Chapter 7
The Fishbowl
The Viridis Survival Guide is a YA sci-fi serial about Ava, a people-pleasing 17-year-old who enters a virtual program while she sleeps to save her dying brother, only to discover she may never wake back up.
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NEW MESSAGE:
[ROSIE.AI | 09-22 10:50 PM] Rule 4: Don’t try to be the hero. Heroes get noticed. You’re a dud. Act accordingly if you want to make it to morning. xx
Instead of staying in the common room, I retreat into a tunnel alcove, chasing the quiet, chasing invisibility. I want to avoid everyone and everything at Sen Academy, but Rosie still finds me.
“Time for class, Darling Dud,” she says with a smirk.
Before I can respond, she hooks her arm around mine and snaps her manicured fingers.
We appear before the Security 101 classroom. The room itself is a glass box inside a cave. Fully transparent walls. No privacy. Stadium rows of desks line every side, with students already sitting and facing the lower middle, much like the Arena we sat in earlier.
“The Fishbowl,” Rosie states with a hand flourish.
Yep. That’s it. That’s exactly what this is.
Rosie disappears, probably back to terrorizing some other student. I enter the Fishbowl and see that Professor Bullfred is already there, seated at the lower center of the room, looking like an oversized English Mastiff that hasn’t been fed in days. Deep wrinkles, a permanent scowl, and eyes that could probably cut glass.
I pretend I don’t see her laser-focused gaze burning into me and pick a seat in the back.
As more students filter in and spot me, whispers spread like wildfire. A few boys outright point and snicker, making my cheeks burn and my gaze drop downward. My reputation is off to a stellar start. But then—I see Izzy sitting on the far side of the room. She gives me an earnest, reassuring smile, and just like that, I have an ally. Sebastian is here too, sitting in the front row. He doesn’t smile, but he gives me this strange little salute, which I decide to take as encouragement.
At the edge of the Fishbowl, a tall, angular man hovers, scribbling notes on a translucent slate. His shirt pulses faintly with a glowing white word, “Select.” He doesn’t speak, just stands there like a creepy overseer.
At exactly 11 p.m., holographic screens flicker to life on each desk. Professor Bullfred wastes no time before singling me out.
“Ms. Lumen. Stand.”
Oh. No. No, no, no.
I try to swallow the frog that’s suddenly decided to dwell in my throat and rise on shaky legs. I don’t do well with this whole “center of attention” thing, and tonight has been a lot of that.
Bullfred gives me a once-over like she’s expecting me to morph into something else right before her eyes.
“You’re behind. I’ll summarize the last three weeks of coursework for you. But you will need to collect notes from classmates.”
I nod and drop back into my seat faster than a malfunctioning elevator. Izzy catches my eye and mouths: I got you. My heart swells.
“This course,” Bullfred continues, “is Security 101: The Security of The Academy and Senium. And, arguably, the most important class you will take during your first year.”
She flicks her finger toward the ceiling, and the screens change. A video plays of a student in front of the Viridis common room door, struggling to get in. He knocks, pulls at the handle, even tries to body slam it open. The camera zooms in on his wrist. No tattoo key.
“Ms. Lumen, what are we looking at?”
Oh. So, this is how we’re playing it. Bullfred is setting her sights on the weakest, newest link.
I shift in my seat. I can feel everyone looking at me. My palms are so sweaty, it’s cringy. Bullfred knows that I don’t have the answer, but she wants to embarrass me.
I whisper, “I don’t know.”
Bullfred makes a big show of cupping her ear and says, “I can’t hear you.”
I repeat myself, louder.
A boy mocks me in a ridiculous high-pitched voice, “She said ‘I don’t know.’”
More laughter, louder this time.
Bullfred clicks her tongue. “‘I don’t know’ is not an acceptable answer in life or in Security class. We base decisions on evidence. What do you see?”
I sigh inwardly.
“A boy trying to get in, but he has no wrist key.”
“No key. Hmm. And what does that mean?”
“Something’s wrong?” I venture.
The class laughs at my ignorance and my face gets hot.
Bullfred barks, “Next” and flicks her finger in the air.
Another video plays—a student walking across the Arena, except he looks like a haunted glitch in a video game. Flickering in and out, his form distorting like he’s made of static.
