#questy writes

What happened to you?

That's what they ask, isn't it? Right before they tell you exactly what happened, and why it did, and how much you hecked up some simple thing in your life. You know what I'm talking about.

The Intervention.

Sometimes it comes from friends, family members, or maybe colleagues, if they really care about you. But what about when you don't have any of those things? I mean, I'm not sulking, or anything. But I don't. I used to think I did, but not anymore. And I already know what happened. The problem wasn't that; it was much worse. 

I couldn’t save myself, and I couldn’t even try to save them.

Not Star, not Olivyyr, not Crit, not Dusty, not Jav, and certainly not Zig. He probably would've wanted to save himself anyway. For all I know, they're all locked up in cells here, too. Knowing that makes the whole incarceration thing much, much worse.

Yeah, that's right. I'm locked up, but not by the police, because there are none. Not here. Not just by the Forcers, either, which is a surprise to me. You know them, right? You probably do, even if you don't think so. You pass them by every day, whether you know it or not.

They're all tall, though why that is, I'm not sure. If you see one, he (or she) will be wearing shades. The dark, sporty ones that make you think of spies, and the secret agents that wear suits and have earpieces.

But the Forcers don't always wear suits. No, their hallmark is red and black. Sometimes it's just a red t-shirt, black cargos, and one of those red armbands that has the Forcer insignia on it - the circle with the black 'X' inside. But if you aren't paying attention, you wouldn't know them from just a regular guy or girl with a thing for red and black.

I'll let you in on a secret - the key? It's the eyes. Most people - but not everyone, these days - have regular colored eyes: brown, blue, green, hazel. But the Forcers? Their eyes? Red. Crimson. Glowing, but not all the time. Only when they chase someone, or their blood's up for the hunt.

Oh, the hunt. I forget not everyone is born with this knowledge. Guess I'm just special.

The Forcers are trained, bred, for their jobs. Sometimes a really nasty crim, or a thorn in the Governance's side will trade their years and years of jail time (or worse) in exchange for being converted into a Forcer. Sure, some folk don't think that's a bad thing. I mean, a Governant job with loads of pay, and an Ident that lets you in just about any building in the Nation? Yeah, I can't say it's not tempting to just stop at any 5-star hotel in the Eastern Sweep and say I'm on Governant business.

But that's only a perk. No one mentions the down side of being a Forcer: you're under someone else's control all the time. Some theorize that they're chipped, so they can't not do whatever they're being ordered to do. But others think the Forcers just love the violence so much, they can't help it. They love the animalistic parts of their job far too much. They chase the teenage criminals - or crims - in the slums of Creaster, in the Fringe, below it - or sometimes in the city itself. What they do after they catch their quarry?

Well, no one's left alive to see it. So, see? I'm trying to look out for you. Of course, it doesn't really make sense to take advice from someone sitting pretty in a dank underground lab, does it?

Yep. Not only locked up, I'm also stuck in one of the old labs from the Survival Acts. They were supposed to close all these up - to bomb them out, so nothing was left but dirt and rubble in its place. The acts committed here? All in the name of survival? It disgusts even me - and I've stolen candy from babies.

I heard the labcoats talking about an old experiment once. I still don't know whether they were actually debating what happened, or they just decided to see how many trapped kids they could freak out.

Here's how it went. Years ago, a girl was stolen. There wasn't any particular reason; the head honcho just wanted to see if they could without causing a ruckus. Kids got stolen almost every day, right? So why not just try to do it for science's sake?

She was only fourteen. Just a few years younger than me. They took her and put her in a genetics program to see if they could make her something else, something she shouldn't be. Their goal? Make her fast. Not fast for a human, but faster than the eye could see. They didn't care if they hurt her. Ends justify the means, right?

They spliced her genes, cut 'em up, and blended them with animal tissue. I don't understand how that works, scientifically, but they didn't consult me, so what do I know? So years of "scientific experimentation" went by. They wanted their girl to be faster than anything, so they made a serum of the fastest animals they could.

The labcoats who were talking didn't know the exact recipe used years ago, so they speculated: Cheetah, probably. Pronghorn antelope? Sure, why not. A little bit of ostrich, a hint of hummingbird, and peregrine falcon. After serving her the genetic cocktail, changes started.

