My foot hovers over the first step of my stairs before I freeze in place and remember my previous experience at school. I backpedal and dash to my fridge, tenderly extracting a single blood bag, wrapping it in a t-shirt and stowing it beneath the least angular objects within my schoolbag. Though the thirst is weak at the moment, the temptation to consume my rations is strong. I scurry out of my room and down the stairs. Mom gives me a sharp look as I pass her on the way to the kitchen.

“Just gonna grab a snack!” I call back to her. From the freezer, I take two small ice packs and tuck them into the shirt around the blood bag. When I return to the front door, Mom is gone, but I hear the hybrid-electric motor sing to life outside. I shake my head at the strangeness of it, still used to the relatively demure whine that humans hear. I jog to appease her mood as I circle to the passenger door and hop in, just barely remembering to feign breaths of fatigue. In my haste, and distracted by the need to appear normal, I forget to mind my claws as I draw the seat belt across my body, leaving a frayed slash across the nylon weave. “Shit…”

“Excuse you, young man?”

“Sorry! Sorry, I meant ‘crap’!”

Mom looks at me and sighs, pursing her lips. After a moment, she shakes her head and pulls out of the driveway. The air in the car takes on a chill that has nothing to do with the AC as we sit in silence, watching the world roll by. Several times, I hear Mom’s heartbeat climb, accompanied by the intake of breath, as if about to speak. It’s only after the fifth such occurrence that she finally adds words to the tense stillness.

“That shirt was in your closet before you got home.”

“Uhhh...what?” I blurt, completely off balance.

“You snuck back into the house and took that shirt out of your closet. Why?” Mom’s grip on the wheel audibly tightens as she speaks.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, innocently.

“I went in your room and—”

“Mom!”

“Don’t you ‘mom’ me! My son was missing and I had to try to figure out why! Do you know how terrified I was that I’d find a ransom note, or signs of a struggle, or a…” her breath catches in her throat and I see tears beginning to well in her eyes, “...a suicide note?”

“Mom, gods, what makes you think I’d—”

“I don’t know, Gyre! I don’t know! How should I know when you won’t talk to me? When you feel that running away is more appealing than coming to your family for help? There are so many things that could have happened, so many ways you could have disappeared, and no one would have ever known where you went or why. Do you have any idea how devastating that would have been? For me? For Rock, or Strum?”

I let the question hang in the air as I gather my patience. Should I explain that I left for her sake, to keep the blood inside her body? When would be a good time to explain that her son spontaneously transformed into a monster sometime between Sunday evening and Monday morning? Not now. These last few months, I didn’t need vampiric senses to hear her muffled sobs in the night, when she hadn’t taken her sleeping pills. In fact, my improved behavior had begun when I was forced to go to bed early, in the hopes that I would sleep through my mother waking, screaming my father’s name. Each day, I see a little more bleak despair growing within eyes that used to glimmer with hope, even when they didn’t shine with love and happiness. No, now is not the time. She needs to know that I can care for myself, first.

“Well, none of that happened. I’m fine, Mom.”

“But, then, what are you hiding? Where did you go and why?”

“I…”

“What? You what?”

“Look, I didn’t want to freak you out. The shirt I was wearing when I left got torn because I was attacked.” Just like Mrs. Whistles, Mom runs a stop sign in her shock. Only this time, the blare of a car horn and screeching tires wail behind us. “Holy shit! It’s fine! I wasn’t hurt, I swear!”

“What happened!” Mom demands, seemingly unaware of how close we came to something much worse.

“I saw someone else being attacked and I tried to help, but everything got worse. I tried to get away, tore my shirt somehow, and broke my phone when I fell. I came out of it okay, so I just didn’t want to worry you about it, that’s all.”

That’s basically the truth, I suppose. Mom purses her lips again and gives me an expectant look.

“And…?”

“And what?”

“Don’t give me that, I know you stayed somewhere, and it wasn’t at Rock’s place—that was the first place I checked! You didn’t have the smell of someone who spent the night on the street—and don’t even bother saying you spent the night at a hotel, because you didn’t take your wallet or any of your cash. You smelled like someone else’s shampoo when you got home and I know you don’t like anything other than that black walnut stuff.”

“Oh, uhm, well…” Gods, when did my mother become a detective? “I have cash elsewhere.”

“Yeah? Enough to bribe the front desk not to check your underage ID?”