“Mr. Vadra,” Bullfred calls. “What are we looking at?”
A boy in the front straightens. “Uh…someone who was hacked.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s, uh, fluttering.”
“The term is ‘vibrating.’ Next.”
Another video. This time, a girl in an amphitheater, speaking—but no sound comes out.
“Ms. Vasser?” Bullfred prompts.
A girl dramatically yelps, causing the class to collectively chuckle.
“She’s an excellent mime?”
A few students snicker. I instantly like her.
Bullfred, however, does not. “Try again, without the cheek,” she growls.
The girl, now pink-faced, mutters, “Inaudible speech is a sign of a hack.”
Bullfred doesn’t praise her correct answer or even hesitate at all before she booms out, “Next.”
Another video. On the screen is the figure of a man, a professor perhaps, who is walking down a darkened tunnel one second and gone the next, disappearing completely.
“Hypothetically,” Sebastian says, hand shooting up but not waiting to be called on, “if two hacks happen simultaneously, would the system prioritize the stronger code or fail entirely? Wouldn’t we be looking at more than one sign of a hack?”
“Mr. Thomas, I don’t believe you were called on.”
She flicks her finger again.
“And this, Ms. Lumen?”
I take a wild shot in the dark. “He disappeared. Another hack,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Bullfred.
The screens change. This time—to me.
My stomach drops. It’s me, in the Arena earlier tonight, staring up at my student score. The class erupts in whispers. My face burns hotter than the sun.
“And here, Ms. Lumen,” Bullfred says, “what has happened here?”
I wish I could shout out insults and storm out of the classroom. I wish I could tell her that this place is evil and anyone who would want to hack it is insane. But I can’t say anything. I just sit there in stunned silence.
Bullfred doesn’t wait for me to answer. “We have never seen a student enter the Academy with a score like yours. It should be a big, fat zero. It suspiciously says ‘Cleared.’ This may be the most obvious sign of a hack I’ve ever seen.”
Gasps.
“I knew she was a fraud,” the same awful boy who mocked me, says loudly to his friend.
I stare at the screen, helpless. If everyone’s so sure I hacked my way in here, why don’t they just kick me out already?
“Next.”
Bullfred moves on, but the damage is done.
The video vanishes and in its place the screen reads:
Evidence of Hacks
Vibrating image
Transparency
Inaudible speech
No wrist key
Disappearance
“Here are the five main ways to tell if someone’s implant has been compromised and their avatar is being controlled by an outside party. And while Ms. Lumen claims innocence, rest assured we will be investigating the incident involving her score.”
Bullfred and I glare at each other.
“Security at Sen Academy is of the utmost importance. Without it, our secrets of how to be Skilled would be available to anyone who enters Senium. There are many safeguards in place to protect our school from outside breaches. With that said, it can still occur,” Professor Bullfred pauses briefly.
“Over the seven years of our school’s history, people have resorted to extreme and barbaric ways of attempting to enter these virtual walls. Some have even physically removed the implants of students in the real world and re-implanted them in their own heads.”
The class collectively groans and grimaces.
“All who have tried, have failed. The implants never work as well when re-implanted.”
Sebastian raises his hand and speaks again, “What do the hackers get out of it in the real world? Can they control our minds in reality?”
Uneasy murmurs ripple through the Fishbowl.
“There’s no evidence to suggest that, Mr. Thomas.” Professor Bullfred maintains her stern expression. “If we detect a hack, our Security team steps in immediately with the Intrusion Response Protocol. The target will be protected.”
Bullfred’s gaze drifts over the class, searching for her next victim.
“Mr. Lee, what happens to a hacked individual if Security doesn’t intervene?”
“They go into a coma and become a Shell, Mrs. Bullfred, I mean, Professor Bullfred.”
A coma in reality and in Senium. A fate worse than death. I slump back into my seat, heat crawling up my neck.
“Those who have been hacked, especially for an extended period of time, risk falling into a coma. For others, they may be hacked for a short period and never know,” Bullfred says. “Security’s job is to stop these egregious attacks and find out who’s behind them.”
“West,” someone hisses.
The words spread like static.
