welcome
Welcome delinquents to PHS #552. A few reminders, no rough housing, no running in the hallways, no cheating, and no talking back to your teachers. Beyond that, enjoy yourselves. After all these are the years you’ll look back on, and remember, you mother fuckers peaked too early.
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credits
Public Highschool #552 was rebooted by Xereon and Aether. Content is copyrighted to PHS #552 unless otherwise stated. The skin is created by Wolf of Gangnam Style. The board and thread remodel is by Kagney and has been heavily edited. Banner Image Credit. Chatbox Credit
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NEW RP DISCORD SERVER. CONTACT "Shugo Yuy#5730" ON DISCORD FOR INFO.
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COME IN COME ALL AND WATCH THE SPECTACULAR STUDENTS FROM PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL 552 AS THEY PIT AGAINST EACH OTHER IN BAREKNUCKLE BEATDOWN! Watch as students go toe to toe on this little tournament with an unbelievable budget allocation! See them bite each other in arena made of LEGOS! Make each other bleed in an artificial JUNGLE!, even go as far as making them break bones under an artificial STORM! Really, HOW BIG IS THE BUDGET ON THIS SHIT! SO PLACE OUR BETS AND GO WATCH BAREKNUCKLE BEATDOWN NOW!
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A brand new group is on the making, The Apostles, a Pillar-like group led by none other than our brand new headmaster, Gregoire Girard. A student body that would lead students and enforce the law on this little school of ours. Little is still known about this student body, but who knows? It might just be what the school needs.
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A lunch box is seen last Friday, around 12:37:08pm with an encouraging note packed inside. This appalling display that utterly lacked manliness has left many students stunned and outrage, as some decided, after a long while, to speak out against it.
Full Story Here.
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All I need to know [ After hours / Gino ]
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user is offline ●
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Let's sleep through the end of this world.
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❝ Iconoclast ❞
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Lightning Gang
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Post by Ira Defaire on May 7, 2016 12:21:41 GMT -5
She knew that this place was dangerous. Long ago, it has been thoroughly soiled by Taint, and while Alexei reassured her otherwise, Ira wasn't convinced. It was just too good to be true; that a place overrun by barbarians could be converted into a fairly clean sanctuary that she could utilize as a hideout from her parents. Ira wasn't planning to actually leave, as per se, more so than to give them a nasty enough shock so that no one would be hasty enough to re-enact drama once more in the family. Ira never did have any special fondness for her family. They fed her, clothed her, and gave her enough money to survive, but there was no ounce of love in her. It wasn't that she was incapable of love, on the contrary, she loved deeply, until she found out that there was no love embedded in nights of clawing, beating, bruises, and bloody wounds. There was no love within cutting words, screams, and constant comments that their lives would be significantly better if she was dead. She never did summon the courage to actually die, her fear of the unknown was big enough to keep her healthy and well; at least enough to run away if her parents were temporarily possessed by a bout of demonic anger.She stepped into the musty, decrepit house once more, with a frown on her face. It was neglected, something that vaguely surprised her, but what genuinely shocked her was the fact that she was graciously allowed back into China, after the...fiasco. A perhaps, mildly fatal error she'd committed during her trip to the Americas. Americas are odd, she told her people back in China. They are so very odd, so very loud, and she didn't understand the point of saying "bless you" after someone sneezed. After all, they were evidently not blessed if they sneezed, and if she couldn't bestow blessings, was there any point of saying 'bless you'? But no matter, she would continue on her journey.It was a while after the District. Ira needed some time to take a retrospective view on if she actually wanted to stay in America. That swiftly became a dilemma, when she realized that she wasn't sure what was worst--the intense feelings infused with wild fireworks and anger, or the utter lack of one, with nothing left but the void. The whole point of making a decision was choosing the better one, even if neither was particularly appealing. Chewing on her lips, she searched around the house, a dreaded feeling setting upon her as she did. She kicked the chairs, pushed the tables harshly to the side, looked under the beds with a small pool of panic spanning into a larger whirlpool that kicked her emotions into a turmoil. She couldn't find everyone--where was everyone? The house didn't look lived in, and even if she left, it wasn't for that long. At the very least, not as long-"Mother?" Ira asked tersely, knowing full well that she risked getting her ass kicked if they knew she was back.Ira wondered if they knew. She wondered if they cared that one of their child--the most disloyal one at that, had returned to see them. She didn't know that time could fly that swiftly; it has been two years and more, ever since she shouted at her family and ran out of the door with unsightly tears dripping down her face. It was a stupid argument, but then again, every argument that Ira was in was colossally stupid in their own way. Yanking open the closets without much hope, she spun around and was about to run down the stairs when a notebook, covered in an inch of dust caught her eye. Reaching out for it, she coughed the dust away and slowly flipped through the pages, the sense of dread bigger than ever. Her lips would become bloody at this rate, but her attention was fully captured now.