“Alright, alright...I spent the night with a friend. Someone I met while I was out.”

“Okay. Who is he?”

“She.”

Mom’s eyes widen and soften at the same time. “Oh. W-was it that Twilight girl?”

“No…” I try to mask the disappointment in my tone.

“Did you...do anything with her? Do you need condoms?”

“What? Gods, Mom, no! We just met!”

“Okay, okay, just had to ask. A mom should know these things,” she says with a grin. “I’m just teasing you, kiddo.”

“Well, nothing happened. After I was attacked, there was a lot of running to get home. I pretty much passed out, but she was there and helped me. Gave me a place to stay until I could hop on a bus.”

“Well, that’s very sweet of her. What’s this mystery girl’s name?”

“S-Sunny…”

“That’s a cute name. So when I am I gonna meet this Sunny? She probably saved my son’s life, I should at least shake her hand.”

“I don’t know, she works a night shift and she’s pretty busy.”

“Well, where does she live? I can drop by to thank her personally.”

“How—how ‘bout I get you her phone number and you can call her?”

“That sounds fine. I’ll invite her to dinner, then.”

“Yeah, that...sounds...fine.” I can almost hear Sunny’s sarcastic, suggestive comments about screwing the pooch.

The brief remainder of the car ride is spent in silence. We pull into the rear parking lot where the principals’ two contrasting vehicles are already occupying their usual spaces, along with a pair of squad cars and some other early arrivals. The east horizon glows a dim blue, arousing a twist of anxiety that spurs me toward the school.

“Reporters leaked some details about the murder.” Mom says, in a somber drone. “I’m glad he won’t be bothering you anymore, but that was pretty brutal. I’d have rather seen him behind bars.”

“Pretty hard to sympathize from this side of the fence. If anything, I think he was done a mercy.”

I can feel Mom turn her gaze on me as I stare out the window to the double doors. “You certainly inherited your dad’s tough sense of justice. So much alike, you two.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I say, unbuckling my belt and leaning over to give her a hug. “He was kinda the best.” She returns the hug and squeezes me almost painfully.

“Both of you are the best. Alright, kiddo, I’ll see you after school. We’ll pick up a new phone for you this weekend, nothing fancy.” she says as we part.

“Okay. By the way, I need to go with Rock to see someone in the hospital today—don’t worry! It’s nothing you need to worry about. In fact, you should get a call about it later; it’ll be a pleasant surprise, I promise.”

“It had better be.”

“See you tonight.” After another brief hug, I step out of the car and begin walking to the school, but the glow on the eastern horizon hastens me into a jog. I hear a window roll down and Mom’s voice calls out.

“Have a good day at school, and for goodness sake, drink something hot! I’ve literally touched corpses warmer than you!” Thank the gods I’m here too early for anyone else to have heard that.

I wave her good-bye as she pulls out. Apprehension colors my thoughts as I anticipate Celestia’s reaction to my delinquency and the future discomfort of being a focus of Vice Principal Luna’s attention. I push through the double doors, the pneumatics hissing angrily as my strength overwhelms their resistance. I can hear distant footsteps, but the echo makes it difficult to determine their origin. With no one else in sight, not even a heartbeat in the break room, I begin making my way to Celestia’s office. As I near the last corner, a heartbeat fades into my perceptions, and I ready myself for the confrontation as I hear a set of keys jangling. The sight of Vice Principal Luna turning away from Celestia’s office door gives me pause, but I try not to show it.

“She’s at a meeting with the superintendent and the police.” Vice Principal Luna says absently, not bothering to look at me. “I’ll submit a record of your attendance for community service. Come with me.” Without waiting for my response, she begins striding to the end of the hall, where the door to her own office faces back. Some part of me wonders whether this was a conscious decision, as the long walk to the shaded door is not unlike that of films depicting death-row inmates’ walks to the execution chamber.

Inside, her office is a gloomy pocket of soft, cool colors and strict austerity. Though I can see quite well, I doubt few others could discern many details in here. The window blinds are slitted to allow a minimal amount of light to pass through and be directed toward the ceiling. Ms. Luna makes no move to further illuminate the room. Instead, she silently indicates a lone seat before her desk as she passes it, circling around to her own plush swivel chair. Once we’ve sat, she meets my gaze with her usual cool indifference. She sits forward, propped on her good arm.

“Good morning, Gyre.”

