Inspection: Little Talks (Wren)

[Inspector Samson Kramer]

There were telepaths in this building. Telepaths and empaths.

Samson could feel the headache brewing, the result of untrained and overburdened mental meta-human abilities weaving in and out of his power range.

It would be a very long inspection. They owed him hazard pay. Hazard pay and a credit towards his pension.

Sam did not look forward to having to sit in on a training class, but he would cross that bridge when he got to it. For now, he needed to inspect the facilities and speak to a few of the students, away from their adult guardians. He had pointed questions to ask, and he didn’t need prying eyes for that.

Stepping into the cafeteria was a breath of fresh air; it was mostly empty, which was a good start. More than that, no part of his body had become intangible, and he wasn’t awash with emotions and thoughts that didn’t belong to him.

Good. He would get through this inspection yet.

With his clipboard in his hand, and his tape recorder and camera in his satchel, the elderly man looked around for anyone who might be able to answer questions for him.

His eyes settled on a boy seated alone at a table, and who didn’t seem particularly occupied.

Bingo.

Stepping over to the table, Sam asked, “Excuse me, but are you free next period?”

[Wren O'Hara]

The few weeks before winter break were the best time to be a student at the Hammel Institute. Sure, Vermont was frigid in the winter, and the snow had started way back in October, and a few of the older windows were drafty, and it got dark super early, and there was a virus going around.

But it was all worth it for the seasonal cafeteria food.

This was what Wren O’Hara was thinking as he bit into the jumbo vanilla-iced gingerbread cookie that he’d added to his regular meal for $1.25. It was good. Like, so good. The rest of the food had been good too, obviously, but the cookie was, like, awesome.

Fortunately, it was an off-hour for lunch, and there were only a couple of other people in the expansive, well-lit room, none of whom could see the frosting smudged at the corners of his mouth.

Or so he had thought.

A deep, cultured voice addressed him from the side, and Wren looked up to find that it belonged to an elderly man with glasses, a lot of wrinkles, and a clipboard.

He dropped the half-eaten cookie back onto its small off-white desert plate and dabbed hastily at his face gracelessly.

“Yes sir?” he said after a moment’s pause. “I mean, yes sir, I am free next period,” he clarified, attempting to un-slouch the permanent slouch of his shoulders.

[Inspector Samson Kramer]

Oh good, this boy had been taught manners. That would make this far easier.

Given some of the horror stories that Sam had heard over the years, he had expected something far worse. Then again, it wasn’t entirely out of the question for certain schools to try to hide away the worse students while highlighting the more polite, articulate ones. To make them look better during the inspection period. It didn’t often work, but the elder could hardly fault them, at least in theory, for the impulse.

Since the boy had essentially given his consent to have a conversation (perhaps not in so many words. Perhaps not knowingly), Sam took the opportunity to settle down. He had lived eight decades, and he had earned the right to sit when conversing with another person. Anyone who argued that point was sure to hear a lecture.

The cafeteria seats left something to be desired, but that was standard for high school cafeterias. The chairs weren’t so uncomfortable as to be defective.

“I’m ‘Mister Kramer,” Sam introduced himself, offering his hand in case the boy was so inclined to shake it. “And what is your name?”

Once they got introductions out of the way, they could move on to the meat of the interview.