His mother frowned, hands on her hips. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re going, no matter what I say.”

Rowan glanced at the floor. “Ah, well, I, uh… I do really want to, and uh…”

“You want to?” his mother demanded.

Rowan shook his head. He stared at the floor another moment, then met her eyes, his eyes flashing with determination. “I need to. I have to. No one else will do it, Mom. No one else will stand up for support classes. If I climb the tower, I’ll prove, once and for all, that support classes are not lesser than combat classes.”

“You’ll die,” she said flatly.

“I won’t. I refuse.”

His mother sighed. She shook her head. “I always knew you were too good to be a support class. I always knew it. Not my Rowan. You always had to be first. Captain of the team. Valedictorian. I believed in you, Rowan. I still do. But you have to face reality. The System has chosen. You're a shitty support class, the same as the rest of us.”

“Mom, I… it’s not that support classes are bad, it’s just… I wanted…”

“You wanted to be something more. I know. I watched you all your life. I saw how hard you worked. If anyone deserved to be a combat class, an intellectual class… it’s you, Rowan.”

Rowan blinked. “You…”

His mother shook her head. Tears reddened the corners of her eyes. “But Rowan, you’re not. You’re a Gardener. A support class. One of us. No matter how much you want to be something more, you... we aren't. You can't be number one forever. This is where the train stops for you, no matter what you want." She sniffed, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "The Tower is suicide for support classes, and I… I don’t want to lose my baby boy!”

“Mom,” Rowan said, heart wrenched. He opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at his feet. What do I say? What can I say?

“Stay home. Become a Gardener, a really good one. I know you have the potential. Who knows? Apply that hard work to your gardening, and maybe one day you’ll be—”

“What, Mom? Pruning a combat-class’s hedges into fancy little hearts? Fertilizing an intellectual class’s tulips? Oh, maybe I’ll get really lucky, and I could even help water the Hero-King’s rose bushes.”

“Rowan—”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I want out of life, Mom! I don’t want to be someone else’s support. I want to climb the Tower. I want to fight the mobs. I want to be the one—”

“You aren’t! You can’t be!”

“Who says? The System?”

“Yes! The System!”

“Then fuck the System!” Rowan shouted, stomping his foot. He threw his hand out. “I don’t care what the System says! I don’t care what it’s decided for me! I want to decide for myself! Take on the world myself! No one else gets to tell me what to be! Not the System! Not anyone!”

“What about me? What about your mother? Do I—”

Rowan shook his head. “No. Not even you.”

Her expression hardened. Rowan braced, expecting a lecture, but instead, there was silence. Silence that stretched, and stretched, and stretched.

She shook her head, choking back tears. “Get out of my house.”

Rowan nodded. He grabbed a change of clothes out of the pile and stuffed it into his old backpack, then pushed past his mom.

She stood there, still, a statue. She didn’t reach out, didn’t stop him, didn’t move. Just stared, dead ahead, old pain reflected in her eyes.

He ran down the stairs. At the kitchen, he paused and grabbed food at random, stuffing bread, bags of fruit snacks, a pair of bananas into his bag. His eyes ached. His nose burned. I’m not crying. I’m not. It’s fine. I expected this.

Out to the garage. He spun around, taking it all in. Gardening tools sat in the corner, rusty and coated in old mud. He snatched up a few at random, a trowel, a hand claw, some mysterious shaft-hole-punch tool, a small set of shears, and shoved them into his bag. A metal rake leaned against a half-dozen other long-handled implements in the corner by the door. He yanked it out. The other implements toppled to the floor, wood handles clattering on the concrete. Rowan cringed. He leaned down to pick them up, then stopped and stood. Go. Get out, before she gets serious. He hurried for the light of day.

“Rowan.”

One foot out the garage, he paused and looked back. His mother stood at the door from the garage to the house, a hand on the doorframe. She hesitated. At last, her mouth opened. “If you ever change your mind. If you ever decide to settle down and pursue your class, my home is always open to you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going to climb the Tower or die trying.” Rowan hefted the bag onto his back and gave her a last, terse nod.

“There’s nothing I can say?” his mother started.

He didn’t look back. “No.”

A sob, painful and deep. Rowan’s heart twinged. He almost turned back, but refused to let himself. If I turn back, I’ll never keep going.

“I lost my brother this way. Please, not my son, too. Rowan, it’s not too late. Come back to me.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll see you on the other side.” He strode out of the garage. All the way down the street, he didn’t look back, until he turned the corner and his house vanished out of sight behind him.

Then, for just a second, he glanced over his shoulder. I’ll make you proud, Mom. Just you wait.