I successfully suppress a laugh at the awkwardness of her approach. “Uhm, good morning, Ms. Luna.”

“I was rather cold with you, wasn’t I?”

“Not unreasonably, I think.”

“Well I hope you’ll accept my apology, anyway. I was given instructions to evaluate your disposition and, I admit, my approach is a little aggressive.” I can’t tell if she’s naturally this dry, or if this is a rehearsed speech.

“No problem. I’m just really confused. Do you know why this is happening to me?”

“That’s what we’d like to find out, with your cooperation. I’ll be honest, we’d first like to analyze the extent of the changes you’ve experienced, which will most certainly give us insight into your strengths and weaknesses. We’d also be abe to determine how best to preserve your well-being in a way that brings the least harm to others. In return, we hope you’ll be a willing asset to our cause.”

“Your ‘cause’?”

“A grievous series of phenomena have begun in this town. Historically, this has resulted in the creation of predatory, preternatural lifeforms. These anomalous beings, such as yourself, have been known to carry a highly contagious means of spreading an irreversible condition to victims of their appetites. Most of these creatures can be a threat to life on this planet. Or at least humanity. They need to be kept under control, if not eradicated.”

“You’re not painting a friendly picture here, Ms. Luna,” I deadpan.

“I understand,” she says, leaning back. She looks away as she begins speaking again, unwilling or unable to hide the grouse in her tone, “What we’re offering, is a chance to earn our trust and loyalty by using whatever capabilities you now possess to help contain what might otherwise become a flood of carnage. Either way, a dark chapter in history has just received its sequel.” These final words seem to coat the room in a layer of oily dread.

“You’re not a fan of letting me live, are you?”

Without turning her head, Vice Principal Luna’s eyes flick back to mine, ice cold again. “No.”

“And if I refuse to join you?” I ask, with genuine curiosity. She pointedly returns to her original posture, locking eyes with me.

“Then I’d advise you to tread carefully out there. Not many of us are as willing to put faith in the judgment of Elmwood Ghastenhauser. The slightest move could be misread as an act of open hostility—something for which we justly have little tolerance.”

“Okay. And what does Ms. Celestia think about all this?”

“I’m glad you asked. My sister knows nothing of this business and I’d like to keep it that way. The things one is exposed to on this job have a habit of degrading one’s long-term mental stability.”

“Seriously? But she seems pretty level-headed.”

“That is not what concerns me. It’s her hero complex.” I give her a puzzled look. Vice Principal Luna smiles and sits back, withdrawing her pack of cigarettes. She moves to take one out before thinking better of it and putting them in a small side drawer. “If Tia knew what was out there, I’m truly afraid she’d forsake the safe, meaningful career she’s built for herself here, in favor of fulfilling the ill-conceived, romantic notions attached to my moonlight profession. This isn’t a glorious job, it’s a grim, hazardous duty, and I have enough to worry about without fretting over my impulsive sister.”

“I understand the feeling. Still, shouldn’t she know? All the better to prepare herself in case things go sideways.”

“No, for the same reason you haven’t told your mother about what you’ve become. Easier to comfort them over the knowledge of what could have been than to try easing the fear of what could be.”

“I bet your poetry and philosophy professors loved you, Ms. Luna.” She narrows her eyes at me. Is there a glimmer of humor in that look?

“They did, as a matter of fact. Look, Gyre, as a show of good faith, we aren’t going to push you. We already know you aren’t responsible for the dead guard at the Bionex, though we know you were there and have an idea of why. Your effort to not harm others and willingness to undertake personal risk in that regard is why we’re willing to extend the hand of friendship. It’s up to you to make the best of it.”

Unsure of what to say, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I’ll think about it. Hopefully, you understand why I’m not jumping at the offer.”

“I do. Now, about your community service. My tall, dark, and hot date fell through.” With a sly grin, Vice Principal Luna pushes a sizable indigo mug to my side of the desk, “Your first task is to find me another, young matchmaker.”

After a time spent fetching supplies, copies, running minor errands, and brewing coffee darker than Sunny’s lair, I whiled away the remaining minutes before class in the library, rediscovering just how much I’ve forgotten or neglected to learn. An ambitious foray into biochemistry was humbling enough to urge me to retreat into the topics I’d expect to cover in the early portion of next year’s chemistry class, with a brief tangent on biology.

