There are moments in life that feel like déjà vu on steroids.
I was walking through the Academy's hallway, my new "Lace" pulsing faintly around my neck, displaying the time: 08:34 a.m., when he bumped into me.
"Woah, sorry about that!" the boy said, laughing. His voice was deeper than mine—obviously, puberty had found him first—but there was something about the way he squinted when he smiled, the way his hair flopped slightly to one side, and especially that vibe—like he's always the main character in his own head—that felt weirdly familiar.
He held out his hand. "Name's Jerry."
And for a split second, my brain short-circuited.
Jerry?!
My Jerry?
That Jerry from the chat floor, the same guy who always brought pancit[1] during shift rotations, who used "bro" at least three times per sentence, and who had the uncanny ability to troubleshoot anything except his love life?
Now, standing in front of me as a kid—he was maybe an inch taller than me, a little lean but with broad shoulders for his age, like his future self was already peeking through. His skin was tanned, probably from too much outdoor play, and his face had this boyish charm: slightly upturned nose, big brown eyes, and that same damn smirk I'd recognize anywhere. His hair was a mess of waves, like he'd just run through a wind tunnel and decided to keep the look.
"Felix," I said, grabbing his hand. "Felix Drenched."
He squinted again, this time with a hint of suspicion. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah"
••••••
We were assigned to the same class.
Coincidence? Sure. But it felt more like fate doing one of its smug little winks again.
Classes at MetaHuman Academy were a mix of normal education and special-interest modules. After morning core subjects—Math, Language, Earth Studies—we had an hour for club rotations. There were Builder Circles, Combat Tracks, Alchemy Labs, AI Coding Rooms, and even a section dedicated to Support Types, which is where I was slotted.
Support Types were the unsung heroes—healers, operators, system analysts, assistant-class MetaHumans. It wasn't flashy, but it felt like home. The keyboard stations, the multitasking challenges, the data interpretation simulations—they all reminded me of the good old days behind a Zendesk dashboard.
Jerry, on the other hand, was placed in the Combat Type: Close Quarters class.
"Guess I've got fists for brains," he grinned during lunch, showing me his stats on his Lace. High agility, decent strength, low intelligence.
I laughed. "You're basically a human missile."
"Hey, I'll take it."
I didn't tell him who I was—or who I used to be.
Part of me didn't think he'd believe me. The other part wasn't ready to deal with the implications.
Was he reincarnated too? Or just a cosmic coincidence?
••••••
Later that evening, as I lay in bed, the moonlight crawling lazily through my room's auto-dimming window, I turned over and whispered:
"Jerry's here…"
It felt surreal. The past life I had wasn't just a memory anymore.
It was bleeding into this new world.
And I couldn't shake the feeling—if Jerry's here, who else made it?
And more importantly…
Why?
••••••
BANG BANG BANG!
A sudden pounding on the door jolted me upright.
"RISE AND SHINE, KIDS!" a loud voice boomed from the hallway. "All first-years, report to the auditorium immediately! The Principal himself will be giving the opening speech!"
I stumbled out of bed, hair sticking in all the wrong directions, heart still racing.
Jerry's voice echoed from the next room. "Bro, is the building under attack?!"
I grinned. "Nope. Just school."
••••••
In the towering auditorium, students filed into their seats, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes. A few were clearly trying not to slump over. I caught one kid straight-up nodding off while standing in line.
Then he walked out.
The lights dimmed, and in the spotlight emerged a man who looked like he was older than the concept of time.
Principal Galfrey.
He had a long white beard that swayed as he walked, shoulders slightly hunched, and thick round glasses that made his eyes look twice as big. He wore the official blue robes of the Academy—gold-trimmed, covered in emblems—and walked with the kind of cane that could double as a weapon if needed.
He cleared his throat. Loudly. Three times.
Then he began.
••••••
"Dear students… the future stands before you as a field—untouched, vast, endless in potential…"
Ten minutes in, I could feel the room's energy leaking out like air from a balloon.
"… and as you begin this sacred journey, remember the pillars of wisdom: duty, diligence, and—"
Somewhere in the back, someone let out a heroic yawn.
Jerry leaned toward me, whispering, "I swear if he says 'destiny' one more time, I'm throwing myself into the Lost & Found bin."
"…discipline. And with discipline, there comes…"
He said it.
"…destiny."
Jerry dramatically mimed dying in his seat, tongue out and everything. A few kids snorted. Even I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
At some point, the speech became a lullaby. One kid in the front row slumped against another's shoulder. A girl near the aisle actually whispered, "This is cruel and unusual punishment."
By the thirty-minute mark, I was no longer sure if I was still awake or in a sleep-deprived fever dream.
Finally—mercifully—the Principal reached his final sentence:
"…and so, with hope, courage, and unity… let this year at MetaHuman Academy… begin."
There was a pause—because no one was sure if he was actually finished—then cautious clapping erupted. Slow at first. Then gradually more enthusiastic. Mostly from relief.
••••••
As we left the auditorium, Jerry muttered, "Well, if that speech was a MetaHuman ability, it'd be Sleep Induction, Grade A."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, if he spoke for ten more minutes, I think my soul would've reincarnated again."
But deep down… even with all the drowsiness and dragging speeches, I couldn't deny it:
This was the beginning of something big.
Even if it came wrapped in yawns.
Jerry and I navigated the academy's bustling corridors, we encountered a group of students whose swagger could probably be patented. They strutted past us, their laughter echoing off the walls, clearly auditioning for "Most Likely to Star in a Reality Show."
One of them, a lanky fellow with hair so slick it could double as a slip-and-slide, nudged his buddy. "Watch this," he whispered, his grin widening.
Before I could process, he flicked three crumpled pieces of paper over his shoulder, aiming them directly at Jerry. The papers sailed through the air, their trajectory unmistakable.
In a blur, my right hand shot up, fingers curling around each paper mid-flight. The entire sequence was so swift that even I had to pause and admire my own reflexes. Casually, I tucked the crumpled papers into my pocket, turning to Jerry with a smirk. "Some people never learn," I remarked.
He nodded absentmindedly, his attention elsewhere. "Yeah, whatever," he mumbled, clearly not registering the near-prank that had just unfolded by some bunch of 14-year-old kids.
We continued down the hall, the incident adding a new layer of amusement to my already unconventional day.
[1] It's a noodle dish, often stir-fried with vegetables and meat or seafood.