other.

Sisyphus, noticing my confusion, speaks up, his tone almost gentle for the first time. "Taking power doesn't necessarily mean taking another person's life," he clarifies, his words measured. "It can mean your standing, your position within the school. The school doesn't allow death unless a special code is invoked."

As if that's supposed to make it better. A special code, I don't ask what it is or when it can be invoked, i simply don't want to know.

I nod, then ask another question, unsure if I want to know the answer to this too. "Did you once have a guide yourself?" Sisyphus simply nods, confirming he was a potential himself.

I ask, "What happens to students that fail at the school, are they allowed to just leave?"

Sisyphus goes quiet for a moment before speaking again. "It depends."

Yeah, fuck this. I ask to go back home. Sisyphus denies my request.

I beg, and I threaten. But his response remains unchanged.

I grow quiet now. I just want to reinvent myself and make friends, not rule the world. I certainly don't want to die, or end up like Sisyphus.

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A Short time passes before Sisyphus finally speaks again. He hesitates, showing slight discomfort before speaking, "You're asking the wrong questions in the wrong way."

I don't care. I don't want to know more of this school. I just want to leave. And i have an inkling that the more i know, the harder it is to leave. Finally i sigh and ask begrudgingly, "How am I supposed to ask the questions?"

Sisyphus looks to the sky warily, and chooses his next words carefully, "Ask me to tell you everything I'm allowed to say."

Sisyphus immediately after he speaks groans in pain. Electricity ripples through his body and he falls to the ground. I watch in horror, my heart racing as I witness this sudden, violent reaction. I rush over to him, unsure if I should touch him or if that would worsen his condition.

"Sisyphus!" I shout, my voice laced with panic. But he doesn't respond, his body convulsing on the ground as the spasms seem to subside slowly.

Sisyphus finally calms down, his body showing the aftermath of the shock - his muscles twitch involuntarily, his breathing is labored, and there's a faint smell of scorched fabric and skin. His face is pale, drained, and his movements are slow, as if each one costs him dearly.

I ask, my voice shaking, "What happened to you just now?"

Through gritted teeth, Sisyphus responds, "Punishment."

As he recovers enough to sit upright, the effects of the shock still lingering, he explains. "They," he says, his voice strained, "are always watching. I wasn't supposed to help you by telling you how to ask the correct questions. There's an implant in all guides that prevents us from trying to escape this island or reveal important secrets. That shock was a warning. Next time, they'll melt my brain."

I look visibly worried, the thought of anyone suffering, especially on my account, filling me with dread. "Maybe you shouldn't bother telling me anything," I suggest, the weight of my potential responsibility for his pain heavy on my conscience.

Sisyphus looks at me, surprised, the most emotion he's shown since we met. But quickly, he regains his mechanical composure and says, "It's fine. By 'their' law, I'm obliged to answer questions I can. And you have asked."

Then, his expression turns serious, and he looks directly at me, "Listen attentively."

Sisyphus, his voice now steady but still with an echo of the ordeal he just endured, explains, "This is your island. All the 'potentials' have one, and this is where their guides also resides. You're allowed to come here on weekends, so it would be wise for you to utilize that option. That's all i can say on that."

He catches his breath before continuing, "The school doesn't care about your standing in the real world, whether you come from poverty or wealth, you get no advantage for it there. But students find ways to leverage it. They offer poorer students a rich life after school if they become their underlings, and some accept, even those who are fairly well-off. It's not just the allure of wealth that gets their participation; it's also the cost of rejection. It's a typical case of the carrot and the stick."

In my mind, I piece together what he's telling me. The 'carrot' is the tempting offer of a prosperous future, a chance for those from humble beginnings to rise above their circumstances. The 'stick,' however, is the unspoken threat, the potential fallout or ostracization one might face for not playing along, for rejecting the hierarchy or the patronage of those with power. This school, it seems, operates on a system where personal gain is intertwined with subservience, where every choice could either elevate you or doom you, and the stakes are set high from the start.

Sisyphus waits patiently for me to fully register everything he's said before he proceeds. "Do not join any group immediately, but also do not reject any. Tell anyone who approaches you that you'll think on it. It buys you time before you decide on what to do."

He then introduces another element to consider, "There are the rogues. They're students who don't join any groups. Although the rogues are a group themselves, there's no hierarchy other than a small council. It allows all rogue members to be under a group but still remain independent. They only come together to protect one of their own, no more. It's one way you can remain free without having to be anyone's underling."

He continues. "I won't tell you who to join. It's been years since I was a student myself, so dynamics must have changed. You must buy yourself enough time to make your research, weigh your pros and cons, then decide for yourself."

Sisyphus concludes with a stark reminder, "Your first goal must be to survive, then you can think about thriving. As a Year One student, every decision you make will determine your future."

Sisyphus stands, staggering slightly from the effects of the earlier shock. I instinctively move to help him, but he waves me away with a dismissive gesture. The day has brightened now, the sun casting long shadows across the island. I look around, taking in the landscape for the first time- there's a small jungle just beyond us, dense with foliage, teeming with the sounds of life, and far in the distance, I see a manor, its architecture grand yet imposing, standing as a sentinel over the island.

I point towards it, curiosity piqued, "What's that manor?"

Sisyphus follows my gaze, "That's your base on the island, but there's no time to explore it n--." His words cut short as the water beside the island begins to churn, the surface breaking with a series of bubbles and froths.

A submarine emerges, its sleek, metallic form cutting through the water with a grace that belies its size. The water around it ripples and swirls, creating small waves that lap against the shore, the sound of its engines a low, constant hum that echoes across the island. It's painted in a dark, non-reflective color, designed to blend with the depths, with only a small, illuminated logo visible on its side, hinting at its connection to the school. The submarine's arrival is both a spectacle and a reminder of the technological prowess and secrecy of this school, its hatch already opening with a hiss of escaping air, ready to transport or receive.

Sisyphus leads me towards the submarine, our steps crunching on the sandy shore. As we approach, a person inside the submarine bows deeply to Sisyphus to which he replies with a nod, making me wonder if all guides receive such respect or if Sisyphus holds a special status.

After a brief exchange between Sisyphus and the man in the submarine, Sisyphus turns to me, his face as unreadable as ever, and says, "It's time to go."

I give my thanks to Sisyphus, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and apprehension. "I'll be back as soon as I can," I promise, and he simply nods in acknowledgment. Just before I step into the submarine, I can't help but ask, "Why did you risk punishment for me?"

For the first time, Sisyphus smiles, a small, genuine curve of his lips that transforms his face. "You remind me of myself," he says, and then, to my surprise, he bows deeply, addressing me, "Be safe, my lord."

This gesture makes me uneasy; it must not have been easy for him to do such a thing, to show that level of respect or perhaps submission. I respond, my voice sincere, "I will. And you, be safe too." With that, I step into the submarine, the hatch closing behind me, sealing off the outside world as I enter this new phase of my journey.