Society of Snakes

Mikey was falling. Fast.

Wind screamed past him, his arms flailing as the side of the building became a blur- screaming and shouting into the void.

"This was a terrible idea!"

Then—boom. He slammed onto the roof of a delivery craft with a metal crunch, bounced once, and immediately started sliding off.

"Nononono—"

His fingers caught the edge just in time. Dangling for a breathless second, he hauled himself up and collapsed flat on top of the craft, heart pounding.

He let out a shaky laugh. 

"See? I told ya' I could survive."

If he weren't an AI, H.E.L.P would be palming his face right now- releasing the world's biggest sigh of relief.

"Michael, you are unbearably idiotic"

Mikey scoffs at the subtle jab.

The aircraft soared steadily through the city sky, neon lights glowing below. Its destination: Sector A.

All part of the plan...sort of.

As Mikey clung to the top of the aircraft, the City of the Council stretched out beneath him—an endless maze of metal and light.

Skyscrapers rose like polished blades, lined up in neat, almost obsessive order. Skybridges wove between them, connecting towers like an over-engineered spiderweb. Everything gleamed: silver, chrome, deep blue. Spotless. Sterile. Like the whole place had been pressure-washed an hour ago.

Billboards flickered everywhere—on buildings, floating midair, even scrolling along the sides of drones.

One City, One Council, One Future.

Peace, Unity, Progress.

Just behind those words on the billboards- an amalgamation of various types of peoples grinning with pure joy. Each one smiled just a little too wide.

Mikey beamed as he looked down at the city far below, the wind whipping through his hair. His eyes sparkled with awe—little emeralds catching the sunlight, wide with wonder.

"Wow... it's beautiful," he breathed.

"I mean—I'm scared shitless right now—but damn, can't deny the view."

H.E.L.P. chimed in, calm as ever.

"Would you like me to capture the moment, Michael?"

A grin tugged at Mikey's lips.

"Yeah… I'd like that."

A soft click echoed in his head, like the shutter of a camera. For a brief second, his irises lit up with a soft blue glow as the image imprinted into his neural memory. Then the light faded, melting back into their natural green.

Somewhere deep inside, the snapshot was stored—forever etched into his conscience.

The craft soared between towers, catching neon reflections along its smooth frame. From above, the city looked impressive. Polished. Controlled. A little too perfect.

Civilians watching from the street look and point at the sight of this 18 year old boy riding a delivery craft. Eventually, landing on a helipad-looking spot that lays on this long and wide airway. Dozens of warehouses are lined up on the side of the airway. 

"We've reached Sector A, Michael."

Mikey rolled his eyes and gripped the panel tighter as the aircraft dipped lower.

"Bout time." 

The hum of cooling systems buzzed faintly inside the cockpit. The two pilots sat nestled within the tight, instrument-laden cabin, flicking switches and murmuring to each other in the kind of verbiage only long-haul fliers seemed to understand.

Their words trailed off, however, when something unusual caught their eye—a shadow moving across the front windshield.

There, sliding down the curved glass of the craft, was a figure.

The first pilot muttered, his eyebrows shooting up beneath his headset.

"What the…?"

The sound was almost comical—an extended, high-pitched screeEEeech—as the figure descended, inch by inch, squeaking along the smooth glass like nails on chalkboard. It was slow. Awkward. Painfully deliberate.

It was Mikey.

His palms were splayed wide, his cheek half-pressed to the surface as he slowly made his way down, trying—and failing—to appear casual about it. As he neared the base of the cockpit, he turned his head slightly and gave a sheepish little wave.

He called out, his voice muffled by the barrier between them.

"Sorry! Thanks for the lift!"

The two pilots blinked, utterly dumbfounded.

Somehow, by what could only be described as a minor miracle, Mikey reached the ground with all his bones intact. He tumbled slightly at the end, rolled once, then popped back up to his feet with a triumphant—if dusty—flourish. Brushing off his coat with exaggerated sweeps, he turned and took off in a sprint, heading for the nearest open road like a man escaping a totally illegal skydiving stunt.

Workers at the delivery center stared as he bolted past, some too stunned to ask questions, others simply exchanging baffled looks.

Eventually, Mikey reached the pulsing heart of the city's transit system: the E-Train station. The place was packed, as usual. Bodies pressed against bodies, a tide of commuters moving with silent urgency. Mikey gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, and muscled his way through the throng.

Just ahead—there it was—the open doors of the E-Train.

He lunged.

CLANG!

The doors slammed shut inches from his face.

Mikey shouted, his palm smacking uselessly against the metal.

"Dammit!"

As the train began to slide forward, he looked around, desperation flaring in his chest. Then—he saw it. A small external handle, bolted to the side of the sleek-white train, near the last car.

His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched.

This wasn't over yet. After all he has a graduation to catch, and a Father to not disappoint.

Mikey smirked.

That sly, lopsided grin of his—the kind he wore when he was two steps away from a bad idea—slid across his face like a thief in the dark.