Before I had time to even glimpse the depth of knowledge I’ll require to gain a significant understanding of the Vitae Arcana documents, the bell rings, breaking me from my studies with a painfully shrill clamor. The much softer tromp of boots and sneakers rolls through the halls, beckoning me to join in the commute. With nearly half the school still shut down for the investigation, the halls are a dense river of students jostling for walking space and breathing room. Even from the library doors, I can tell that with the increase in population density, and the unease caused by the brutality of Ace’s murder, tension is riding high among my peers. The staff struggle to tamp down the sparks of contention and unrest as small conflicts erupt in the rowdy stream of bodies.

As I attempt to join the throngs, I can sense others recognizing me. Murmurs blend into the constant jabber, never quite becoming distinct enough to comprehend, though the frightened tones and hissed syllables are enough to make a conjecture.

I cut through the students with relative ease, keeping my fists balled so as to avoid literally cutting through them. It isn’t easy, but I eventually make my way to the top of a packed stairwell. Just as I’m about to pass into the hall that will lead to my first class, a chorus of alarmed voices swells over the general chatter, and a surge of sudden movement draws me backward. For me, the effect is merely unsettling. A fellow student is far less fortunate, pressed too quickly against the railing around the landing. As I recognize the severe mishap in store for him, the world comes to a crawl.

I see his muscled arms slowly windmilling, his threadbare beanie beginning its descent down nearly twelve feet of empty space, verdant dreadlocks splaying themselves in the rush of air as he follows suit. Even with my enhanced perception, I have little time to deliberate, operating on reflex. Though two other students stand between me and him, I have no trouble moving them aside as I make my way to the railing and fling out a hand. By then, the boy has cleared the edge and is in the beginnings of a possibly fatal fall. Moving with care and doing my best to compensate for inertia, I sweep my palm onto his outstretched wrist and take a firm grip. The angle is awkward and I know what’s coming before the world finally resumes its regular pace again. I close my eyes, assuming they’ve lit up again.

Braced against the railing, I hardly move as the green-haired boy jerks to a halt in the air. The meaty pop of his shoulder dislocating is audible, even through the cries of shock nearby. A memory surfaces as I watch him quickly learn not to struggle.

“Give me your other arm! Hurry!” I shout, reaching over the edge with my free hand. After several tense breaths, I feel his weak grip on my wrist and return the grasp, letting go of his injured arm. At first, I begin pulling him up as quickly as I can, but the astonished cries of those behind me are a reminder that I have an audience. I make a show of putting in effort, though I wonder if it’s too late. The smell of blood hits me like a wave of vertigo as my claws trace tiny incisions into the fair skin of his arm. He doesn’t seem to feel this. Once I have the boy on the landing, I kneel beside him and pretend to rub at my eyes as I peek to ensure the glow is gone. When my eyes have dimmed, I look around at the tight circle of wide-eyed expressions.

“Damn, son…” someone mutters.

A metallic, shuddering bang and more raised voices draw my attention back toward the hall.

“I know it hurts a lot, but you’ll be fine,” I say, turning back to the student who is groaning through clenched teeth. He seems too preoccupied with the pain to register the fact that I’m nearly half his size. “Just get to the nurse as quickly as you can. Try not to bump your shoulder or move your arm.”

“‘Kay!” He gasps “Thanks, man.” I offer my hand and help him to his feet.

“I’m headed that way, I’ll make sure he gets to the nurse,” someone says behind me, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, from which I instinctively flinch away. Turning around, I’m surprised to see Flash Sentry’s sapphire eyes alight with urgency. Though he’s as fond of the shield-and-bolt emblem as he was in middle school, his stature and appearance have matured, blossoming into the strong-jawed, tousle-haired image of a wholesome, yet stereotypical, young hero. “You oughta head in there, your friend is in a fight.”

“Rock?”

“Yeah. Short guy with the curly hair, right?”

“Gods damn it,” I hiss, pushing roughly through the crowd. On the other side of the doorway, the cause of everyone’s reaction comes into view. A very one-sided fight has broken out near the center of the T-junction.

“I don’t know where he is, I swear! I’m not his dad! Just leave me alone!” It’s Rock’s voice.

A brutish drawl answers, “Bullshit, you’re prob’ly married to th’ freak, queer.”

