Warfare Augmented Intelligent Frame Unit

Chapter 2 – High School Days and Delinquents

My loathing for Myrrh Alicent runs deep, stretching back to our high school days on Earth. Back then, whispers of Myrrh's name echoed through the campus corridors, not because of anything she did, but because of her mother, Mirana Alicent—the most renowned WAIFU for nearly a decade. That fame carried Myrrh to victory in the student council election, crowning her as the year-level governor.

Meanwhile, I was in the special curriculum class, the elite S rank—beyond the power scaling of the regular students. My classmates and I carried ourselves with an air of superiority, often ignoring the school's rules, believing that we were untouchable. Myrrh's victory over our class representative in the governor elections only deepened our disdain. Her authority meant nothing to us; she was a figurehead we never intended to recognize.

There were three moments—sharp, unforgettable—that turned my mere disdain into a festering hatred for Myrrh Alicent, a hatred that still burns within me today.

<><><>

I remember the first time I actually crossed paths with Myrrh Alicent during our first year.

Confident in our grades and certain we could ace any exam, the boys and I often skipped classes in favor of more exciting pursuits. The city proper became our playground, with the arcade as our regular haunt. We even ventured into the adult section—the casino. It was there that I found myself challenging aristocrats to a Game of the Generals.

One afternoon, I found myself across the table from a middle-aged man with a suave mustache, his tailored suit practically oozing wealth. He eyed me with a smirk as I took my seat.

"Heh. A student," he scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "I envy the young and their free time. Too much time to fool around. Too much time for regrets."

I met his gaze, unfazed. "An aristocrat," I replied, matching his smirk. "At least I know you can pay up in cash once this game is over."

He chuckled darkly, motioning to the board. "Sit down, boy. I'll show you how to take a beating."

We began. The Game of the Generals is like chess, but with a twist—each piece represents a military rank, and their identities remain hidden from the opponent. Deception is key, and my poker face was flawless. As the minutes ticked by, I watched his confidence waver. When I finally made my final move, his expression froze in disbelief.

"Whoa, Zaft! Seven minutes and eleven seconds! A new record!" Jorgie, my partner-in-crime, exclaimed, eyes wide with astonishment.

"Aristocrats make tepid opponents," Jeffrey, our backup, snickered. "They always underestimate the guy right in front of them."

I crossed my arms, glaring at the defeated man. "Now pay up."

"Hnnngh!" The aristocrat's face flushed with anger as he furiously rubbed his suave mustache. "I won't accept this! You kids are from the city high, aren't you? I'm calling your school for skipping classes!" His hand darted toward his phone.

"Oh, shit!" My heart raced as I shot up from my seat.

In a flash, the boys and I bolted for the casino exit. But just as we reached the door, the elevator chimed open. Stepping out were the student council president, vice president, and year-level governors, their faces stern and unforgiving. Leading the group of peace officers was none other than Myrrh Alicent.

Before I could react, she moved with lightning speed, her hands a blur as she expertly pinned me down. Her grip was firm, and I could feel the power of her karate or kung fu training. There was no escape.

Soon after, I found myself standing before the student council, with Myrrh watching intently as the president passed judgment. The trip to the principal's office was inevitable, and the verdict was swift.

Two weeks of suspension—for me and the boys.

<><><>

By the time we hit our second year in high school, the boys and I had wised up. Our scandal from the previous year had blown up, and the school had tightened security to the point where sneaking out was impossible. So, we stayed put and found new ways to keep ourselves entertained.

Trading card games became our go-to during breaks. We'd stake out an empty classroom, turning it into our own little arena for tournaments. The stakes varied—sometimes it was just lunch money or a boxed meal, but occasionally, the bets got wild. Losers might have to confess to their crush on the basketball court wearing nothing but their undergarments.

One afternoon, I found myself in a heated match against Joshua, a guy from another class. He was cocky, grinning as he laid down his trump card.

"Haha! You're toast now, Zaft!" Joshua declared, slapping the card on the table. "This is my ultimate card—the White Dragon with Blue Eyes! White Lightning Burst!"

The onlookers gasped, but I didn't flinch. With a smirk, I revealed my own trump card. "Not so fast! I play Megantamax Charizard EX! NMAX Wildfire!"

Joshua's eyes widened in disbelief. "Na-Naniii!" he stammered, as the room erupted in cheers.

I might not remember the exact cards we played—it's been years—but I do remember the moment. The classroom buzzed with excitement, and the nerds from other classes crowded around, chanting my name. That day, they dubbed me the Master Beater.

As Joshua knelt before me, he extended a flash drive like a sacred relic, his expression one of utter defeat. "Here you go, oh Master Beater," he said, his voice dripping with reluctant reverence. "The promised compilation of big booty Puerto Rican goddess clips—ten terabytes, all yours."

I couldn't help but smirk. "I accept your offering, oh loyal subject," I replied, reaching out to claim my prize.

