Then infinity exploded.

Lights flashed through the room, brilliant and blinding. Stars burst in the eyes’ retina. The screams of the dead filled the space. The room’s walls amplified the sharp crackle of gunfire, the screams of the dying, the hiss of grenades before they blew apart, sending shards of shrapnel in every direction.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, in the centre of the room, there was a huge explosion, filling the air with millions of glittering afterlights.

The afterlights of the explosion faded and infinity was silent again.

“Wow! That was so . . . so . . . so cool!” a voice cried from outside the room and infinity was filled with artificial light as a door was pushed open and a handful of young boys crowded inside.

“I’ve never seen anyone play like that in my life!”

“Did you see the score he got?”

“It was so cool!”

“Oh, do shut up and stop using that idiotic slang, Robsepierre.”

“Aye, please do shut up, would you?” the original occupant of the room asked, removing a helmet with a transparent red visor from his head, tossing it to Robsepierre. “No one’s impressed by such insipid drivel of language here, isn’t that right, lads?”

“Quite right! Robsepierre, take lessons from this one!”

Robsepierre glared indignantly as he fumbled with the helmet. “He’s a junior! He’s not even from a family of breeding! He hasn’t even told us his name!”

“Which is why you should be taking notes, Robsepierre. It isn’t vocabulary or family that matters to those who can see. It’s all in attitude.” The first boy smirked softly, running his fingers through short, sweaty platinum blond hair.

Robsepierre scowled, grey eyes narrowing. “I don’t care how awed you fellows are. A few games don’t count for a thing. He presents . . . entirely the wrong image. He’s not even from one of our sorts dorms. He’s in the protected area. As he should be, I fancy. Just look at him!”

Eyebrows raised faintly, the other boys regarded the game’s victor, who grinned cockily up at them. He was an undeniably unassuming figure, standing slightly below five feet in height, with his pale hair, creamy golden skin, and wide, soft, sky blue eyes. He quickly grew bored with the larger boy’s scrutiny and began peeling off the touch sensitive, finely wired gloves and the shoulder holster containing the twin light laser guns. Smirking, he bundled the gloves inside the heavy holster and tossed everything to Robsepierre, who nearly fell over himself to keep the toys from crashing to the glossy black floor. “Are you quite done admiring me in all my perfection, chaps?” White teeth flashed as he grinned and wandered past them, unhooking a finely tailored black jacket from the wall and shrugging it on over a rumpled, sweat-stained white silk shirt. Obviously revelling in the attention, he began to retie the tie that hung limply around his neck, adjusting it carefully with long golden fingers. He smoothed his pale hair back with one palm and brushed invisible specks of dust from the perfect black pants with the other, before leaning back against the wall, blinking lazily at the much larger boys, smothering an over-dramatic yawn. “Well?”

“Everyone out,” the largest boy ordered with a snarl. “You too, Robsepierre.”

Sighing, the four identically dressed boys slid out of the door with soft growls and grumbles of disappointment.

“Well, Wolfwood?” the blond yawned.

Wolfwood frowned down at the small boy from a height of nearly seven feet. “I need your name, first.”

“How tedious,” the blond yawned and stretched, pushing away from the wall. “Serial number too?”

Wolfwood rolled his eyes. “You aren’t doing yourself any favours, you know.”

“Goleudydd,” the blond tossed off with a careless roll of his tongue.

“Ghulloodid?”

“Goleudydd. Finley Keely Goleudydd.”

“What bloody kind of name is that?”

Goleudydd sniffed, running his fingers through his hair, sending it into disarray again. “Perfflllynian.”

“Oh God,” Wolfwood wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Discrimination against a cultural minority, Wolfwood?”

“Of course not! We’re just a very . . . elite organization at Stonebridge Academy. And as Robsepierre pointed out, you aren’t of high breeding . . .”

“Right,” Goleudydd sneered softly.

“It’s not just that. It’s . . .” Wolfwood looked embarrassed, eyes flicking to the white pin shaped like a bird with its wings spread, ready for flight.

“It’s a racial thing. Of course. Although I expected better from you fellows. The Greystones have such a high reputation amongst schools all over Eanin.”

“And Perfflllyn.”

“Aye and Perfflllyn,” Goleudydd rolled sky blue eyes in irritation. “So, despite my showing on the game, which was, I do believe, a record high . . .”

“Yes,” Wolfwood snarled.

“Despite that, you are denying me membership because I happen to be from a less inbred family than dear old Robsepierre, which happens to be from Perfflllyn, which happens to be . . .”