"KNOCK KNOCK"
Pulling her phone, she numbly dialed a number of anyone from 552, without understanding the full meaning of what she was reading. That was enough for her to recognize something; she ratted, and if they weren't dead, they might as well be. She called him, despite the fact that she was still livid at him, because he might understand. Right now, she needed someone to understand her position more than anything else, and that equated to her needing to go home, if home still existed for her.
A few familiar faces flashed into her memory, while she winced and put her head in her hands, before collapsing onto the floor. Curled up on the icy floor, and enduring the agonizing pain that it would bring her, Ira bit down on her lips, while the only thing in her vision was the book as it slowly clattered onto the mauve floor; clean after all these years. Fine dust mites fell onto her skin, and the next thing that fell after her book was her phone, still opened with the few number she managed to get in.
"Knock knock." She muttered to herself, like her own personal mantra over and over again, until she managed to understand the context of the situation. She wasn't sure how to comprehend what was written--it simply didn't make any sense, and she was supposed to be intelligent. There was only one other demon she could recall; with his angry scowl, ivory hair, and reddened eyes, and it was a face that Ira wanted to smite and cry over until her breathing became ragged.
It burns.
Everything was burning before her eyes-- the ceiling was engulfed in flames, along with the wooden beds, the closets, and Ira could only stay in the exact same position she was in. She'd like to think that she knew naught of anything about this world, but there was one, and only one thing clear to her. Ira didn't want to die.
Pale flesh was broken, with minuscule red sparks of lightning darted across flesh as Ira winced in pain. Her so-called pristine, sheltered illusion of a life was destroyed by the literal inferno before her, as the situation remained incoherent to her. Worse than the burns and the pain was something that caught her eye, a shadow cast from the door of the room. The shadow was familiar, but something warned her to never look up, for that action would be regretted. Ira did the wisest thing she could do at that moment--she looked up.
Thus came the soft beep of the annoying, annoying alarm clock as she sprung out of her bed in the pillar office, drenched with cold sweat. The sun streamed through her window in an irritating manner, and everything seemed indubitably infuriating to Ira. She rarely had dreams, and nightmares were even more rare. That wasn't to say that she had perfect dreams when she did have dreams; most of her dreams were more inquisitive than anything.
Her face darkened even further when she stared down moodily at her phone, irritable that she had people that declared themselves as her friends, and latched onto her like leeches, determined to declare themselves similar to her. She wasn't thrilled that she was similar to any one of them; on the contrary, it made her dismayed that she shared any interests with those parasites, considering the fact that she found being in the same cater gory as them absolutely despicable.
They made her thoroughly repulsed, but she was obligated to nod and smile once more, as they rambled on about how very similar they were to her; and how she clearly knew and relate to their stupid, stupid depression, anxiety, worries, worldviews, and how they obviously wanted the same things as her. Shut the fuck up, she wanted to snap, you annoy me, you repulse me, and I'm nothing like you as an inferior being that fell for those emotions, oh, those sickening emotions that bewitch you to the point where you would insist infatuation upon a span of few weeks!
She digress.
Holding the phone tightly in her hands, she found her eyes narrowed in a kind of odd, self-condemning fury while she seethed with rage that someone could be so moronic, so naive, that emotions were like the second nature to them. No one was completely cynical on this earth, but those self-proclaimed cynical beings were merely idealists, shouting and shouting to the world about how they are oh so cold, and oh so rational in nature, due to the very fact that they idiotically romanticized skepticism. Place it on the pedestal and worship it, idiots! Worship it, and weep for it, as I weep for the loss of your brain cells!
She didn't like pessimism, not a bit. Ira enjoyed jokes, and as far as she was concerned, life should be enjoyed to its full potential. Here's the very deal; Ira disliked downers, depression, and the whole fucking bout of anxiety that people claimed to weigh them down from enjoying life. Now, she's being a mild hypocrite at this point in time--she was fairly anxious and rather annoyed with life, but she was never melancholic or depress, as per say, and she never got the depressed quotes that idealists often found the need to post excessively about on social media.
And that was how she destroyed her first phone.
She digress once more.
Either way, her position was clear--it was time to enjoy life, and nothing spoke of enjoyment more than her laying about blithely on the rooftop, staring down at the school fields like a creep guardian angel of the student body. Springing up from her bed, Ira's features began to soften slightly. She was enjoying her day rather well, aside from the minor blip of a dream previously, and the side effect of shrieking up a ruckus and swearing like a sailor. Rubbing her hands together in anticipation of stalking observing the student body in action, Ira pushed her covers off, and stood up, unaware of the nausea that seized her the moment she placed weight on her legs. In her moment of hastiness, she failed to notice a person standing at the open door of her pillar office, with a very, very nasty look in his eyes.