But just as my fingers grazed the flash drive, a hand clamped down on my wrist, stopping me cold. My heart skipped a beat as I looked up, my blood running cold. Standing before me, her grip firm and unyielding, was Myrrh Alicent—the peace officer of the student council.

"I received reports of gambling in one of the vacant rooms on the eighth floor," Myrrh said, her voice calm but laced with underlying fury. Her eyes bore into mine. "I should have known it was you, Mister Zaft Callahan."

Her smile was thin, forced—betrayed by the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"Crap! It's the student council! Ruuun!" someone yelled, and within seconds, the room exploded into chaos. Students scattered like startled rats, diving for the nearest exit.

In the end, there was no escaping her grasp. I was caught, along with a few of my friends and even some unlucky students from another class. The punishment was swift—a one-week suspension, courtesy of that relentless Myrrh Alicent.

<><><>

This was one year ago, during our final year in high school.

Boredom had become a constant companion for me and the boys. The days of sneaking out to play arcade games or gamble at the casino were long gone, and even our trading card tournaments had been snuffed out by the ever-watchful student council. Their grip tightened with each passing day, patrolling not just the school, but the city itself, hunting down any students who might tarnish our high school's reputation.

With nowhere else to go, we found ourselves gathering in the amphitheater after classes, swapping stories about the latest animes and movies we'd watched the night before. Phones were banned unless for emergencies, leaving us with nothing but our voices and imaginations to keep us entertained. It wasn't much, but it was all we had.

The amphitheater, nestled at the edge of the campus, was a quiet place, often serving as a thoroughfare for first and second years heading home. We'd watch them file out, their chatter and laughter filling the air, while we stayed behind, trapped in the routine of storytelling and the monotony of our final year.

To break the monotony, the boys and I invented a new pastime—we called it "schoolgirl ratings." Every afternoon, as female students passed by the amphitheater, we'd quietly rate them on a scale of one to ten based on their looks, making sure to keep our voices low enough to avoid the watchful eyes of the student council.

We'd sit there, eyes trained on the steady stream of girls making their way home, casually throwing out numbers. One afternoon, a girl with a bob cut, short stature, and the telltale uniform of the cheerleading club caught our attention.

"Seven," Jordan muttered, leaning back with a satisfied nod.

"Eight," Jefferson added, his tone a bit more enthusiastic.

"Five," I said, almost dismissively.

Jordan shot me a sideways glance. "Man, your standards are so high, Zaft. No wonder you've never had a girlfriend."

I flashed a grin, running a hand through my crimson hair, sending a few stray dandruff flakes shimmering in the sunlight. "Hah! I’ll only settle for the best."

Suddenly, Jefferson's hand shot out, tapping both Jordan and me. "Oh, oh. Here’s a good one. I rate her a perfect ten!"

"Woah, that's right! She’s a perfect ten!" Jordan echoed, his eyes wide.

Following their gaze, I saw her—a vision of beauty that instantly commanded attention. Tall and graceful, she moved with a sultry confidence that made it impossible to look away. Her long, greenish-blonde hair cascaded down her back, swaying gently with each step. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars, and her skin was a flawless porcelain. Everything about her screamed perfection, like she was plucked straight from a magazine cover.

"Fine, this one wins. Ten out of ten," I conceded, nodding as I watched the girl disappear down the path.

Jordan's eyes widened in disbelief. "Whoa! I can't believe it! You actually rated someone ten out of ten!" He grabbed my shoulders, shaking me like a bag of flavored fries.

I grinned, shrugging. "Well, she’s got the whole bakery, bro. She’s a beaut. So, ten out of ten."

Before I could bask in my rare moment of agreement, a voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "Who’s ten out of ten?"

We all froze. The girl had turned to us, her smile as dazzling as it was dangerous. "Are you guys rating female students who pass through here? That’s clear sexual harassment, you know!"

"Crap! It’s the absolute justice governor, Miss Myrrh Alicent!" my friends yelped, scattering in every direction like panicked chickens.

But I wasn’t so lucky. Just as I tried to bolt, Myrrh’s hand clamped down on my arm, anchoring me in place.

This time, there was no escape. Myrrh Alicent, the enforcer of absolute justice, hauled me aside for a special sermon—a two-hour-long lecture that felt like an eternity. Her words were relentless, cutting through any excuse I could muster. But despite her anger, she stopped short of filing a complaint with the student council, sparing my graduation from the edge of a knife. Even in her fury, it seemed she still had a shred of compassion.

<><><>

And that’s how most of my encounters with Myrrh Alicent unfolded during our high school years on Earth. The pattern was all too familiar: I’d push the limits, and she’d swoop in with her unyielding sense of justice, putting me in my place.

Even though I knew I was usually at fault, and her mother’s heroism was the reason I’m still standing today, I couldn't shake the feeling that Myrrh was my personal tormentor. Despite the gratitude I owed her family, my resentment towards Myrrh lingered. She became a symbol of everything I resented, a constant reminder of the boundaries I could never quite cross without facing her stern intervention.