Chapter 6
JAV
The hardest part of pretending to be a teacher isn't the kids. It’s not even the tiny chairs or the smell of finger paint and old cheese crackers.
It’s the damn lesson plan.
“I want to teach economics,” I correct, adjusting the puppet I’ve jammed onto my clawed hand. “This is Baxter. Baxter distributes plush puppies. There’s demand. The crackers are the currency.”
“You gave the plushies names?”
I glare at him. “I’m creating a market economy. The names build trust.”
Garkin mutters something under his breath about the galaxy going to hell.
We’re in the back of my borrowed apartment near the Haven-7 academy district—technically owned by a front company under the Redscale family, but now it’s my teacher lair.
The walls are plastered in finger paintings I may or may not have ‘borrowed’ from the art room to blend in.
On the table sits a spreadsheet of snack allocations, fake curriculum notes, and three stuffed creatures wearing sunglasses.
“Look,” I say, pushing the worksheet across the table. “Kids get five crackers. They can use those crackers to ‘buy’ a plushie, or save them to trade for time on the hover-pad. Supply and demand. Value. Delayed gratification. It’s genius.”
Garkin snorts. “It’s gambling with goldfish snacks.”
“They’re learning financial literacy.”
“You’re learning how not to swear in a classroom.”
He’s not wrong.
The next morning, I stride into Room 5B like I own the place. The kids are already mid-chaos—someone’s screaming because someone else took the red marker, and a third is attempting to flush a juice box down the sink.
I clap my claws together once.
The sound cuts through the room like a blade.
Twelve heads snap toward me.
“Morning, warlords,” I say. “Today we talk economics.”
“What's ee-ko-nomics?” Ben asks, perched on a desk like a miniature emperor.
“It’s the reason why you can’t have everything you want,” I say, dropping a sack of plushies on the table. “Let’s play.”
They gather fast. I’ve got their attention. I hand out crackers, one by one, with theatrical flair.
“You get five each. Spend them wisely. The puppy vendors are Baxter, Loola, and Big Grizz.”
“Big Grizz smells funny,” one girl mutters.
“That’s because he’s been in storage since the Velari trade show.”
“What's a trade show?” Ben asks, wide-eyed.
“A place where grown-ups pretend to work while buying useless things,” I say.
The kids burst into laughter.
We play for over an hour. They barter, hoard, overspend. I stage a mini-recession. Two kids cry. I give out emergency loans. By the time snack time hits, they’re fighting over who gets to ‘invest’ in a plushie stock option.
Ben’s sitting closest to me, watching with that sharp, curious look I’ve come to expect from him.
“You’re funny,” he says quietly.
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“You sound like my mom when she’s mad but also trying not to laugh.”
I grin, then catch myself.
“Thanks, kiddo—”
I freeze.
Ben doesn’t notice. He’s already moved on, building a plushie pyramid out of crackers.
I clear my throat, stand, and turn toward the board.
Careful. Don’t get attached. Don’t slip.
That night, Garkin meets me in the backroom of a pizza parlor we used to use for laundering credits.
Now it just smells like pepperoni and regret.
“How’d it go?” he asks, sliding into the booth and tossing a box of leftovers on the table.
“I taught them market theory with stuffed animals.”
“You scare me,” he mutters. “You legitimately scare me.”
I lean back, arms stretched. “They loved it.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
I don’t answer.
He opens the box, takes a bite. “So what now?”
“I need to soften my image,” I say.
“You taught puppies and crackers, boss. That’s pretty damn soft.”
“Not enough. Kairo’s still watching me like I’m going to smuggle napalm in my briefcase.”
“She’s not wrong.”
I give him a look.
He shrugs. “Okay, okay. What about a field trip?”
I blink. “What?”
“Take the kids somewhere. Show you’re invested in their education. Plus, it gives you a chance to interact with Kairo more. You think she’s gonna let you cart Ben across town without a permission slip signed in blood?”
I smirk. “Not a bad idea.”
“Maybe someplace safe. No weapons. No suspicious crates.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Hey,” he says, wiping his mouth. “You’re the one who said no murders this week.”
“I meant it.”
He eyes me. “You good?”
I pause.
Then nod.
“Yeah. For once… I think I am.”