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{ 1 x 01.01

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Pilot SUB EPISODE ONE
Muller; Andros; Ian




01.Mario Augustin
St. Paul Road

Mario Augustin Muller was, by his nature and nurture, a light sleeper.

He was a hunter of men and animals--more of the latter than the former, to the German's chagrin-- and both were prey that could come padding up on you in the night of his homeland. Then again, there were times when he could sleep deeply, but the slumber that often took him was a shallow pool of unconsciousness.

So it shouldn't have been any problem whatsoever getting to St. Paul's on time. Because not only was a Muller always on time, but a Muller also owned time. Of course, those were in the days of his grandfather and his father before him. They had lost the family clockwork business and eventually moved on to using their many properties for farming. Scientific farming, to be exact. And along with all the lost timepieces, workers, and power, Mario was slowly beginning to believe they had lost whatever luck the gods had given them back in the day.

Because if there was anyone up there who still loved him, he wouldn't have woken up 30 minutes before the opening ceremony, he wouldn't have fallen asleep on a park bench in the first place, and he most certainly wouldn't have damaged his motorcycle's fuel tank when speeding past a crosswalk with a pedestrian slowly making her way to the other side for some tea and biscuits.

Damned British grannies. This is probably the only place where you can find old ladies carrying around saber-sharp umbrellas, he thought bitterly, as he felt his Cruiser's acceleration slowing down while on the heated streets of the city.

"Almost there, almost there." His breath misted against the inside of his glossy motorcycle helmet, it made it harder to see, but once Mario caught the haunting sliver of brick red silk lining the ridiculously magnificent estates of the school his heart almost leapt out of his chest. He was so close to the big iron gates now, they were open, welcoming, inviting. He couldn't do anything but oblige.

"Come on, baby. Time to punch it."

He crushed the gear with the heel of his foot, gripping the bars tightly and leaning his body back to raise the head of his Ducati Monster, leaving him to balance on his rear tire before launching gloriously in to the air for what seemed like a lifetime. The sun glinted off his helmet's paint, the engine's roar smoothed into a purr, and his blazer billowed in the wind like a superhero's cape.

For one heart-stopping moment, he forgot how to worry. The past weight of traditions left behind on the ground while he soared through the air. His mouth opened but nothing came. He found himself staring mutely, his throat suddenly sore, as his slender little dart of a vehicle simply flew past the emerald green gates, pointed upward like a rising eagle…

…and wheezed out the last of its fuel, and spiraled down from the air, seemingly buffeted by the hands of god and the old voices of ancestors crowing their hatred for the boy under a hot European sun.

He was vaguely conscious of the ground getting closer to his face, the bike crunching on the expensive pavement before toppling right in to an old oak tree, and the screaming and shouting of people panicking around him, wailing:"HE'S DEAD! HE'S DEAD!"

But Mario was far from dead. He was left completely unharmed. It's as if the people who were responsible for his bitter, bitter life were silently whispering: "Death's too good for you. It's too easy."

He was pondering on maybe just lying down on the ground next to his motorcycle until some wayward janitor would poke him with a stick, steal all his valuables, and then sell them to feed his thirteen children and beautiful but sickly wife.

Wait, what? His head was spinning.

"Are you okay?" A sultry voice asked worriedly from above him. He looked up, surprised to see a shadowed figure looking down at him. The stranger's face was already shrouded by the tint from his helmet, and the sun pouring down above them was doing nothing to help his vision.

He tensed before removing his helmet gingerly, letting his dark brown locks fall free from their prison. His dark blue eyes stared up at the young face and was greeted with a sight that even the blind could appreciate.

The angel--er, the boy offered a hand to the upperclassmen while musing lightly, "I guess you were a little too excited to get back to school, huh?"

Mario let his head loll to the side, gazing mournfully at his Azzurro mediterraneo Ducati Monster. Damned Italian engineering. A trickle of homeland pride slithered its way into his heart. He said nothing to his new companion though.

"I'm pretty excited too," He let his offered, yet unaccepted, hand fall to his side and opted to squat next to the German lying on the ground, "I mean, I can't believe that the opening ceremony's still a day away. It's so slow that--"

Long fingers encircled the underclassman's wrist, "Did you say the ceremony's tomorrow???"

The younger boy stared at his wrist, wincing slightly. "Yes. It's tomorrow morning and I'm really excited because it's my first year here..."

The farmer's son loosened his grip, and sat up in to a lotus position. He sighed heavily and propped his chin on his hand. "I am such a bloody idiot!"

"I'm sorry?"

He flashed his eyes at him, " I paid for my tuition ahead of time, with my Mercedes, I sent my luggage ahead of time, but I forgot to check what day it is on the calendar today."
And as Mario explained his sadistic morning to the boy who asked him if he was all right, he decided to reevaluate his earlier thoughts about the Muller men losing luck to the years.He was now entirely sure that the Mullers had lost money, power, luck and intelligence as well.

His companion laughed, "That's just sad."

"I know." He mumbled bitterly.

"So," The younger boy said.

He blinked at him,"So?"

"What's your name?"

Oh great St. Paul of Tarsus, I love you for this.

Mario flashed him a winning, gentlemanly smile. The gods may have taken a lot of things. But dear lord, if he still didn't have his charm.