"Knock knock." Ira's Defaire's father hissed, a ghost of a smile on his face.
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user is offline ●
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Never say anything that doesn't improve on silence.
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No Group
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Post by Gino Reisi on May 11, 2016 1:12:48 GMT -5
『 Knock Knock. 』
Gino is not fond of those words. He has always been one partial to jokes, the corners of his lips curving up into an imperceptible smile when someone made a pun or dropped a pick up line, years from an uncle with a love for flirting and an aunt with a love for puns impressing on him. Yet knock knock jokes could never light up his eyes with amusement no matter how clever, and that’s something that leaves a bitter taste in Gino’s mouth. When he hears the words “knock knock”, he hears it in a voice that differs from the actual speaker, in a smooth but mocking baritone that pops into his dreams to turn them into nightmares.
* * *
“Knock knock, little Reisi. I’m coming in.” His head snaps up, and something close to fear shines in brown eyes as he snaps his mouth shut so hard it stings. Gino is fourteen years old and on the verge of breaking, and he’s grown to hate that sentence more than he hates anything else. He’s grown to hate it with a tenacity he didn’t know he was capable of feeling, to the point where bile claws to escape his throat as a promise of murder flashes in his eyes, as distaste overpowers him like a wave he has no hope of fighting, dragging him down to depths of despair and bitterness without so much as a hand to pull him away. Two sentences; yet they make him want to vomit, because those words are the start to a downhill spiral into insanity caused by a need to survive, half-hearted delusions appearing as an attempt to stave off the feeling of his bones cracking and hunger panging. They are the start of a session of sharing secrets, except Gino has no wish to let anything but insults and sarcasm to leave his mouth, much less sensitive information. Those words are a beginning, and it is one Gino finds no wonder in.
He watches as the man takes careful and calculated steps towards him, the heels of his shoes clacking against the graphite floor as the man ensures his steps are measured and nowhere nearing eager. Gino meets his eyes to find a sadistic glee though, and he counteracts it with a glare he hopes is biting and promising a difficult death.
Gino hears a laugh, slow and mocking as the man kneels down to meet Gino’s gaze head on.
“What, I was polite like you told me to and knocked before coming in, didn’t I?”
Gino spits on him.
And he takes the hit that rocks his head back, makes the chains constricting his hands together clatter and clang against itself.
“Just you wait little Reisi, I’ll break you yet.”
* * * He closes his eyes, as if to will away the memories that came without prompting. Instead, the male focuses on the speaker who belongs in this time, this present, right here right now and real and solid in a world where Gino can shoot away all those that irk him. In the back of his head, he thinks that the voice sounded familiar, and there’s a fleeting memory just as his grasp of whom it might be before it escapes due to the migraine-inducing memory of that time.
So Gino turns the corner, crossing the threshold he had suddenly froze at the moment he heard those words to see Ira Defaire’s father. He’s sporting a wicked gleam in his eye reminiscent of cruel words and crueler actions, a promise of something Gino doesn’t want to see the aftermath of and a smile that’s anything but kind. Dark but musing words whisper in his mind as he gazes at the man, listens to those words idly wonder if Ira would be angry if Gino took out his gun and shot the man in the head or not right this moment.
He’s always been wary of the man and his wife, after all, his mother warned him about them:
He remembers his mother’s gaze turned sharp the moment the family left, blue eyes scrutinizing the parents before bluntly stating that she didn’t like them. Gino had looked at her in curiosity, but the male didn’t need to wonder whom she meant for long because of the explanation that left his mother’s lips. Her voice was staccato and sweet as always, something that reminds him of honey, a soft lilting accent to her English as she brought herself closer to her son’s ears.
“Her parents. They aren’t good people- Doubt them, outsmart them, but more than anything, take their words with a grain of salt, darling.”
Gino had looked at her, wondering how she could tell so with just a single meeting before chalking it up to be one of the many mysteries that made up his mother. Then, he was not yet Ira Defaire’s friend, he was not attached to her in the way he was with so few people, was not someone who particularly felt anything for her rather than the initial surprise and interest at their first meeting.
The thirteen year old simply ducked his head down into a nod. “Bene,” he murmured, his answer in Italian.