“He doesn’t run the Academy anymore,” the boy in front whispers, eyes flicking around. “Levi threw him out. Maybe he’s hacking us to get revenge and using the Select Skilled to do his dirty work for him.”
“That was years ago,” a girl with glasses mutters back. “West’s Cloudkind now. He practically owns Senium.”
“Right, so he’s definitely not hacking his own implants,” someone snaps. “Use your brain.”
A low scoff. “Then who do you think it is? The Allskilled?”
The name hangs there—sharp enough to cut.
I know that name. Everyone who’s ever been online has heard it. They’re a cult of Senium users who think that everyone should be Skilled, not just the Sen Academy-trained leaders. They’ve been calling for Levi Sen to rollout universal C-skills to all users. There have even been rumors that some members are Academy grads and are teaching C-skills to everyday people, like granting superpowers to reckless children.
“That makes sense. Allskilled is hacking to spy on us,” the glasses girl says, a bit desperate now, “to see how we use our skills.”
The man who has been tapping on the transparent slate steps away from his corner. The silver “Select” on his chest pulses, slow and cold. He lifts a hand, and the double doors unseal with a low creak.
“Thank you, Rune,” Bullfred says.
It’s the first polite thing she’s said all night.
The words West, Select Skilled, and Allskilled still hang over the room like smoke.
Bullfred clears her throat and growls, “As soon-to-be Senium leaders, it is your duty to be vigilant spotting hacks of this nature and report them to Security as soon as possible.”
Professor Bullfred glares once more at me.
“Keep a close eye on your peers. They may be concealing more than you think.”
Class ends and I practically bolt out of the room. Rune lingers just outside the glass doors, like he’s scanning everyone who exits. His gaze tracks mine.
He mutters something like, “Skills shouldn’t be handed out to everyone,” as I pass by.
I’m so distracted by Bullfred’s assistant that I nearly crash into a Flavus girl with sharp cheekbones, sharper eyes, and a long ginger braid.
“You’re Ava Lumen?” she asks, her tone already sour. Her gaze slides over me, clearly unimpressed.
I nod, wary.
She must have been waiting for me. I look back toward the Fishbowl. When I see the swarm of students trickling out, I reluctantly turn away from them and face the hostile stranger.
She crosses her arms. “How exactly did you get picked for the Trials?”
I laugh. It’s that unintentional nervous laugh I sometimes do when in an uncomfortable situation. I cringe internally.
“It’s not a rhetorical question.” Her eyes flick down to my emerald uniform like it personally offends her. “Because students train for years to get a decent score. Students who actually belong here.”
I open my mouth, unsure what to say, but Izzy and Sebastian join us.
“Maybe you could stop being awful for, like, five seconds, Deirdre?” Izzy suggests. She sips at something green and thick bubbling up from a gilded goblet.
Deirdre sneers. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. She should forfeit her spot and give it to someone who earned it.”
“That’s not happening,” another voice cuts in—low, steady, with the kind of confidence that fills a room before he even steps into it.
We all turn.
It’s that blonde Trials contestant, the scarred Flavus—James. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, radiating that effortless kind of power, the kind that doesn’t need to posture because everyone already knows not to mess with him.
“No offense,” he adds with a charming smile, “but maybe not the best place for a public interrogation. Makes everyone look bad.”
Deirdre stiffens, but something in his tone, just respectful enough to keep from being called out, makes her pause.
“Just saying what everyone’s thinking,” she repeats.
James gives her a slow, deliberate nod that reads both calculated and dismissive. Like a lion flicking its tail at a barking dog. A flicker of something passes between them—pride, deference, or rivalry, I can’t tell— but Deirdre rolls her eyes and backs off.
“Ava Lumen,” he says, sizing me up, sharp eyes taking me in. “You’re making waves already. People are talking.”
“I promise I’m not actually that interesting,” I say. I don’t want to be talked about. I just want to find a dark corner to hide in until log out time.
He flashes a grin. “You score into the Trials after what—your first hour here? That doesn’t just happen.”
“Apparently it does,” I say, forcing a shrug.
He laughs, like we’re sharing an inside joke.
“You don’t pull that score by accident,” he says, voice low. ”That’s not luck. That’s flair.” Pause, smirk. “I like flair.”