I approach slowly, taking my time as I focus on remaining calm and keeping my head downcast to avoiding the gaze of other students. After worming my way to the center of the circle of students, I emerge at the edge of what has become a small arena. Ace’s former henchman, Break Away, holds Rock’s head against a locker and is twisting his arm behind his back as the smaller boy feebly attempts to free himself. Break has grown a lot since middle school and now towers at a full six feet, six inches. His hair stands off his head in short, marsh green spikes, and his sallow, rosy skin is tinged a mild shade darker from the struggle. Of course, not a single teacher or security guard is in sight. How does he do it?

“You’re the one groping another guy right now!” Rock complains. This earns him a hard jerk on his arm, but he stoically holds in the pained cry written across his face.

I look around at the rest of the crowd with contempt. So many could have stepped in to help, but not a single soul could muster the decency. The eyes of shiny smartphones peer at the scene with dead indifference as the people behind them daydream of rising follower counts and internet virality. Beside me, a ghostly pale girl with jagged, electric blue hair falls forward onto her hands and knees. Her headphones and magenta sunglasses clatter to the floor amid a pile of small books and paper. A burly male takes the place she had occupied, holding aloft his own smartphone. I resist the urge to slap the thing from his hand, instead, stepping into the circle to help the girl gather her things as Rock’s torment continues. Oddly, she never makes a sound throughout the incident.

“Hey, can I borrow your glasses for a minute?” When the girl’s eyes finally meet mine, I can only hope the shock I see in them comes from recognition, rather than the fear of seeing something unnatural. She nods, jerkily, holding the glasses up and snatching her hand back the moment I take them from her trembling fingers. “Uh, thanks.” She scrambles back into the wall of students with her books and paper clutched to her chest like a shield. Whatever.

“Hey, it’s him!” Someone shouts over the din. That metaphysical pressure washes over me again as I sense organic and mechanical eyes shift focus to me. I stand, placing the girl’s glasses over my eyes and facing Break. I feel absurd, knowing the glasses are styled for women, but better this than exposing myself. Break looks over his shoulder and does a double-take, relaxing his hold on Rock’s arm. The moment Break lets go, Rock squirms away, limping toward the nearest edge of the crowd. He throws a worried look over his shoulder at me before attempting to tear a path out of the circle.

“There ‘e is! Come ta save yuh lil’ princess, right on time.” Break takes a few swaggering steps my way. “Where’d ya get them shades, cuz? Clearance rack at Fags R’ Us?”

“What do you want, you fuckin’ inbred degenerate?” I fire back.

The crowd titters at both of our comments.

“Betchu won’ be talkin’ shit past a coupla fat lips, bitch. Think you bad? Think I’m scared o’ you ‘cause you killed Ace? You gon’ end up in jail, cuz. Someone gon’ make you their lil’ chew toy.”

“Why do you always sound like you’re drunk? Someone drop you, or did your dad just fuck the ugliest chimp at the circus?”

They’re not the best, but I’ve been sitting on these insults for years, and venting them is giving me the sweetest sense of catharsis I’ve felt since racing through the streets on that stolen bicycle. Not nearly as enthralling as drinking blood, but a feeling I’m going to savor for a long time to come.

Break moves within the striking distance his long arms grant him. Notably, he stays out of my own range. “Say somethin’ else, Gy’. Say somethin’, see if I don’ break that girly nose.”

“You’re making threats on camera, bro.” I gesture at the circle. “Jackass.”

The insult finally garners the reaction I’d been hoping for, as Break’s arms shoot out to my shoulders. I’m ready for it, my supernatural reflexes granting me the speed and precision to turn my body sideways. He pushes at empty air and loses his balance. I brace myself and shove him several feet away with one hand. As the blow forces the air from his lungs, he makes an odd quacking sound reminiscent of Vale Hardywine’s last breath. Suddenly, the memories of her final moments flash through my head. I see her body slammed to the ground beneath Sunny’s hulking form as her innards are torn from her flesh, the dark tide of her vital fluids flooding over the floor of the dirty, concrete alleyway.