Gino’s outer expression is still impassive, but his hands are clenching into fists as he remembers the scene. He also remembers the very parents his mother warning him about telling her that Ira had left to Iceland to study, remembers disbelief coloring his brown eyes before he simply shut his mouth to accept it. (He knew better than to think they would tell him anything relating to the truth, but he was tired and disappointed, she was gone like the wind and he was here left wondering what could have been if only he caught her before she left.)
He had stayed for a few weeks in hopes she would return, and when she didn’t and he was asked to return, the male had no choice but to do just that- Because he had a mafia he was learning to rule, had people he was learning to manipulate and a duty already bearing a comfortable weight on his shoulders.
But now, Ira is here, not gone without a trace of where to find her. And he’s here too, practically stripped of all his duties prior to try and live a normal (or not) highschool life, to be safe in a country a sea away from the war raging. She’s angry at him a rightly so, but now she’s in front of a father Gino knows was ever kind to her despite the things she never said, and he… Makes a decision.
(He decides he doesn’t want him to take her away, regardless of whether or not they’re talking.)
He strides forward with an uncaring confidence and takes her hand, gently but firmly as he pulls her away from her father.
“What do you think the best thing you can do for someone is, Gino?” His uncle had asked him one day as he watches Gino shoot bullet after bullet into targets without a single deviation from the bullseye. The young Italian had simply shrugged once and kept on shooting, eyes intent on getting a good mark before he quietly gave his thoughts.
“Not kill them?”
The laugh that’s surprised out of his uncle makes Gino stop his shootin for a second as a pleased expression makes it’s way on his face at garnering a laugh from the man, but that only lasts for a second before the steady sound of bullets leaving its chamber begins to fill up the space once again. “What is it though,” Gino asks after a few more shots, “that you wanted to say it was?” The boy finally puts the gun down to look at his uncle, expression curious but also amused.
Gino’s uncle gives him a smile that tells the young Italian that the man is delving back into old memories, and he takes a moment Gino thinks is purely for dramatic effect before finally speaking the words he probably meant to in the beginning.
“The best thing you can do for someone is take them away, little don.”
Gino didn’t understand then, but then he was kidnapped, broken and ruined, and when his father outstretched his hand to help Gino up and take him away, he thinks that maybe he understood now.
So he’ll take Ira away, and maybe he’s reading this all wrong, but he can’t seem to care about that. Gino meets Ira Defaire’s father’s gaze before he leaves though, and his face is calm yet not passive, a quiet challenge of something he doesn’t quite know himself. He debates bowing his head and saying it was nice to see him again, but it really wasn’t. He could also comment on how Ira was not in fact, in Iceland at all, but that’s the past and he has no need to go back to that no matter how bitter he is on the matter.
So what he does after meeting his gaze is leave the premises, making sure he’s dragging Ira along with him as he makes his way out to the courtyard. He notices that their surroundings are quiet, that there are some gazes focused on them as he takes Ira with him, and he's probably going to constitute that to the hand holding. He's not going to let go to hold her wrist or something just because they're staring though, and they can think whatever they'd like to. What they think doesn't mean it's true, anyways.
He can tell they think it might be something done out of romantic reason, someone taking the hand of the First Pillar and dragging her away from wherever. Not many may think so, but some well, because people jump to conclusions quicker than eager divers into water. From an outsider's point of view, Gino might be seen as a knight in a tie, saving the girl who is obviously not a damsel away from an asshole, but the truth is, it isn't that.
Gino isn't interested in romance or any of that, love is not what motivates him to move. He's never understood why people believe romance is the greatest force of all, why people fall for people and hate themselves for things they couldn't help, why they so stubbornly believe in a perfect soulmate even though Gino doubts such a thing could exist. He may recall his father and mother sometimes to ascertain it does exist, but he doesn't find a need for it anyways. He just wants to go about life as he wants, and if romance happens, it'll happen. It is not what urged him to take Ira's hand in his scenario though, not one bit.
"I know you're mad at me." He finally speaks up, but he as yet to let go of her hand or stop his steps. "And it'd be awkward if taking you away would be the wrong thing to do, but." The male shrugs helplessly, and his steps halt to a stop, trailing off into he's simply standing. Gino let's go of her hand now, unsure of what else to say, wondering if he should leave now since all he really wanted to do was done, anyways... He thinks he might, and takes a step back to do so, but before that- He studies Ira's expression, head tilting to the left as he awaits either a demand for him to leave or something else. "I wanted to take you away, that's kind of it."
And that's it, just a simple reason of want. Not romance or any other interior motive, he just felt like doing it, especially since the memory of his uncle's word flitted to his mind, and he did. He's oddly satisfied now, and it's as if the discomfort emanating from him earlier due to that unsavory flashback is gone completely in lieu of a calm relaxation.
"Do you want me to leave now, Ira?"
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