I blink, caught off guard by the compliment. His tone is easy, warm. Flirty, even.
Behind him, Izzy sips from her goblet a little too slowly. Her gaze flicks to James, unreadable, then away again, like she’s trying not to watch too closely.
From the edge of the group, Deirdre suddenly pipes up. “You don’t actually believe she earned that score, if you can even call it that,” she says, arms crossed.
Izzy turns toward her, eyes narrowing. Sebastian steps closer too, quiet but clearly alert.
Deirdre continues, louder now, drawing stares from passersby. “Who did she bribe, or blackmail, or flirt with? Must be someone high-ranking.”
Something hot and sharp flares in my chest. I feel it rise, heat behind my eyes, in my fingers, tightening like a coil.
“Rule number seven of Gio’s Guide for Gentlemen says, ‘Maintain a composed demeanor in public settings,’” says Sebastian, the voice of reason.
Deirdre’s lip curls. “What did you just say to me?”
“Rule number—”
Izzy cuts in before Sebastian can finish. “Stop being an asshole and just leave Ava alone, okay? She obviously didn’t ask for this.”
She’s right. I never asked for this drama. I didn’t even know what I was truly signing up for. But Deirdre isn’t done.
“You’re pathetic. It’s girls like you—skipping the line, batting your lashes, getting special treatment—that ruin it for the rest of us.”
“Deirdre, stop—” James starts, but Deirdre is on a roll.
Her eyes bulge and her cheeks burn red. “Soon everyone will see what I see. You’re just a little, cheating slut. Aren’t you?”
Anger, fiery and deep, settles in my chest. But instead of burning upward like it normally does, it sharpens until I feel it hum through my fingertips, familiar, somehow, like my body has done this before.
The warmth surges. I don’t even think.
An invisible thread shoots from me, latching onto Izzy’s goblet. I expect resistance. There is none. The space between us tightens, like the world itself is leaning in, like it’s been waiting for me.
The cup shoots into the air, glowing faintly at the edges, like it recognizes my touch.
It flips.
Neon-green goo cascades over Deirdre’s perfect braid and mustard sweater, pooling at her feet in sticky rivers.
Sebastian steps back, deadpan. “Nasty.”
Deirdre stands frozen, fists clenched, mouth open in a silent scream.
James doesn’t flinch. He just watches me with unnerving interest, like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.
Izzy and I exchange a look. Then we turn and bolt for the transporter, Sebastian right behind us.
“How did you—” Sebastian starts.
“It wasn’t me,” Izzy replies.
I can feel them both looking at me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. I don’t know how I did it—only that I didn’t decide to. The moment had moved through me like muscle memory, like something my body remembered before my mind did. And beneath the confusion is something worse: a strange, aching familiarity, as if I’ve done this a thousand times before and the school itself has been waiting for me to remember.
“How do you know how to use an advanced control already?” Izzy asks me.
“What’s an…advanced control?” I manage.
Her eyes widen. “Controls are how we bend the world here—move things, change things—just by thinking it. Most are basic, like dimming a light or sliding a door shut. What you just pulled off?” She gestures at smoothie-soaked Deirdre. “That was a multi-step precision move. Lift, float, aim, dump. Not beginner stuff.”
Sebastian whistles, low and impressed.
Controls. Creations. There’s still so much I don’t understand about this place. I didn’t intend to use skills or to dump the drink over Deirdre’s head. It was a strong desire, like conjuring the rope ladder on the entrance cliff.
Izzy smiles. “You’re a badass.”
Deirdre moves her hands over her soaked clothes, air blowing from her palms in an attempt to dry herself and James is gazing straight at me with that same easy grin in place, like I’ve just confirmed something he already suspected.
The transporter zaps us outside the common room for a short break between classes. As I step toward the door, my knees wobble and the warmth in my chest that was there moments before is gone, leaving a hollow, aching cold.
The tunnel tilts slightly, enough to make my insides twist.
“Hey, are you okay?” Izzy says, clapping her hand to my shoulder to steady me.
“You look terrible,” Sebastian says.
I nod too fast. “Yeah. I’m—”
I collapse on the floor.
I’m not okay.