Something throws my head to the side and I realize I’ve been struck. The world slows to a crawl again and I slap the glasses back onto my face, just as they lose contact. I register the next fist arcing at my nose and twist away in time to avoid it, stumbling away from Break. I find myself in the middle of the circle as I concentrate, mentally screaming at my body to drop back out of bullet time before I pass out again. It works, but causes me to catch another fist in the gut. Without air in my lungs to push out, I take the hit in silence and dignity, garnering several impressed exclamations. I feel Break grip the handle of my backpack in one hand and a fistful of my hair in the other as he swings me around, throwing me to the floor. I roll once, but catch myself in time to see his foot hurtling toward my face as I push the glasses back up my nose. I’ve had enough. I swing back into bullet time and block the kick with less effort than catching a foam baseball. I remain in bullet time as I climb to my feet, hoping desperately that the motion plays out at a human pace. My hopes are validated as Break attempts to keep me down with three attacks before I’m back on my feet, each stopped short by a single hand.

Again, I brace myself, but give him a harder shove away. His feet leave the air for a split second as his body hurtles into a section of the onlookers.

I drop out of bullet time. “You really don’t want to keep going, my guy,” I call out over the crazed cheers and jeers around us. Break separates himself from the crowd and dives at me with a bestial snarl. I let my instinct drive me and aggressively step in to counter-tackle, tucking an arm to my side and tossing him away as we make contact. He sprawls out as if he’d been trampled by a major league linebacker. “Stop!” I yell, but it’s entirely for show at this point. Break is on his feet in a single breath, squaring up and edging closer. He makes a few experimental feints, but with my reflexes spiked by the combat, I don’t respond. Break fires an earnest jab, but I swat it aside. We circle each other like boxers, each waiting for the other to make the first move. He throws another jab with the same result as the first, then attempts a combination of swings, all of which are either blocked or parried with negligible effort. Face flushed and eyes burning with rage, Break swings a wild roundhouse kick at my side. I let him make contact and wrap an arm around his leg. I watch him hop around, desperately trying to recover his limb as I wait for him to make another move. After batting away his next few swings, he makes up his mind to kick at my head with his free leg. I parry and drop him. The floor booms with the impact and the crowd’s voice surges with excitement.

Break glares up at me, breaths coming in ragged puffs through his bared teeth. I let him rise halfway before shoving him back down hard enough to send him head over heels. He comes to rest on his stomach and I pounce, placing a foot on his upper back as I reach down to take a hold of a wrist. I wrench his arm the same way he held Rock’s and replace my foot with a knee. I press my free hand to the back of his head, distantly disgusted by the feeling of the grease and sweat in his hair sticking to my fingers. Spittle flies from his mouth as he screams obscenities and flails beneath my inhuman grip. I wait for him to expend the last of the blind fury, studying his face for that human sapience as it emerges from beneath the flood of animal aggression and allows him to feel the damage to his pride.

I wait some more. I wait for the ambient tumult to dull, I wait for the awkwardness, I wait until it festers and fills the air with baleful discomfort. Soon, the voices die down into disconcerted susurrations and Break’s cries degrade into desperate squawks. All the while, I hold a small breath in my lungs, feeling the uncanny red mist forming. When things have calmed enough, I lean down and jet the tiny puff of mist at Break’s face in an imperceptible stream. He coughs as he continues to struggle.

As much to the crowd as to Break, I raise my voice in a bitter bark, “A long time ago, you—”

“Let him go, freak!”

“Nah, kick his ass, Gyre! That guy’s a dick!”

I glare around me and their comments cease a moment later. I wonder if it’s because my eyes are shining right through the sunglasses. Too late to worry about it now.

“A long time ago, you and Ace Longshot cornered me and my friend in one of the restrooms. Do you remember that?”

Answer my questions truthfully. Say nothing else.

“Yes!” Break whines.

“As I recall, you pushed us to the dirty, piss-stained ground and held us there. A lot like this, actually. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes!”

“What did you say and do as you held us there?”

“I...I-I said you should apologize to the f-floor, for hitting it so hard.”

“And what was your idea of an apology?”

“T-t-to kiss it!”

“Kiss what?”

“The floor! I told you to kiss the floor!”

“What were you holding at Rock’s neck at that moment?”

“A knife!”

The crowd buzzes at this.

“That’s right. It was a rusty knife, too. You even cut him a little. Could have given him tetanus or something. Now, as I recall, you hit the floor pretty hard a second ago. I think you should apologize to it.”

Kiss the floor.

Break seems to struggle against the mind-control for just a moment, before giving in. He rotates his face and gives the scuffed linoleum tiles a timid, sideways peck, just as I had been forced to do once. But he made me and Rock go so much farther.

“Show them how you made us kiss the floor. Do it exactly like you remember.”

Do as I say.