02.Andros
The Grand Hall


The St. Paul's School for boys had always been praised for housing the most disciplined and refined young men in the whole country. And this they showed in the way they walked, the way they talked and the way they kept the rules. However, it is unavoidable for groups to have some exceptions. In this case, the unfortunate exception is the athletic and talented Andros who arrived just as his schoolmates were moving towards the central hall, making a scene by crying and pleading at his video phone.

"Maggy love, please understand - no, that's not fair I really did love - don't call me a fa- wait, sorry, you misread - it's not you it's - Darling, no, I just need to find - You are a great girl it's just - Maggy dear, no please don't - "

As he slowly put his cellphone back in his pocket, picked up his orange duffel and stood dumbfounded, Andros tried to count his losses - how much load he had spent, how much time he had wasted, how much tears he had shed and how much of his dignity had gone down the gutter. He did not know the exact number for all of those but the heavy feeling in his chest drove the point that a huge chunk of his soul was sucked into nothingness. Well, he did tell Maggy one steamy night under the starry skies of Greece that she was his life and soul. And just a mere moment ago, he let her go into the bottomless void of stardom.

Aw crap.

Oh well, it was really towards that way he sullenly reasoned out, wiping the corners of his eyes and contemplating how things ended up this way.

He and Maggy had known each other since high school and have since gone on numerous trips abroad, shared several luxury condominiums and many a passionate nights. But upon graduation, each half of Britain’s Model Campus Couple pursued endeavors that left them with little time with each other and more questions about themselves.

The tumultuous jetsetter life of an international print and ramp model captivated the outgoing Maggy while Andros was pushed into a world populated by
Britain's most esteemed young gentlemen. Their first few years apart were fine - the pair still sent each other gifts and wrote letters as young lovers did. But after 2 years of that, Maggy became set on becoming the next Naomi Campbell (money, fame and extreme bitchiness included). Andros then felt more at ease hanging out with his boys - easier than trying to reason out with his bitchy model girlfriend why he couldn't be at Milan, Paris and New York for her shows and definitely easier than having to explain why he had posters of Liza Minelli and Elton John in his dorm room to aforementioned girlfriend.

He shared with his buddies secrets and tears and every time, they gave him support and hugs - things as good as or even better than what he used to get from
Maggy before she became Mag Fox, Brit Bombshell of the 21st Century. It was a warm feeling, being around his boys, opening their hearts and cuddling as they sat across the fire of their common room... A beautiful feeling that led to that terrible phone call he made that the media will soon dub as either the year's biggest celebrity breakup or Britain's campus couple catastrophe.

Oh well, that's that, Andros sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, better get go-

"Yo my bro, welcome back." greeted a smooth voice from behind him. He turned back to the face of the always happy Erik, one of his very first friends in St. Paul's. "Late as always, are we? Well come on, the headmaster won't be happy if we're late. You could take your bag with you, you little git."

"Glad to be back." Andros replied as cheerfully as he could manage, straightening his back and trying to reinforce feeling that maybe this school year would be just peachy without Maggy.









03.Ian
Corinthian Square Garden

Ian had innocently requested of his mother some days before that they forgo the helicopter stunt they usually pulled off every first day of classes. This meant serious business, for said aerial demonstrations expressed a marvelous statement each time. It also helped that the school administrators were strangely never around to catch him in the act, even if he felt they'd enjoy it.

It went without saying that he would plan these things with meticulous care. Each one had to be different from the last; had to have had its own 'X FACTOR', its own 'KINK' if you will. Nobody ever questioned the mystery of the fog that preceded the thunderous cacophony of the helicopter's blades as the aircraft descended that second year. Nor did they wonder about the one year with that ballet company from Russia ('Russe', was it?). Everyone would simply turn their heads to the sky and go, 'Oh, it's Ian' or 'Oh it's Ian!' or 'Ah, Ian'.

Ian hid in the freshly-cut hyacinth hedges by the towring gates of his school. He watched the many faces pass him; some he recognized and some he did not, though he cared little for the class of his audience as long as he had one. His final entrance he decided, would be unpredictably "not-him". As he moved to creep around, his face was suddenly met with a rude branch of flowers. This surreptitious plan would have him smelling like a walking pansy but he'd be a fine walking pansy.

Yes, gone now are the days when he was dubbed prime "bash-bait". In the past are those awful memories of toilets and trash cans, and when his classmates got creative, every available net in every available court. Things had just changed far too much over the summer to simply follow with routine.

Ian had woken up one morning, looked in the mirror and discovered parts of him he lacked, had suddenly arrived. His body had just gotten the boost he had so desperaely wanted. He didn't waste any time and immediately set out with his mother to make his whole self over.

Now he was leaner, more angular, and a few inches taller. He was freaking beautiful.

He checked his watch. Exactly twenty minutes to assembly time. It was go-time.

He rose slowly from his hiding hedge, careful not to draw too much attention, brushed off the leaves that stubbornly stuck to his crisp uniform, ran a hand through his Ringo Starr-inspired haircut and walked to the main gate. slowly.

He strutted casually along the cemented path lined with benches and students and aligned himself to the center. In his head, this was the moment when everything in the area slowed and all eyes were suddenly on him and the sunlight decided to favor his catwalk and oh yeeaaah.

He smirked. This was a new year and he was making a new statement.






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