When Gabriel first suggested we sign up for the school’s new “Introduction to Computers” class, I laughed. Neither of us had touched one outside of the library, and the idea of spending a whole semester learning to “type” on those humming beige boxes seemed like punishment. But it was new, it was the future, and—if I’m honest—we figured it might be an easy A.
So there we were, walking into the lab for the first time. The place smelled like hot plastic and new carpet, humming with the quiet buzz of machines waiting to be woken up. Rows of bulky monitors sat ready, green cursors blinking in patient silence.
And then we saw him.
Mark Harcourt, the soft-spoken kid who’d nearly folded under the bullies’ fists last week, was already at the front of the room. Not sitting at a desk like the rest of us—but standing beside the teacher, sleeves rolled up, calmly explaining something about “boot sequences” and “command prompts” that might as well have been a foreign language.
I blinked. Gabriel leaned toward me and muttered, “What the hell?”
The teacher, Mr. Reynolds, beamed like he’d just won the lottery. “Class, this is Mark. He’ll be helping me out this semester. He’s a little ahead of the curve.”
A little ahead of the curve? That was putting it lightly.
Within minutes, Mark was gliding between stations, helping students with the patience of a saint. He showed one girl how to load a program from a floppy disk, reassured a panicked teacher’s aide when her screen went black, and explained to an entire row why typing “DIR” wasn’t going to delete the system but simply show the directory.
“Mr. Harcourt,” one of the teachers-turned-students called, panic in her voice. “It froze again!”
Mark leaned over her shoulder, calm as ever. “No, it’s just waiting for input. Type C-colon-backslash, then hit enter. See?”
The screen sprang to life. She looked at him like he’d just returned fire to the Prometheus.
Gabriel let out a low whistle. “They really do worship him.”
I smirked. “Guess in here, he’s the alpha.”
Not everyone was so thrilled. Down the row, one of the same idiots who’d cornered Mark in the parking lot sat slouched in his chair, letterman jacket hanging from the back. His smirk faltered as he mashed the keyboard.
“Uh, hey, teacher’s pet,” he sneered, waving at the monitor. “This thing’s busted. Doesn’t do what I tell it to.”
Mark walked over, quiet and deliberate. He stopped just behind the guy’s chair, voice steady but soft. “It’s not broken.”
The bully glared. “Then why won’t it work?”
Mark leaned down, close enough that his voice dropped into something sharper. “Because it doesn’t take orders from you. It takes instructions. And you’re not giving it any.”
A ripple of laughter spread across the room. Even Mr. Reynolds cracked a grin.
The bully flushed, ears burning red. “Whatever. Just… fix it.”
Mark typed a few quick commands, screen blinking obediently back to life. Then he straightened, hands in his pockets. “There. Next time, try reading the directions before you muscle through it.”
The kid had no comeback.
Gabriel smirked, murmuring, “Quiet revenge.”
“Quiet,” I agreed, watching Mark stroll back up the aisle, no swagger, no gloating. Just doing what he did.
But it was obvious enough. Out in the halls, Mark was fragile, easy prey. In the cafeteria, he blended into the wallpaper. But here—in the almighty computer lab, with adults hanging on his every word—Mark Harcourt wasn’t weak at all.
He was untouchable.
The wolf in me saw it clear: strength didn’t always roar. Sometimes, it hummed through circuits and screens, soft-spoken and unshakable.