The moon hung heavy over the shattered shell of Grit City High, its ghostly glow falling across cracked pavement, rusted lockers, and graffiti-tagged trophy cases. A dry wind stirred loose leaflets of forgotten detention slips. Inside, two shadows crept through the main hallway—powerful, vigilant, and pissed.
Blue Boxer adjusted the collar of his sleeveless tactical top and squinted beneath his domino mask. “Place smells like gym socks and lost dreams,” he muttered. “Can’t believe I used to go to school here.”
Beside him, Lumberjack grunted, the steel of his axe resting on one shoulder. His broad, hairy chest strained against a red flannel shirt, open at the collar, and his boots made no effort to tread lightly. “Never set foot in this place,” he said. “Dropped out to join a logging crew. Figured swinging axes beat getting bossed around by zit-faced hall monitors.”
“Speak for yourself,” Boxer smirked. “I used to rule these halls.”
Then, a sound—a crisp beep, followed by a crackle. The old intercom sputtered to life, speakers squealing before settling into a voice. Silky. Snide. Smug enough to punch through drywall. “Blue Boxer. Lumberjack. So glad you boys decided to stop by. Unfortunately… you’re late.”
The double doors to the auditorium yawned open with a groaning creak, light spilling out in a warm, golden flood. Inside stood Detention Master.
He looked like a twisted ideal of a high school dean—gray slacks with a crease sharp enough to cut glass, a navy blue blazer with brass buttons, and a school crest stitched over his heart: GCHS - Discipline Is Power. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked into a razor-straight side part, and his narrow glasses gleamed over eyes that practically twinkled with malicious order.
A polished whistle hung from a lanyard around his neck, next to a digital gradebook glowing faintly at his hip.
“Welcome to Orientation Day,” he said with a mock bow.
Blue Boxer scoffed. “Nice cosplay, Teach. Let me guess—you’re gonna write us up for running in the halls?”
Detention Master clicked his tongue. “Running, trespassing, unauthorized vigilante action… Oh, you’re both way past detention. I’m afraid it’s… re-education time.”
Lumberjack raised an eyebrow. “You got an army of janitors hiding back there?”
“Not quite. See, the real problem with you grown-up do-gooders is attitude. Arrogant. Reckless. Far too sure of yourselves.”
He tapped the glowing gradebook.
“So I decided to fix that. By returning you both to a time when you were a little more… malleable.”
A strange tone filled the air—like the warble of a vintage school bell underwater. A pressure built in the room, buzzing in their molars and bones. The ground seemed to throb.
Lumberjack’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell kind of—”
FLASH.
The pulse hit them like an emotional gut-punch. Blue Boxer staggered, clutching his head.
“Unnnhh—what the—something’s wrong.”
His breath hitched. There was a strange tingling across his skin—like soda bubbles under his flesh. His gloves slipped, suddenly loose. He looked down—
His arms were shrinking.
The thick cords of muscle that had taken decades to build shriveled rapidly into thin, gangly teenage limbs. The veiny forearms deflated like balloons. He yelped, voice cracking mid-sentence: “No—my—my hands!”
His mask slipped down his nose. The stubble on his jaw vanished with a shiver, skin softening. He clutched at his chest as his shoulders caved inward with a pop-pop-pop of joints rearranging, a tightness in his chest giving way to hollowness. “Why does my shirt feel so big!?”
Lumberjack groaned behind him—loud and low. “Nnggh! S-something’s—my beard—!”
A wriggling sensation bloomed across his face as his proud beard sucked back into his chin with a fizzing tickle. He scratched furiously at his face, now smooth and pale. His barrel chest collapsed like a punctured tire, the thick fur retracting in waves. His flannel shirt slumped, now hanging like a blanket on a stick figure.
His voice cracked in panic. “My chest is gone! My arms feel like noodles!”
They both staggered, swamped in their oversized clothes. Boxer looked at his reflection in a broken trophy case—staring back was a skinny, wide-eyed 14-year-old, his spiky blonde hair mussed, a faint sprinkle of freckles across his now-soft nose. His lip trembled. “I—I look like I did in eighth grade,” he whispered.
“Exactly,” Detention Master said smugly, adjusting his blazer. “All that manly confidence? All that self-assurance? Gone. Just two confused, emotionally unstable teenagers now.”
Lumberjack grabbed at his baggy jeans before they fell down completely. “This can’t be real, this can’t be real—” he muttered, voice rising in pitch. “I don’t—I don’t feel like me…”
Blue Boxer’s breathing quickened. “Why am I freaking out? I don’t freak out! I never freak—oh man, oh man, I think I’m gonna cry—”
Detention Master stepped off the stage, hands clasped behind his back, speaking like a smug history teacher.
“You see, maturity isn’t just physical. It’s mental. Emotional. And the human brain doesn’t fully mature until at least twenty-five. But at fourteen?” He leaned in, smiling condescendingly. “You’re insecure. Impulsive. Desperate for approval. Easy to guilt. Easy to punish.”
Two Hall Monitor Drones hovered down from the ceiling—chrome-plated bots with blinking red lights, paddle-shaped arms, and name tags that read "Tattle Unit 01" and "02".
Detention Master blew his whistle. “Gentlemen—please escort our newest students to in-school suspension.”
Blue Boxer squealed, “I’m not going to ISS!”
Lumberjack turned to him, panic clear in his face. “Ethan—we gotta go!”
Blue Boxer’s eyes were already tearing up. “I—I can’t! I don’t have a plan, I’m not smart anymore! I feel like—I feel like a stupid kid!”
“You are!” Lumberjack barked. “But so am I! And I’m not gonna let some psycho principal shove me in a locker!”
They bolted.
Their oversized boots slapped against the hallway tiles as they darted away, clothes flapping. Their voices cracked in unison as they shouted panicked pre-teen battle cries.
Behind them, Detention Master just chuckled and made a note in his gradebook. “Excellent attendance. Zero maturity. They’re perfect.”