With a quick inhale and no hesitation, he bolted forward, dirty shoes pounding against the platform. The wind off the departing train struck him, tugging at his baggy sleeves and mangled hair, but he didn't falter. He leapt—body twisting in the air—and with both hands, snatched the cold metal handle bolted to the side of the train.

His feet dangled wildly as the E-Train picked up speed, steel wheels shrieking against the tracks. He clung tight, gritting his teeth as the wind howled past him. His shoulder slammed lightly into the side of the last car, but he adjusted quickly, legs tucking inward, finding a rhythm in the chaos.

Behind him, a sharp voice cracked through the station's noise.

"Hey! HEY!"

Two transit security officers burst into view from the side corridor, their uniforms flaring behind them as they broke into a sprint.

Mikey craned his neck to look back over his shoulder. With one hand still white-knuckled around the handle, he lifted the other and gave a cheerful little wave, fingers fluttering like leaves in the breeze.

"Sorry! I'm late for something!"

 The wind swallowed his voice before it could reach them.

And just like that, the E-Train plunged into a tunnel—swallowing Mikey whole into its yawning black throat, the light from the station fading fast behind him.

He vanished into the dark with only the flicker of red brake lights and the echo of confused murmurs and shocked gasps.

The tunnel gave way to daylight in a blur of speed and screeching metal. Mikey leapt off the E-Train just as it began to slow near the outer district stop, landing in a half-run, half-stumble that somehow transitioned into a full sprint.

His bag bounced against his side. His headphones slipped askew. His graduation robe flapped under one arm like it wasn't quite sure it wanted to come along.

But Mikey didn't slow down.

He had one destination in mind—and not much time.

Meanwhile, at the graduation venue...

Everything was pristine. Polished. Perfect.

Families sat beneath a soaring glass canopy, sunlight painting soft golden stripes across the marble floor. Graduates lined the stage in crisp grey robes, each bearing the Council's silver emblem on their caps. The air buzzed with polite excitement—the kind of energy that comes from ceremony, achievement, and tightly written programs.

Standing near the front row was Desmond Grant.

He was a man who stood out in any room—not because he tried to, but because he couldn't help it. His dark skin gleamed under the natural light pouring through the dome, his bald head smooth and immaculate. A finely cut navy-blue suit hugged his tall frame, the Council emblem pinned neatly on his breast pocket. His most striking feature, however, were his teeth—perfect, bright, and almost too white, the kind that made people double-take when he smiled.

But today, he wasn't smiling.

He stood stiffly with his hands clasped in front of him, every inch the proud, controlled figure he was known to be in political circles. But beneath that polished surface, his eyes flicked constantly toward the entrance. His jaw was tight. His thumb rubbed anxiously against his index finger in a small, twitching rhythm.

Desmond Grant was many things—one of the elite Council members, The Vice Secretary of Defense, hell he was even a Council representative a couple years ago.

But today, he was one thing above all else: Mikey's father.

"Where is he?"

Desmond muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough that the woman seated beside him gave a sympathetic glance before quickly looking away.

Simultaneously, Mikey is still bolting forward.

Up the venue steps, around the corner, coat half-buttoned, tassel flapping somewhere behind him.

He slid around a pillar, narrowly avoided a startled usher, and forced his way into the side entrance, already halfway into his robe, which he was now wearing sideways.

Back on stage...

The principal approached the microphone with a practiced calm. Her tone was clear, formal, unwavering.

"And now," she announced, "our final student graduating this year. Valedictorian for the Class of 2244…"

A pause.

"Michael Grant."

Applause filled the air instantly—grandparents clapping proudly, students whistling, parents leaning forward with eager smiles.

Then it faltered.

Seconds passed. No one appeared.

Desmond didn't move. His face was unreadable, carved from patience and expectation, but the tap of his foot against the marble floor gave him away.

The principal leaned toward the mic again.

"Michael Grant… please come to the stage."

The applause had faded now, replaced by a soft, expectant hush. Heads turned. A few people shifted awkwardly in their seats. One girl, with midnight-black hair and a triangle shaped earring on her left earlobe, sat near the front row and craned her neck toward the side wings of the stage. Almost like she was looking specifically for him.

Then, from behind a curtain—

"Here!"

The voice was unmistakable—breathless but confident.

Mikey burst out onto the stage, mid-stride, one arm still threading through the robe's sleeve. His cap was still in his mouth. He spat it out, slammed it onto his head looking like a mess, but he was smiling.

Not the cocky smirk from earlier.

Something genuine.

Pure relief.

He tossed his headphones to the side, his backpack landing just offstage with a dull thump. As he straightened his robe—still crooked, but presentable enough—the crowd responded with a second wave of applause, louder this time. A few people even stood.

He met the principal at center stage, his chest still rising and falling with the sprint it had taken to get there.

She gave him a small nod.

"Cutting it close," she whispered.

He smiled sheepishly.

"Wouldn't be me otherwise."

In the audience, Desmond exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.

He didn't smile—yet—but his jaw unclenched.

And with that, Mikey Grant stood beneath the lights—messy, late, and entirely himself—ready, as much as he could be, to address his class.