“A spot of terrorist rebellion,” Wolfwood snapped.

Goleudydd’s eyes flickered before he shrugged languidly. “Whatever. And you are also denying me membership because of my race . . .”

“Look, it’s nothing personal . . . lad.” Wolfwood clapped a huge hand on Goleudydd’s shoulder, nearly knocking the slight boy over. “The Greystones just aren’t for your sort. We’re all for innovation and change, but you got to admit, you chaps are much better suited to . . . to . . . poetry and music and art and literature and all that stuff. The Greystones are for Stonebridge students who crave blood and excitement and adventure.”

“Aye . . . .”

“It’s good to see juniors trying out for things. Just . . . maybe stick with your own kind, what?”

“Shall I take up embroidery, oh big strong Master Wolfwood?” Goleudydd simpered.

“No need to go overboard, lad. While your kind’s certainly more suited to that sort of thing, you don’t want to attract the Whites attention with those sorts of comments, what?”

“What,” Goleudydd echoed with a scowl on his small face.

“Besides,” Wolfwood gave him a condescending smile of sympathy as he opened the door to leave, “You look a bit too much like a lass to hold up our reputation properly, what?”

“I think Gryflych is having a negative effect on you, Finley.”

“All schools have a negative effect on people, Dad. That’s their sole purpose in life.”

“Finley . . .”

“What?”

“I’m going to be sending you to a boarding school in Eanin, Finley.”

“Eanin?!”

“Don’t worry, it’s a very good school. It has an exquisite reputation.”

“Oh, that was so high on my list of worries, Dad.”

“Finley, I can’t have people accusing my son of being involved in terrorist movements.”

Goleudydd sighed and slumped against the outside of the games building, staring at the silver sliver of moon in the sky wistfully. A cloud drifted lazily across the slice of the moon, wispy and black, and the thin, shimmery light it produced vanished, leaving the expanse of school ground lighted by clouded star shine and a few paltry electric lamps.

Lightly, he pushed himself off the wall and hoped Wolfwood and his Greystone friends would be too embarrassed at having had to test a Perfflllynian for entrance to talk about the evening very much. He didn’t want rumours circulating that he was trying to become a key figure in the academy’s hierarchy.

“We do have a few Perfflllynian students here at Stonebridge, Ghoo . . .”

“Goleudydd.”

“But your father would be more familiar with our nobility here than the families those boys come from, I suppose.”

“Aye.”

“Perhaps, you’ll make the acquaintance of the son of someone your father knows, eh?”

“I can hardly wait, sir.”

“Good lad, good lad, it’s good to see some enthusiasm from boys your age.”

“Oh, aye.”

“Of course, I’m sure your father made you aware of our policies concerning the extracurricular mingling of races . . .”

“Aye?”

“We believe it’s for best safety and well-being of our students if they mingle with their own kind while outside of teacher supervision . . .”

Goleudydd slouched along an empty path through the campus, sighing in quiet relief as the near-invisible moon came out from behind the clouds at last, casting a strong silvery sheen over the already platinum-pale hair. He ran his fingers absently along a tree trunk as he wandered by, wondering why everyone fussed so over the curfew. Even the Greystones, who were supposed to be the best of the best, the strongest of the strong, the bravest of the brave, and a handful of other predatory testosterone egotistical adjectives. He smirked, face hidden in the moonlight, and slid a case out of his ample coat pocket, opening it carefully.

The silver of the metal caught the glimmer of moonlight, reflecting it perfectly, and Goleudydd put the flute to his lips as he walked, playing a few whisper soft notes as he walked through the night, heading back to his dorm. As he climbed the slight hill to the layer of buildings, the notes rose with his feet, filling the air.

He paused by the doors to the dormitory. No furious teachers or students came to drag him off to any unspeakable punishment for daring to be out walking at night and playing music at the same time. He shook his head in bemusement and wandered around to the other side of the building, casually stopping in front of a window and jamming his flute case under the window sill, using it as a lever. It lifted, a crack, and he got his fingers beneath it, hauling it up with a soft squeak of wood. Smirking proudly, he pulled himself up and into the room, falling onto his bed softly. The springs squeaked loudly but the only sign that he had been heard was the slight shifting of an assortment of white, blond, grey, and black heads on soft, flat pillows.

“Idiots,” he whispered into the still room, stripping out of his uniform and tugging on his nightshirt, replacing his flute in its case and sliding it beneath his mattress before lying back, tugging the blankets up to his chin and staring out the window, watching the clouds drift along and past the moon, unsleeping.