04-08-2018, 12:54 PM
“Pst!”
Kilgrot the Mighty, son of Kolgoth the Mighty, is crammed into a small wooden desk in his creative writing class, scribbling furiously.
The hulking teenage Klingon looms over the rest of his classmates, even the large ones; and there are some large ones at Westside High. Kilgrot’s creative writing class, like the rest of Westside High study body, is diverse.
Besides Kilgrot, there are several other Klingons in the back of the room, though none of them seem to share his passion for creative writing. Like Kilgrot they wear the Westside High wrestling jackets. Also in the back, but very much on their own, are a pair of orcs also in green Westside HIgh wrestling jackets. The wrestling team is one of the few places in the school where the orcs and Klingons put aside cultural and racial differences, but outside of practice the two groups dont mix.
There are Klingons, orcs, humans, elves, twi’leks, anime catfolk, gazzorpazzorpians, and even a magically sentient wooden marionette, just in one classroom.
And today, there are two new students.
“Pst,” comes the voice again.
Kilgrot still does not look up. He pegged them the moment they walked in, and he has a fair idea why the two new ‘students’ want his attention. He also knows what his father would say.
Kolgoth would clasp his shoulder, and look deep into his sons eyes, and explain to Kilgrot again that the sacrifices he made were for his family, for his son to have a better life than he ever could. He would tell him to keep wrestling, and to maintain his good grades. His father would tell him to stay away from the crooks and the criminals and low-lifes.
But his dad is in prison.
“Pst! Hey!” the voice calls in a hoarse whisper.
Kilgrot slowly puts his pen on his desk and turns around, his chair creaking.
The surly Klingon faces a pair of twin witches with matching blue hair. They wear tattered and patched Hogwarts robes, and were it not for their face piercings Kilgrot would not be able to tell them apart.
“Hey,” one of the girl whispers loudly, still flashing her pearly whites at the stone-face Klingon. “We’re new students, but you’re Kilgrot right? The wrestler?”
Kilgrot is in fact the inter-tier wrestling champion for his weight class, and the class above.
Kilgrot scowls at the girl, who refuses to drop her smile.
“You’re not students,” Kilgrot says in a deep baritone. “And you dont know me from no fucking wrestling.”
The bell rings, and the class rises to turn in their projects to the Niblonian teacher.
Kilgrot rises with them, slouching his backpack on and turning away from the new kids.
“Hey, wait-” says one of the witches.
“I didn’t mean-,” the other says, but Kilgrot is already gone.
Out in the hall, the Klingon thinks he sees the pair following him, so he ducks into a bathroom quietly, turning the faucet on and washing his face with cold, cold water.
He hears the bathroom door open and a few shuffling footsteps. Without looking up he says “This is a boys bathroom.”
He is met with a derisive female snort.
“What? No it isn’t,” says one of the blue-haired witches.
Her companion looked around. “Yeah, this isn’t even a bathroom, it’s a Plutonian spawning station.”
A Plutonian walks out of a stall with a batch of eggs, muttering about the noise.
“Congratulations sir!” the girls say in unison as the Plutonian stalks off.
Kilgrot stares at the water pooling in front of him, his reflection wobbling.
“I’m Danny,” says the girl finally. “This is Dungbomb.”
Kilgrot finally looks up from the sink, sizing up the Hufflepunks.
“Yeah, you guys know my uncle Girg. I know why you’re here,” he says finally, his baritone echoing around the empty Plutonian spawning station. “I knew they would send somebody, ever since Luci-”
“Then you’re in?” asks Dungbomb excitedly, her and her sister moving closer to the Klingon.
Kilgrot is silent. He does not have to wonder what his father would say, he already knows.
Danny fills the void of silence.
“It’s the only way,” she says softly. “You’re the only one with visiting privileges. And-”
“Fine,” Kilgrot cuts in. The twins grin at each other. In his head, he can hear his father begging him not too.
“Lets do it then,” Kilgrot says, with a kind of weary conviction. “Let’s break my dad out of jail.”