The speed they wanted wasn't the first to crop up in her genetic mutation. First, it was the horns. They grew out of her forehead, right up through her hair like a deer's. The labcoats said they read she'd been in excruciating pain for weeks, that she almost went out of her mind with it. I didn't understand how that could even happen. The labcoats must have been exaggerating, but they seemed to take it seriously.

They wove a story threaded with explicit detail: the process involved of dehorning a teenage girl, disposing of a body with gaping mortal antler wounds without leading 'Normals' to speculate, and exactly how much blood there was when she slipped during one of her treadmill tests and gored one of that time-period's Forcers. How they had to surgically remove the horns then, because they caused 'complications.' How detached from your humanity did you have to be to label a gory death as a 'complication?' I didn't get it.

I still don't.

Maybe that's why I'm still stuck here. I don't know how long it's been. Weeks, at least. Or is it days? Months? I don't know. I started out trying to keep track of when they fed me, but even that became unreliable. They'd feed me once in what I thought was a 'day' and then four times the next. Or maybe it's me who's unreliable? Trying to twist my mind around what was actually happening was more painful than some of the actual things they did to me.

Maybe I should start at the beginning? Zig always said that helps... I need to get through it. I don't want the same thing to happen to you.

I live in Creaster, the second-biggest city in the Central Sweep of what used to be North America. Some people still call it that, but only the hicks. Now it's the N.U.R., or the New United Republic, if you're feeling patriotic.

It's divided into three 'Sweeps,' which make up thirds of the nation. The state borders from years ago were broken up when the nation dissolved. Now, the Sweeps are essentially entire states of their own. You have the Eastern Sweep, which is from the northeast coast all the way from Old Michigan down to Old Mississippi. The Central Sweep starts there, and spreads west, until it reaches what used to be Colorado and Wyoming. It splits there into the Western Sweep, where all the "wild" things live.

After the nation-wide catastrophe that made our nation tuck its tail between its legs and dissolve, we got some horrendous weather. It started with the acid rain. At first, it was just a light sting, like you might experience on a spa day. Then it began dissolving cardboard. Not too bad, right? Well, it started getting worse and worse until the entire population (who could afford it) went underground to get away from it, and its devastating effects. Combine that with the earthquakes, the plate-shifting, and the erratic weather patterns - I'm talking tornadoes, geysers, hot weather where it's supposed to be cold, that kind of thing - and North America isn't what it used to be.

All you need to know? Creaster is a horrible city, and I don't want to waste time explaining the heinous details to you now. Pretty soon I'm due for tests: running on treadmills, being chased through mazes, electric shock therapy, that kind of thing. Don't want to miss that.

This whole thing started with something I've done for years: I steal things.

I steal them well, and I sell them off to the highest bidder. More often, I get contracted for jobs too difficult for the run-of-the-mill thief. My team had been together for a couple of years, but we acted like we'd known each other all our lives. There was me, of course. I'm small, but all the better for thieving. I've been accused of being angelic in appearance, but I try to keep my good looks bottled away for rainy days.  Zig thinks I'm just egotistical.

Zig is a pretty important part of the team. He's quiet, but he's fierce. He used to hit people with a metal stick for a living. Now he hits people only sometimes. Usually me. Usually I deserve it.

He came from France right before the war started, leaving behind a cousin and a sister. Whenever I asked about them, he said they could take care of themselves. I'd learned later that Zig's cousin was a Lieutenant in the French Resistance, so he probably could care for himself. I often wondered what Zig had come from in the way of family to be so well-versed in martial skills. Apart from being a tactical mind, and religious in keeping records and information networks, he also had a surprising capacity for being human, when one would least expect it. I didn't use to value that about him, but now I do. Guess it took a few weeks in a cell to do that, but who's counting?

Star doesn't care about any of those things.

Starling Rivera – dark as they come, both in humor and in looks. With dark hair and darker eyes, a crooked smile, and pale skin to make even a porcelain doll jealous, he has the looks and he has the attitude. He stands easily head and shoulders above me, and his wiry frame lends him a coiled appearance, like he's ready to jump on you the moment his ire gets up ― which is often. Star was an orphan of the streets who grew up with a penchant for computers and mischief. That, in combination with living in the undercity, made him a prime target for a hacker's life. By the age of 14 he had caught the eye of a "hacktivist" group. Within a year, he was running it. To make a longer story short, he got in trouble with the law.

After meeting all my comrades, things changed. Now I had partners in crime: muscle and a hacker. What could go wrong? Oh, me of little faith. See, none of our stories start - or end - well.

