say you'll be my nightingale [open to prefects]

[Meredith]

Meredith stood in the center of the training room, one eye on the prefect she was training and the other on the cup of tea in her hand as she stirred it. She sighed and shook her head. So many students were in line for the open alpha and beta prefect positions, and she knew she needed to fill her team, but no one seemed to be even a little bit qualified. Most of the applicants were deluded about their own strength.

You're just being picky, Meredith told herself. But she had reason to be picky. She was hand-picking the individuals whom she was expected to trust with her life as they fought side-by-side. She was looking for her ride-or-die's. The people who would be next to her when she was inevitably cut down in battle someday. Nobody seemed good enough. I had my team, the prefect leader thought. She remembered the glory days of Seth Rosa, Christopher Deseley, Claw Algea, and herself as the Alpha Team. The team had already found its dynamics, strengths, weaknesses, and strategies, and they dominated in battle. Those who were not willing to abide by the school rules out of respect for Seth and Meredith were mostly willing to do so out of sheer fear of the Alpha Team's wrath. Of course, it didn't hurt that the prefect leader was her boyfriend. The level of love and trust between them set a tone for the team. It was special, and it was probably something the team would never have again. She wasn't planning on sleeping with any of her new recruits.

The prefect finished demonstrating his "sword mastery" for her and, at the end of his routine, accidentally dropped the sword. Meredith smiled and repressed a chuckle, resting two fingertips on her lips and tilting her head forward to hide the mix of endearment and amusement that was in her eyes.

"That was, um, very good," she said finally, once she was sure the laughter was sufficiently stuffed down her throat and back into her chest. "Thank you very much. I'll let you know, sweetie." It wasn't the kid's fault. He was only a seventh grader with some big ambitions, after all. She really should have been blaming the prefect in charge of screening the applicants for her for letting the kid's file slip into the maybes. Aside from the kid's age, sword mastery just wasn't a very ideal power for an alpha prefect. The elite squad was expected to be prepared to dash into combat at any moment, at all times. It wouldn't be feasible to expect the kid to have a sword that probably weighed as much as him on his body at all times, and it wouldn't be reasonable to let him run across campus to fetch his weapon and back if a fight broke out by the beach during rounds. 

The boy sauntered out of the training room, and Meredith gestured for the prefect on her service, who promptly approached her and handed her the file of the next prefect who had an appointment for an interview and audition.

"Bring the next one in," she said with a nod, reading over the file as she waited.

"Hi, I'm Meredith," she introduced with a smile once the next applicant was standing in position in front of her. "Please state your name, abilities, and number of years you've been with the prefects for me, and we'll begin."

[Arthur Bishop]

Arthur stood outside the gym, arms crossed loose against his chest. He watched with passive disinterest as the occasional student slipped down the corridor, going about their daily business. The subtle tension in the prefect’s shoulders was easy to miss against the stubborn emptiness of his expression. Over the past few hours he had hardly moved a muscle as the crowd around him made their way one-by-one into the gym, only to leave a few minutes later with varying expressions of anger, disappointment, and relentless optimism. But now he stood alone as a lanky boy carrying a sword was beckoned into the training room. Arthur’s mask cracked for a split-second. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a brief almost-smile as he watched the obnoxious boy puff out his chest and swagger through the gymnasium doors. Five minutes later, the boy strolled back out looking as confident as ever.

Shaking his head, Arthur drew a sobering breath and ran a hand through his silver hair. With the sword-master’s dismissal, Arthur was the last one standing. The prefect assisting Miss Monroe poked her head out into the hall and Arthur made his way forward without needing to be called. He paused once outside the gym and straightened his tie before stepping through the heavy doors and into the room.

The gym was a large, open space occupied by all sorts of hulking equipment. On a typical day it was crowded with students working to perfect their powers, but today it stood empty with the exception of three people: himself, the assistant, and Miss Monroe. He offered the girl a polite smile as he followed the assistant to the centre of the room. Coming to a stop at a comfortable distance from the prefect leader, Arthur took a moment to assess her. She was taller than he’d expected, standing just a few inches shorter than himself. Her soft hair fell past her shoulders and she was just a bit too top heavy to be perfectly proportioned. But what really captured Arthur’s attention was not her figure but her eyes. They were an expressive shade of violet; captivating in a way that he couldn’t seem to describe. There was a superficial humour to them, but they darkened at the centre. Arthur felt his own gaze flicker away. Those eyes betrayed a lingering sense of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. They left him feeling embarrassed, as if he had witnessed something deeply private that he was not yet welcomed to.

“Arthur Bishop. Reactive power replication and rapid healing. Almost six months,” he rattled off the list without looking at her. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Monroe.” Arthur extended a hand to her, his eyes settling on a spot between her eyebrows. The corners of his mouth arranged themselves into a well-rehearsed, politician’s smile that seemed just a little too perfect to be genuine. His voice drawled in the nasally monotone of someone suffering from a perpetual cold, but he did his best to maintain an air of quiet professionalism. Polite, conservative, reserved, he presented himself to the girl and anticipated her judgement with humble respect. He was not the sort to make great boasts about his own power, nor did he see it as his place to assert his authority in every situation. Arthur Bishop was the sort of prefect who bore his status like a cross.