Break resists a little harder this time, but his head still turns. He opens his mouth as if to greet the lips of an eager lover and begins to kiss the slimy, glistening tile beneath his face.

“Come on, buddy, this is a fine school!” I laugh. “Kiss her like you mean it—give ‘er a little tongue!”

He obeys and I spy a droplet of water squeeze out from between his closed eyelids.

Stop crying.

“Hey!” A shrill, familiar voice shatters the roaring calm of the moment. “That’s enough!”

I look up to see a furious, bubblegum-pink face separating itself from the crowd. As Pinkie Pie steps closer, Rarity pardons herself through the rapidly closing gap left by her friend.

“Goodness, Gyre, what are you doing? Ew, what is he doing? Oh, that’s disgusting!” Rarity turns a shade of green as she balks at Break’s behavior, then turns away with a dainty hand placed against her heaving chest. I dismiss the order to humiliate himself as I stand and step back, leaving him with a command to remain passive. Break slowly sits up and adopts an unfocused stare. After subtly confirming that my eyes aren’t glowing, I remove the glasses. The girl that lent them to me is nowhere in sight, however, so I clip them onto the collar of my shirt. I’ll give them back next time we cross paths; she’s hard to miss.

“He’s giving that asshole what he deserves!” Someone shouts.

“No, he’s being a bully!” Pinkie cries. The anger in her voice is sheathed in disappointment and several exclamations of assent follow the sentiment.

“It does seem you were being rather cruel,” Rarity adds, a bitter contempt edging her tone.

A girl steps forth from my right, nervously fiddling with a long, dark green braid. “I-I agree, but Break had this coming. He gave my big brother a black eye on ‘accident’ once. He’s a total jerk!”

“Are you kidding? There was nothing okay about what that freak just did! I bet Gyre deserves at least half the shit they put him through,” someone else hollers, a male voice this time.

Back and forth, students boldly espouse their opinions, some just adding to the chaos with quips and jokes for their own amusement. My head begins to feel stuffy and I sway on my feet. I’m reminded of how I felt as I stood over the pit to the underground labs. Heading for a nearby restroom, I make my way to the rapidly degrading edge of the circle. Students hurl themselves away from my path as I fix my gaze on the floor to avoid meeting their eyes. I think I hear Rarity or Pinkie call out to me, but I can’t stay. Already, the pounding of every heart fills my head, like a heavy metal drum solo, and every scrap of exposed flesh that enters my field of view raises the tide of my thirst.

So many flowing veins and arteries within arms reach.

A gaggle of students parts before me near the open entryway to the restrooms, and I stumble past a thin group of loiterers to the far stall of the men’s room, struggling to shrug off my backpack. I slam the door behind me and clumsily engage the lock before collapsing in the corner with my bag. My hands blindly quest for the zipper, taking eons to locate the tiny metal tabs. With the edges of my vision growing dark, my patience dissolves and I tear through the artificial fabric to retrieve the blood bag. I savagely bite into it without bothering to unwrap it from the t-shirt.

My consciousness expands, seeking the edges of infinity at fanatical speed. I feel my body melt from the inside at the touch of each blood cell, part of me coming alive in ways utterly unfit for human language. Stars dance across my sight, though not that which results from uneven blood flow in the eyes. I see constellations and nebulae in spectrographic detail unavailable to the naked eye, pitched in a blurred spin as my sense of direction crawls back to me. I recognize it as the starfield I saw underground. It all ends in a harrowing clap, just before fading into the wash of fluorescent lighting. I’m suddenly back in the restroom, with only the memory of a vast, expanding emptiness, and the sense that there is some menacing inevitability hidden within. Or perhaps approaching from its growing boundaries.

I’m left holding a nameless, uncertain terror whose jagged, needy form has begun to stain and stab into every crevice of thought. Subtle now, but inexorable and cancerous.

Someone is pounding on the stall door, their urgent, angry tone rebounding off the walls of the restroom. As I rise to answer them, a familiar gloom descends on my heart and I surrender to the coming maelstrom of foreign sensation. I feel my knees strike the floor, see my hands rise over my body, and the thunder begins.

DROWN THE ROOTS OF FEAR. SEEK BLUEBLOOD.

Still holding on to any illusions that our ‘hero’ is a boyscout?

Adam Jensen - I Can Hold A Grudge Like Nobody’s Business

Edited by Schattendrache