We all were in that trash heap of a city for one reason only: We weren't strong enough to eke out a living where we had been. For me, it was the New Soviets. For Zig, France. Dusty didn't remember; neither did Crit. And some people never said where they came from, or where they were going. People like Olivyyr, who lived by herself for years before admitting she needed help.

But her story isn't mine to tell. None of them are.

So now you know who I am. Who they are. We can move on. But I should tell you where it all began... That's as good a place as any to start, don't you think?

His voice is gravelly, as it always is, but tonight it’s different. It carries the weight of a man who has seen too much. You don’t hear him, but you absorb what he has to say with a stoic countenance. 

You feel her console you with a warm arm around your shoulders as you shake in spite of the warmth in the summer night air. He stands there uncomfortably, looking down at the intricately braided rug in front of the fireplace, as if the intensity of his glare would somehow reverse the news.

When she pulls you close, swearing that if there’s anything you need, anything at all, to send a message. She’ll be there before the next bell sounds. You nod dimly in acknowledgement, but any reply you can summon seems empty and hollow.

What could you possibly say?

Anything you could ask for is impossible. Could she - a landlocked maurader - raise someone from the dead? Could she erase the last four years? She couldn’t even escape the country without bringing the entire city down on her! 

You almost say as much, but you catch yourself at the last moment. You’re not thinking right. You need to step back, to eat and sleep… Maybe to have a stiff drink.

Absent-mindedly, you feel her arm pull away, leaving a chill in its place. Idly, you draw your arms around yourself, trying to replace the warmth that you hadn’t cared so much about just moments before.

She draws back, pulling her corsair’s cap lower on her forehead, as if in a gesture of mourning.  He mimics it, making some foreign gesture: hand-to-head-to-heart. In his throaty tones, he murmurs a quiet: “Van’ahder.”

Rest easy.

Dropping your head to your hands, elbows on your knees, you thank them for the news, your voice far from its usual comical bluster and happy-go-stabby effervescence.

She turns around to go, as if she can only take so much before she breaks herself. He stays for a moment longer, standing as far as he can from you. He murmurs something that you don’t hear, but you nod anyway. 

He pauses, then produces a bottle of aged wine. He’s been saving it, he says, for a great victory. 

Tonight’s the very opposite, you think acerbically. Nothing matters anymore, not with she-who-birthed-you gone. 

He interrupts again, and sets the bottle on the nightstand by the door. Send for him, he offers, when you feel like toasting her existence - her victories, losses, loves lost, children saved - and he will come.

You lift your head, nearly in tears with the very effort it takes. You nod slowly, accepting the uncharacteristic gesture of friendship from the stoic halfling. Seeing his attempts at camaraderie successful, he backs out of the door with one last half-bow.

As your friends depart, you stand, feeling arthritic despite your very youthful 23 years of age. Extinguishing each candle around your quarters in turn, you stop next to the window overlooking the slumbering city. So unaware, you think, so apart from the tragedy of the night.

Slipping into bed, still dressed in the armor of the day, you close your eyes, still swollen with unshed tears. Perhaps it’s for the best, you sigh, turning to look one last time at the portrait on the nightstand. 

There’s something been on my mind, you see? I feel you need to hear I know you’ve been keeping secrets from me, And hiding all your tears

Didn’t I earlier make my case to you? Didn’t I prove my point? If you’d read the truths I wrote to you, We wouldn’t be playing coy

If this is what you want or need, To be utterly alone, Then maybe you’d be better off Trying to separate muscle from bone

Because you don’t understand that I’m here for you, It’s engraved in my mind I only ever wanted to heal you Not be deceived by your lies

And don’t tell me that I’m wrong Or “I’ll fix it now, you’ll see!” Because I’m a veteran of the truth Don’t dare to lie to me

That doesn’t mean I’m infallible I’m only human, isn’t that right? But by name I’m here to help you And isn’t that worth the fight?

These shouldn’t even be questions asked, Though I guess for you, maybe Since you seem to doubt my wherewithal And count yourself among the free

If you wanted naught but someone To lean on for a time Then I suggest you look elsewhere And stop fooling with the blind

You’d think by now I’d learn To stop writing up accords Of friendships saved and burned, Those that left, both scorned

Usually Saturdays were nice and relaxing, but Fridays I’d always liked better. Mostly because it was the last day of school for the week, and we usually had a movie marathon to celebrate surviving this long. Last week someone had ended up sort of… agitating for me. Flick.