***
Kilgrot the Mighty, son of Kolgoth the Mighty, is crammed into a small wooden desk in his creative writing class, scribbling furiously.
The hulking teenage Klingon looms over the rest of his classmates, even the large ones; and there are some large ones at Westside High. Kilgrot’s creative writing class, like the rest of Westside High study body, is diverse.
Besides Kilgrot, there are several other Klingons in the back of the room, though none of them seem to share his passion for creative writing. Like Kilgrot they wear the Westside High wrestling jackets. Also in the back, but very much on their own, are a pair of orcs also in green Westside HIgh wrestling jackets. The wrestling team is one of the few places in the school where the orcs and Klingons put aside cultural and racial differences, but outside of practice the two groups dont mix.
There are Klingons, orcs, humans, elves, twi’leks, anime catfolk, gazzorpazzorpians, and even a magically sentient wooden marionette, just in one classroom.
And today, there are two new students.
“Pst,” comes the voice again.
Kilgrot still does not look up. He pegged them the moment they walked in, and he has a fair idea why the two new ‘students’ want his attention. He also knows what his father would say.
Kolgoth would clasp his shoulder, and look deep into his sons eyes, and explain to Kilgrot again that the sacrifices he made were for his family, for his son to have a better life than he ever could. He would tell him to keep wrestling, and to maintain his good grades. His father would tell him to stay away from the crooks and the criminals and low-lifes.
But his dad is in prison.
“Pst! Hey!” the voice calls in a hoarse whisper.
Kilgrot slowly puts his pen on his desk and turns around, his chair creaking.
The surly Klingon faces a pair of twin witches with matching blue hair. They wear tattered and patched Hogwarts robes, and were it not for their face piercings Kilgrot would not be able to tell them apart.
“Hey,” one of the girl whispers loudly, still flashing her pearly whites at the stone-face Klingon. “We’re new students, but you’re Kilgrot right? The wrestler?”
Kilgrot is in fact the inter-tier wrestling champion for his weight class, and the class above.
Kilgrot scowls at the girl, who refuses to drop her smile.
“You’re not students,” Kilgrot says in a deep baritone. “And you dont know me from no fucking wrestling.”
The bell rings, and the class rises to turn in their projects to the Niblonian teacher.
Kilgrot rises with them, slouching his backpack on and turning away from the new kids.
“Hey, wait-” says one of the witches.
“I didn’t mean-,” the other says, but Kilgrot is already gone.
Out in the hall, the Klingon thinks he sees the pair following him, so he ducks into a bathroom quietly, turning the faucet on and washing his face with cold, cold water.
He hears the bathroom door open and a few shuffling footsteps. Without looking up he says “This is a boys bathroom.”
He is met with a derisive female snort.
“What? No it isn’t,” says one of the blue-haired witches.
Her companion looked around. “Yeah, this isn’t even a bathroom, it’s a Plutonian spawning station.”
A Plutonian walks out of a stall with a batch of eggs, muttering about the noise.
“Congratulations sir!” the girls say in unison as the Plutonian stalks off.
Kilgrot stares at the water pooling in front of him, his reflection wobbling.
“I’m Danny,” says the girl finally. “This is Dungbomb.”
Kilgrot finally looks up from the sink, sizing up the Hufflepunks.
“Yeah, you guys know my uncle Girg. I know why you’re here,” he says finally, his baritone echoing around the empty Plutonian spawning station. “I knew they would send somebody, ever since Luci-”
“Then you’re in?” asks Dungbomb excitedly, her and her sister moving closer to the Klingon.
Kilgrot is silent. He does not have to wonder what his father would say, he already knows.
Danny fills the void of silence.
“It’s the only way,” she says softly. “You’re the only one with visiting privileges. And-”
“Fine,” Kilgrot cuts in. The twins grin at each other. In his head, he can hear his father begging him not too.
“Lets do it then,” Kilgrot says, with a kind of weary conviction. “Let’s break my dad out of jail.”
***