Burvington Preparatory Academy of Excellence.
Home of the "Burlie" Boys.
The richest , said to be strongest and some of the most genius minds in all of Great Britain. Home to the 4 most powerful boys (and then some) . They do, say and be who the...
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PLATO NISIM WATCHED WITH EAGERNESS AT THE SPECIMEN. THE MICROSCOPE SHOWED EVERYTHING IN TERRIFYING DEFINITION.
Nothing could cower, nothing could hide.
His gloved hand grabbed the concoction within the green vial, without looking away from the microscope. Plato's eyes squinting into the peephole.
Slowly and meticulously he bent his back till he was eye level with the counter top. Goggles great in size scratched his nose.
5, 4,
3,
2,
1.
5 drops of blue liquid splashed onto the specimen in the Petri Dish with accuracy.
He stilled, waiting for a reaction,
any sort of reaction.
He frowned.
The brown mole on his terra- cotta complexion crinkled.
Nothing.
But he had an inkling suspicion this would be the result. To him, Biology was a tango. A sizzling, passionate dance for control. While it took two, the other seemingly did what she wanted, leaving him to wonder what he did wrong and why they were no longer in step.
But it were a dance too close to his heart, too much of a crutch for his sanity to stop now. Too close.
Plato slowly stood upright, leaning against the lab table for his ascension. He had not noticed the fist forming. Perhaps it were the gloves lubricating his nails digging into his fleshy palm.
His cane in the corner beside him.
Propped on the wall. Plato's biscuit curls didn't need to cover the sight.
His eyes glossed over it completely.
Nisim sat on the chair. His designated personal, specially thought out chair. He could not have normal chairs like the others.
My chair.
My laughable, special chair.
His viridian and amber eyes scaled the laboratory. The sight he was used to for quite awhile. Male students, covered in white and long lab-coats, heavy gloves and itchy old fashioned goggles, sampling more.... treacherous substances.