He’d caught me falling asleep during the second-to-last movie while Rayk was up for a popcorn-run. His magic plan was to pick me up from the couch, drop me to the floor, use this stupid wolf mask he’d found at some costume store, and scare the living crap out of me – while holding a butcher’s knife.

Needless to say, when he woke me up, he was lucky his nose didn't get broken and he was still breathing without life support. The knife ended up nearly beheading Shasta but his mad ninja skills saved his neck. He caught it and threw it into the wall before anyone else could get hurt.

The movie was interrupted by Flick crying for me to stop beating the crap out of him… oh, and his mask too. I didn’t actually hurt him – he actually nicked me with the knife. I bled all over him too, then I – heh-hem – made him bleed a little too… Oops. (What? No, I’m not smiling! Shift, out!!)

He did apologize, much to my surprise, and then Rayk also threatened the living crap out of him… So it was pretty fair. It still killed the night, though. Especially with the eerie Scrayp impression. (He did say he felt a little bad about that… It was kind of touching, but I brushed it off.)

Uh… I’m going to move on, I think. Past old annoying problems with Flick, anyway. Best as I can, anyway...

~

This Friday in particular was special though. It was Parent-Teacher conference week, meaning a 3-day weekend that I’d never been able to utilize before with justified cause. This year we didn’t have to worry about laying low for a whole week to avoid questions about our parents, family, et cetera. Overall, it was usually a big headache.

But tonight was different – Zahra had to leave the house at 5:00 to get back to the school, where she worked as the resident art teacher. She had come back at 11:00 with us so she didn’t have to hang around the high school for five hours… Probably to make sure the house wasn’t set on fire, Jay hadn’t made her car explode again, and Ash was still in decent mental health. But there was a problem – as there always was.

Firstly, I need to tell you what happened earlier on. Today, from 7-8 a.m., there was an assembly. About bullying progress. For an hour. That was most of our school day – which seemed sort of ironic, seeing as bullying at Eastwood was actually pretty terrible. A lot of our hodge-podge of flocks got bulled, but most of us knew how to handle ourselves. Those who didn’t told one of the Avians who weren’t afraid to handle them. (That would be Rayk, Lee, Shift, Shasta, Renner, Fade, Conner, me when I didn’t have to deal with idiots like Flick)

That usually shut up most bullies. Sometimes the occasional bold, stupid kid would make the mistake of picking on Switch or Crystal. Or myself, but they usually got torn rotator cuffs before they quite knew how stupid they were being. To make several long stories short, the ones who picked on Switch answered to Shift (that’s scary, trust me). Those who bully Crystal (or at least the ones that we know of), Rayk handles extremely subtley.

But, moving on, the assembly was boring. That’s all you have to know. Then was gym. And that was… that was awful. I mean, really gosh-awful. I’m not even kidding at this point.

The headaches had gotten worse throughout the day. And after the assembly, guess what the school had decided? To have a two-hour game of Capture-the-Flag. That’s usually really, really fun… but not when my head felt on fire.

While Coach Bradburn was separating the teams, Flick had found me talking to Alex. When Alex got distracted by Tweet, Flick started bothering me as soon as I tried to slip off: “Hey ya, Gayle,” he chirped as cheerfully as he could be. The volume made me wince and put a hand to my head. I sighed heavily and growled in a weary voice, “Hi, Fli-Flynn,” I muttered, nearly botching his name. “Tone it down, will you?” I asked in a voice barely above a grumble. Flick was an enigma.

I have no idea what the crap he was trying to do whenever he bothered me, but he drove me up a wall. I don’t know how, but he’d found out about my headaches within two weeks of knowing each other.

By ‘each other’ I mean our own individual Flocks. (Rayk, Shift, me, and later, Switch; Flick, Conner, Alex, and Ash) But he was even more sensitive to it than I was half the time. Like, before I even knew it wasn’t a regular headache, he would ask what was wrong. It was kind of weird – especially given our arguments all the time. But, according to Alex, he apparently knew how to treat people… just not me.

So. In following with his normal attitude when I had my School-given headaches: “Oh… S-Sorry Gal’,” he mumbled, glancing at me nervously. Silence passed, except for the Coach belting out teams: “Dare! Team Blue! Johnson! Yeah, you, Derek! Team Red! Herric, Skyler! Team Blue! McArthur! Team Red! Brock! Team Blue!”

