I never was a big fan of school, but I knew it was a necessary evil. That day, however, I was sweating buckets in detention—next to Kirk, of all people. You can imagine how much fun that was.
What made the whole thing worse was that I forgot to even tell Mom that I got detention, though it's very justified, why I couldn't. You get shot and almost killed by a bunch of God-only-knows-who, then suddenly see your uncle commit sorcery in front of you along with those God-only-knows-whos, and you tell if you'd still tell your mom that you got in trouble like that makes anything better.
So when Mom found out that I had detention, she started screaming at like I had committed arson. It was enough to force Dad to save money to fix all the shattered windows in the house—mind you, I rely defended myself from a threat at school.
I was so tired, overstimulated, angry, scared, fearful, and probably the most confused I've ever been in my life. I'm sure calculus is like preschool compared to the stress that I am going through right now. I felt like I could explode in rage at any mont.
Detention wasn't exactly the best place for a friendly chat, especially with a teacher who practically had an X-ray vision for rule-breakers. You didn't even think about misbehaving in that room. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.
As I sat there, my eyes fixed on the clock, I couldn't help but count the minutes until freedom. It was as if ti itself was mocking —every second dragging on like a Monday morning.
But then, like a light at the end of the tunnel, the bell rang, signaling the end of my punishnt. I grabbed my backpack with the enthusiasm of a prisoner getting out on parole and made a beeline for the door. There was no need to stick around for small talk with the other detainees.
Instead, I took a detour on my way ho, avoiding the usual hangouts where the neighborhood troublemakers liked to congregate. Last thing I needed was another argunt with those idiots. Today, I was hoping for a peaceful day, sothing that felt as normal as possible, you know?
I got to my front door, pressing the doorbell, and bracing myself for the usual warm welco from my mom. It's funny how she's always the one to open the door, even when I'm feeling all kinds of nervous. But today, there was sothing different. Sothing off about the air. I felt oddly calm—like maybe the weirdness with my uncle would finally co to an end. Or, at least, that's what I was hoping for.
After a couple of minutes, the door swung open, and I was ready to kick back and let the usual ho routine take over. But then sothing happened that threw everything off course. The person standing in the doorway wasn't my mom. It was him again. The man who couldn't seem to stay out of my life.
"Hey, Connor," Uncle Bruce said with this eerie ease, like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to be standing in our living room. I froze, trying to wrap my brain around it. "Where's Mom?" I blurted out, not bothering with niceties.
Uncle Bruce gave one of those "don't ask questions you don't want answers to" looks and said I shouldn't worry about it. Yeah, easy for him to say.
I flopped down on the couch, my mind swirling with a thousand questions. How the heck did he even get into our house? Did Mom give him an extra key? I didn't have answers, just a lot of weird, unsettled feelings.
"Hey, do you want anything to eat or drink?" I offered, desperate to break the silence. It didn't help much, but at least it filled the air with sothing that wasn't just trying to keep it together. He looked at like I was speaking another language, but then he went along with it. "Water's fine," he said casually, as if that was the most interesting thing in the world.
I had to ask, of course. "No Gatorade or anything? Just water?" I said, trying to be a decent host. His response completely threw off. He turned his head toward with a look that was surprisingly open. "Gatorade would be great," he said, sounding almost... normal?
I was still processing how bizarre this all was when I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. "So, what flavor are we talking about?" I called out, my voice a bit too loud as I tried to make sense of it all.
"It's up to you," he answered in that sa calm tone, almost like he was sowhere else ntally. I tossed an orange Gatorade his way while chuckling. The idea of my mysterious, possibly-dangerous uncle needing a drink was... well, funny.
"So, I'm guessing you play piano or sothing?" he asked, noting the piano sitting there in the corner of the room. I glanced at it, not really taking into consideration its existence.
"I used to," I confessed, figuring it was a decent enough conversation starter. Uncle Bruce nodded, genuinely interested. "How skilled were you before you stopped?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.
I thought about it for a second. "Well, I could play a simplified version of Mozart," I said, then added, "But then I switched to jazz." I kind of expected him to zone out, but instead, he seed intrigued.
"Jazz, huh? Tell more," he said, leaning forward slightly.
Okay, this conversation was getting weird, but hey, at least it was better than the silence, right? "Oh, yeah, I was getting the hang of it," I said, nodding. "I've never really been one to quit sothing before I get good at it."
Uncle Bruce shifted, looking at more seriously now. "Take a seat," he said, a command wrapped in casualness. I hesitated for a second, but there was sothing in his tone that made sit down.
Then, with a look that suggested he was about to drop so heavy truth, he asked, "You've seen so stuff you weren't supposed to, haven't you?"
I swallowed. "Uh... yeah," I mumbled, nodding slowly, my mind racing.
He didn't waste ti. "There's a lot I need to explain to you," he said, adjusting his posture. "But first, can you close the drapes?"
My curiosity was at its peak, and I practically ran to do what he asked. As I pulled the drapes shut, my heart was pounding. This was it—the mont I was going to get answers.
"So, about last night and the night before," Uncle Bruce started, his tone casual but serious. "It all ties back to the TSA."
"TSA?" I interrupted, totally confused. "Like... the airport security people?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no. The Teenage Spy Agency," he clarified. "I was dealing with so of the eighteen-year-olds. They're a formidable group. See, I run a field agency called the Youth Mage Protocol Academy. We handle all the weird stuff that goes on—things most people have no idea about."
My jaw dropped. "Wait, you an to tell you're a spy? A mage spy? Like, magical spy?"
Uncle Bruce looked at with amusent in his eyes. "Oh, it gets better. You see, we've got all sorts of abilities—cloning, fire bending, water control, ice powers, lightning generation, mind control, wind manipulation, manifestation, even body swapping."
I blinked. "Wait, body swapping? That sounds... gross."
"It can be handy," he said with a shrug. "But yeah, it's got its downsides. Now the TSA want to establish control over the most influential countries, then use that power to control the rest. It's all about influence. The problem is, if people found out about our world, it would cause chaos. Not the good kind either."
This was beyond anything I could have imagined. I was still reeling from the idea of magic and spies when he turned to and said, "You've got potential. I saw what happened when you punched that guy—those red veins, the way he went flying."
"Wait... that was my superpower?" I asked, still not entirely sure what to make of it.
Uncle Bruce smiled, clearly proud. "Yep. And you've got to figure out how to control it. We need people like you on our team to help take down the TSA."
A grin spread across my face. A spy mage? ? Protecting my family with superpowers? That sounded aweso.
"Count in," I said, more excited than I could ever rember being. "I'm in."
Uncle Bruce smirked. "Good. Because if you said no, I'd have to... well, let's just say you wouldn't be around for long."
I froze. "Wait, what?"
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