Chapter 3, end.

After an hour, he had made little progress, despite every effort he made to speed up the process and Qaplan coming in and breaking out the slave driver whip. It was so frustrating that—

The colosseum seemed to shake again as another layer of dirt came away, re-blanketing the arena. Was that Pecore's doing? He focused again, trying to find any sort of leverage against the thick coating of dried mud, but it felt like grasping at straws... Maybe it was that gremlin following him around, taunting him with the idea that he was on the cusp of finally understanding though he was really no closer than he ever was.

He examined the depth of the caked-on dirt again. It was shallower in the upper areas where no one would be, deeper in the prime seats, and a dirt sandbox in the playing field—quite the opposite of what he would have wanted had he been in control.

"Having trouble?"

Pecore jumped, tail going bottle-brushy in fright, as he noticed a boy wearing a toga standing behind him. When he calmed down, he recognized the boy as Horoz from the retreat attendees.

"This is quite a mess," he droned, a suspicious look in his eye. "It's hard to imagine that this wasn't done deliberately, as some kind of act of sabotage."

"I agree," Pecore replied, tugging at his uniform collar. "I worked my fingers to the bone last night getting this place spotless, and now look at itwhatareyoudoing here?!" He nearly shrieked the last bit—the arena wasn't open to the public yet.

"I thought something might be up." Horoz sniffed around, taking in the ratio of dirt hanging in the air, then crouched down and picked up a handful of the still-caked dried mud.

Horoz_IT

In that instant, he became Gallo, his fur a dingier shade of silver than before and his toga now a maroon instead of white. "This is definitely the work of the IT crowd," he noted, crumbling the dirt in his hand and letting it fall back to the floor.

"What?" Pecore asked, stumped. "One of our base?"

"YOUR base, maybe," Gallo retorted. "I don't count myself among those of Base-IT."

It sounded harsh, coming from someone of a higher grade. He hadn't imagined multi-class students would be so – holier-than-thou about his deficiencies.

Gallo_TR

Horoz reappeared in a flash of brilliant silver, turning on his heel to leave as he did. "Wait!" Pecore cried. "Can – you help me?"

The boy threw an icy stare his way. "Why should I?"

"Because..." He hated to beg, but he was becoming desperate. "I'm only Grade 1, and I haven't been able to make any sort of headway in the clean-up."

"That's your problem," Horoz snorted.

"You aren't even supposed to be here," he protested as a last resort. "I won't report you if—"

"I don't care. I have more pressing problems of my own to worry about to be concerned with the campus bobbies. Besides, I don't want my signature left behind."

"Signature?" Pecore stared down at the dirt yet again, this time studying it on the microscopic level—or, as close to it as he could see with the naked eye. He felt dyslexic, not being able to see what Gallo saw that was keeping him at a remedial level. It made him so frustrated that—

Another earth-shaking. He started to see a connection, between his frustration and the movement. But that meant...

"OUT!"

Qaplan appeared behind him, the sight of the most furious face imaginable seering into his skull—he wouldn't be able to forget that look if a thousand Base-ES/Cs gave their all to revert him.

"But—"

"This was your last warning! I've had it with your pitiful excuse for a work ethic! GET OUT."

Pecore felt the life drain from his body. He had given his all in everything he did, and it fell short by leaps and bounds. What would he do now? Defeated, he trudged out of the arena with his tail between his legs, a sinking feeling in his stomach threatening to trigger his vomit reflex. He barely had any possessions, no skills to write home about, no prospects, no friends...

Like a prisoner on death row, he made his way to the slave partition of Theta Barracks to retrieve his minimal belongings. Some days he wished they actually were slaves—at least then he wouldn't have to worry about his future (and maybe Hydd would get the beating he deserved). As he approached the fetid stinkhole that was his home for more than a year, Pecore stepped in a patch of dirt.

And stayed there.

Confused, he tugged at his feet, uncertain why they wouldn't move as though glued to the spot. He tried yanking his feet out of his boots, but it felt as though something was grabbing him.

"Will he do?"

It was tough to see who was speaking since Pecore couldn't turn around. He didn't have the agility that even Hydd had, which was another drop of lemon juice in the papercut that was today, so he had no idea what to do except be held captive to whoever was behind this.

A dark figure appeared before him. "What grade are you?"

Unbelievable! It was a golem of solid dirt, and one that spoke! He could scent the distinct touch of the same spellcaster who had vandalized the colosseum. "Ah, Grade 1," he confessed, with considerable embarrassment.

"Pitiful," remarked the golem. He was even lower than dirt! "But we are short of time. He will HAVE to do."

"Do what?" Pecore ventured, too enraptured by the sight of his element at work to put up further struggle.

The golem snapped him up in its muddy jaws.