More silence as Coach checked his clipboard. Awkward silence. In the world, at least. In my mind there was this feedback-noise that drove me nuts. Superimposed flashing covered my vision.

Flick nudged me and I looked up, mildly surprised. “Hey… If you want… We could probably talk to the Coach… Go find a nurse and let you lie down for a little while – at least until school’s over?” he suggested in a very rare show of concern.

Of course, the moment I noticed it with a look of surprise, he grinned with that mischievous look of his. “Just so I don’t have to make sorry excuses for you later. And ‘sides – if you fell over unconscious of exhaustion, I couldn’t wake you up in the middle of your nap; we both know once you pass out, heck, you stay out,” he added, poking me in the shoulder with the last three words.

I narrowed my eyes and slugged him a good one in the shoulder. He flinched and gave me an appalled look. “What?!” he demanded, rubbing his shoulder. He slugged my shoulder back, but to his credit, not as hard.

“Bug off, Flynn,” I growled, though it lacked my usual venom and we both knew it. It was more of a closing conversation than anything else. “Herric, Gayle! Team Red! Jones, Cassie! Team Blue! Jones, Flynn! Team Red! Alright! Now, get your lazy behinds to your starting marks! No cheating, keep behind the line until you hear the whistle! You know the rules – Team Blue gets homefield advantage and receives the yellow-grass field! Team Red, the blue-grass!” There were a few snickers here and there throughout.

“Get to your sides before I start writing passes!” he yelled, his sheer volume hard to ignore.

With some sheepish shuffling, people started moving off. James Brock, a jock and complete and utter jerk, bumped into me, conveniently getting far too close for comfort. “Sorry, Gayle… My humble apologies,” he fairly purred. The look on his face was far from humble, and I wanted to shove his humble up his you-know-what.

Brock was a big, brawny guy with blonde hair and biceps bigger than his brain. I wasn’t even sure that he had two brain cells to rub together.

“Get outta my face, Brock,” I shot back, scowling at his back. He turned around and started walking backwards, that smug smile on his face. “Hmm… Whatever you say, Herric… See you later,” he said in a lower, what I assumed was a flirty, tone. Then, he did the unimaginable (at least for any male that I knew); he shot me with a fingergun and winked. Then he turned around and I started towards him with intent to kill. A hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me back so I ran into Flick’s chest. “Don’t do it, Galen,” he mumbled quietly into the back of my head. “You’ll get suspended again, and that’ll mean pain from teachers and pain from Rayk – and then later pain from me since your emo cousin will probably seek me out and rake me over the coals for not stopping you… So just quit while you can.”

He said all of that in one breath, in about six seconds flat, while keeping a firm grip on my arm. I stayed tense for about another three seconds. “COME ON, CUPCAKES. GET MOVING!”

Oops. We were the only ones left in a 12-foot radius. I growled audibly for another second and jerked once more towards Brock. Flick yanked none-too-gently on my elbow and we both turned to head towards the blue spray-painted grass, a two-handed grip around my shoulders ensuring I wouldn’t turn around and attack anyone. I kept growling and muttering under my breath until I saw our team. We had a really crappy team. Crappier than normal with the exception of, like, me, two other players, and Flick. At least compared to Rayk, and Connor, and Shift, and all the jocks on the Blue team. Oh, for heaven’s sake, kill me now. I loved games by themselves… but I also liked winning.

Flick let go and went off to socialize with two other guys on our team. Derek was our team captain; he wasn’t a bad guy – kind of tall like Shift with the same easy-going attitude. He was a good basketball player, according to Shifty himself, but was more humble than the average star shooter.

“Okay, guys… Let’s just play it by ear and try to see how we do. It’s not a big deal if we don’t win, but for the sake of the Red team’s honor, what say we actually try this time?” he asked with that winning grin of his he had. I threw in a loud whistle when the team cheered half-heartedly. I glared at Flick, who wasn’t really paying much attention to the captain, as he was staring up at the sky. When I finally caught his eye and squinted pointedly, he nodded and let out several loud, ear-destroying wolf-whistles. Somehow, that made the team cheer a heck of a lot more.

