The Academy

Chapter Three: Sparta

     Another normal day. Sparta went about his life in the solitude that he had always known. He did his school work on his tablet-computers. He ate a light breakfast that appeared in a space in the wall. He went about his morning exercises. Everything was exactly the way it had been for over ten years.

But then something changed.

A man came.

He walked through a panel in the wall that Sparta hadn't known moved. The sound of it opening had scared Sparta nearly out of his wits, and now he stared, mouth agape, at this new visitor. Sparta hadn't seen another human being since his parents left when he was five years old. Sure, he'd seen photographs during his studies. He knew what people looked like; but he'd never really met one. Only his parents, and they'd left so long ago he could hardly remember them. 

This man was old. He had grey hair and blue eyes so light they were almost colourless. His skin sagged in baggy wrinkles. His nose was long and hooked. His lips were thin and translucent.

     "Sparta!"

Sparta stared at the man curiously. He was unsure of how to react. Why, after all these years, would someone come to him now? 

     "Sparta, I've a matter of importance to discuss with you."

There was only one chair at the little table. Sparta had never needed more. The man took it and Sparta stood across from him.

     "Sparta, do you know why you're here?"

     "No, sir," Sparta answered simply, using the polite term that he had learned in English class so long ago. He had always wondered whether he would use them, when he would ever leave the white room.

     "You are here because the world is being torn apart and we need you to fix it."

     "Me, sir?"

     "That's right." 

The man pointed to the place where the wall was sunk in- the place where Sparta always got his food. It just appeared on trays. He'd never really thought about that. Now, a large backpack rested on it. Sparta walked over and picked it up. It was heavy. He brought it back to the table and set it down.

     "Open it up," the man instructed. Sparta unzipped the top and pulled out a plastic bag with a change of clothing in it. 

     "You can put that on afterwards. It's your Academy uniform."

     "Academy? Are you sending me to a real school?" Sparta had seen pictures of schools during his studies. They didn't seem particularly pleasant. How, he wondered, did a teacher- a human being- properly teach more than one student at a time? It didn't make sense. He dug deeper and found several cans.

     "Non-perishable foods," the man informed, "You'll need them eventually." 

Sparta had never seen canned food before. His always came on a plate.

Finally, he found something familiar. A tablet. 

     "Your password is 'TORONTO'. Don't bother turning it on yet."

Sparta nodded his understanding and put the tablet back into the now-empty backpack. The man rose and went to the panel in the wall that he had come through.

     "Follow me once you've changed," the man said.

Go out the door? Sparta had no idea of what was out there. It could be anything. He decided that he had little choice, since he didn't know who this man was or what he was capable of, and so he did as commanded.

A few minutes later, dressed in his new clothes, Sparta faced a world that he hadn't even seen in his school lessons. Nearly a hundred people sat at as many computers. All of them turned their attention to him as he entered. 

     "Project 1467 is ready to be put to action!" It was the man that had come to Sparta's room speaking. A huge cheer went up and everyone studied him hungrily, turning their eyes away only to speak some congratulation to a neighbour. Sparta felt small and scared under all of their gazes. 

     "Follow me," the man instructed again. Sparta didn't hesitate as he was led through the room, towards another door.

     "Sir, what is project 1467?" he asked.

     "That's you, Sparta," he said it like it was the most marvelous thing in the world, "You'll understand soon."

A project? How could a boy possibly be a project, he wondered? Projects were writing assignments and fake volcanoes that erupted with baking soda and vinegar. People weren't projects. But under the scrutiny of all of the crowd, Sparta hadn't felt like a person at all. During that moment, a project had seemed to describe him perfectly.