Derek caught my eye and nodded appreciatively. He was as good a friend as Shift could have when you were a mutant, and wasn’t half bad. I’d hung out with the two of them before. Flick shot me a weird look for a moment then butted out.

Derek kept setting up basic plans with a few contingencies in the ten minutes we had. I was on guard duty, Derek was on border defense, and Flick was on patrol. That meant I stayed within twelve feet of our flag-space (which was not puppyguarding according to the rules) against this rock face. The flag was set on top, so you had to climb up this shallow slope. It was pretty good as a set up was concerned, but Blue team had it better. Theirs was on the roof of a storage facility. There was one staircase inside the building. One door, one staircase, three guards. Coach only gave us two, according to the ‘rules.’

Ours had two guards (this is what Coach Bradburn said was ‘fair’ since we weren’t the home team) with a rock hill that could be approached – though not without being seen – from any angle. The goal of the game was to steal the other team’s flag. Whoever got the other team’s flag first won.

Flick saluted me and then loped off towards the edge, looking like he may or may not stick to his role as ‘patrol guard.’ The expression on his face told me he was going to sneak through the border. But then again, what do I know?

The game went far too slow for my taste. The other guard left me and the position (which wasn’t all that fun, but I wasn’t complaining; as long as my headache could be contained in silence… despite it getting worse) so I was alone. With the flag. Which was technically ‘against the rules,’ but the coach really didn’t care.

The game was too long in the sun – it was heat-stroke central. I was somewhat heat intolerant. Hot-natured, I guess. Part of the genes. The rock was hot, the grass was hot, it was at least 95 degrees outside. I was sweating bullets and bullets. My whole shirt was soaked. And it was a 100% cotton-blend T-shirt. Absorbent.

The game went on for, I wanna say like half an hour. Forty-five minutes, realistically. To me, it felt like the two hours promised us. But it couldn’t have been more than an hour when the commotion started. It was too hot, and the headache was aggravated by it. The high-pitched noise mingled with the yelling for so long that I thought maybe it was another side-affect of the headaches. But what had happened was some of the Blue team had snuck across the border, roping six of our 30-man team (most on offense, by the way) and then got them so excited by the chase that they actually ran over the border so the other guys could turn around and tag them out, the idiots.

So, what I didn’t know for that almost-hour, was that I was essentially alone except for Flick and two other patrollers. And Flick wasn’t even on our side at the time; he was sneaking around the other side of the border. So I had no idea that my good buddy James Brock was coming to try to steal our flag. Sure, I saw Shift once or twice on the other side coming towards us, like he was just checking up on me or something. Rayk could’ve cared less so I had no idea if he was on our side or just hiding on his side so he didn’t have to do anything with people. He was antisocial like that.

So imagine my surprise when I heard a sardonic voice behind me, chatting me up like we were old, old friends: “Well, well, well! Fancy meeting you here, Gayle!” came that voice I had come to severely hate. I turned slowly, trying not to fall back against the hot stone behind me. “Get off my territory,” I growled, taking two steps forward towards him – which was my first mistake. He easily back stepped a few steps lightly, shaking his head playfully: “Ah, ah, ah, Gayle! You don’t want to ruin our friendship so easily?” he asked, shaking his head at me like I really needed to consider this. I tried not to wince and squint at the dancing white flashes of Erasers and cages that kept dancing in front of my vision over Brock’s face.

He was making me severely uncomfortable. He started walking towards me slowly, grinning widely. I slid my eyes towards the edges of the course, hoping desperately that Derek might’ve gotten out of jail and was coming back to check on me, or that John – the other guard – was coming back to guard with me, or that maybe Shift – from the other team, mind you – was coming to get James off my back… But there was no one. At this point, I was even hoping for Flick.

I raised a hand. “Stop moving, Brock,” I spat, nostrils flaring. He pretended to look offended: “But, Gayle!” he started, like he had to use my name in every sentence. “I thought we were… close… personal friends!”

That was a ridiculous statement. First off, I only knew him through Rayk’s work – they both worked at the same car repair shop on the west side of town; they butted heads a lot – and so we weren’t really acquainted… Which made me very, very uneasy. Uhm… Shift? Please tell me you’re keeping tabs on my mind, please, please, please?

No response. I forgot that he shut off our link sometimes if we were either too far away or during times when we really shouldn’t have been able to read each other’s thoughts. Apparently Shift included times when we were on opposite teams. He always did like playing fair.

“No, we aren’t! Stop deluding yourself, moron,” I spat, reflecting momentarily on how I was starting to sound like Crystal. He gave me what I assumed was a look that made girls weak at the knees, judging by his disappointed expression when I stared flatly at him.

It really just made my stomach turn over and beg for mercy. Like a dog. On flea medicine. In the heat of summer. In a corn field. The point was, it was painful.

I was done waiting for anything more to become of this conversation. I growled and darted forward, snaking a hand out to shove him on the shoulder (tackling and roughhousing was allowed in this game) but he moved out of the way. Apparently, being a running back for our football team made one agile. He smiled again and I snarled – too much like a wolf.

“Whoa, what was that? Cat got your tongue?” he asked with a too-innocent smile as he kept coming closer. Too soon, he was within arms-reach. I waited for a few moments, trying to keep myself from hitting him. He was a normal kid. I could hurt him pretty badly… but he was… he was threatening me, right…?

He saw my hesitation, and raised both eyebrows, squinting his eyes a little bit at the same time. “Oh, you weren’t, were you?” he asked quietly, leaning closer. So close I could smell the heady scent that reminded me of the cheap cologne Scrayp used to wear. “Going to hit me, I mean?” he finished, teeth flashing.

And then he pressed forward and his arm snaked around my shoulders and something flashed in his left hand and I felt a bit of a stinging and then I whipped my head around, and I caught a glance of a sharp point - was that a knife?

I wasn’t gonna take a chance and backed up but he kept pushin’ closer and closer. I felt a brief pinch and then reacted before the sharp point could drive any further into my shoulder.

I reacted and kicked up towards his knees. He backed away and when I got back far enough, I slugged him a hard one in his gut. He grunted, looking slightly winded, but gave me a look of… creepiness.

“My, my, Gayle… That’s quite the wallop you got there. But why test the bonds of your friends?” he asked, taking my hand in his cold, clammy one and pulling me closer. I winced and shoved him backwards with both hands. “Shut up, Brock! You’re out, alright? One yell, and I got five teammates coming to assist me,” I bluffed, my game face on full force. Shift, if you can hear me, I need you right now. No answer.

Then I flinched, suddenly aware of the dank, disgusting smell of Eraser. Brock stared at me intently enough to make me more uncomfortable than I already was. My head was buzzing really loud and the heat was making decision-making more difficult. “Hmm… Y’know, Herric… I don’t really believe you,” he said with a smirk. He was too close now. I was pressed against the rock. I made a mistake here. I thought it would be human of me to give warning. “Get away from me, Brock. Last warning.”

“Hmm… Y’know, I don’t think it is,” he said with a smirk, pressing closer. He darted forward suddenly, making me instinctually back up suddenly into a spur of rock. It glanced off the side of my head, immediately drawing some blood. Not much, to make me drop dead in a few minutes, but enough to give me a worse headache and an even more debilitating headache.

I staggered and Brock took advantage of it. I was pressed up against the rock, and couldn’t think. His teeth suddenly looked sharper and his face suddenly more wolven. My head spun and I blinked slowly. His shoulder was in my face and I blinked again. Blood ran down my temple, and I could’ve sworn I was falling. I didn’t realize how true that was until Brock backed away and I fell down to my knees.

His face looked hazy and… strange in my distorted vision. I could have sworn his face was elongating into a muzzle. I would have sworn it. The headache had suddenly gone from a ‘9’ on the pain scale of 1-10 to a ‘19’ and feedback and high-pitched buzzing shot through my mind. The pain kept coming, and the blood dripped into my mouth, and I realized that I was laying on the hot ground. The asphalt stung my skin from the sheer heat, and then some force bore down on my throat, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

Through the haze, I realized something. Brock was supposed to be a normal student. But he had a knife or a syringe or something sharp that he’d assaulted me with. He was also attacking me. On a day with a bullying assembly. And he was pushing me down.

What was he doing? What was he doing? He was pushing me some more and then his arm was over my neck and squeezing and squeezing and I couldn’t breathe and he smelled like an Eraser and he was wearing Scrayp’s cologne and I couldn’t breathe and his teeth flashed and his muzzle-- Was he a high school student…? Or Eraser…?

Through sporadic gasping of air, I alternately saw the blonde-haired flirt who took girls for advantage all the time… And a blonde-furred Eraser who was sneering at my feeble attempts at escaping with what looked like a remote in his hand.